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It sounds like them

When one begins to write, one makes promises to oneself to avoid tropes…at all cost.  So one such promise was made regarding a tediously overused phrase, ‘the power of AI’. Even though much of this piece hovers gingerly around the topic.  Here goes-  Folks on Instagram recently witnessed the

Invoking GOJ

As one navigates through corporate life One has often seen Ganesh being worshipped, or Lakshmi Neither are particularly pugnacious  While they may have witnessed  Their life’s share of hardcore politicking and violence But here I stand as a believer of mythologies and A sceptic of god’s power Here

about the squirrel

I watched a squirrel scale a wall Defying gravity, balanced vertically, silhouetted  This wasn’t the squirrel of my childhood  Or the one’s I watched in cartoons Those docile creatures Who approached fallen fruits with caution Have risen with rigour and ambition What changed in half my life and

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Finding Patrick

It was a bright August morning when I picked up my phone to text an old colleague, whom I’d never met in the 12 years that we’d worked together although we did speak through the PCR talkback for at least 4 of those 12 years. I texted Sam,

This Room

This room A witness to many eventful nights And hopeful mornings This room, isn’t the room of her childhood Or her adulthood It is however, a room she turned to each time a dream abandoned her life The room holds no bad memories A curtain of trees, the Ashoka

noise

the bedside table is cluttered with books, sea shells, cloth coasters and rocks etched with our names and 'love' my circus jostles for space new additions have been made over a handful of moons what did she say? i cannot hear her. no, not a word. there is

Pomi's home

The only other time I'd been to the ghat was when my grandfather had passed on and his last rites had to be performed by the Ganga. We took a boat ride on the Ganga this time. The water was muddy and the river felt burdened. The diesel

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Danapur: home of the red hibiscus

It is hard to visit a childhood memory that is now home to strangers. My dada-dadi's house looks shrunk, almost as if the ground beneath has been nibbling on it bit by bit.

Pauses don't wait

i've paused to watch a life being lived i cannot take another step i cannot stay in for long pauses are inhospitable warmth leaves a pause as it hangs in anticipation much like a comma the city if finally free of memories of you they've been

AIIMS की जलेबी

शाम के नौ बज रहे थे और दिल्ली अपनी महफ़िल को समेटती नज़र आ रही थी. हम दोनों अपने दोस्तों से फ़ोन पर बात कर चुके थे, घर वालों को टेक्स्ट भेजे जा

Helga

There is an old German proverb, 'if you really want to remember something, write it behind your ears'. Helga remembers everything. We spoke for hours over several cups of coffee and pastries from her favourite Cafe Buchwald. I met her a day before I left Berlin. We sat

Under the Galata sky

I'll lend myself to you While you walk the surreal I'll let you clasp my hands As I take yours in mine I'll lend myself to you for that quip and that glance I'll let you kiss my lips And bite my

Lady M

I bumped into someone I knew closely from my past life. Someone I hadn't met in years. Someone whose talent I was enthralled by at one point. They would have walked past me, had I not taken off my नक़ाब and re-introduced myself. She, who is used

प्राइम टाइम

रवीश जी के चर्चे होते हैं दुनिया जहाँ में कभी चाय की दुकान पर घर में, पड़ोस में कभी ऑटो रिक्शा की टुकटुकाती शोर में कभी पीपल की धीमी छाओं में ज़

Rain in May

'I would have asked you out tonight' I said to him flirtatiously News of the death of someone I love, is now over 12 hours old Enough time has passed. I feel alive again. The calming face of my dead friend appears He is standing by my door

an untimely dream

it must have been 2am we were amidst a group of friends perhaps known to neither under a prussian blue sky we sat next to one another our chairs resting on an uneven road tilting but never looking at each other the facade of disinterest had to be maintained we

an ode to a family

The men that maketh obstinacy thy gene, are the sons of Singh Half a dozen and a doting sister So firm in their beliefs These children stuck in time like glue sealed with dust and fate Not to each other but a past To a father, amidst stories of hate

a dreadful love letter: part 1 of a series

To the Author. I cannot find in the last decade of my frantic digital letter writing spree, the one letter that I wrote to you. I have no choice but to piece it together through mentions I made of it, in letters to friends then. This burst of unfettered admiration

two fortnights

Early days stand wasted in polite pleasantries As tender truths belie these vacant glances Pinned by euphoria, my village lulls to sleep This mush of milk and tear Makes no mother of me ps: this demands a post script. the poem was written in the early hours or late hours

the eleventh day of february

Must one twirl to death and much else It must be danced this last performance For I won't be there to watch you grieve Will you fathom my thoughts through poetry? It wasn't a joyless ride Although a fair bit of it was spent being wilfully

Of friendships and such

The chatter in my universe gets loud on some days 'You made cards for me for my birthday?' 'Will you read my poem?' 'I shouldn’t have stroked his arm' 'I cried when I got home even though I choked while saying goodbye&

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Nil Bata Zero

Nazia's father used to say, 'nil bata zero'. I thought it was an apt header to this introductory post. I am at zero. It is a nice place and this is wafafasina.com, a platform where I hope to share some of my writings. I used