Memory Lane

Back in the old city

Down the memory lanes

Treading the frozen times of yesterday


Remembering our dances in rain

I can almost feel the touch of your hands.

And smell the lost scents of your laughs.


What dissolved those moments of love?

When did one shadow abandon the other?

Why did the sands have a single set of footprints?


No vows of staying close.

No conditions to walk together.

No binds to name the relationship.


Yet cold winters later

These glorious summer storms,

Find your name as a sigh on my lips.

Memories are funny, indeed.

That Kind of Love


There is a kind of love where you burst fireworks and sing to your heart’s content.

There is a kind of love where you hold hands and slow dance on a deserted road.

There is a kind of love where you tuck into a quiet alcove with whispered dreams.

There is also a kind of love…

A kind that is surreal

Connected through the slightest flicker of the eyes

In the most fleeting touches

Tied by a wisp of gossamer thread

Where there is a familiar understanding even after years of separation.

A kind that is invisible but in the slightest curve of the lips.

The one you carefully lock in a dark corner of your soul,

Only to bring out as a guiding star in the pitch dark.

Your ray of sunshine on a rainy day.

It is the love that never was.

It is the love that never could be.

Yet, it is the love that got lost.

There are all kinds of love in this world but never the same love twice.” ― F. Scott Fitzgerald

Last War for Civilization

Sarkhej Roja | By Piyush Tank
Sarkhej Roja | By Piyush Tank

I write this to warn you. I write this to plead you. 

I write to you what I see.


I see…

Her face faintly lined with dry tears,

Playing the memory of her baby

At her breast.

She had brought him into this world,

Amidst bloodshed and bombing

Outside the broken shelter.


I see… 

Him growing up in this grimy rust,

A crumbing urban decay of life

To be rebuilt from scratch.

The moral compass of humanity shed,

Taken over by a lust for immortality

At the cost of a mutated body.


I see… 

The perseverence of the expectant mothers,

Sole cradles preserving and continuing

The pure form of life.

A grim and desperate crusade to safety,

Sheer will and determination leading

The last war for civilization.


I see… 

A mountain made of sacrifices and grit,

The rape of our Mother Earth that

Has been fiercely avenged.

The smoking lands now have tiny footfalls,

Playing with the brave new foliage

Sowing the hope of future.


I plead you to hold on to humanity. To warn you of the seduction of greed.

Your Future Self

I cheated here. The mutation, the greed and pregnant women being the last carriers of pure humanity was a dream I had a few weeks back (Yes, my dreams are mostly thriller/sci-fi). Grace at dVerse handed me the perfect prompt where we are writing how weird the future can be.

The Crust of the Matter

You are not alone crust!
You are not alone crust!

I am the lonely outer slice of the loaf.

The ugly duckling in the basket.

Unceremoniously cut off and

Crudely run through with the unforgiving knife.

Treated like the unwanted step-child.

Pray tell me, what sins am I paying for,

That I never get to play with butter,

That I am cast aside for the dog

or strewn to cajole the fishes,

That I lay forgotten in the trash,

Swapping stories of ungrateful parents

With the orange skins and banana peels.

I am the hard shield protecting the softness,

I am the solid cover for your melting bread bowls,

I am the crispy fragrance inside the welcoming bakery.

… yet, I am needed but never wanted!

A discrimination beyond me,

When I am made of the same substance as every other slice.

Is this how it works in your world too?

Discriminating based on the outside

Even while sharing the same core inside?

Grace is hosting a lovely gathering of bread talks and poetry at dVerse. I feel really bad for the outer crust of sliced bread which is almost always ignored, so I decided to show my solidarity through this poem.

Oh Goa, you beauty!

Oh Goa, you beauty!

You are not a city,

You are not just a state,

You are a state of Mind!


How you welcomed us with your lush greens,

And cascades of cleansing showers.

You embraced us in your glorious beauty,

And made us a home miles away from home.


You entranced with your secret delights!

The night flea markets,

The dinghy all-night food stalls,

The soft white melting sands,

The intimate backwaters,

The rolling mountain passes,

The magical hidden lakes,

The amber mines and ebony caves,

The milky froth of waterfalls,

The never-dying lamp,

The haunted dead-ends,

The concealed passages of forts,

The lazy floating islands,

The simplicity of your people.


You taught me the true spirit of Chrismas,

Of the worth of giving, sharing and cherishing,

Of the joysof caroling and crib hunting,

Of gobbling X’mas lunches at old wine farms,

Of dancing in the streets during the carnival days…


There is so much more than meets the eyes,

So much beyond the rave parties and beaches,

A feeling of pity comes for those drunk tourists,

Who love you only for the easy booty and alcohol.


You have been a second mother,

Blessed and nurtured within me a new life,

Impatient now you are to hold me again,

I won’t keep you waiting.

I am coming.

Goa is the tourist state of India where I also spent two years doing my Masters. This is an expression of the love and belonging I feel with her. It is a coincidence that Gabriella at dVerse should ask us to write poems on our beloved city when just the other day I wrote this post, expressing my confusion of where do I finally belong. So this was kind of perfect! 🙂