Dear Herman,

It is difficult to do anything these days.  I tried to sit back, close my eyes and write to you.  Hours passed by, thinking about what to write to you and then I gave up. Nothing really happened besides me ending up with a severe headache. Time is cruel. It freezes . While the pain remains that her absence has left. I often see her sitting on a chair near that window that opens to the night sky. Does she still count the numbers?  Yesterday we had a chat over the phone. You spoke of several things; rooms, lines, rhythms and memories. I am reminded of a poem that a friend had written.  I will share it with you. ‘Preserve and contain it in whatever form you can, a line, a drawing, a memory… ‘     

This reticence is devastating, but silences and absences is all that remains for us. Silences that sweep us away into the land of memories, unsought and uncalled, to mourn a time. We used to stroll by the river side, searching  for the hidden shadows among the ruthless waves. Now I open that book she had left and it always opens at the same page where a rose remains sandwiched by a ‘forever’.


your body,

like a stale thought

it rottens under the heat of some forsaken room

some dark room

some distant room

in plains.


the mountains fall in your memory

we betrayed you but


i call myself a poet

i call her too

she calls him too



we betrayed you but

as you chalked your verses

on prison walls

stale with piss

your piss, theirs too

i did cry for you

in my comfortable bedroom

with an italian attached bathroom


i read about you

some days back

that they cut the flesh from your body

and fed you that with salt and pepper


i cried on my wood carved dining table

and did not eat non veg that day


i saw your photograph

in the newspaper

your brain visible and head torn

and you unrecognisable

i cried and my tears fell on my Hp laptop

like drops of water on stones


i heard your slogan

when they fired a bullet in your heart

it made me a poet

like her

like him



i typed your name

and wrote about you

and i even cried

with my favorite flavour of coffee in my hands


i did hear about you

perhaps from some newspaper

or magazine

or some other poet

and believe me

i did cry