Another Scar to Fulfill My Destiny

I have scars on my hands.

Scars which the world may deem ugly.


But to me they mean power.

They define me.


“How did you gain these scars?” you ask.

“It’s a long story for a very long day.

Not one for today.” I reply.

His curiosity doesn’t seem to be satisfied.

So, I add, “These scars mean only positive things for me.”


He seems to have accepted my response.

At least, he shows that he has.

Except his eyes speak a different language.

Is it curiosity I see in them? Or is it anxiety?


However, we are here,

At this ridiculous coffee shop for an interview.

Honestly, it’s all a business to me.

I reassure him, “my rough hands mean only good things.

Things you wouldn’t have never explored before.

Territories that have been unchartered till date.”


He says nothing; only looks.

Curiously, anxiously, nervously, eagerly.

I can’t make out.


I need to work on reading him better.

That’s going to be a necessity

If I work for him.


He has a basic list of questions.

The usual.

However, his eyes seem hungry for more.

More detailed information.


I tell them, ‘Not so soon, there’s still time for all that’.

Once our contract is signed,

Hunger will be thoroughly forgotten.

I beam with pride as I think that.


He does his part swiftly.

Signs the contract and pays the bill for our coffee.

He don’t seem very happy

Besides I don’t care for his happiness.


I am finally living my dream.

I have fulfilled my lifelong passion today.

A passion that has given me another new scar today.

A scar that will let me live out my destiny.


Curiosity of a Child’s Mind

One day, a boy of ten was perplexed.
Confused beyond his wits.
He had queries that needed answering.

He tried his grandparents first,
For he considered them old and wise.
But all their wisdom failed to satisfy his curiosity.

Then he went to all his teachers in the school
And repeated his doubts to them explicitly.
But all their knowledge was deficient to fulfil his intrigue.

So, he went to his older brother.
Normally, he knew things that others hid from him.
But it was in vain.
Instead of answers, the young one found himself in unwanted trouble.

By now everyone around was whispering about his inquisitions.
They found it amusing and entertaining.
He started feeling the pricks of being the idle gossip of an old town.
But his answers were never found.

So the little one decided to look for them on his own.
He packed his Mickey Mouse suitcase with his pyjamas and his favourite socks.
He even took his favourite red tent to shelter him on his adventures.
He set off to the Himalayas to seek resolution to his questions.

His questions were deep.
He inquired about the reality of God.
Of how he looked and seemed.
For no one seemed to be sure of his looks
But everyone believed in his being.

But just as he reached the gate of his building
And embark his spiritual journey,
His stomach promptly grumbled.
The rich aroma of his grandmother’s handmade samosas filled the street.

Pushing his enquires to a backseat.
He rushed home to savour the samosas his grandmother had fixed.

With each bite he realised.
God was a true being.
Otherwise, how would old grandmother know to make samosas
Right when his tummy grumbled with hunger.

A Murder She Saw

She saw her body lying in a pool of her own blood.

A pin drop silence had fallen in the room.

There was no surprise felt except her own.

There was no remorse either.


Her blood was duly cleaned

And the police were promptly summoned.

Their arrival brought an ocean of crocodile tears

And there were wails that were expected before.


Through thunderous sobs a lie was concocted.

The real culprits played the age old blame game.

A poor maid was thrown in as a prime suspect.

They said greed was her lure.


Yes, they were right.

Greed, truly, came very easily.

But the hardworking child maid wasn’t induced by it.

The young one craved only love which she shared abundantly.


It was them.

Materialism had overcome their minds.

It was her own blood that had betrayed her.

They had hacked her in the most ruthless way.


It was astonishing.

The smoothness involved in the planning.

The ease in their demeanour

And the organic brutality of everything.


Looking over herself, a cold corpse now,

She only prayed for justice to prevail.

Her own blood had betrayed her.

Spilled it mercilessly

And condemned an innocent helpless child of malefeasance.


I come from a big city.

Water here is a necessity.

We get it all the time simultaneously.


But recently,

It has become a luxury.


It’s been flowing,

But so incessantly.


Some days it flows like the bountiful Ganges.

But on others even a drop of it

Seems sporadic.


But when I was in the tribal areas; trekking,

My water problems seemed nothing.


I realized that for them

Even a drop of it was luxury.


Their children were dying

And the government was sleeping.


The drought my state is facing

Suddenly seemed very real to me.


In that spur of a moment,

I picked my phone and dialed home.


With my friends’ support

I organized a supply of mineral water for them.


But immediate help wasn’t the remedy

And how many villages was I going to help alone?


Some villages have suicides

Some have death due to starvation and dehydration.


But I couldn’t see all the pain and the suffering.

So, I came back to my city

And started a charity.


Someone needed to help these downtrodden

And I decided that day

That it would be me.

Out of Breath

Out of breath

Every day I run.

I run away from my problems.

Run to feel better.

Run to be a better person.

So far it is the only thing that helps me breathe.


Till I started running,

I was always out of breath.

Out of breath for chasing the wrong things.

Chasing irrational dreams

And fruitless goals.

They taught me a lot.


But they always kept me out of breath.

They kept me unhappy.


But then one day

I woke up

And I started running.

I ran and it felt good.

I ran and it felt like this was what I born to be.


Today, at 80 years,

I wake up every morning

And I run.


People on the road join me.

They cheer me.

They call me an inspiration.

I tell them.

Run! Run!

So you’re never out of breath.

Words Fail Me

I have stopped writing poetry recently.

Words seem to fail me lately.

It’s not that I don’t want to.

I have plenty of time and opportunity too.

But, it seems like I have nothing to say anymore.

Happiness has replaced all the pain I saw everywhere.

My perception on life has changed,

And so have my priorities.

I still feel touched by the pain of others.

I still can see the suffering of the millions around me.

But I also see the acceptance with the pain

And I see the resilience with every suffering.

I see peace in the barbaric world around me,

In a world where words fail me.