Mounds of Dirt 

They lay there forgotten. The world passed by, unaware of their presence. Barely visible now. The grass had grown tall now. The vegetation didn’t seem to notice there was anything or anyone here. To the grass they were just heaps of dirt. Organic matter.

A boy walked past, whistling. Two other boys rushed past him cycling. Chasing a dog. An old woman carrying a heavy bundle of something on her bent back walked past too. A man with a saw overtook the woman with an impatient expression on his face.

The car tried its best to get through this busy market place as fast as possible. So many cities left. So many kilometres left before it would reach it’s destination. No time to waste here. But a horse suddenly pulled free from its owner and, in a desperate attempt to flee, ran onto the road. The car, however, missed it by a few centimetres. In confusion, it turned sharply to the left and stopped. People gathered around to control the rogue horse. The argument that ensued between the driver and the owner of the horse was not really understood by anyone. The city dwellers in the car could not understand the local Punjabi dialect. And the locals were confused by this city language.

They, however, heard everything. And understood it. They lay there, aware of their fellow beings wasting away in petty matters, matters that did not matter at all. Matters that would soon be forgotten. Like themselves.

In mounds of dirt.


If only I could be

Isolated, left alone, uncared for,

By all and no hypocrites

Should befall my path of misery

Then I should let the cry

Escape these lips with freedom

The cry of hurt and pain and grief

The tears should I then allow to drop

I would be at last at liberty

I wouldn’t strive for friendship

Nor would I be grieved at the loss of it

This air I could at last exhale

The eyes would be allowed to see

The body would move at liberty

The hands allowed to feel.

I would not be used

No hypocrisy should affect me

No feeling could control me

No person could arrest me

In something too powerful

The magic once charming would loose its charm

And I would be at last free!


If only I could be…

(Something I wrote when I was thirteen)


Lose yourself and all your emotions in the curves of this soft white pillow. Look at the whiteness of it… so innocent of any other colour!

Pain is only felt… stop feeling and just follow the folds to where ever they take you.

These luxurious folds in its cover… not enough to encompass your body but surely able to enfold your imagination?

The softness, the whiteness, surely there is something at its core? Delve into its depths and discover- discover all that no one has seen before.

What, you think the whiteness is innocent? So you do not know that in fact it is white only because it has absorbed all other colours?

Concentrate hard on this and this alone. Pain is a fragment of your imagination. Drive out the pain with the force of the whiteness. No, you must try hard. HARDER. This tear you can feel, if it falls, remember that the pain has won. You cannot let that happen.

What? Why has your vision become so cloudy and blurred all of a sudden?

Has it? Has it truly fallen?

(Something i thought of when i was sick in bed a while ago but am writing now)