Death and Other Hallucinations

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Death is a warehouse, a sunflower, a DTC bus; perhaps even the purpose of life. Or is it all a hallucination?


N ow death comes to me in semi liquid
in vivid colours
green, purple, love, music
honey and cheese.
Only if my mouth was free
of this life-
one that asks strange questions
for us to inhale and exhale memories
through hallucinations of death and reality
choosing both, praying for magic
elastic like time.
Screaming, breaking ribs
falling over, onto a broken air cooler
when death comes.


death is a warehouse
a library in time
archived in life, with its ordeal.
it nitpicks memories,
misreads pleasure, culls secrets
hides miseries we live with.

sometimes, an empty vessel
we pour our lives into. sometimes,
just hollow space.


it’s hard to choose between death and time.
both leave us rotten anyway.
time kills, leaks blood.
borrows her tresses from kali.
empties us,
from the ourselves, we store within us-
Sometimes death,
makes faces
and spits life
out of us.


the purpose of life is death
or else, why this universe?
why time? why black holes?
why many years of destruction
that recreates?
gives birth
to new life
and new time
and new feathers,
only to embrace
death again?


a sunflower
just a flower
can bring death
between the distance of two words
without rhyme.
Words that flapped wings
now broken
in lines, colon and commas
in paper boats that carry grammar
float in drains of time.
Death is
lack of imagination
constrained by rules
of life and those who preach us
how to inhale laws,
exhale life.


Through green and mellow
DTC buses that carry drenched cities back home,
death comes to me,
in stinky gutters that overflow
life onto deep, dark alleys of Katwaria Sarai for IAS and IIT aspirants to rot and evolve in ecstasy as I pass the sweet shop everyday watching faces of strangers who wait to reach home.
In mad rush hours of cars that slide like video games
crashing, killing death, flirting with heavens and angels-
almost an accidental romance and in crazy and mad and ugly laughter of beautiful girls who morph into window panes, faces disappearing, teeth breaking, melting onto the liquid glass, burning high and handsome in rain. Through drunk drivers’ siesta escaping traffic and waterlogged dream that leaves many buses broken, flooding memory, bleeding engines, for us to never reach home- and in lonesome machinery of the evening, now static, frozen, waiting to be repaired,
left alone to further decay in rain.


Yes death will come


Madras Courier originally ran as a broadsheet with a poetry section. It was a time when readers felt comfortable sharing glimpses of their lives through verse. If you too have a poem you’d like to submit, do mail us at


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