Mottled Night


a hooker on her first night out
is this date like other dates?
a scribble in her diary
first time…no man seemed worth the pain
i was so keen to endure
then he and another and him
And that one, o boy

tonight, she’ll bare her moans
to a man
who’ll pay her green, she needs.
“what kinda jerk am i about to meet?”

sweat laddered pot belly
porcupine hair, piercing her insides
eyes pressed shut, twitched face
pearl harbor, hiroshima, finally the cold war

she mocked often her ex-boyfriend never timed more than 8 1/2 minutes,
tonight, she got no choice but frown
if her client lasts longer than she anticipates
intoxicated, infused by a pill
she dreads

outside a shadowy hotel, neon lit
car halts
her countless thoughts pause
she turns to her pimp behind the wheel
he’s got two bits of advice for her and a threesome pack
her savior for the night and many nights to follow



Await : it’s been a while. Talk to me

Talk : Lies

Lies : Hell no..but your point of view. Right?

Right : I never was

Was : I am. look at me..Please?!

Please : smile please

Smile : my poetry does’nt

Poetry : cry

Rhyming poetry : try a cry

Laugh : after a burst out cry. Fake it for the mirror

Fake : You excelled everytime

Time : a crippled walk

Crippled : by your thoughts, not a moment goes by…

HOLD : she said

STOP : she did not




call out for fernandes
you’ll meet a fernandes
any restaurant or a bar in Goa
you got to find one
maybe two

i had but found a forsaken table
in a odd corner
by a stupid well
propped up with a drab metal bucket
an old portuguese house, now a colonial cafe

i dread stepping alone
in joints like such
that has no bar counters, no bar stools
no barkeeps
but a table of two or worse four

i needed a drink badly
“Was I loud?”
Puny nose, squeaky eyes
lips like two thin blades
chop-chop monster frowning at me

“fernandes, large rum and a beer pint.”
i sneaked a glance at her
her fiery eyes glued on me
waiting for a sign
any sign to tear me apart
“ahem..fernandes, get me a repeat, i hate to wait”

two on table no 6
i could hear her squirrel
black halter, back facing me
curvy neck
few strands of hair
waving me hello
guy with her was smothering his belly
severe case of ulcer

table no 5
tender face, nice smile, gentle eyes
paused on me
i let her go
she was cute
i had to

table no 11
two quiet couples
mid-life crisis

right then
she walks in
and I liked her, very much.
strawberries chimed on her fluttering feathers
streaks of red splashed on my cheeks, a blush

I couldn’t take my eyes off her
I didn’t want to
Her loose white shirt
top two buttons undone
she looked at me
i smiled
she smiled back
lit a cigarette
surfed her bag
pulled out a book

Please Turn Over. Continue….
The author had her


Adagio – II


this woman I met
she wed a married man
unaware of his shadowy lies
one day he left her
with but a letter
my dear

this woman i met
she planted the seed of a man
a father of two
his wife with kids had packed and gone
for what use be of a penniless warp ?
a freak car accident, crash landed him
30 feet down a bridge, on a dry riverbed
disabled for life, abled for a potent job

this woman and her child, I met
In a coastal village of Goa
the locals whisper
“whore and her son, no tag”

“dirty dirty”
her son exclaims as he shows me
his hands smeared with sand
he loves to play on the beach

this woman i met
I’ll meet her again

a positive life


i met him once at a hooker joint
i thought so too, just like you
but he wasn’t there
to screw

in that dingy corridor
when i stepped out
after i pumped macho
my balls feeling alight
loosen up, free

he winked at me
bastard was poking holes
on the dotted rubber
with a pin sharp

one night stand

picture courtesy – annelize bosch


in wildness
tanked up mindless
we kindled selves
that lustful night

nested by passion
we were childlike
pained by our past
jiving for madness
righteous or not
neither cared less

we escaped some eyes
we let some catch us blind
kissed blood bursting out
our throbbing hearts
we freaked wild

next morning
we parted


by invitation only

When one realizes that life is worthless he either commits suicide or travels. –Edward Dahlberg, Reasons of the Heart


I have on sly made good use of the above quote, many a times and trust me if you have experienced Mumbai’s swarming rains, you’ll agree with my “Runaway, save a poet” propaganda.

Destination – step on the gas, roll.

When not sure, I usually take Mumbai – Goa highway cause if nothing works out, Goa is the quintessential destination for me. In fact any time of the year my regular bar “Mango Tree” and the Russian babes in Goa are a perfect rescue when in need. Don’t get wrong ideas, please. Russians with their limited English-speaking ability “hello, beer, money, tequila, good night, smoke a joint, thank you, FUCK YOU” that’s all they know which makes them quite reliable to pour my heart out, my money too.

Fate though had a surprise in wraps for me and I landed up in a village, deep in the interiors of Maharashtra where there is no electricity, no mobile network but rice fields aplenty, pretty houses made by the families themselves who live in it, a river stream and one utility store.




Have you ever called a friend, a relative asking if you may sleep over their place for a night or two? At first instance, you’d rather say “I better check myself in a hotel room”. Now try a village in India, knock on a door, any door, request them and they’ll let you in. 9 out of ten times, they will. So here I am. A family of three.(I’ll avoid delving into names and details. Try and make this a quick read. I understand. 21 days of blogging, remember?)

My first meal in this house, is served lavishly on a steel plate. Later find out, they eat on banana leaves, the river stream is a distance away and it takes a few rounds to bring water enough for bathing and cleaning. Banana leaves make sense, totally. So, next day, life returns to normal.


Notice her smile. It’s a saying in India to treat guests like God. Though not relevant nowadays especially in urban cities but rural India still believes in spite of their humble dwellings and limited resources.

They cook on firewood. Most locals barter their produce with fellow farmers depending on each other’s needs. The rest is sold off to a city market 120 kms away.

As the ritual goes, women of the house serve meal to their family and guests first, later eat alone. An Indian custom in villages, you cannot change but this couple works together in their farm and equally participates to run household errands but primarily man deals with the world and brings home money to his wife, his trusted partner.(Picture below, I requested him to pose with his wife while she ate.)


4 days in this quiet village was enchanting. Slept on hard floor, no fans, organic fresh food. “A writer, a writer” they told their neighbors with pride. For them education and a government post, a fixed salary is a dream life, they yearn and labor for their kids, a stable future, lesser hardship.


As for me, this boy reminded me of my lost childhood, I knew not then the value of education, family, friends or love, took all for granted. An ignorant fool.


postman rings twice and one more time

Dear A,

In a prolonged low phase, no signs of hope but utter despair (God’s humor at its best). We eventually do accept, reconcile, move on…right?
So did I.
Step by step, I worked on myself with low calorie ice creams and brisk walks at home. I launched a series of inspirational quotes on fb and I changed my profile picture from college days, a complete makeover, the world must know. Also, I steered clear of low life poets and their updates. But let me report my rendezvous later with a new pedicurist extended to let’s try a different hair color. Bitch. Well, now that the damage was done, I had no intention of winding my day, home alone watching telly so I made a few calls (God’s humor at its best, yet again) ended up meeting my ex (out of job which I had absolutely no clue of, I swear) in a dim-lit bar. My new hair colour went unnoticed and my credit card took a swipe twice in a day for no fault of mine.
I am back to naught.

Yours truly


Dear N

That hurts. Come over my dear. Let’s talk.