In river city, you go to die,
You stand in the cold river.

You shiver in wet clothes
To take God’s name truth.

Lips mutter like butterflies
Fluttering on yellow flower

And river drips like sweat.
You shiver in your clothes

Till you wear the marigolds
To take God’s name’s truth.

(It is believed that those who die in the holy city of Varanasi will attain salvation and become free from the cycle of births and deaths)


Gate 87

Announcing terminal to board
To report at Gate no 87 please .

Angels are at a white attention.
A white plane arrives any time.

No need to check in a baggage,
They are angels to take charge.

We will await at the gate no 87,
Our boarding pass ready to go.

(A lady diagnosed with terminal cancer at 87 decides to die with dignity without undergoing painful therapy suggested by doctors)

Cotton suicides

Clouds are somewhat a poet’s dream
A colonial poet spreads under a girl,

And requests she tread a little softly.
She is treading on his private dream.

They are not actual heaven’s clothes
But look poor imitations by plastics.

But look close enough at our clouds.
They are our cotton farmers dreams

Rain and money lenders tread upon.
They are in-process cotton suicides.

(Scores of cotton farmers commit suicides , due to heavy debt burden incurred after three successive monsoon failures)


There it was waters all -around
Behind my mother’s salty tears.

Later, I would be matter outside
Carrying seventy percent water.

I would dig a beach for waters
For beach-house I would build

On sand, rising high into a sky.
Now old,my eyes dig in the sea

Where a life’s aqua has flowed
Leaving  dry river bed behind.