I loved her truly, but I am happy at home – A poem about drifting through life with some privileges

I loved her, and it sustained me,
Made me youthful, endure a difficult time,
We never met, may never meet,
She is far, further away than Jerusalem herself,
And now, it ends, and I loved her,
Lost, somewhere in Asia,
Soon to return home to India.

Where is life taking me,
I do not know truly, a step,
At a time, makes me feel bad,
A step in time would better,
Byzantium, Sultan Mehmet,
Europe, the Renaissance,
America, an opiatic haze,
And diamonds I can not buy.
Fantasy for me, imagination,
But all that fades, and her too,
What is left, me, just me,
And what is my little piece,
Of that oldest land, Hindustan.

I would thank her if I could,
I can write to her, pretty, and beautiful,
On the far side of the world,
But my world, the world, it is wrong,
So I changed it, all of it,
I dared to disturb the universe,
And now I will do nothing.

Emptiness descends again.
I will find something to do,
I will tell her all this later maybe,
She will know I hurt, and not for her,
But I doubt even, if she has loved me.

It has been a while, since I have felt,
This sadness, that torments me once more,
This year, frightening, with Covid,
The newest plague, feeling alive,
And giving and creating, gone,
Life as normal, in a world,
Where I am not much.

Had it been different, all of it,
My life, since 17, I may be someone,
On google, with a linkedin, of note,
But now, this sadness descends again,
A melancholia, I lose my fire,
When this happened last,
I was like this, just this,
For five years, the words,
They still flow, but yes,
The fire, the spark goes,
But yes, the Universe is disturbed,
Mine, and I shall see,
As I hide at home, a bit scared and shy,
Watching the world turn,
If my life, is a bit better.

I loved her yes, in my heart,
And wrote little things,
And now, I am myself,
With no regrets, but wondering,
If I can live another five years,
Being reminded each day,
Growing older and older,
How small I am in the world.

Some arrogance, would help.
I suggest time, to myself,
And complaints, and not rage,
For what will I do, with Freedom and Money.
I am happy at home, loved,
But I have her in my heart still,
But the boldness is gone,
The fear returns, and I am shy,
I will have Fajitas today,
Here in Bangladesh,
Mystic, wondrous South Asia,
She is from South America,
And I give in, to what I am,
Once more,
Etherised, an artist on a table,
Drifting through life,
With some privilege,
Lost in La-La Land*.


Images – From the Internet – Fantasy Digital Art.

Land in the heart and underfoot – A Fragment of a Story

She walked, quietly, from her room, to the kitchen. It took her thirty seconds. She lived on rent. New York City. She had for a while, after college. Her dream. She had dreams when she came to college too. But she was beautiful, perfect, brilliant, and all the other students, boys and girls, took her dreams away. A dropout. But she had money, her dad was someone special, a financier, out in the world.

She had land in her heart and underfoot. She could buy a home. Her dad had asked if he wanted her too. She wrote, painted some time. Had a few boyfriends, love interests in the last 10 years, that’s how long it had been since college. But no, New York City. Not some silly suite, where she’s the only person of colour in Trump Tower, which could be real.

Where was she? Stuyvesant. Coffee, theatre, marijuana, art, and well, she was a friend of the Met, in Manhattan but she kept that a secret. And her faith. Something new to America. But isn’t every faith new to America at one time. She wasn’t poor though.

She had land in her heart too in her country. It was hers. Her tradition, her dogma, her tradition, but she hadn’t talked about it for 10 years. She wouldn’t even in her country. She was privileged there. She didn’t want that life, stuck in a gilded cage, in Asia, in a Capital, ruling the world, with one phone call a year, and doing nothing but smoking Sheesha, and drinking.

No, her life in New York was better. Pepperoni Pizza, Brazilian BBQ, Falafel, it was all real. It was her home now. And a friend of the Met, but this she hid too. Her life, was public. A star, on social media. A mood setter, idea generator, with her distinctive writing and art. Small, but influential circles around her, her friends did not see. Even in New York.

She knew in New York though. Two phone calls and a job at the New York Times. She was that good. Just her writing. She had educated herself online. She loved her therapist too. The guy she was with now, not so much. A bit* real. A person of colour. But a bit lost on drugs. The hard sort. Brilliant still, but not committed to anything. Love, faith, and the sex was good.

She did go home to Asia sometime, to the Land of Many Kingdoms, she had actually spent a year there. It was getting better there, it’s been poor a while. She wants to give. But what? She didn’t know. She had land in her heart in New York too. But maybe, she just had to leave. Politics maybe, she could. Join a foundation, too. Help with the economy, in some way. Maybe too.

She would return. To help. But she would always be a friend of the Met. And New York City would be Land in her heart.

Love; gentle, passionate and hopeful.

I love one. She is on the far side of the world. Though I don’t know her, I found her, end of last year, in some secret magic window in that wonderful world called Instagram. She doesn’t know me, and I’m here in Asia, far far away, and she is somewhere in South America, further away. But these secret windows, they show me her, and over time, I fell, further and further into some passionate love. Passionate for me.

I feel, a heaviness in my heart. I have written poem after poem. Well, like 12. I don’t know if she saw. It’s unlikely. Now, it’s a bit melancholic, and I find myself, a bit collected, after a period of anxiety and excitement, and fear, as India battled Covid. It’s getting better.

So it is better in Brazil. I wrote a poem, imagining, that she is worried, about the pandemic, which was harsh there, and I send her a ship, from England, filled with silver and aids. An old ship, something 17th century, a Clipper. One that would throw caution to the winds, and sail hard and fast, leaving all Portugal in its wake, sailing to Rio, to help her, her family and her country.

My imagination is wild. But the feelings, well, they feel real. Insta. Unbelievable. But you know, her name, Lala, I’ve tried saying it, it’s sweet, and wonderful, but she seems like fire contained, just barely, but so sophisticated, and pretty, I don’t know where to begin talking about her.

I don’t understand her so well, or much, when she speaks. She speaks Portuguese. I think this is something old, and harmless, but I do suspect she knows I exist and finds me amusing. She is fashion, to me, I have learned much. High Fashion. That’s her work, and more. And me, a lazy writer.

I’d probably shiver and crumble, if we ever actually met, and she looked me in the eye and said, ‘nino’. Maybe it’s just a wonderful fantasy, a dream, with some feelings, and some infatuation with hallucinations. She’ll always be a part of me I know, much like some girls I’ve loved and known for real.

It’s best, I think, if nothing changes. I’m an introvert. Smooth, in safe places, or one on one, and not a dazzler, and she’s one for the stage, she’s been everywhere, done everything, and it’s on the internet. Even marriage, once. I can barely get a girl now, to go out with to dinner. Something cultural, something me.

Rivendell is where we should meet, not Rio, not Tokyo, not Paris, or Milan, or Delhi, she might like me, but I’d never recover.

New Beginnings – Stepping Away from a Bittersweet Past

I went through a tough phase at the end of last year. My dosage of mental health meds is high still but reducing, and my filters were lower. My regret for things I said and wrote to people, is still like a knife in my gut. I lost a few people. Still, in all things there is a silver lining, and I find myself with fewer chains to my past.

At 31, almost 32, I find this unsettling a bit, but I recognise this as a good thing. My baggage runs deep. Deep into the territory of shadow where the light and dark intersect. With some of it shed, some over 13 years worth, from different tough periods in my life, through dealing with some past trauma and stewing in introspection and healing a bit in rehab, I find that in faith I have something to carry me forward.

I am not in some special hallowed place career. My prospects as a writer are as good as any artist’s at their trade. However, I am looking at new ways to fill my life with meaning, purpose, and am for once, looking truly ahead to the not so distant future, the next few years, and not wondering about things long past – the spilled milk.

To new beginnings – Stepping away from the bittersweet past

A bridge of faith, across to a far beyond,
Stretching back to a past long gone,
I stop and stare, out over the edge,
The ground is not so far,
And there are mountains all around.

Maybe it is not in my destiny,
In the near future or ever,
To ford some great mountain,
But the rosy sunset, which I gleam,
Promises hope, and a better tomorrow.

All I must do for now, as I rest,
From trouble, and pain,
Is linger, and savour, and choose,
But one thing, to move forward,
And not back whence I came,

For in going ahead, is my future,
And there is not much left,
In what is now gone,
I hope there is wine, in my future,
With a loved one, but there is love already,

And a moment’s comfort, every few steps,
Of this chartered way for now.

On love, passion, memory, feeling and marriage – A poem

I have been a bit of an artsy loser this summer with the women, but that has lead to reflection, and I am back on track to my best in the last 3 years here, with a poem on a theme varied from what I’ve done before, passion too. There is one poem ‘Reuniting with my Love’ but that is fictitious, this is drawn from my life, mostly here, in the East, where between two people, there is always something, if not desire, something enigmatic. Something we understand, that is special. Sending love to you all. I am over, the Baroque Romanesque Sky, and yes, getting shafted. Happens to the best, or the artsy losers, and we all get old, the world belongs to the young. But it’s too young for marriage, and there’s always time to write.


It has been long since I knew love,
Passion, feeling, I understand still,
But not the sweat, and the turmoil,
And the scent of love, I am no expert,
At love, for the act of love is where I fail,
And lose, to any woman I love,
A failing I do not know, but in the past years,
Six or seven let’s say, there are a few,
Experiences in sweetness, and edge,
I stop understanding power in these times,
Few and far between that they are,
For my will, I forget, and become the kiss,
Expert, from brow to cheek, to lips,
But this I regret in my life, I have not
Kissed many lips, and some lips of those,
That I kissed, I wish, I had not kissed,
In hindsight, but yes, memories are memories,
And holding someone smaller in my arms,
That is easy, in the east, the orient,
for I am 100 kilos, and 5 foot 10 inch,
And know pleasure, and understand her,
But I wish now, for the escape, of a woman,
Another, I admire, and respect, but I do most,
And love, well, passion first, I am old and weary,
And if I’m not careful, passion will take me to marriage,
When in my heart I wait for someone, from close to home,
Who is far west, or maybe another, secretly,
Who I know, but doesn’t know, that in my heart,
I feel unrest, and the desire, for lips, and cheeks,
And hair, and to feel one, with a woman,
And give in, for that is me, and I do,
In writing, but I am careful, and wary,
Wedding bells are not in my plan,
My heart belongs to someone else,At least for a year.

Lonely – Melancholic – Tough year – Reflecting, ‘hoping’ somewhere

It’s almost Diwali, the festival of lights, but a lot is going on in the world, from elections in the United States, to India, and South Asia etc.

I can barely think about the world now, I have to force myself too. My mother left today, to be with my father who works elsewhere, I live in the family home in India.

The immediate feeling of loneliness is always hard. I’m sad, and depressive, which is fine, melancholy. But it was a rollicking last 6 weeks, with me making decisions, and writing a lot, on social media about my personal life and what I care about.

I’ll be slow for a while I know, just low. My default normal is a little low, but I’m always hopeful, just the feeling, not optimistic at a time like this. I’m 31 you see and feel frightened, life, my mental health pills, being lonely, alone, no one to love and care for, and a writer, trying to make it.

I’m getting published in New Delhi, by a pretty prestigious editor of poetry. I’m looking forward to that, deep down, or not, I don’t know, I feel, what next? What’s the point? It’s a bit defeatist today, and I get like this often, but I don’t often write about it. Maybe not depression, cause I function well, relatively, but I’m not so social, but happy by myself, reading, writing, and embracing the writer’s life.

Just downloading thoughts on the place that’s safest to me here. This WordPress here, and my family, after 3 years of irregularly posted romanticism. This is what goes onto it. This is romanticism too in a way, the wallowing maybe, and feeling, sad and hurt. I think it heals something. I’m trying to embrace but it takes time. Maybe till Diwali, 10 days, and then a change, but I’ll walk more, and listen to music, though I don’t want much besides my staple, relaxation playlists, like jazz, chill celtic fantasy, classical piano etc.

I may edit some of my writings from the last 7 months from the pandemic times, when I really gave it everything, but I’ll abandon some to, on principle. Something new I want to try. Not to hoard. But to choose.

I wish everyone love, healing, and time, and maybe some dose of family, which I’ve been blessed with this hard year.

If you read this and you’re from America, send a note or call your congress representative, when the dust settles, to be nice to India. India’s healing, and dealing with a lot, and the American Government might be tough on us, for doing business and trading with China and having diplomatic ties with Tehran.

Tehran, Iran, is as far from New Delhi, as Houston is from Mexico City I think, a three hour flight. And China and India, have a land border, like Canada and the United States. But politics. Just being hopeful. I support such things in my ‘public’ social media life.

And wishing you a happier America. It’s been a tough year and pandemic.

Time, wounds, this year,
The year does not pass,
It lingers, autumn turns to winter,
There are those we loved,
Who are gone, Diwali is sombre for me,
I shall pray, to Goddess Lakshmi,
And Christmas will be muted too,
But maybe we will remember God,
And all of us, have some room,
To move forward in 2021.

Will be writing here.

On being a man, 2020, the year of the pandemic, and life, and moral corruption, and goodness and women – Early winter, Oct 2020- With Illustration.

Kindness, love, joy, truth and light.
Darkness, pain, emptiness, and decay.
These are maybe two sides of the same coin.
We all suffer from both at the same time.
Wounds, fester, but what is good?

Sometimes, the good is with those,
Who are damned, and suffer,
In measure, weight and balance,
For in labour, and living, surviving,
There is greatness in moral terms,

Than who? Than those who ride,
On the backs of privilege,With life easy,
Almost, but participating,
In corruption, and not moving enough,
To be of note to the sands of time.

Who can say what is good and wrong?
There are laws, that is true,
Are those laws just, and are those,
Who enforce those laws, fair,
We go in circles, you and I, and she,

I have wronged the world of women recently,
But will be rewarded by them too,
And then in time, removed from society,
Hidden, in plain sight, a turquoise,
Or an opal, a treasure, but only to a few.

Why hide? When the world can be won?
Why run so fast, that stars and sky and moon,
Take note, and the sun slows, and itself,
Disappears, forgotten, when hell pauses,
And heaven says, there are seven,

Choose where you go lad, you’re almost 32,
What have you achieved? Some letters,
Some hearts won, some hearts lost,
What is your worth lad? Why insult women,
With logic, eternal, but faithless,

When time, time, has already said,
Your race is won, but you don’t do enough,
Heaven is not enough you say,
The stars above wait, for your sails,
To unfurl, there are things we must endure,

Some are born to endure, some to fight and win,
Some to shine sometimes, and some to love,
What would you say, to these voices?
That guide me always, I say,
I am the ship, sailing in a sea,

A metaphor unknown, for I have never sailed,
And I know no other feeling,
The cannon were brought out in force for once,
But they are there always, resting,
For a time again, when I know,

The stars come calling again,
And the moon chooses to aid me in sleep,
And the sun feels shame to shine,
And the world, it beckons, and says lad,
Maybe the women don’t know what to do,

For once, please, be a man, and sail, sail true.
And those who see, will see wonder,
Some substance, flawed, scarred,
With beauty, but, at heart, for a moment,

Not fair, not just, not honourable, but true.

Getting Older, a tough year, and autumn and a poem on life, finding love, mortality, and human nature

I have felt love this year, and the winter comes now,
I have felt loss this year, to all I love,
And pain for my heart and mind,
And to this earth, that I and many others love,
And the fear of sickness, that plagued, and persists,

I have also taken from that which I love,
For once, but without mercy but with grace,
I am not a prince, a human, a humanist,
One who does not feel privileged sometimes,
But maybe that is the privilege, that me,

I, someone who can go to Isfahan someday,
And has roamed Boston, and Providence,
And wonder, why Jerusalem, when there
Is also Samarkand, North, with snow due,
In Khyber Pass, unguarded to the West,

I am not a star, as they sometimes allege,

Dark, or faint, or loving, or distant,
I am me, and I believe the world can be better,
And one, any person, can make better,
If they wish, with their thought and deeds,
And it is not easy to make it worse,

But all that is good can be unmade,
And so it shall be made back,
And men love women, and women men,
And mistakes are made, I have made a few,
But time, the sands of time, forgive a soul,

And comfort the mind, but we must choose sometimes,
To give to the world, which carries on anyway,
Or be kind to ourselves, and pursue love,
For it is Autumn, and the eagles and hawks abound,
In Haryana, and in Delhi, and the Mughals are gone,

But memories linger, of a time, when princesses,
Were wed young, and did not rule the world,
And men like me had freedom, a say,
Beyond what we wrote, or our labour,
But this is a better world, a princess reads,

But this is a better world, a princess reads,
Or three, a Maharajah, a Nizam, my loves, two, or four,
And friends, old, lost, gone and found,
Landed, wealthy, not so wealth,
And those who build starry palaces in dust,

I have no time for justice, when there is time,
Yes, time, for rest, reflection, and love,
For life, the world, the people, and compassion,
In the hearts of men, women, and those,
Exalted in the eyes of God,

Who are not of them,
Not blessed, but of consequence, yes,
And capable of love, and rest, and grace,

It is hard for me to forgive,
For I have felt too much pain,
To feel forgiveness with ease,
But I am forgiving by nature,
And in this fault, I shall know my end,

This I predict, in a woman, probably,
And not a honeyed cup, a woman that I love,
For I am sweet with most women,
Most times, and for a kiss from one I love,
Most women I like and am drawn to,

Would steal with ease my life and spirit,
And I am not malleable,
But hay, straw, tied together,
Immune now to fire, for I am fire and starlight,
But prey, for any beauty, willing, to conquer.

The Feminine Archetype.
Getting older. 31. A white strand 😉

Travelling in Venice – With Pics- One night, 36 hours, solo 2014 – Reminiscing after a tough year when travel is tight

So, I’m just reminiscing. 2014. September. I was in Venezia. Italia was a special treat after finishing my Master’s and Thesis (which is online open source – Nuclear Energy and Sustainability for India), a rigorous internship at the United Nations ESCAP, and then me cajoling my parents. One of the highlights, was me alone, in the two weeks for a night, and two days in Venezia.This is just 12 hours, from 10 PM, to 10 AM, I slept just 5 hours that night, my one night in Florence, before waking up and having a double shot of espresso, with Dolci, with Italians at 6 AM, who were showered, bathed and ready for the day, in boots and leather. No tourists.

William Dalrymple, distinguished author and literary figure, figurehead of the Jaipur Literature Festival, India, Mughal Nawab Britisher of New Delhi currently wrote books like ‘In Xanadu’ and ‘In the Shadow of Byzantium’ which I read in the early 2000s, when I was in school. I am 31 you see, and I was 14-16 then, and 24 when travelling for this 48 hour excursion solo before Verona for 2 days and 2 nights, truly the highlight of the trip.I wanted to experience something different. I booked an Air B N B far from the touristy part of town at Ospedale, and walked maybe 40 kms over two days. Had falafel, maybe Pasta at a Florentine Steakhouse in Venezia, saw a Vivaldi Concert, can’t find the pics anymore, someone seems to have cleared up my drive. I haven’t changed my passwords in 6 years really. But I can track low-tech ‘high tech’, with a simple encrypted purchase on a secure credit card. Will find out who, someday. But it doesn’t matter.

I have memories of the Quattro Stagioni, done by a troupe in a hotel Vivaldi may have composed that famous piece Four Seasons in.If I could write like William Dalrymple, I could, I’ll try and do a more readable story on Verona, closer to my heart. Juliet, or Giuletta, after Letters to Juliet, I found her you see, and she’s never let me go, I believe in faith. I may never marry, and will always know love, this was the realisation in Verona in 2014, and that I would know love at Venezia, where I saw at 11 pm, an old couple, dance, with 40 others, to beautiful music, timeless, in the sqaure, by the Cathedral and the Doge’s palace, and I would visit with a woman someday who would understand love. I was inspired to emulate William as an Indian in Europe.Venezia and Verona are special. Verona tomorrow or day after.

I might do a small travel book on Amazon with my journeys through Italy, 60 pages, 60 pics, with the consent of my friends for pictures, I met a few in Rome, and Florence, Lucca, and Tuscany who made the trip memorable. Amalfi is off the record. The Amalfi Coast. The seafood pizza. Beauty, magic, me and my first love then. We move one. East and West. Forza. Both, Bello Della Vita.Culpe di Astra. Inclinat Siempre Italia. “Struck by stars. Inclined forever towards Italy.”