A muted whimper

I found him canned,
Ashes collected from a burning pan
Of once a bold body tanned
Memories hang by of his clan.

Spent years,
Wasted time,
In a wasting body,
End thus quietly.

Eyes dry,
With no more tears to cry.
Lingering moments,
With no more lovely presents.

~ Trilok ~

Fractured mind

A million dreams
In a zillion worlds
I am.

Give me a hand
Hold me back
For I am a fraction away
From the world of no return.

I can’t let go
My fears and the pain
I am.

It’s but all deep in my mind.

In my imagination


I’ve been so lonely forever,
I feel this pain so deep, for how long, I am not so sure,
The winds rustle on the empty branches of autumn,
As I walk on the deserted road that leads me no where.

I remember you, driving into my heart
Guarded tight by a red light,
Love was just a sweet accident,
Victims, we were of that winter incident.

Months later, we were just recovering,
For those were welcome wounds,
We never wanted to heal from,
Pain for us was a blissful serum.

Seasons moved on before us without reasons,
Breaking the  trance we were in.
Moments clung on hopelessly like raindrops on windshield
Until a winter saw us drifting far apart.

Left are just fragments of memories
Suspended in a broken mind,
Replayed endlessly behind closed eyes;
A figment of my imagination, it was, maybe!


From an Election Diary

Dedicated to this Election


Now that all is over, I mean this election
Isn’t it time for some patient reflection?
Queued is a frustrated India waiting for a hopeful resurrection,
In an election fought hard and bad with words filled with objection.

Some leaders you disliked and many you worshiped; they all fed on your affection,
When rallies traveled to far-off places of voter action
Moods fluctuated, colors changed and glamour waned when warned of inaction.
A silent reminder, it was, of the power in that voting button selection.

Oil and water were people they claimed and split in to bar charts on television,
Would never mix these elements claimed experts of misdirection.
Will the experts stand in front of people’s jury for introspection?
Ha, they were showmen raking TRPs like casino-goers doing point collection.

Those empty stomachs and quiet wails without a vision,
Will benefit from our proud selection,
Is but a dream waiting to be real for years in collection!
This is but another chance waiting for course correction.

Now that all is over, I mean this election,
What will I eat for breakfast, lunch and dinner, with no spice on TV for selection,
Curd rice in canteen now goes back to that stale plate of infection,
and with colleagues, I wonder, what will be my common point of discussion!

Now that all is over, I mean this election,
Can I go back to work and strive for that promising promotion?



Soliloquy of a Stillborn Life

Soon I shall be gone

Will there be anyone to mourn?

There will be nothing but a stone

Resting on the bones of a life, stillborn.


The pages of my torn book,

The manuscript that no one would look,

Would litter the boneyard

Like leaves swept by a solemn wind, southward.


Time would stand muted, holding the empty end

Of a broken kite-string that it failed to mend.

The destiny, the dream, both wounded from a life-long fist fight

Would sing the requiem of a life’s plight.


The meaning of my work, hard to know

When I am alive and shouting now

Would in the end,  dawn on this world

When beneath the earth, silently I curled.




Faces lit up with weary smiles amidst their gnawing pain,
As the men walked hurriedly in the crowded refugee lane.
Hunger cried softly in a broken melody,
Of frail wails from a newborn’s malady.
Repressed moans of a dried breast,
Or the suppressed appeals of a weak chest.
This strange noise unheard before,
Rumbled in the Man’s body unsure.
Like rats clawing on the inside He felt
When on empty stomach they whimpered heartfelt.
Babus* of the center gyrated the enfeebled figures,
Like vultures waiting for the bad news to augur.
Twenty six rupees* shouted the white shirted Man,
Phased out twenty five pennies* He was gifted in a milk can.
Hunger, Hunger, the hungry shout;
The voice fails for the weak singer now mute.
No more noise when the lives fall but a buzz
Of scavengers and cannibals shooing the swarms of flies with a sizz.
A pair of hands brought His moving legs to a stop,
One was the insect fingers of a dying hand’s hope,
And the other that of a long forgotten conscience
Whose soul wept in a language that tried to make no sentence.
His tears crowded in the aisles of the constricted eyelids,
The trembling hands opened the lid of His water-can filled.
Their eyes twinkled as if salvation arrived,
In the jar of water His hands promisingly held.
Drops of nectar a spoon of water should have tasted,
As on the loaves of the shared bread the famished love gestated.
What is life?, wondered the Man as his hands funneled the nectar,
To the parched throat of the fellow human spectre.

This has reference to the setting of income limit for the poor and hungry in India, phasing out of 25 paise coins and the ever hungry masses in this country. The Man – He is a bureaucrat but with a soul who goes to the poor people to announce the income limit set by the government along with other government officials (Babus*). He is touched by the sight he sees, offers them water from his bottle and in the end wonders about life philosophically.

~ Trilok R. ~

Rise and Fall

A lyric (yet to be tuned) that speaks about coming to terms with your bad phases or losses in life and rising up again.

Rise and fall, fall and rise
Rise and fall and fall and rise
And the game goes on,
On and on…On ‘n on…

Wake up… cheer up,
Lift your head up.
Sorrows are not going to last,
Good time is coming around the corner fast.

Is there a little more of love left
A pain lingering in your chest?
Forget that bitter truth,
There is more to this life than the withered wreath.

This is another one of your bad dreams,
Don’t pop the pill.
It won’t shut you from those screams,
‘Cause you need to live on still, Live on..n live on still..