Monday, 17 March 2014

That Probable New Low

You know the anticipation
A silent March night brings
When you’re upstairs, alone
Throwing stars at the black sky

And the nonchalant leaves –
Of the Neem tree that covers
A fourth of your terrace –
Dance in a festive mood.

You breathe in the musky scent
Probably it rained somewhere
But the sudden pain in the chest
The right side, specifically,
Alerts you

And brings you back to
Breathing again.
Diagnosing now
You stretch your arms
And bend backwards and forwards
Left, then right.


You weren’t imagining
That bastard of a pain.
It was
Just like last year

Before it had started getting worse.
A recurrence, is this?
Of that ugly, boring disease
Called tuberculosis?

Where you are neither pitied
Nor reprimanded
Where you are neither too weak
Nor too strong
Where you are that useless
Prick that earns nothing
And spends the fortune
Not on fun, but on medicines
That make him sweat like a pig.

Where you are to be away from
Anything harmful

For your immunity 
Is compromised.

There is the danger 
of that shameless bacterium,
That occupies a corner in your lung
And a piece of your dignity,
To invite more of his comrades.

Perhaps the rifampicin
And the isoniazid
Will mind being bothered 
For those drug-resistant retards.

Toodles to friends and hellos to cough
Fever, pills, pain, injections,
Odd looks, and stupid questions
Journals and depression.
Shortness of breath
And loss of appetite.


A second time in two years
Should officially
Proclaim you



D     e     a     d.

Monday, 20 January 2014

On a long, long night

When forevers finally become clich├ęd
And the domes are outmoded
I will stick my legs out on the lawn
Maybe count the stars
And talk to the moon

Spot a constellation, perhaps
That might be a home to some gentle folks
Or just empty space
That’d employ nothing but mystery

And slyly
An angel up there
Would trick the Gods
And cut away the plastic sky
To be friends with a lunatic
Lost in thoughts...
Maybe as vulnerable as she

While I stay on the ground
Facing the dead sky
Probably asleep.

– Vaishali

Sunday, 10 November 2013


Try being ill
For a day
And you’ll find
Everyone’s a doctor.

Try making a mistake
Just once
And you’ll see
Everyone’s a teacher,
A preacher.

Damn it.

Don’t we all
Love ‘em?
Love giving them,
I mean.

Taking advices?
I am
My own boss.

– Vaishali
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