She is death

A sacred bosom that holds images of that first coy kiss,
A darkened soul of a devil that wraps within a silken bliss.

A heart that reverberates with anguish and provides for helpless multitudes,
A poison ivy insidiously tormenting with her vicissitudes.

A beautiful mind that beckons the bereaved to peace,
A harried thought that beguiles the innocent to a dreadful abyss. 

She is life, she enraptures, she loves and she creates, 
She is death, she torments, she hates and she destroys.  

Angels of peace

Angels of peace perched on twigs by a reflective puddle,
All knowing eyes plumb the depths of worldly muddle.

Joyous cryptic wings gossamer challenge the mundane,
Refulgent colours waft by and heal the disdain.

Synchronous flights darn your soul mottled by distress,
Meditative glance beseeches your thoughts to flee the duress.

For, it started raining all over again!

On a day like any other, on a day when heavens failed to judge,
Gray and musty like a widowed damsel.
Broken reflections in puddles of diabolical sludge,
View by my window like a melancholic sequel.

On a day like any other, on a day of muddle,
Beams of laughter filtered through the mist.
Warmth of gentle sunshine began to cuddle,
Rustles amongst joyous leaves being kissed.

On a day like any other, on a day that wouldn’t vanish,
There bloomed a twilight of a beginning and a blush of a dancing dame.
But then, it all failed to flutter and flourish,
For, it started raining all over again!

One Hundred Years of Solitude

I am in love. Yes, you read it right. I am in love with a Colombian who goes by the name Gabriel Garcia Marquez. As with ‘Love in the Time of Cholera’, ‘One Hundred Years of Solitude’ immerses you in a surreal world of ‘magical realism’; where you are forced to intertwine reality with the improbable and eventually concoct the two in to one inseparable potion of ecstasy.

The story is about an enchanted land called Macondo – a land lost in the realms of time – where life persisted in solitude and transformed itself from the world of discovery to the world of illusion and desolation. It’s a chronicle of the Buendia family which starts with a promise, achieves acmes of success, and oscillates through wretched self destructing cycle of decrepitude.

Marquez paints vivid and biblical images of Macondo undergoing transformation through times of progress, despair through war, and ignorance through times of gloom. He explores layers of human psyche through juxtaposition with various characters in the novel spanning from angelic innocence of Remedios , barbaric ferocity Jose Arcadio, listless ego of Col. Aureliano Buendia, carnal angst of Aureliano Babilonia and tenacity of Ursula. He mesmerizes and challenges known institutions of human thought through his fable set in solitude, set in misery, set in ignominy and set in turbulence. Life seems to repeat as history is re-learnt through mistakes and future is prophesied and pre-established by the past.

One Hundred Years of Solitude is a masterpiece which can be architected only once in a while. It’s a challenge to the accepted framework of human thoughts and would devour your being in to ‘magical realism’. Go celebrate your thoughts and challenge its limits.

Love in the Time of Cholera

For 51 years 9 Months and 4 days, Floretino Ariza had waited – to consummate a dream of unbridled love of his youth. This is an epoch weaved by Gabriel Garcia Marquez in ‘Love in the Time of Cholera’.

For some – like Dr Juvenal Urbino – unrequited love meets its fate with a whiff of bitter almonds(cyanide) while for the impassioned few it’s a tide of undulating time stretching itself between upheavals of the youth and the fast approaching mortality. Marquez creates layers of unencumbered imagination in this saga of love – which falls astray in its youth only to rediscover the true meaning in crepuscular years. Marquez’s fable revolves around Floretino Ariza and his undying quest for Fermina Daza through which he unravels the depths of passion, character and love. Dr Juvenal Urbino marries Fermina Daza – who chooses a steady life over impassioned love – and thereon begins the wait.

This book is a translucent depiction variegated with vagaries of human mind and complexities manifold. Yet at the heart of it lies simplicity. It’s a saga set in the time of disease, war and change. Marquez does not fear exploring the human cravings for the carnal pleasures through Florentino Ariza’s navigation of life neither does he shy away from probing at the inherent human weaknesses which tend to uproot even the most earnest. Every action or inaction, every step or misstep, every thought or lack of it - guide or misguide Florentino Ariza through his life towards his only desire, only goal and only dream.

‘The trouble is without river navigation, there is no love’ – Florentino Ariza’s uncle had once advised and this would reverberate years later –when on board a ship, underneath a starless sky, his doddering hands would explore and find bony and ragged fingers of Fermina Daza waiting – as if forever.

The book is a celebration of an imaginative brain and a toast to the ability of the author to portray the most complex with such lucidity that you are left gasping for more.

Read it and dare to explore.

I buckle my shoe

Rain or Shine, when it is time, I buckle my shoe,
Gentle caress of speed, daub my countenance on the move.

Butterflies of freedom, flutter from shackles of incarceration,
Winding paths, unveil symbols locked in mystic diction.

Blessings from paradise beyond, laden with ecstasy,
Crimson rays sneak, conveying messages heavenly.

Whispers of silence, hymn magical chants of joy,
Songs of divinity, reverberate, in all senses - I deploy.

Rain or Shine, when it is time, I buckle my shoe,
Beads of exhilaration daub my countenance on the move.

Mumbai Diaries - Part 3(Pune Diaries)

As I meandered towards the dusk of my Mumbai chapter – I embarked upon a new section – Pune Diaries. My first stop entailed a journey through a village in the outskirts of Pune and an enriching experience through the agricultural revolution in the area. Amongst the farmer community, I stumbled upon my long lost buddy Praveen and his wife Arathi. In anticipation of yours truly’s arrival Arathi had admonished all the farmer folks to produce the best of their wares. The result was ambrosia which would have even had Goddess Edesia craving for more. Avial; which apparently is not her speciality, oozed of such exemplary taste that led my palate in to state of euphoria.

After having bolted enough to last me two winters, my next rendezvous led me to Mickey Mouse aka Nilesh. Here I must inform the readers of the perils that underlie when Mickey Mouse offers to pick you up from a meeting point. This extremely hazardous offer necessitates you to pillion on his Enfield Bullet, which gets hammered down on any road at 300 miles per hour( On that note Mickey Mouse stays very close to an airstrip – which sees constant take off of Sukhois). I survived this ordeal and also managed dinner(despite my stomach still reeling from extreme shock), with Mickey & Minnie Mouse as well as Amol. A late night tapri chai topped with a meetha paan brought back senses to my being.

After sometime, I do not know how long afterwards, I was piloting a Sukhoi- which thundered voraciously over the landscape below – and before I could crash, I woke up in shock. Sukhoi was not the shocking part, the fact that I slipped up in calling Her Highness of Pune aka Pooh was all the more quivering. After the initial ‘bash up the rat(myself)’ session, Pooh gracefully announced of her intentions of picking me up at Swaargate.

Pooh managed to pick up her waiting subject, not before being subjugated to the torture of an ignorant Hawaldar(The hawaldar was perhaps unaware of the traffic rules that apply to Her Highness). Soon, Pooh & Myself were ensconced in our seats (with atleast two rows of police protection) awaiting King Khan to start his latest boast(My Name is Khan). The movie started off well with flashes of mature handling of a sensitive topic of autism (though I would not completely agree with all aspects being portrayed as autism in the movie). However as the movie ambled on, it embroiled itself in to two complex topics – autism and Islamic fundamentalism and in the process managed to completely hash it up. My only take away however was – Kajol still rocks.

I was still reeling till my epiglottis; Pooh decided to embark on a shopping spree to overcome the shock and in the process managed to daub a mehendi on her palm. In the mean time, in came a whiff of smile smeared all over a familiar countenance of Amey aka Jet accompanied by his better half – Sayali. Next stop – Little Italy where the troop decided to dine a sumptuous meal which was punctuated poor to horrible service by the staff.

In the mean time, there was another world which was reeling from horror of mindless acts of terror. As India remains subjected to such radical acts of cowardice(German Bakery this time), my heart prays for the innocent victims.

As the last pages draw to a close on this somber note – I did manage to catch up with Sush(just in the nick of time) as well as old engineering mates(Prasanna & Sawant). Jhansi,ever so sweetly, stopped by, laden with a month’s ration of grapes. And soon the SQ421 beckoned. Till next time.

Mumbai Diaries - Part 2(Kala Ghoda aur Jhansi)

I had immersed myself completely in to ecstatic depths of Mumbai’s warm caress and it was just about right time to meet Jhansi – my cousin extraordinaire. To meet Jhansi however, is a mammoth task – for it entails her time off – from her students, her lecturing & her sojourn(through the city) – which trust me – requires large scale pre-planning and preparation(on her part).

Blessed as I am – Jhansi decided to bear with my presence and ensured my yearly Mumbai visit would be enriched with the blissful sights of Victorian Architecture. As I met my tall cousin, she has an extraordinary talent of adjusting her height – depending on the audience – just like my tripod, at CST station and proceeded forth in to warmth of Mumbai – I was disappointed. BMC had planned its renovation drive to match with my stay and extraordinarily – decided to revamp all the domes on all the Victorian Monuments that Mumbai has to offer and all at the same time. My head exhibited extreme springiness as it hung at its edge but perched up again at the prospect of Kala Ghoda 2010.

Presence and company of an artistic cousin(Jhansi) ensures vivid pleasures and Khala Ghoda offered unrivalled visual treats including the 3D- Horse and a mini Eiffel Tower (which lights up on solar power). Of course , some of the other ‘attractions’ including a weaver bird nest made of metallic wires were a bit too esoteric for the wrinkles in my brain to process.(We visited Eiffel Tower later in the evening only to meet the person who designed it boasting all the way to glory).Jhansi , however, ensured that I do use some of those wrinkles by planning a NCPA sojourn for the Mumbai International Film Festival 2010.

I have to confess – documentaries always have sounded scary, and I soon discovered, this fear was unfounded. ‘Children of Pyre’ depicts an astonishing saga of real life heroes – angels of death – little kids enforced with the responsibility of ensuring the consummation of the process of body to ashes. It’s a travesty – which portrays innocence lost to death, honesty perishing over the flames of life and a bizarre industry of ‘kafan’ being recycled. I was overwhelmed.

I scaled zeniths of peace after this overwhelming experience as winds laden with love from the Arabian sea and the setting sun daubed my countenance. However the sun like the domes played tricks and was lost in the maze of smog that progress has presented Mumbai. Jhansi ensured I do not depart her august company before buying a shirt.

My sojourn also ensured that I catch up with Ganesh(my ex roommate),Rashmi and their lovely daughter Adwaita. And soon it was the glorious day – the day when the sun shines ever so brightly, butterflies flap ever so loudly, the flowers bloom ever so sprightly and repeated reminders from Parakeet,Jhansi et al about the ‘BIG 3’ did not deter this fable or so I thought.

8 AM – 8th Feb 2010 and I woke up with a cramping feeling in stomach and my entire being was ensnared in a spiral of gloom. I was however determined to fight it and so after the initial grumble and feeling of utmost hopelessness , myself and parents headed for the Mumbai pilgrimage. No camera episodes this time(for I was not carrying it) and no lost shoes(this version of Nike shoes remains with me) and the day ended in peace. Though I could not savour Kela Bhajji at Ram Ashraya@ Matunga this time – some wishes remain unfulfilled – next time perhaps.

More in next.

Mumbai Diaries - Part 1(Seeking Mr Ho)

It was not fear, nor, was it exasperation at the realization that Singapore Airlines changes its movie menu only once a month – it was rather extreme relief for being 30,000 feet in the air and heading towards Mumbai.

6:15 AM(Jan 31,2010) and I was extremely glad to see façade of Changi Airport(and I know its façade pretty well!!) till the point I touched my butt. Oh no I am fine – my butt was fine, but a layer of leather that would otherwise have felt my touch was missing. I pirouette not as gracefully as a ballet dancer I would imagine – for my countenance would have expressed an unusually contorted look. Perhaps the back pocket of my Levi’s Jeans was not yet awakened from slumber when I dropped my wallet to its rightful place after having disbursed the fare for the cab ride.

I pour sweat over my immaculately white HTC Magic as I scramble for ideas, and eventually manage to contact Comfort Cab call center. After uttering gibberish for perhaps an extended period – my mind hears the voice at the other end beseech ‘ What was the name of the cab driver?’ At this point I realized that in our daily humdrum we overlook some basic civilities – but fortunately I remembered having glanced at the driving license and recalled ‘Ho’ written somewhere. I conveyed this very vague description with utmost clarity.

The time that followed was spent, incessantly, tiring my legs as my parents watched on worried. My immediate aim was Mumbai and SQ422 but the hurdle was my missing wallet which held the key – my Singapore Identity. The façade was not pleasing anymore, the butterflies of happiness were not fluttering anymore and the horizon was not bright anymore (with the benefit of thorough reflection I now realize that the sun had not risen yet).

At this moment of despair, the silence of gloom is suddenly broken by ABBA in full throttle ‘Mama Mia’, which I realize after a few moments of hopelessness to be my ring tone. And lo it was Mama Mia indeed for my key would be delivered. My heart and my being reverberated, in unison, ‘Thank You Mr Ho’.
But relief at 30,000 feet in the air did not mean that I had let my mind to rest. I split my lenses from camera (in to separate bags – mine & dads) to avoid the customs bribery net as soon as I landed, but this was not necessary owing to a Japanese girl who had learned to say ‘Namaste’ and in the process hogged the limelight amongst drooling custom officials.

The next few days I sunk my soul in to the breath of Mumbai. My first social interaction was enabled through Sameer aka Garfield’s wedding – which entailed winding down the Ghodbunder Road at 1000 bumps per second. Garfield seemed to have remained faithful to his version of lasagnas while Rachno was chirpy as ever. Jigar and Nidhi would have assured Garfield or any jittery dulha of the possibility of bliss afterwards. The economics prof aka Ritesh just about managed to congratulate Garfield & Arlene as family and friends were almost convinced that no one else would turn up.

Breath of Mumbai warm & fragrant and it had just about begun. More in next.

Never out of sight and yet long gone

I am the delight of a muddy street enraptured by the sleet.
I am the conspiracy of a moonless night where lovers meet.

I am the carelessness of a damsel whose feet found music,
I am the verve of a bird garnering for the future stick after stick.

I am the aroma of a windless afternoon where cares retreat,
I am the rustle of a soulless leaf beneath your hasty feet.

I am the blush of a bloom bedecked by the morning dew,
I am the joy of a cloud embraced by the familiar rays anew.

I am the splendour of a rainbow; incomplete, incongruous and yet a rapture drawn,
I am the simple pleasures of life, never out of sight and yet long gone.

There was none

On tracks of steel, cramped space and body awry,
A man, with a bag precariously poised on his left, I could descry.

Amazement led to the discovery of mirth,
A stance sideways and legs stretched out wide, to every movement alert.

Mirth allowed grievance to creep in, for fellow beings as an afterthought,
Handgrip above, and not the deportment and space, use he ought.

Steels grinding to a scratchy halt, and a twitch in the posture so fun,
Bitterness then dawned, where there should be right – there was none.

I still have a dream...

In an era of struggle and strife, I had a dream,
Into utopia I would segue and peace I would glean.

Impossible they admonished, methods would yield no good,
Lessons from experiments, by truth I stood.

Of prosperity and of choice, I did hope,
Simplicity was my motto, nadirs of despair I would cope.

Through your soul I breathe, through your eyes I deem,
In an era of struggle and strife, I still have a dream.

Oh I just love looking at him!

So uncouth! So condescending! So unfit!
Blurted out an agitated Annie,
Flair he lacks, chivalry he has not a bit.

Marie- befuddled at visions so ugly,
Oh look at his face- inundated with scars,
A sight grotesque and so unsightly.

He has no standing and he holds no fame,
Dreamy eyes bedecked Angie,
To things of importance he holds no claim.

Wild calls from within didn’t sting,
Maggie broke out of a spell cast,
Oh I just love looking at him!


P.S - I was inspired by what a dear friend inadvertently said.

Daw they call me

In the hush of this lonely night I lay in disdain,
Not of life or people, but of this immutable pain.

Free thoughts and free minds I, did and will, aspire,
Tears are for the weak, courage for those who follow and admire.

Bereavement or despair, my strife is life long,
My voice may not quell your agony, but in your tenacity I find myself strong.

Bars of iron encumber, kindred spirits propel,
From nadirs of solitude, to the enchantment of heavenly gospel.

Daw they call me, my heart seethes in ignominy,
Eyes await a dawn, of new horizons and harmony.

- Of what has been a life of struggle and and a voice of hope - Aung San Suu Kyi

Quest for Paro

My olfactory glands (and related glands) do not always comply with the normal rules of nature’s propensity towards well-being and such was my state as I embarked on my next trip. The regulars on this page shall sigh in anguish and repetition – ‘Since when did normal rules of nature apply to your body?’ Anyways, as I boarded Air India flight en route to Bangalore, little did I know, it would turn out to be my quest for Paro.

The Beaver Beckons..

Bangalore was a long transit and I was enchanted and entertained as well as ensconced by Beaver. Yes, the one with claws and buck tooth. This time I also noticed keratin effusion of the rough variety. Beaver also ensured that I was well rhymed with all crevices and nooks at Bangalore International Airport, thus ensuring a safe passage in my quest for Paro.

As dusk began to gather, I headed for Kolkata (with a brief excursion over Hyderabad). May be time was my nemesis during my overnight stay at City of Joy, but first impressions failed to enchant me towards this Eden. However I was enchanted by a woman next to me, perhaps entrusting her house for the first time to the untrustworthy care of her husband which entailed statements like ‘Gas theek se band karr dena,Khidkhi khula matt chodna,theek se khaana khaana…’

And the Fairy Tale...

The next day began a fairy tale, as my flight (Druk Air) segued through heavens, glided over lush valleys and gently caressed through the clouds – and I was finally with Paro.

Paro airport is in Paro District(one of the three districts – Thimphu,Paro and Phuentsholing not requiring a special pass for Indians arriving in Bhutan). The journey from Paro to Thimphu meanders through valleys of captivity and enchantment, through hills of intrigue and passion and through rivulets of purity and devotion.

Of the time afforded by work, I did saunter through mystical valley that lends itself in to Thimphu City. A quaint landscape hugged closely by hills, romancing with the flirty clouds; Thimphu is culturally ‘very much’ Bhutan with men and women – their gho and kira respectively and yet as dusk settles over this sleepy town, the night life propels in to being. Thimphu and perhaps Bhutan seems almost like a home away from home with Indian influences everywhere from food to usage of Hindi.

Colour and Simplicity...

This is a country of colour and a country of the sacrosanct. The chorrtens,stupas and monasteries dot this landscape and the prayer flags add splendour to charm. An interesting note on the prayer flags as pointed out by my cab driver – Ugyen – the flags are etched with mantras and as they flutter in blissful winds of Bhutan, they convey a prayer from the mortals to the Almighty. The colours – five of them (red,blue,green,yellow and White) represent the five elements.

Simplicity is reflected in every strain of what is Bhutanese. Red Rice and Ema Datshi( Chilly in Cheese Gravy) spoil your palette, leaving you craving for more. There is a smile of warmth everywhere you cast your eyes. There is also warmth in the chill Himalayan breeze that hugs like one of its own.

A Dream...

In my time in Bhutan, I also saw a dream. I could feel the bliss of spirituality and I was walking through clouds. I saw 109 celestial stupas speaking a language of divinity cleansing me of my worldly ordeals. I could feel heaven filter through me, straining impurity and infusing goodness of life. I was in Dochu La, about 45 minutes drive from Thimphu.

Shangri La....

In a world which holds time precious, Bhutan is the best kept secret perhaps the mythical Shangri La. As the forces of nature concoct a mystical mixture, time stands still perhaps in awe, perhaps in a trance. Forces of global economy and growth have not yet bewitched the region and time seems to have entrapped the simplicity of life and yes, bestowed a smile on every Bhutanese.

Quest for Paro took me down several paths, through unknown territories and magical landscapes and then it dawned – this quest is life long.

Check out the album -

Quest for Paro - Bhutan

My past you shall descry..

Where the lawn lays unkempt and the street goes awry,
Behind murk of uncaring time, my past you shall descry,
My memory betrays, my mind has gone numb, Who am I?

I have been your reflection; I have been your raconteur,
I have shown you your soul, read your mind and known your allure.

Opulence I have witnessed, tales of poverty have saddened,
Exuberance of youth has elated; rashness of mind maddened.

I have been privy to tender whispers of care,
I have withstood wails of agony and anguished in your empty stare.

I have been cynosure of care and have been a chronicle of apathy,
I have scaled summits of pride and plumbed nadirs of atrophy.

Where the lawn lays unkempt and the street goes awry,
Behind murk of uncaring time, my past you shall descry.
My memory betrays, my mind has gone numb, Who am I?

I observe in protest

My heart pains, agony writhes my conscience,
An hour in darkness I observe in protest,
And long hours under hot sprinkling, without any prescience.

The ruthless felling -contorts and strains my being,
I raise my voice, argue making my presence felt,
No scruples encumber as I set fonts in ink unflinching.

Random scraps from mindless indiscretion,
My soul stirs with wrath failing to comprehend,
My body embroils in laze mindful of the tactless jettison.

Let us strive to do our bit for Mother Earth.

Sweet Summers of Yore

A fruity aura that floods memory and bedazzles,
A joy that palpitates with sweet summers of yore.
An aura that seduces, teases and puzzles,
A feeling that blinds the conscious and makes the soul soar.

Colours of pleasure and a texture of elation,
Colours of blush daubed across by a flirting sun.
Shouts in earnest and of perspiration,
Livelihood perched on head - basket of marvel and fun.

Titillating the tongue, a heavenly ordain,
Sometimes sweet and sometimes oh-so mildly and pleasantly tartly,
It is that time of year again,
Alphonso in all verve, joys limitlessly and pleasures profusely!

Sleepless in Frankfurt

March 2009 enters my diary of life and stays there for the sheer exhaustion that it subjected me to. My limbs had started reacting to commands with a marked time lag, my brain took longer to process images transmitted through retina(rubbing my eyes couple of times helped sometimes) and yes my spinal cord had started providing able back up(though it never told the brain what it did when the brain was away).

Anyways, in this tousled framework, my profession led me to Germany. March had subjected my corpus to such a state of repair that a cramped seat at Qantas Boeing 747 and the 12 hour flight journey could not provide enough deterrent for the slumber rekindle again. And I slept like a baby.









6th April 2009 and I greeted the German sun and the land of Euro, with a tired but pleasant smile. A sleepy town of Neu-Isenburg, about 10 KM in the outskirts of Frankfurt, was where I was put up. Spring was beginning to peek in from behind the wintery shadows, as lively flowers of yellow and pink shivered in the chilly breeze.
Neu-Isenburg, a small patch of land with a population in low 10 Thousands, is blessed with two Indian restaurants(primarily attributed to the Pakistani presence in the area) and one Sub-way joint. For the starters, that was a welcome relief, for German vegetarian food – which I am sure – if given ample time to explore would suit the palate, from the first looks seemed to contain indiscriminate selection of arbitrary leaves and grasses and generous portions of cheese. On that note, ‘plain’ water was hard to come by as well – by default water meant the liquid (H2O) infused with miserly portions of Carbon Dioxide thus rendering it ‘sparkling’.

Of the limited time I could afford, I did saunter around Frankfurt. The city is a miscellany of ancient Europe concocted with the role of German Financial capital, rendering it unique in its own sense. The river Main splits it open, offering splendid views of the city. The western sky is busy with concrete and steel structures while the bank of the river is dotted with the idyllic charm of Europe- cathedrals, cobbled roads, narrow lanes and beautiful buildings including Romer or the City Hall. The roads are enshrined with restaurants and street side vans – which will serve you well as long as you have a taste for it.








The city is splattered all over with beautiful architectural sights, random fountains and a quaint allure. A tram line walks right through the city which adds exotic to the exquisite.









Right in the center of the city is the Frankfurt Hauptbahnhof or the Central Railway station , run by Deutsche Bahn and offering a gateway to Europe – you can imagine how tempting that is. Deutsche Bahn also offers bicycles on rent for an excursion around the city. Back to my favourite part of the city – the river Main, dotted with beautiful sidewalks and flowers of spring. The colours of spring and the air of freshness rejuvenated my limbs and infused verve in to my aching psyche. The river is also lively with fauna as well. The boats along the river double up as restaurants as well.
















The jaunt was short yet pretty. The images are few yet vivid and fun. The air of spring and colours of life, the memories are forever. As the trip came to an end and as I was leaving for Singapore, I emptied the contents of my backpack – laptop and purse for scanning at the airport. My spinal cord instructed me to carry my bag through, without scanning. The dazed looking security official pounced on me to scan my bag too, perhaps alarmed for a split second. My spinal cord does share some secrets with my brain afterall.

Leaking dirt in the rain...

I am the little girl across the street, tanned skin and in the torn blue frock,
With dirty nails and callused hands, sight which makes you run amok.

I am the despicable countenance leaking dirt in the rain,
Apathy behind shades and windows save the pain.

I am the stench, from which you wriggle your nose in disdain,
But cherish the view and award bioscopes of the same.

I am the child of poverty, with tears reeking of an unfulfilled wish,
I am the child with stretched and lifeless hands, which you avoid in fear of a blemish.

I am your reality; I am part of you as you are of me,
I think of you and admire you, do you ever ponder over me?