Chew on it.

Chances are all we have.

Times like these.

These are the times of our lives

Swollen with abandon of our wills our bodies our minds

And waiting to burst but settling for softening.

These are the times of our stories

The same, like someone forgot to turn the page

Turn on the radio it has better news

(impending bombs may move us.)

Every day is a new old.

Every day is strewn gold

On the timelanes of our lives.

These are the times of our lives.


Tenderness, if it were matter, would move in a wave.

It would pretend to be a tsunami, but when you dive into it –

I thoroughly suggest you don’t dive into tsunamis –

you realise, that this is no tsunami.

It is a wave and it shall wash over you and leave you on the shore

A little wet, a little thirsty and very surprised.

Because these moments don’t have a moon.

Waves have a predictable moon.

The tenderness will stay.

Things we know.

The thing is
He knows I have wanted
And even loved other men
And he knows that the rain
Does not always remind me of his skin
He knows that this skin
Has seen, yearned, wanted,
Wasted, burnt itself for other men
And he knows that he too
Is a chapter that may turn
In this book.
There are shapes that he will
Never know that form the shadows under
My eyes that look at him
There are colours that I cannot 
See anymore
And then there is the ink.
The ink of other men on my story
Spilled, scribbled, doodled,
Meticulously written,
Painstakingly erased.
The writers among you will know that erasing ink involves the tearing of the membrane
That is my skin
Under it.
And this man, he walks up to me
With a balm in his palm
(giggle, it rhymes)
And looks at me like no other man has witnessed a miracle before.


“What moves you?” you ask

Looking at me in a crowded room

As the crowd presses with its eyes

On the new victim of your unwanted curiosity.

But I will know that later.


That evening of dimmed lights and glasses half full,

I have nothing to say.

I know your gaze anchored to my unseeing eyes

Is a game you have played and mastered;

But a game that matters only to you

A personal victory that does not scratch the surface of another soul

Yet here I am writing about it.

Let me explain this.

You asked a question,

And I will answer it because the question

Intrigues me.

Let’s not presume it’s you.


You don’t know how far back

I have to scroll my photo stream

To find a picture of myself that I clicked

That I may like.

That show my eyes without the baggage

Of nights I lay trying to court sleep

He, like everything I desire, rejects me gently.

A picture of a friend pulling me close

To share the moment.

Of family that does not hand me the camera

To capture them, ever so complete without me.

Of any trace of my existence.


Further back, when a boy asked me

If I could honour him with my love

I refused to believe that my love is honourable.

No love that has rolls of fat

No love that has broken teeth

No love with pimples is honourable.

I shall get my share of loneliness

That my loud faults warrant.

Because anything good in me

Is swallowed by my lard.


A little before that, not long ago.

A woman whose womb I come from

Looked me in the eye and said,

I cannot love you anymore.

And she cut the umbilical cord.

She was free.

I was happy for her.

She was free

Of being tied to a millstone of disease

Of shame, of questions and worry.

She climbs mountains now,

Watches birds, flies with them.

The farther she goes away,

The closer my demons breathe.


Before that.

A school bell rang and a gang of girls

With quieter laughs and thinner knees

Sat away from me.

When I opened my lunch to share with them,

They inched away.

I’ll have all of my lunch myself.

Yet I felt hungrier.


What moves me?

I don’t move.

Bombay Days.

A movie about three boys and three girls – two sets of siblings and two genetically unrelated to each other, sitting on the society bench, through their teenage and early twenties till one moves out for higher education, one becomes a shippie, one is a CA, one gets his medical internship in rural Gujarat, one goes to Mumbai University and one joins a digital media agency.

Over their early and mid-twenties they keep running back home and being nostalgic and somewhere after 25 they stop doing that too and if you see the six of them together again, there is always a 7th or even 8th.

One day you realise one of them has had one break up too many and it’s awkward because between 20 and 26 you didn’t quite catch up that much.

Then one day two of them say they’ll get married and announce it on the group and you think of the time they’d open your door in the funny way to get in and tell you things like “Aai bore kartiye, malaa chahaa banav” but the wedding is on a WhatsApp group.

Then one of you get a promotion and you type congratulations on the group and feel guilty about it only till the next person types the same. You’ve forgotten what calling up sounds like – but it’s okay, what will you say anyway. You even stopped arguing on the group and the bored doctor from Gujarat’s weird humour and twisted forwards are the only thing that keeps it alive.

Someday someone will mute that group and you’re afraid it’s you but you don’t want to. It’s the key to your childhood, the pimples, the sprouting of boobs and first love. It’s home, as you once knew it but you also recently declared that you don’t have a home anymore.

One day someone will ping about someone else’s parent, saying that they passed away and you will feel shock. And then it will pass. Then it will dawn that your parents are growing old too.

That one day someone might have to make that announcement about them. What do we do? Nothing. We attend funerals. Of a man or woman with grey hair or no hair who used to call your childhood friend home at 9.30 because dinner is always on time with family. You think of all the dinners you missed as a grown up in an office sitting late nights because that’s what needs to be done. Four hours that could have been spend on a friend, on sleep, on cooking a meal for your upset stomach are spent doing things that need to be done and you have no memory of.

Because childhood was so far away you cannot touch it, and those who made the elements of childhood are many worlds away, even if they’re in the same city, meeting you on odd weekends, introduced as childhood friends while your childhood stands humiliated.


Take a break. Take a trip.

Blast A Trumpet

Slowly making incisions in everything I come across

Silent Psychosis

Put me back in my rugs for I, the dreamer, have become my own dream...

Raj Sivaraman

Part Time Genius, Full Time Hyperbolizer


Don't expect brilliance. Mediocre at best.

Chew on it.

Chances are all we have.

Immature Fruit

Poetry, Travels, Sketches, Writings and a Sip of Inspiration with Passion.

A Dowg's Life

I’m a dowg. Woof.