Film Review | GUMNAAMI: Whose name India doesn’t want you to know

If Netaji’s disappearance were an uncertain cricket pitch, "); letter-spacing: -0.084px; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">Gumnaami plays out as a skilled batter standing on middle stump guard. It deals the yorker of ‘plane crash in Taiwan’ with a feisty defence; elegantly holds up the willow to ‘Bose was in Russia’ outswinger; and scores off the ‘Gumnaami Baba’ narrative in a fine display of skill,...

Schizophrenic Sky

spears of sunshine comestabbing through waywardbranches. and the wind is coldin my face, almost erratic.it shakes massivejackfruits to the ground. mywalkway is pulp-splashed,and this lazy drizzle does littleto wash it clean. sprinklingsoundlessly like fine sand -dusk-colored and oozingout of this schizophrenic sky;touching everything, drenching nothing. my garden is a messy emulsion.enough earth but too little rain.enough water but no real mud.i am...

The Wait & The Welcome

last summerwe sowed lemon seedsin a plastic pot kept on the balcony rails.it had been empty for a while,and pigeons idledon its edges, peckingat the sun-hardened soil.twigs of grass broke outof the soil and perishedon its own. mostly torn awayby pigeons and squirrels tocushion their modest nests. for months after, with dots of greenhovering low over moist soil, we keptit covered with a wicker basketlest it became nests in no time.and shooed all birds...

If rains are lies...

my weather isnot in the radianceof the sky, but in thecolors of my being.what's daybreakbut my fond recollectionof your laughter, a silverbrook my poems sailedto become songs;the mellow nights- our secret hideout,where in the shadowsyour ravishing spiritmilks my longings intothe tired blue of a crestfallensea. and the great rains, thedevouring downpouris when the old postmanslips your letters underthe doormat when i'm not home.you write to me askingif...

Living Again

this city is stoppedand started by windows,sweetheart.stopped when shutagainst the dustand destitution of livessweating at the heartsfor the night to settle upon dew.and started when pushed openat dawn to drop breadcrumbsfor pigeons, and water the pallid hibiscus. i’ve been your beckoningboth as the evening din andmorning's gentleness.but it’s been a whileyou’ve been out of bed.drifting between shots,syringes and men every newhour. that's not the way,...