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

Had coffee with Sartre as the sun set at cafe the Flore

Being and Nothingness joined us, cream or milk were still unsure


Camus said I met with an accident

My body was cremated in Lourmarin

Come let’s put yellow petals on the grave

We can use the unused train tickets; the journey settled but not the hunger, not what you crave


Saw Nietzsche still crying while hugging the horse

Told me you’re no superman, you’re just a rebel without a cause


Did I had deeply enriched life?

All twisted with daggers and knives

As the train left the station – Tolstoy confessed


It’s still 1984, leave this Animal Farm, Orwell scolded me

Abandon the quest, futile and vain are all the conquest


Vonnegut told me he will write me letters

Lift my spirits as life is not for living, it’s a slaughterhouse

Full of malice, the undead singing, heavy lies the crown


Fahrenheit all the books, Bradbury screamed

Nothing written in ink was ever the truth


Garcia still living in solitude

Cholera had found love, but not him or me, quench remains, of us selected few


Saw Neruda reciting love poems to empty chairs

Sat there and listened, his voice filled with diamonds and my eye filled with tears


Frost was angry that I took the road less travelled

Miles were not over and he wanted to sleep

Miles were not over and it was cold, no sign of sun and its heat


Emerson discredited self-reliance

Told me, life is not lived by terms of our own

It’s lived in adherence to society

Don’t be a martyr

Listen to me, my books are not your home

Get out!


I told Shakespeare, to be or not to be that’s the question?

Then just BE, he answered, let it be the lesson of your life and its remaining complexions


Dickens had great expectations from me

But all remained now was tragedy and loss

His face filled with Scrooge scars

He told me to get lost


Hitchens proclaimed God is great

Astonishment filled my face

He gave me a smile and said –

“Death gives you a proof

After life is a spoof”


A Raven told Poe about my arrival

He told me, my will is weak

Survival is steep

Take this shovel and start digging your grave

Nothing you earned

Tonight, you burn on a stake

Letting go has a price, you will see


Ayn, Roark and Galt were having intellectual discussions

They saw me but neglected and ignored

As I was beneath them

Self-pity and doubts don’t score well

Writers’ curse, oh all of you, burn in hell!


Kierkegaard came along and took me by my shoulder

Said to me, here’s an advice, I don’t care if it feels sour –

Marry the sweetheart of your childhood

Heart can’t be moulded in adulthood

It can’t be supported by clutches or any shoulder

He began to show me his chest

It was incessantly bleeding, bleeding from 11 Aug’ 1841

Why that date? – I quizzed

I broke her heart that day

And broke myself too

Are you listening, you good for nothing coward?

I took a knife and shred it in half

That’s how I lived and died

That’s how I created my works in which you find your solace now

You’re impressed right but price has to be paid

Don’t once misunderstand this, it has to be paid

In this lifetime itself, it has to be paid


I once had a dream that I met my false idols

The red light was on their faces


Then I shared a drink with Bukowski and got into a bar fight

As he swung his right fist and hit my chin


I woke up and I never saw them agin!