Thursday, Nov 1 2007 


 Words, running through these pages

Strung into verse, tale and book,

Or hung on threads invisible

Moving back and forth amongst us;

 All to whom I have gone as a pilgrim,

Nay, a seeker–for peace, comfort, understanding,

Words again, that strike as trite now,

To our too-accustomed, cynical ears

That catch din, clamour ever so better.  

They should walk

Only so far,

Never cross thresholds

That marks them

As treasures,

For having fallen over

They can never quite

Raise themself.  

Rag pickers, now.   

June, 2005


Thursday, Nov 1 2007 

Lost Lullaby  

My songs float on emptiness;

Silences held between the edges of words

Crash and resound of voids

Where often we had dived,

Sometimes to come up

Like triumphant sea-bathing kids

With an oyster holding sparkling lights

From yesterday.



Anger at emptiness

Envy of plenitude,

Tar with fine strokes

All that is said,

Till scouring submarine depths

The night blows by

Singing of  a lost lullaby.

   Written -End May, 2005    




Wandering Wednesday, Oct 24 2007 

On and on I wax and wane

To attain a spotless moon

And they lied who

Say youth’s carefree.


My tangled threads I try to unknot

But can I smoothen the creases

On the brow of time,

The map of my mind.


 The world’s too wide to hold

A purgatory, so Dante journeyed,

And I walk, to wash

The wound of words.


My hapless words, yelping dogs

But called the bitches bite, now

Voices float up on merciless shores

Like dead that the tide throws.


The wanderer once found wayfarer

But the way wound away,

The tongue did try to utter

But truth turned astray.


So like an ascetic’s white

I donned wordlessness

And dreamt of colour

To paint blank leaves.


Till nauseous pain fought

And summoned this pen back

Where to? I know not

Perhaps another wordless way


Her Song Wednesday, Sep 26 2007 

delhi-station-13.JPG          delhi-station-7.JPG

The words must exhibit­—it is said,

The angst of the world

 Protest, or as it goes now–subversion

People against torn backdrops

Dilemmas of here and there

Urb and the fringes

This tongue and that

A voice

An identity

Or the lack of one.

What more can another add

To so many voices

Rankling, jostling to be heard

So maybe I will sing a song 

That which the dust-eating, mud-splattered child sang

In the heat of elite academia grounds

Under the eye of her brick-bearing mother

She played goti[i], plenty to be found, where soon

Anxious students would discuss urban poverty

Rural migration and contract labour 

 In the casual comfort of the cafeteria–

That father mixed cement and mother carried stones for,

She picked up a gitti[ii], glanced at her year sister

Lolling in the dust

Sang a song

While she waited for her brother to return

With school-satchel filled with

Stolen chalks

To play kit-kit[iii] later . 

[i] A game played by children in India, with pieces of stone.[ii] A kind of stone, usually used for construction purposes[iii] Another game played by children in India, especially in small towns and villages and popular in the U.P.-Bihar region. The labourers working on construction sites around Delhi hail largely from this belt.

Evenings and a pretence-evening at Tuqlaqabad Saturday, Sep 8 2007 


Time clocks its own course leaving us humans to grapple with the consequences. Evening has been a time of melancholy ever since I started thinking, reflecting. The changing hues of the evening sky bring me home to myself and my thoughts sit heavy on my mind, knocking insistently to be pondered upon.

I’ve never been able to quite put my finger down on what exactly moves me so about evenings. Is it the spectacle of the huge, orange ball of flames dimming, sinking behind the horizon, the latter strethching out like an endless seashore across the sky? Is it the sky: aflame this minute, donning shades of ink the next before  immersing itself into the dye of the night? Or is it my thoughts, which find the desired canvas to be etched upon?

And then there are places, incidents, which come attired in the garb of the evening. A hot, muggy afternoon at Tuqlaqabad fort is one such pretence-evening. The Eicher-Delhi map describes it as a ruin, and a ruin it is. Scraggy walls, high towers shamed, proud archways through which royals had marched, reduced to just another pile of bricks. The ramparts look out onto the plains of delhi, the fort being located on a hill. I wondered why the Khilji noble, Ghasi Malik,  recently become king Ghiyassuddin Tuqlaq in a shift of power,chose to build the centre of his dream here, far away from the river as it is. At the Delhi -U.P. border now, the fort is a peripharal remainder of an ambitious man’s dreams, attracted to the glory of the throne of Hindustan like so many others.

Yet the fort remains beautiful, splendid in its ‘ruined ‘ glory. A giant, chained for centuries,injured, but not vanquished.

 Like all such places that have become stamps on the annals of history, several legends are associated with the fort as well. Supposedly, the saint Niamuddin Auliya, irked by the fact that the Sultan had commissioned all the labourers of city to work on the fort, which had in turn stopped progress on his Baoli, cursed the Sultan thus, Ya rahey usar, ya basey gujjar — May the fort remain unoccupied,barren or else the herdsmen may live here. The result; time playing truant and the curse manifesting its prowess.


Bute it is not history that preoccupies me but rather the feelings evoked by the site.Is it typical romantic nostalgia that I am indulging in or is it some dominant emotion of any reflective mind.

Why nostalgia? Nostos or the longing to return home is innate to all, the recurring familiar question, ‘whither lies home?’-a little dramatically put but nevertheless truly what resounds in several hearts. This home is one’s panaah, a haven. It might not, and in most cases it is not a physical space but a state of mind or a metaphoric space. The desire or yearning to find such a shelter is not unnatural, but longing for the past, that is what nostalgia has come to imply now. But why must the clock turn, its course is to move on and tarry for none. Therefore creation and destruction happened in thier own flow, leaving only a few stones testimony to the human impulse and effort behind them.  

Another First… Tuesday, Jul 31 2007 

                                                           Portrait of another wanderer

This the first time i’m posting a blog. The thrill of sharing with others what had been one of the ‘fussy'(the  last letter of the english alphabet has abandoned my keyboard, so substituitng it with ‘s’, which led to an interesting pun) strands of thought in the simmering cauldron of one’s mind ; the number of readers who might come across it, the exiting anonymity and hence objectivity that is offered makes me regret that I didn’t start earlier.

The main reson that held me back was the dilemaa of what to share, and how to share it. I’m one of those who spend more time worrying how-to-do-it than taking the plunge straight away.  A bout of sickness gave me the leisure and isolation to finally ,WRITE.

For starters, what does the blog title mean. It is a Farsi word meaning Light of the Night. It is the magical lamp that I, the wanderer, wish to hold up in the course of my search, for words, their depths, their truth and the power they throb with, waiting to be unearthed and weilded. With the journey of these words, God willing , the self will move towards light as well. For what are words that are not sincere, they exist in only in their own sophistry and veneer. 

So here’s what I’ll be writing about. A little poetry, a bit of what one might call reflections of a twenty-one year old female mind and some fiction.Please do try leave a comment -anything you might feel when you come across these words, for they are for YOU, pulled out with some effort from this self, who seeks to refine and perfect her thoughts and their expression.