All at once.

All at once,
Too many things on her mind,
Myriad thoughts not in a pattern in particular?

All at once,
She couldn’t separate one thought from another,
She was confused so much wow?!

All at once,
There was too much happening,
One after another, next one even before the previous?

All at once,
There were simultaneous smiles and tears,
Both for happy, both for sad?!

All at once,
There were people, and there weren’t any,
Was she losing track of the counting?

All at once,
There were too many questions,
Why couldn’t she answer them, when she knew the answers really?

All at once,
There were too many voices,
Or could she now hear the whispers too?

All at once.
All at once.

– Stuti


Stopped caring.

She questions what she sees,
Believing it too.
She believes what she questions,
Trying not to.

She’s a little stuck with her thoughts,
Haywire yet sensible, and distraught.
She looks up, then swivels her eyes,
Disguising her opinion, hiding her plight.

They call her opinionated,
They say she judges all the time.
Well, she’s only trying to figure out by experimenting, so let her be.
And she’s only happy ever since she STOPPED CARING.

– Stuti

Sand and a question.

Sometimes I feel time slipping away through the holes between the fingers in my hand. So then I attempt to stop it from falling, by pouring some water in the sand, dampening the whole of it, and making it stay where it is. In the process, I do freeze the sand for a while. I prevent it from falling through for roughly 30 minutes (if I exaggerate!). But post this stall, the sand is back to its flowing state, ready to fall even if I sneeze. So now I wrap both my hands around the sand, in an attempt to prevent it from falling. I protect it. I prevent the fall out. But eventually I begin to tire.

After some time, I start wondering why at all is this little bit of sand alone so important to me? Why did I not think of letting this bit fall away and pick up something more convenient and durable, lets say a pebble? So I question my choice, my attempts, my efforts AND my techniques.

I imagine sitting down and letting the sand go. And then I wonder and ponder over why did I imagine letting the sand go if at all. Shouldn’t I have imagined of trying harder to keep it? Save it? Not letting it fall?

I draw an analogy to life here. We as humans with at least some degree of emotional quotient, tend to hold onto things and situations. We forget that maybe the sand we are holding onto also needs its time and space. It needs to breathe. Maybe it was the desire of the sand to fall and not be held tight and be protected. Of course it would have been easier if the sand could talk and I could explain and we could together weigh the odds. But now that one party is mute, I so doubt a simple uncomplicated solution!

So what do we do? I am out of solutions, and I’m looking for some apt answers to this query. I invite my readers to spill their hearts out with solutions to themselves. You could be on my side, think as me, and suggest, or you could simply be sympathetic with to the sand.

Hoping my readers will deliberate on this…


Expression-ist (Stuti)

(P.S. My take on this (Yes I do have one!) – I should hold onto the sand because for whatever it is worth, I have invested quality time and brain on this, and maybe the sand also wants to stay!! 😉


A garden full of swings,
Some, high, some low, some only bling,
Yet all give joy to the child,
Who taught him to like this? Who taught him?

A shake full of strawberries, very pink.
A shake full of chocolate, very brown.
Who taught it to be dark?
Who taught it to be pink?

The boy with the brown hat,
The girl with the red sash,
Who taught them to be proud so much?
To ignore the smalls?

So many questions, no answers at all.
Answers all obvious, staring at us tall.
Yet questions we ask, yet answers we want,
I refuse to say anything, I choose to stay MUM.


A painting at the museum

Her inspiration inspired,
She gazed at a painting in the room.
Her imagination ignited,
She observed how the painting was groomed.

There in the painting sat a man with his arms folded,
His eyes at the onlooker, he as if stared at nobody,
She looked back at him and tried to understand the look in his eyes,
Which as if talked to everybody.

She asked him some questions,
None of them he replied.
She told him some stories,
Hoping that all of them he’ll memorize.

Next day she again went back to the museum
To look at the same painting,
Second painting from left it was,
And there it still sat, untouched, unrelenting.

She again told the man some stories,
Asked him questions more,
She stared at him for some time,
And he stared back some more.

This routine, it went on for some days,
And the manager started being amused,
He but chose to ignore the matter,
He started observing the girl bemused.

One day after a month,
A pretty lady in a red dress bought the painting.
That evening when she walked in and did not see the man,
She closed her eyes, prayed, walked away, ran.

The manager went behind to understand this all,
Went behind her and caught up with her around the mall.
She stared at him
Then told him her story at once-

She only hoped the man in the painting,
Would see a beautiful wall in a big drawing room,
And witness stories big and small,
For that she thought was his destiny, a reason for his gloom.
Her stories, she said, were just a practice for him,
For the world was big and scary,
Her questions to him were only a rehersal for him,
For the world was filled with queries.

Confused, the manager walked back to the store,
And saw a little boy talking to a lady in another painting.
He smiled, beemed, and winked at the lady,
For now he hoped he knew the story and the sequence WHOLE.


An answer different

So many people-
All in different situations in life
Yet uniting in at least one or the other ways.
Their charm unique, each with their own aura,
Their life, unknowingly intertwining with one another
They live in this world anyway.
So much so that you never even know
if the person next to you in a bus could be someone you’ll adore!!

These people so varying in their manners and habits,
Charm her each minute.
There varieties in their practice,
They itch her with something in it.

She looks at the road and asks herself the reason of the gravel,
She looks at the sun and asks herself the reason of the yellow.
She breathes in the air and questions to herself the mystery of the peace,
She wonders at her life and gapes at its mellow.

The brights and dulls,
The shadows, the mulls,
The pinks, the purples,
As if ask her questions-
She is asked, she replies,
On facts she relies,

But only some day does she hope to give an answer that she feels does not comply,
With rules, with protocols, with treaties and all the laws,
An answer to these and to all other others,
Without any fear, and not in black and white,
NO not in any ink and yet millions of minds it should IGNITE.