A simple question has intrigued humans for a long long time. What happens after we die? What exactly is death? Why is it still a mystery to us? Made absolutely inaccessible to the understanding of mortals till the day it comes beckoning.

And being a mortal, I too am intrigued by death. Before you call me a nihilist or something of that sort, do think about it yourself. What happens after we die? As superstitious beliefs say, does our soul escape out and fade into the realms of space and time? Or do some of us end up in ‘heaven’ and the not so fortunate ones in ‘hell’? Or do we take birth again in the form of something which may include from a microbe to a blue whale and the cycle goes on again?

We don’t have an answer. We don’t have an answer to how the mind reacts as it fades into oblivion, a state of infinite limbo, into endless nothingness while the flesh and bones lay there as a memory of who we once were, or perhaps the illusion that we were something. Something significant. An illusion of course. An illusion which we do not realise until the lights dim and ultimately fade out.

Some say, a person on his deathbed gets a glimpse of everything he did in his life flash in front of him. Giving him once last chance to savor the happy moments that he created and feel the pain of the misery and misdeeds he did and felt over the course of his life. What goes on a person’s mind when he goes through such an experience? Traumatizing is it? The endless longings to make things right. A chance to correct those mistakes. A single opportunity to go back once more, to turn around instead of walking forward, to say the words instead of keeping them at places dark and unrecoverable. A longing to live. Again. It is traumatizing.

Perhaps that’s why death is ever mysterious. Perhaps that’s why it is beyond the understanding of a mere mortal, a speck of dust in this infinite universe, a fish in the endless ocean. A curious creature, a creation of god, the primal one, the fittest, the survivor. Always hoping. Helplessly.


Life. Begins with an empty slate
Fragile. Left in the hands of fate.
Driven by love.
And crushed by hate.
Until the day.
The gift is gone.
And shadows remain.


Cloudy Days

Days like this always compel me to pick up the pen. The weather is very cloudy today. A gloomy atmosphere all around.   Normally, this kind of weather will make someone either sad or ‘too lazy to get out of the bed’. I always have had a love-hate relationship with this gloomy weather. Love because I get so many ideas to write about. It’s almost chaos inside my head. So many thoughts poking at once. It’s so exhilarating. And hate because well…it’s gloomy. Makes me almost sad. Almost. And although it makes me hate it, I just can’t stop loving it. That’s why it is really complicated. I guess poets loved this type of weather because it took out the best of them. And surely, it does brings out what we can’t manage even after hours of thinking and thinking with an empty page in front of us. That feeling. It’s difficult to express this but I think a person can have a much deeper introspection within himself and think about life and everything around when they look towards nature. This is quite applicable with me and I am sure there are a lot of people who might agree to this.

This weather is beautiful. I cannot think of appreciating nature more than how I am feeling right now. It’s thought provoking. It’s so much exhilarating. The gentle breeze, the dark clouds, the occasional mynah singing, the mystifying atmosphere. I think it’s time I write some poetry.



What is art?

Is it when you pick up the brush and smear all your creativity on the canvas?

Is it when you play with colours as you try to reproduce on a blank sheet the things enraging on your mind?

Is it when you pour down your feelings at 2 in the morning because the only thing standing between them and you is a piece of paper and a pen?

Are you creating art when you share them with the paper because there is no one else?

Is it the slashes you make on your wrists with the blade and watch the liquid flow slowly as you drop into oblivion?

Is it art when in the middle of a cold night, when you have given up on your life and a blank piece of paper lies in front of you?

Is that piece of paper a work of art?

I don’t know.
I don’t understand art.


I belong from a small city situated in the north-eastern part of India. The place is good and also happens to be my hometown. I always get happy when it rains after a long gap. Because you get to experience the petrichor. There is something that makes ne utterly joyous with the heralding of the dark clouds. And so, after a long gap of maybe 3 months it rained yesterday. I was taking my afternoon siesta as usual after having my lunch. My mother was cleaning up the dishes when the next thing I know, it was pouring outside. My mother immediately rushed upstairs to the terrace to get the clothes, wouldn’t want them to get wet now would we, while I jumped from my bed and ran outside. The landscape had changed. The trees and plants around were starting to come to their natural colors after enduring the dust for months. It was nothing short of a blessing to them. Some of the cows that graze near our house were running helter skelter. They were quite confused as to where the rains suddenly came from. A few people were screaming to their family members to take the clothes inside. I was quite amused watching these turn of events. As I sat in the verandah I was feeling the petrichor seep within me. It was as if my lungs were vacuum cleaned. I had waited for this moment from the past 3 months. I saw a few birds flying by and looking up saw the clouds converging with a few rumbling of thunder in between. Yes, the rains had arrived and so did the sweet smell of the soil.

8th December