The void

Another pair of stilettos, golden rimmed this time around
A choice made after hours of leafing pages on the internet,
After strutting in and out of malls, on yet another chic pair,
After impatiently trying out a motley of styles and shades
Winter coats; how many more can make your closet full?
Your closet of desires; its void vexing with every single buy
Every spring a few ghosts grope their way to the dumpster
You would rather not give them for charity, what a bother
But every time you pull them out, one or two, from the closet,
You see skeletons come out, perilous reminders of your past,
Every buy an attempt to cure a fever, one that never breaks in you,
You embrace cures one after the other, trying to break the heat,
You redo your home décor, trying to find solace in the new
But each a reminder of wounds from the past, self-inflicted
You pack your bags in haste, for trips that simply don’t cure,
Stay at the most exotic locales, sun bathe in sought after spots,
Sport pretentious expressions beneath real high-brow cheaters,
Voluminous waves sweep over you, the emptiness only caves in,
Sun bathes you in its warmth, but glaring vacuum is all you feel
Skin enhancements, beauty treatments, name it, you fall for it,
Anything for a fairer skin, for luxurious curls, buxom curves,
A fashionista for the world, but a meek marionette to your whims
But little did you realize that you missed the soul for the body,
The eternal for the material, the metaphysical for the physical.



The phone rings for seconds on end,

My patience drains out at the other end,

At what seems like the last ring,

A familiar voice; but sounds way too different,

Cheerless and tired, not in for a chit chat

My friend, a mother, her dear child fallen sick,

Her voice, a connotation of her child’s ailment,

Her heart, heavy with her child’s anguish


Mothers, they carry burdens, of their children,

Many a baggage from their past and present,

Worries for the future, for days trouble-free,

Mothers, with an innate ability to transfer pain,

From the deepest wounds, to their own bodies,

Lessen pain for their children, for speedier cures

A mother’s heart drugs with despair,

Over a child succumbed to pleasures vicious


The mother kneels down in prayer, day and night

For a child who wouldn’t surrender to grace immaculate

The mother walks alone to temples and churches,

Mosques and synagogues, turns a pilgrim eternal,

For her child’s homecoming, for the return of a racketeer

The mother weds hunger, to satiate her child’s need for food,

The mother burns the midnight oil, during her child’s days of test,

Struggles to keep awake, after a day of toil, of trials and troubles


Pick up the phone, call your mother,

Tell her that you love her, which is not enough though,

Book a ticket; take a trip down that road once again,

One that leads you home, a pathway presupposed

Care for her like you never did, like today is that last day,

Love her like never before, fill her days with cheer,

Walk the roads with her; show her a world anew,

Sit by her side; hold her hand, for she needs you