the colour harmony!!

1 Biography should begin from that coffee mug you toss against the evening sky and the ocean below, As you fall out of love. 2 The letter i wrote to my uncle when I was just four had a wrong address I was happy when it came back for, I knew it had come back meeting my uncle  and the doll would follow. 3 Men I loved didn't love me back  or vice versa but every now and then, I tried to patch up with a chanced opportunity May be, like the lizard rushing through the sunset seascape on my bedroom wall to catch the fly like comma the flight of seagulls  crossing the canvas. 4 My first love in school was a christian boy whom I hated, while he loved. But, I remember writing  a rather long philosophical treatise on the politics of social disharmony and personal threats in the condition of being in love with a catholic boy with regard to future...

Some fears are like the seventh wave, They hit hard, even while you play card games of distant memories, Narcissist moves of redemption, on a silver moon shore. They visit in sleep,  when you travel along those narrow streets of closed windows and collaged walls.  As I move uneasily on my bed,  not dreaming of blue eyes, but moving away from the body that smells of my origin chasing the  Pecola   of my nakedness, I stumble upon, conveniences sunlight midnight amnesia silence folktales mythology the genome project flames from self-portraits, or occasional lightening flashing across my windowpane. With a history, that will survive me, of doubts, deliriums and darlings, war bodies of guerrilla front, I won’t sleep again this night or in another era. Pecola : The protagonist of The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison

In our country ruled by gods, varied,  news is like fire that only needs ignition.  Every other anti-social tales, whether it be  corruption chains,  food insecurities selling the female body,  child abuse waste management,  or what ever, similar images and news filter in over the democracy  like a river overflowing  banks of human wisdom. And now, the current rape. Media: print, visual and social are oozing out red. Stained butterfly marks carry outlines of age old sin on print and posters. Gathering images of a mapless country conjured upon a dissection table, squashing young or old  from Gandhi to Irom or from Kashmir to Kanyakumari My doubts are not about the news but about myself reading the stories one after the other sitting in my drawing room  and drinking hot coffee. Why do I read them? and expect more to come by ? What d...

1) Posters on an island Islands   are half baked flour beds where you sew in townships of late wisdom. You sketch seasons, on them Spring, summer and autumn, and paste them on those designer walls. Evenings have become so clichéd that I no more see sunsets in my coffee mug. You smoke out, Or is it me? over written scripts of type set nothings. The streets that I walked through, last night had by lanes of culinary shops, spice hunts. Colors of you and me, across grey stone pathways. 2) I I won’t burn in love, Or be cellars of Persian wine. Wilderness has lost its exotic greens To pale yellow sandbanks sane. You displace cannibal weeds And I miss my mermaid yearn. II Lost my way, I would rather say, In those sunflower islands I saw on his lips As he smiled that day Quite far away In that candlelit darkness Of a screen less theatre. 3) I won’t speak of your bindi That sweats and form upright reddish waterfall sketches, To the left or right On your foreh...