My Poems

In mathematics, we are asked to prove— that the left hand side is equal to the right. Physics reminds us, every action must summon an equal, opposite reply. Chemistry whispers equilibrium, the quiet poise of molecules, a law of balance, mass answering mass. Sanātan calls it karma: what circles out, returns again. Rāma’s life— a living scripture of this truth. Tao speaks of balance, of reciprocity woven deep into the cosmic breath. Judaism knows it as measure for measure. The Qur’an declares: each deed finds its mirror, reward for the good, reckoning for the dark. The Bible puts it plain: you reap what you sow. All are aligned— to the mystery of the Almighty, who set His universe on an auto-cyclic course, leaving Himself free to weave new wonders, visions yet unborn. Perhaps He has a supermost computer that works as the web does— a Worldwide weave of light, yet vaster. Call it: The Spacetime Super-Structure. The Cosmic Continuum of Ca...

 I have always loved the company of children — for their innocence, that rare, unguarded joy. If you let a little of that simplicity flow into yourself, life tastes sweeter, like cool water after a long walk in the sun. At five, a child’s universe is stitched entirely out of play. Mornings begin with a dash to toys, breakfast before the TV, and a secret wish — that someone will feed them mouthful by mouthful. Homework is a restless storm, minds wandering like kites on a windy day. Afternoons boil and they still insist on playing outside. Dreams carry them into battles with ninjas that they sometimes lose. And in these years, grandparents are missed — the perfect bridge between parents and the world of wishes. Six months with my grandson turned my colourless days into a carnival. We played everything — hide and seek, snakes and ladders, cricket with a plastic bat, and his world of ninjas, transformers, spider-men and block towers. In every game I was required to quarrel — an...

 t was 1952, an afternoon heavy with sun. We children played in the garden when two, maybe three tribal youths slipped through the gate. Before we understood, their slingshots sang— a stone struck, and a crow dropped like a shadow cut from the sky. Into a half-filled sack it went, and they were gone. All in the blink of an eye. From that day we made countless slingshots, aimed at fruits, at birds— never once meeting success. Perhaps our arms were too small, our strength still folded in childhood. The fever for slingshots returned in summer holidays— boys gathering in mango orchards, flinging stones until enough green fruit thudded to the ground to drive away disappointment. I longed for a fine slingshot of my own. Friends told me: Find a guava branch shaped like a Y. After much searching, I found it, cut it, carved it, bent it into promise. A punctured bicycle tube from the repair shop, two ten-inch strips. From the cobbler’s shop— a leather strip, three inches wide, holes p...

  B irthdays make us tender— draw out a hush in the heart. This time, those I hoped would remember did not forget. The near ones said it face-to-face, the far ones—through phone, and Facebook windows. But the one I longed to hear from in the pale blush of morning— my wife— only asked at day’s fading light, “So many calls today— what’s going on?” I was in my daughter’s home then, six months into my stay. Here in Australia— and everywhere two working hands hold a household— birthdays, even national days, wait for weekends. The plan was set: a Saturday dinner in a restaurant. Yet my birthday came alive in three small, perfect moments. First— returning from my morning walk, the sound of my steps pulled my five-year-old grandson from his bath. He ran, bare as laughter, to open the door— and said, breathless, Happy Birthday, Nanu. Later, from school, he told me, “Four of my friends had a birthday today.” I corrected ...

 For months we had been gently training Sai — five years old, bright-eyed — to do all things by himself. And this morning he sprang onto the swing without my hands, without my lift, and let the air carry him higher, higher still, laughing into the sky. I warned the others, half in jest, half in truth — if you still wish to feed him tiny hand-rolled bites, to savour those slow, unhurried meals, to steal moments when he needs you as he once did — hurry. Soon he will not wait with his plate, expecting someone to sit beside him. Soon he will not stretch the day with small refusals and sweet delays. He will eat in a rush, eager to chase the next thing his growing eyes discover. We had wished for this — his quickness, his hunger for the world — and so it came. Now, his extra spoonfuls will not trouble us. But it was I who used to set him on the swing, who leaned in to give that first push towards the clouds. Today he needed none of it. And my heart — so full of pride — found,...

I was twelve in the year 1960, travelling with my father. The train was old, loud, moving through the heart of Bihar — between Gaya Junction and Sasaram, the sun melting steel and sweat, the halt too brief, the doors too closed, and the world too full of strangers. A cry rose, like panic in a crowd — “Lunatic! Lunatic!” And through the window, a man slid in — clean-shaven head, clothes torn like time had forgotten him, but his eyes… his eyes were full of something that didn't belong to this world. Everyone shrank, fear folded into politeness. My father didn't. He tapped my knee — “Stand, beta.” The man sat, thanked, shifted, made a little room for me beside the ruins of his pride. He asked gently — name, school, siblings. I said, “We are nine in numbers.” He stopped me, smiling like a schoolteacher once fierce, “No, son — number, not numbers. Numbers are for poems.” And then, like a magician drawing silk from air, he quoted: “Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an emp...

 Why do I pretend to be what I am not? A question that echoes in every thought. For a lifetime I’ve worn many masks, Each fitted well for worldly tasks. I smile when sorrow grips my chest, I speak of peace with unrest. Not just I — look around and see, A sea of souls, mirroring me. We play our parts upon this stage, In youth, in love, in grief, in age. The roles may change, the core may rot, But none admit what they are not. Together, we form a shifting tide, A silent God we hold inside. The sum of lies, the hopes we plot — Becomes the God of “what we’re not.” And God? A mirror vast and wide, Pretending still, with cosmic pride. Omnipresent, all-knowing thought — Is but the face we never caught. So I pretend, and you do too, In layers thick, we pass as true. But somewhere deep, beyond this lot — Is not the lie, but what is not

 The shortest distance, a simple line, connects two points—a truth divine. It asks no fanfare, no grand parade, just a quiet nod, a choice once made. You roam the earth for sacred ground, through temples built and forests crowned. But all the while, the quiet flame burns in your soul, an ancient name. And death—no need to chase or flee, . it walks beside you, silently. A shadow cast by morning sun, it waits until your journey's done. So hush your steps and look within, to find the end, and where to begin.