The Gaiman Mountain

Once we see,
we always see. 
From everywhere -
even through the walls of
our eyes and houses,
fences and boundaries,
cubes and jails.
It is there for us always.
All we have to do is lift our head
and look.

When we look,
It tells us which direction to walk.
It tells us the direction in
which our dreams are. 
Look up and it will challenge us,
to pursue only the path to it
and nothing else.

The path to the mountain
is stuff of legends.
No one knows how to reach it.
But they all can see.
Above the old buildings,
and even older trees,
It stretches towards the sky.

Some say starting the journey
is the hardest.
Others say starting is
Many have started,
They left a trail of bread crumbs,
so they can come back to
the safety of their nests,
when the journey gets harder.
Few have ventured on.

I hear stories about them,
those who ventured,
around campfires and
long shadows.
Some say the path ate them.
Others say they became the
Often we hear their songs
when the wind from the mountain
blows our way.
When the wind finds its way
inside our hearts
through the hollows and crevices,
the songs make an urge,
to quest for the mountain.

If we choose to sing along,
we see the mountain.
and when we see it,
It can never be unseen.
It is not said in vain that
those who see the Gaiman mountain,
are both fortunate and cursed. 

Fortunate, because they
finally see what very few can.
and they become stuff
of legends themselves
when they walk towards the mountain.

Cursed also are they,
for they never un-see the mountain. 
They never un-hear the song.
They never un-feel the wind.
Every time the wind
blows a song into their heart,
it flies away with a piece
of their soul to the mountain.

The Gaiman mountain,
that is where the pieces of soul lie,
waiting for the heart it belongs,
to start their quest,
so that they can unite.

People who can walk, walk.
People who can fly, fly.
People who can swim, swim.
There is no one path,
to the mountain where
hearts and souls unite.

Cobwebby Parts

Dust the cobwebs in your head,
Put your walking shoes and get out of your bed.
Lets silence our dusty thoughts and cobwebby parts,
Lets dance to our heart’s songs,
and take a jolly journey to where it longs. 

Little wings

I feel myself floating above,
Despite feeling the solid ground below.
I hear my heart flutter fast,
Like when I felt when I flew 
on the yellow airplane,
Into the clouds and away from noise,
where the field was open and white,
and dream like.
I am not an airplane anymore.

But, I find my heart fluttering again,
maybe it has taken off with the wind,
while my feet is still heavy-laden and rooted.
Hearts don’t leave you,
They pull and pull and pull some more.
Until you drop your boots and fly along
or they break their wings and fall among
the other wingless hearts who
were pulled by boots as heavy as yours.

A small heart

The small heart,
sometimes wants to scream,
throwing words and tantrums,
sharp and cutting,
at other hearts,
that are unsuspecting.

it wants attention,
to its pettiness.
and importance
to its small self.
It is the small heart,
that don’t know its part.

It tends to forget
how big it can be,
and the love it can hold,
are beyond what oceans
and skies can unfold.

When it remembers,
a day that was bright,
thoughts that were kind,
words that were sweet,
and smiles that were world.

When it remembers those,
it also remembers,
how big a heart could be,
how small a thought could be,
hearts make thoughts,
and thoughts make hearts.

A hopeful dream

When your life becomes
Someone else's unlived dream,
You will pay with tears.
And, you may search for a soul,
To impose your unlived dream.

Your heart knows a song,
That your feet hasn't heard yet.
A song of joy, or a hopeful cry,
Teach your feet to dance to
The tunes of your hopeful dream.

Saturday Silly Rhymes

papa’s face popped like a popcorn
and momma grinned behind the barn.
she had pushed the pin on papa’s chin.
instead of storing it in the tin.
you wish your parents were this cool.
with pranks making each other look like a fool.

If you think something hairy is scary,
remember this theory.
Poke a finger into their belly,
they will sound silly.
Alas, every scary thing is tickly.

“From your lungs”, said the balloon man.
“Blow it as big as you can”.
I took a huge breath and clenched my gut.
I blew hard and “oops,” and the ballon exploded - puht!

The booger was being nosy,
So I picked and picked my nosey.
I didn’t pay attention to Lucy.
Who thought I was a loosey.
What fun it was picking my nose.
It was as if I let my childhood loose.

Finding yourself

Finding yourself should not be this hard -
All you should have to do is to blow a balloon with some air from your heart,
and tie it to your wrist and let it take you to the place of your dreams.


I am scared

I am scared you will prefer watching Pokemon,
rather than reading Lowry, Lewis, Caroll and Gaiman.
I am scared you will prefer to squish ants on a phone,
rather than flipping a page and going to moon.

I am scared you will grow up reading no comics,
or no tales of magic and might.
I am scared you will grow up without touching
true pieces of literary flight.

I am scared you will miss knowing the wrinkle in time,
or about the giver, or who the borrowers are.
I am scared you will never look for the lion in the wardrobe, 
or be afraid of the other mother behind the door.

I am scared you will never do enough sleuthing,
piecing together clues from stuff you find in a park.
I am scared you will never explore wonderland,
or dare to look through the looking glass.

I am scared that magic will seem unreal to you,
because the world tells you so.
I am scared that books will never speak to you,
because you rarely speak too.

I am scared Estes will never be able to wow you,
because it is hundred dresses that she wrote, 
which you might think is not for you.
I am scared you will forget the joy of being a child,
Tales of nothing - you should read.

I am scared you will live in a world that is four by four,
and rarely expand your repertoire,
I am scared you will not care about the world twenty years ago,
or twenty years from now too.

I am scared you will grow up before we flip technology
to make you socialize, read and play,
I am scared you will grow up before I can make all
the madness go away.

Stories of the Shadows


The Shadows beckon you to die.
Long shadows they are -
of confusion, pain and death.
But, merely shadows they are.
They beckon you to die.
They beckon you to die.

Underneath the shadows,
invisible to the eye,
far from what ears can hear,
engulfed by guffaws of darkness,
birds purple, yellow and bright,
call you to stretch your wings.

The voices rarely reach,
The colors are rarely seen,
Except for a far cry of lament,
or maybe a tear trickling down,
through a crack in the thick shadow wall.

Gallant souls have stretched their wings,
taking to the night sky,
cutting through the dense shadows.
But bravery is a trait that shadows eat,
and one needs plenty to fly.

The shadows tell stories of life.
Campfire stories they all are,
a shadow telling to another, 
about the captive soul that it has wrapped
in its bosom tight and snug.

What story does a soul believe -
the one from the shadow that is loud,
or from a bird underneath the shroud?
the one that beckons to die,
or the one that urges to fly.

Campfire stories they are, of fear and horror,
Only campfire stories of shadows they are.

I wish I could be you

I wish I could be you,
Smiling bright across the mighty blue.
I wish I could see like you see,
Uncomplicated, simple and trouble free.
I wish I could love like you do,
No gaps and silence between us two.
I wish I could make your smile mine,
Melting hearts and healing pain.

I wish I could just become your thought,
I might be able to mend lost time and broken heart.
I wish I could see the sky like you do,
I might start remembering a lost dream or two.
I wish I am always wrapped in your hug.
I might never feel scared and be snug.

I wish I became your son,
I could swing my life away in your arms and have fun.
I wish I became your smile,
That way you would show me in style.
I wish I became your heart,
Then I would never have to worry about my part.

This I know - I will never become sad,
As long as I am your dad.I 

Orim and Faisa

Once upon a time,
two suns graced the skies.

Orim was the fiery one,
He carried a scepter of fire,
dazzled in appearance,
and commanded the skies of the east.

Faisa was the graceful one,
and she ruled with love.
She shined with light and warmth,
illuminating the skies of the west.

They started walking the skies at dawn, 
Orim heading west, while Faisa headed east.
At noon, they would meet in the middle,
and for few moments become one.

They shone together at noon,
in a light that was divinely bright, 
that was the only time,
where there was just one sun.

Then they would head back, 
lost in thoughts of one another. 
Orim would dance until the sky was ablaze with orange, 
and Faisa's dance would turn it a soothing pink. 
Under the painted skies, 
and the weight of their beloved's kiss on their lips,
they would close their eyes.

A war broke among men and, 
lands and homes burned in fire.
The ash and soot from the bellowing flames,
raged onto the western skies.

As Faisa watched in horror,
the fire reduced the land below to ashes.
When it started to climb the skies,
Faisa hid behind a cloud.
But the fire was in no mood to abate,
And it took Faisa's eyes.

Unaware of the war and loss,
Orim walked towards the zenith.
For the first time ever, 
Faisa didn't come.

With his heart heavy with fear, 
he ventured into the western skies. 
Faisa was there, hiding behind a cloud, 
weak, bruised and blind.

She told him of the war and fire,
and the cruelty of men.
She buried herself into Orim's heart,
and cried that she could never see him again.

Orim screamed from rage and cursed the men,
and vowed to protect Faisa for ever.
To this day, he walks the skies from east to west,
where, Faisa waits for him every dusk.
They hold hands and dance till they fall,
painting the skies ablaze with orange and pink.

Have I ever told you, I love you this much? 
To hold your hands and dance until we fall,
To become your eyes and narrate you stories,
To be there for you until the death of time.
If not, I am to blame. Today, I tell you -
You are my Faisa, and I will be Orim.

You make my day

On my dreamy day, you dream with me,
On my rainy day, we both get wet,
On my thirsty days, we've searched for springs together,
On my happy days, we've hoped for time to freeze

On hopeful days, we kept hoping,
On hopeless days, we still kept hoping,
On my dark days, you light the candle,
On my bright days, you let me be the candle

On my confusing days, you make space,
On my slow days, you add the pace,
On a blue day, you add the light
On a yellow day, you become the light

On my happy days, you are happy
On my ambitious days, you are hopeful 
Days come and go, but I have realized that
all my lovely days, are only because of you

A silenced promise

He saw it floating in the sky weak and lost- a promise that he once made
A promise to light up each others smiles, re-kindling them as needed
The promise had lofty ambitions, but appeared simple at that time
It just aspired to preserve how they felt about each other for ever 

For the promise to be alive, it had to be fueled with moments of joy, 
laughter, love, which was madly irrational and never conditional. 
Over time, the promise grew thinner and weaker, 
only feeding off the silence that engulfed around. 

In his mad rush to climb the castles floating in the air,
he started feeding the promise little bit of this and that. 
Before long, he only had silence to provide. 

I followed it here

Life's ebb,
My self-imposed web,
A frustrated stare,
and a sprint like a hare.

Missed moments in life,
Some dreams held in strife,
Your eyes lost in swirl of past,
its gleam fading at last.

Your weathered heart stared,
My eyes turned away scared.
But my heart kept looking at you,
And out from my body it flew.

It felt your heart,
Which was once its own part,
Now it stood there weak,
Without any strength to speak.

It had spoken many words,
Some loud and others unheard,
Few were swallowed by time,
others buried by my dream.

I felt void on my inside,
all my dreams pushed aside,
My heart's song was what mattered,
Without which my life shattered. 

My heart held to yours tight,
It promised it is going to be alright.
It said, You are my part.
Nothing else mattered a lot.
I came here following my heart,
and found my own missing part.

Tree and Sky

How much should I grow?
I asked the tree,
If I aspire to touch the sky.
Sky is too far away, it said,
I never try.

Why do you grow, then?
I asked the tree,
hoping to find the reason to grow.
Reason is beyond my thought, it said.
I never think.

Doesn’t it bore you, I asked.
To not think and not know.
It replied, I am only a tree. 
What do I know?

What happens when you grow?
I asked the tree.
It said, the sky is closer and
the breeze is lighter.
As I grew older, 
my dance got better, it said. 

I asked the tree, was there anytime
you wanted to touch the sky?
It said, long back, i don’t remember.
I was a plant who was young,
and knew nothing about dance.

I tried to cut through the wind,
and shoot towards the sky.
It was the time when the wind broke my back,
and taught me to dance.
The more I danced with the wind,
the sky left my mind.


With a tongue sharper than a sword, 
The naysayer cut my heart,
He tried to take the hope locked within,
and feed it to the crows.

When he cut my heart open,
he saw that there lay my hope,
shivering with a new found chaos,
holding on to a single candle for light.

He challenged and taunted me,
asking me how can I hold hope as a captive
in a small heart as of mine,
He told me that I was a sinned one,
Who robbed the world of hope.

With his colossal hands
he grabbed my hope,
Trying to yank it away from my heart,
and the candle it was trying to hold.

I was arrested with shock,
I let the naysayer touch my hope.
But, when my hope looked upto me,
my silence broke to a struggle.

I pushed the naysayer away,
and cut his tongue.
I nurtured my hope and 
mended my heart.

To this day, my hope lives there,
dreaming of dreams unheard of.
It talks to me often,
asking me of the naysayers.
I reply, “No naysayer will ever touch my hope,
for it is no one’s to touch”.

Grains of thoughts

You cannot, he said. I can, I said. We both were wrong.

When life is being life, I am being me.

When I was walking in the woods, I met life who asked me if I wanted to learn dueling. She punched me on the face and said, punch me back. I punched her back. She screamed not in pain, but in frustration and said, “Not by hand, you moron. By your smile”.

I was told that freedom is great. The only time I met it was when I tried to wrest it out of life. I almost had it.

When the sun came down, I asked him if he can take me up in the sky. He told me that it was lonely up there. I insisted and he took me up with him. Before, I saw the world completely from up there, he dropped me down on the other side of the world.

I saw a man through a red glass and he looked red. When I put on green glass, he was green. Then, I took my glass off and he had vanished.

My biggest asset seems to be that I have no clue most of the time. Hence, life does not bother embarrassing me as she yet does not understand what I know. I am afraid of the day when I start understanding things.

There is something amazing about the circle. Sun and moon are circles. Life runs in circles. Every important trajectory I came across is in someway a circle. Even when scrubbing vessels, I noticed that scrubbing in circles cleans better.

I can watch the Sun only when he is starting his work or finishing it. When he is brightest and highest, it scares me to even consider looking at him. I just let him do his work in peace.

I feel that doing work and getting discovered for it are too much of a burden for any one soul to bear. It is better to choose one over another.

I took break from work for seven days and nights and prayed to life to grant me riches. When I finally had to bid farewell to life, it said, I was almost there and seven more days of work would have made be as rich as I wanted to be.

You can wear all the costumes you want and dance before the stars. The stars neither care for your dance and nor your costume.

It intrigues me that everybody loves to dance when they think nobody is watching them.

Several times, I said to my master, “I am not your slave. I am going to cross the river and get away from you”. She smiled and let me go. But, every time I tried to cross the river, the river seemed to get wider and wider. And every time, my master sent a boat that picked me from right in the middle of the river and brought me back to her.

Road to nowhere

When I walked the road
that seemed to lead nowhere,
a feeling sank in my heart,
and cried out to me loud.

I embrace death it said,
rather than the false hope of this path.
I choose to sink it said,
rather than float in dreams.

The path leads us nowhere, it said.
walking on it is futile.
It said, let us sink together,
for, it is when we go on the other side.
There might be another path,
that leads us to where our dreams are.

The feeling took me over,
I looked at the path in despair,
and turned back to look at my footsteps,
which seemed to lead back to horizon.

I had walked thousands of steps in hope,
without pausing to think.
The path had never announced itself,
I didn’t know what made me choose it.

I distinctly remember the day I choose this road,
I had heard a voice full of hope, 
inviting me to talk a stroll.
I took a break from the road I travelled,
to take a stroll on this road.

It was probably the far cry of a phoenix,
that was getting ready to seek the sun.
or It was just probably a cry from within,
that wanted to seek a dream.
I decided to stick with this road, 
I turned my accidental stroll into a journey.

As I look back at my journey,
all I see are footsteps that could very well
lead me back to beginning of time.
The road that won me over,
still lays before me mysteriously,
probably leading to nowhere.

That was a moment where I could respond,
to the sinking feeling in my heart.
I could choose to sink with it,
in the hope of liberating me from the journey.

But, after thousands of steps filled with hope,
the road finally spoke to me.
It said, don’t give up but I lead nowhere.
It is nowhere anyone dares to go.
It is nowhere anyone cares to dream.
It is nowhere anyone tries to walk.
It is the nowhere that is right around the bend.


There is no contradiction in an oak tree wanting to be an elephant. Because even if the oak tree is huge and has a trunk, he cannot be an elephant. Similarly, if a dog tries to be a horse by running fast and trying to whinny, he is still known as a dog. But, only a man can take any form by his actions. Even though, on the insides, he may be what he is.

If a thought enters my mind, I observe it necessitating me into taking an action. An action, which I observe myself taking, even though I had decided against taking it.

Even when the sun is farthest in the evening during the sunset, I see him disappearing really fast beneath the horizon in a matter of minutes. Maybe, he is not immune to gravity either.

Even clouds cast shadows as they move through the sky. Neither the clouds are permanent not the shadows they cast. I always wonder, if the clouds do come down and join the ocean, will they become as permanent as the ripples are.

When I started writing, someone told me I write because I am sad. On the contrary, writing is a happy process for me. Maybe, the sadness disappears in the ink. I always wonder whether the same ink makes others as happy as it made me?

It is ironic that a poem penned by anything but a turbulent heart cannot move a leaf, let alone a soul.

They say in astrology that an afflicted moon makes a man insane. But, it also shows that great men and women who we admire, have the most severe of afflictions. Even the history books tell the same.

In other birth, words must have been a mirrors. Every time, I had to stare at words on a page, they have always reflected something to muse about.

One of the biggest contradictions to me is how I have walked into traps knowing that they are traps but believing that they are not. It happens every time. It is funny.

Meditation is not sitting with your eyes closed. It is just an act of observing with your eyes open. When you sit with your eyes closed, you get illusions. When you observe yourself with your eyes open, you see the illusions.

It surprises me that a simple act of observing myself, a very personal process, manifests as words on a paper; this is not so personal.

Free thought

A thought came to me. It asked me to let go of it. I told it to go. It did not go. It still asked me to let it go. I didn’t know what to do. I was stuck in a deadlock. The thought did not know how to go and I did not know to let it go. We both hoped that one day we would figure out how to liberate the thought. The thought was being held captive in my head. But, it didn’t want to be there and was causing me a lot of distress. It knocked the walls of my head to find a crack through which it can slip. But, my head was full of memories, so tightly packed that, the thought started choking. The memories consumed it after a while, and made it one of their own. Now, I don’t hear the desperate call for the help by the free thought anymore. I am glad not to tormented by its lament for freedom. But, I do hear whispers deep inside my head from voices that were once loud.