I once had a dream that I met my idols

The green light was on their faces


Clearer as daylight, I saw them


Kafka stranded aloof along with his father and the giant vermin on the shore

I felt Kafkaesque surrounding us all


Far away saw Hemingway rowing the boat calling me an old man who is still unsure


Dostoevsky lined up to get shot, smilingly told me, you’re an honest thief one day you will get caught

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Short Stories

Eyes. Those damn eyes!

What do you see? – she whispers in his ears

He takes a deep breath and blows away the dust mustered across the bolted window. Keeping his crossed arms on it, he overlooks the ocean of habitation. Among the hustle bustle and the lazy Saturday afternoon commotion, he hesitates to answer.

Have you seen those eyes? – he whispers back

She unwraps the cigarette pack and lights one up

What do you mean? – she says gently in a nonchalant way


Have you seen it?

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The Meeting – A Short Poem

I sit in these 4 walls

Surrounded by all these big talks, posted on those 4 walls

All is in superlatives, nothing is mediocre

Only mediocrity which follows is the one from the breathing beings, roaming these office corners

I sit upright in the chair, arms rested, all suited, tip-toe till the hair

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An act of love

I see half of my face

After ages





Turned into something ugly

An ugliness of times

A timid reflection of the day and signs


Eye is blood shot

Lips dry, thirsting for tonic

Lines on forehead looking like scattered and torn trenches

Two halves of one face

Flipping coins of pretence

Heads and tale, senseless and stale

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