when rain clouds swallow our city and fireflies fold their glow in the shiver of their tiny wings, you sit by the window and wait. from the room across, i look at you and pin away for the slice of your heart that will never be mine. there is the dry shriek of thunder. thorns of bougainvillea pierce the charcoal underbelly of the sky.

a gecko had perched itself on the ledge and watched with beady eyes as we lay spent, perspiring from every pore, the gold of daybreak pooled on our thighs. you had smiled as my fingers ran through your hair. my smile bloomed into a kiss. from over the rooftops, flocks of pigeon carried notes of riyaaz on their wings.

On the Road lies abandoned on your lap; pages turning wayward in the gusty fennel-breathing wind. in my tiny hands i hold unpredictability. sometimes i wonder how love slips from between fingers; how galaxies collide and birth fire balls; how the past resurrects itself and enchants us. the corner of your mouth curves into a tiny smile.

i watch till the rain dissolves the clarity of space and you become a watercolor without form, receding till your window becomes an outline only, a bulb-lit rectangle.

darling, must i ask her story? must i ask if the rain brings her dark eyes back to your mind?

©Mohana Das

Paper Boats

we never discussed the rain.
this monsoon when the water threatened
to swallow us whole, you curled
like a snail inside my rib-cage; Kolkata slept.

you are 6 and i your child-bride, quarter
mother held you to her sallow frame-

i dream i have let your fingers go in the onrush.

later i trawl out seaweed, sit
braiding strands of pastel disappointment into rugs as you
launch your umpteenth paper boat into our soggy lane.
i smile through my teeth; the
tea-laced morning has caught a flu.

©Mohana Das


I had left my Soul stranded in
the dusk of your desires.
Wrecked, my sorry tears
flood these sundry shores,
beyond which wavelets break
in each other’s adoring arms,
kicking nacre-blue luminescence.

Then one day he
washed ashore, calling from
behind unwilling oars,
transparency glazed with salt,
complaining. He left
to seek me, for you never returned
as you had promised.

©Mohana Das

Linked to Magpie Tales

Evening: Stringing thoughts

Summer ebbs, round empty wrists,
footprints unsteady lyrically melts
as exclusive silver- gelatined mists-
saddened by poesies, bleeding welts.

To blushing veins, in deep grey, grained
dark maiden fallacies wordlessly lead,
past morning jays, on days that rained
blessings on clover fairies tread.

Crescent stars weep consonants new
on promises shy eyes softly rehease
for lovers who sew love-hearts upon dew,
afloat, unweary, like tulle: emerse.

On skies unwashed, fresh fuchsia etched,
reigns whispers wine-lips wildly sketched.

©Mohana Das
(Sonnet, modified)


Tunnel mouth pastel-ed-
scrubbed sunshine,
mossy drips, damp, wriggling
on bricks stashed
sometime I can’t figure out,
choking, on history, as
the honeymoon crimson isolated sits,
provoking palpitations.
Do you remember your kissing
tan legs, splayed on sofa arms,

or, are memories gone,
wiped clean from your mind whizzing
abandoned sewer chill, on
our catacomb love-making,
hysteric delight?

I still find traces all around.

©Mohana Das

Linked to Magpie Tales

Death of wishing stars

Rusted stars fall, clustered deep in the dark,
With burnt out wishes that will no more speak.
She cries at Spring’s demise, a widowed lark,
As toxic purple tiptoes on the creek.

They were no angels who sang hymns divine,
But stars who shone with mute fascination
Coloring shadows with smiles coralline,
Blinking together, one aggregation.

They wail out loud, harbingers of seasons,
Gleaming like dew on fetal finger-tips,
And rain comes down, throttling nervous reasons,
Who stammer to speak on those silver lips.

Often this silence paves the way to Death,
Waiting for wishing stars, counting their breath.

©Mohana Das

thoughts as they come…

I have always wanted to be a writer. Maybe because I am lonely…I don’t really know why. Perhaps because most writing stems from loneliness, well at least these kinds of blogs do! Or, maybe it is like drinking…both a drunkard and a writer can be dangerous after all. Most importantly it gives me time to chew my pencil to a stub, as I go over everything. Every unimportant thing that is. You see, there’s hardly anything happening that I want to write about…it is all so monotonous. After I’m done with the pencil, I reprimand myself, “Hey! That’s a dirty thing you’re doing.” Yeah, I talk to myself. I talk to myself quite a lot. That’s where I do most of my talking – in my head. Believe it or not, it keeps me sane (though around me people mark it as a sign of insanity!). Oh! The world’s a pretty confusing place.

I don’t really have a story to tell. I’m not Austen, though definitely I worship her. It’s a warm autumn day, and I am dead bored of electronic circuits, so I’m doing what I do best – scribbling. Everything I know, and everything you do not want to know, rather you need not know about me, or the rest. It’s terribly big, this place we live in, so I don’t think we really need to update ourselves with knick-knacks of extra-personal lives. Agree that’s what we do best, but still…I find no use in remembering death anniversaries of old Aunt Polly’s half a score cats or poor Lydia’s train of unsuitable suitors! I wonder why these other angles interest us so much more. I find my perfectly monochromatic life a lot more intelligible! To go on with all the scribbling I do – I scribbled a poem last night which gathered around eight likes on facebook. I will copy it down for you. Who knows perhaps you may actually like it!

Of Life, et cetera:

Viva la Vida.

Kiss upon lips –

wild. potent. devastating.

Of Love, and Certainty:

lashes laugh in Saturday rain;

melancholic slits spurt pungent disdain.

Of Death, and Destiny:

runes unread, unspun lies abject;

salt-blue wreckage of remembrance.

Of Life, and Loyalty:

desires forbidden ache, mistakes made;

illicit wishes speckle emptiness with sighs.

Viva la Vida.

Ecstasy of the Soul –

true. transient. immaculate.

Not really sure about the “immaculate” in the last line.

Maybe this is good. Maybe this is not. But all this assembling words makes me happy, even when I’m all alone. Even if no one wants to read through them. I really want to be a writer someday. I might not be good enough, I might not be known, or I might not even be published, ever. Nevertheless that is what I want to be.