Santa with the Big Apple


When I was a little girl,

I believed in Santa Claus, the earl.

I had a unique bond with him

He bringing gifts every year with a whim.

Never did I know it was my mother who kept the gifts.

Every year, I eagerly waited for those specials beside my pillow into the socks

More than the gift, it was the moment that fascinated me

One day I came across the truth-There was no santa.

No santa means No gifts.

Somewhere I believed my Santa existed stuck up in major rifts.

Gone far away to distant land

Until One day, my Santa came back with a bang.

From that distant land, he sends me small gifts every day

The times are modern, so are his ways.

No he doesn’t come on a sleigh

Rather chooses the path of ‘swish and sway’

Sometimes stars, sometimes raffles

Sometimes wines and sometimes with the Big apple!


Mystical love


There was something mystical about their love

There was an indescribable connection between the two

There were uncanny coincidences

They could sense it, yes they did.

Their love was marked with rains from the nature

And their fights with periodical earthquakes

They never did meet finally,

May because they were present in each other all the while

They were the each other’s mirror to their deepest thoughts

Always and every time.

They resurrected for each other every time, beyond the chain of death and birth

It was only their hearts that took ages and births to fall in love.



Suddenly I am so addicted.

Though I am at an initial stage of this addiction

But for the first time I love an addiction

I am Addicted to this writing.

Every detail of the writing period wanders in my mind

Sipping the tea in the thermocol glass

Going through that thought process every now and then

Biting up that thermocol glass with the teeth,

In order to find the right words to my thoughts

I am addicted to the things I get to think everyday

I am addicted to the number of things I wrote about

I am addicted to the number of words I write.

There are times when my thoughts run faster than my typing

Thus, making me more addicted to that sound

The hurried sound of the pitter-patter of the keyboard keys.

I am addicted to that Verdana font I use to write

I am addicted to that interface I get to see of the MS word. LOL!

I am addicted to that justified alignment I give to all of my text.

So I am addicted to this addiction, I am addicted to writing.