sentio hero

Sapphire and Salt


Sapphire and Salt

Melting into each other under mellow heat;
Upon my restless skin, your tender hide wanders.

Some unearthly shivers, down my back astray;
As the droplets of your might add more black to my grey.

The Sun, the Moon bow down at our feet;
While under the stars, your hips to my lips greet.

Like dew to a petal, a pianist’s fingers on the keys;
You roll into my slipping grip with lathering ease.

Until the time comes, for us to lack;
You shall, like always, only tide back.

Then again in a quantum moment we live our eternal halt;
Between the stretches of this continuum join,

your sapphire and my salt.

poetry by – Deven

artwork by – @EroticWatercolor




I hear them flock
To my wet sands;
In packs of many
Or disarrayed bands.
Some arrive waving wings to the wind’s roars,
Others come floating on the dancing oars.
I have heard from the tides, what it would be like;
To have life on my untouched terrain, taking a hike.
Every first light I hear a million singing their songs,
By every setting sun only a handful stay along.
The ones holding on are nothing but stray,
Finding their solace in my comforting hay.
Since the beginning of time islands like me have longed for love,
Sometimes to my shores, even empty boats are enough…



Blood Moon Partial Lunar Eclipse, 4:4:15 Nashik

Lying half naked in the timid laps of the sky
In it’s unveiling self, the moon half unsatisfied.
Searches for the other half, tattered, in the winter cold.
Trying his best to fit the mould.
Unfit, and outcast, amongst the other things that hang out in space.
For quite a while he carries along time, this half disgrace.
Until one night after losing all hope, he finds out his pointless worries have been wrong.
And turns a bit only to see his other half has been there all along…




Her hair painted by the sun himself
Pearls like cosmic orbs embraced her neck
Under the shadow her shape left on the soil
Lays my cosmos as a mere speck.
Autumn leaves tore themselves from the sky every time she turned around
Struck her strings as they touched the ground,
As if the spring had blossomed not elsewhere but only upon the flushed palms that met mine.
I have heard them play, every part of her; a cello, a violin, a sitar,
She whispered to me the music of her voice on an untuned guitar.
Like a flawless tune from a seasoned musical,
Like an early morning dream of a pianist,
Her silence envelopes a thousand orchestras,
Her every word like an insist.
By her lips played the air a flute
Under her feet the earth sounded tambourines,
As I dance in utter hypnosis to her unending symphonies…

poem by  Deven

artwork by @alphachanneling

Empty Heads

The Science of Doing Nothing and the Art of Wasting Time

Life and Other Such Things

The notorious imp of eternal idle-ship has crept under the blankets of us the young every now and then. As it did about a few months ago, infest me, in my most vulnerable time; I obviously have had a lot of spare day dreaming periods in hand to think about the graveness of this topic. It’s not so very difficult, letting the feather of laziness weigh you down in one spot for elongated clusters of tick-tocks, in an utter unwillingness to move and let it fly away. For it’s very characteristic, to give you the feeling that your extravagant expenditure of hours on the ‘jobless beach’ has a certain superpower to stop time from running at your will, is addictive and most temptingly unavoidable. That those who waste time are fools, I know not if it’s true; but I know this for sure that the falsity or truth of it has no whatsoever effect on it’s widely practiced traditions and socially accepted cults. To the extent that certain practitioners, or devotees, or victims (as some may address to these sans motivation creatures) do so in groups, together, in closed environments and in public.

That was all about others, now coming back to myself (since I am the writer and a selfish one), I have realised that there is no way in which it (wasting time and doing nothing) can be labelled good or evil. It (wasting time and doing nothing) really depends upon how you perceive the undertakings that underlie this imprudent passing of time. “Doing Nothing” does not mean what it literally means, but that the individual occupied in doing nothing is doing nothing physically that it is supposed to or that is materialistically productive. But while you are doing nothing, there is a lot your mind is doing, like introspection, cosmic reflection, decision-making, day dreaming, admiring nature, hearing sounds, tasting tastes, smelling smells, weirdly staring out into a nothingness… Psychologically, “doing nothing” involves mental processes that are complex and vital to every social organism’s life cycle, and hence doing nothing is a ‘science’. “Wasting time” on the other hand is something one can go wild with; from just the good old “breath-in breath-out” to creating a huge dominoes queue just to watch it fall (like our future will), there are infinite ways of doing it. There exists a ginormous amount of brilliant and productive ways of wasting time and hence ‘wasting time’ is an ‘art’.

While my time in this cozy imprisonment of doing nothing or wasting time, I have realised though a serious side effect. And since the time it all started I have had but one question, “Why my art has to suffer?”. Ironically enough, though I find my cranky misspent pendulum swings quite poetic, I suffer from a severely constipated mind. It’s like a poem, an idea, is right there hurdled up somewhere in my brain but it just doesn’t want to be put down on paper; and hence in a long time I have not been able to produce any worthy material worth reading (just like this piece of writing). My wasting of time very stereotypically involves warming the bed in my room while I watch an endless thread of cinema. Which is sometimes accompanied by a glass of some cheap whiskey or rum to make the whole experience a psychedelic one. Although as a filmmaker, in shameless and forceful optimism, I hope all this viewing of films shall some day help me grow in the field. For now, only the thought that it might help is enough to continue with this trend…

The biggest paradox but is to be unfolded now. In personal observational study (a part of my ‘doing nothing’ time) I have found that most of my best works have come after a long exertion of boredom. ‘Boredom’ is like a vehicle that the science of doing nothing and the art of wasting time ride on; like two pals humming tunes, walking in a random direction, thinking they’re invincible. The rate of boredom is directly proportional to the rate of doing nothing and the possibility of quality in writing, at the same time. But, the rate of boredom yet is indirectly proportional to the quantity of writing I do. Wait no, I think I made a mistake there. May be not. Ok basically, the more bored one is, the more the chance that that person will do nothing productive. But, the more bored one gets, the more there is chance of that person coming up with great things, only distributed over vast gaps of wasted time.

Alas most of my best works are results of pure boredom. But does boredom have any ‘necessary connection’ to quality of work is yet to be found. It is very uncertain and unexperimented upon, and hence it is not yet a science. Next time I shall be a bit more aware while doing nothing, and ponder upon the labyrinths of ‘boredom as a science’, may be that would be a successful way of doing nothing.

P.S. I don’t know for sure whether this article is another one of my creations with which I have wasted my time. But if you, have read this whole article, you have certainly successfully wasted yours.

Bibliography : Mental Conjectures by Doing Nothing

Inspiration : Time by Pink Floyd and critique of my own products formed by wastage of time.

yours truly,





The devastation of my demons

Resides in the havens of her velveteen arms.

The subtle eclipse sun dips in the ocean right underneath her brows,

Drowning a mob of words I gather to speak.

A serpent of need entwines,

Binds us at the waist and wrists,

And sings her song to me in hushed tones.

I can taste her scent, see her voice, and feel her colours,

Trying to gulp me down whole.

Where I may lay brazen in my naked thoughts,

Careless of the world’s spiteful march at me.

She, my beach sand to lie down upon and slowly sink.

She, my parachute to jump off of space-time’s brink.

I her rock to hold upon in the flood,

Through her veins into my blood,

A rush of yearning that grows inside me.

And I shall keep on with this endless swim

into her stormy tides,

Until one day I vanish.

Lost in the labyrinths of those spring tresses,

Resting shyly upon the shores of her irresistibly crafted back,

To be found someday, safe on an island,

Engulfed in her…

poem – Deven

artwork – @alphachanneling



Saturday at Sula

Come thee hither, and gather a chalice of stardust,

Freshly grown on tender vines with curls like thine tresses.

Let alone the blue sky soar as your shelter

And your feet be not kissing the soil.

T’was I thou consumed, t’was thou I drank.

Of beseeching love shall we sing ballads

And ’bout thine beauty, some poetry.

The Bay

Life and Other Such ThingsPoetry

The Bay

“I’d die for this sound to ring in my ears forever” he exclaimed. As the window opened to his apartment neighbouring the subtle morning waves of froth and liquid rolling over the brazen rock beds just like last night’s beer pouring smoothly in the glass and then down his throat, only a million times louder. His hair willowing in all sorts of direction and a beard smelling of some drinks and a woman, both he spilled. A vast unending sea of white waves and black rocks stood before him like a monochrome scene right out of his surreal dream, that swept him right off his feet and into the air that was now both inside him and around. There were gushes of wind, squeaks of hinges, roars of tides, cawing of crows, fluttering of a cotton curtain, light traffic sounds of a woken up city; and yet somehow for him nothing ever had been so quiet.

For a moment it almost felt like death; like he had managed to visit the other side in his silly little head, still obsessing over how the sea was growing onto him, and turning him inside out and upside down. The breeze caressed his ears just the way she did last night; slowly gulping him down into an endless abyss of never being able to let go of how he felt being in her arms and having made love to her. The sea occurred to do to him what she had, just before he fell asleep with his nose buried in her armpits and his head overflowing of contentment. Usually he would be the guy to point out that believing in something supernatural or metaphysical is just very childish but this time here he had no other word to sum it all up but ‘magic’.

His bones rested against the window frame and riding onto the air like a fast local train came the smell of a freshly brewed coffee. She walked towards him, had two mugs in her hand and one heart with him over admiration for the mighty sea. The stirring of the silverware in the ceramic mug made sounds like a cling and she was not aware that one of the tresses of her perfectly curled hair was taking a dip into her coffee. She was only staring at him and the sea in his eyes. They don’t talk; not until he says with a smile,

“Have you ever thought? How this sea has never really changed… This city and its people, everything, has changed but this, this right here has never really… I imagine this tide that’s about to hit the shore knows me, from that time I was little and stood on the soft sand of the Juhu with naked feet and watched my little footprints wash away; it knows me from all these mornings I spend at this window. I bet this wave waves at me everyday but I have only been too blind to see it do that. I bet it knows the old man that lived here before me; I bet it knows him since he was my age and may be his girl too from the time when they stood here with coffee in their hands just like us. I bet it knows every such man, his girl, his first kiss; I bet it just waves at the whole city every time it comes to visit and selflessly dies out against the shore. May be that’s why they call them “waves” as if they are just very sweet Goodbyes! I mean can you even imagine how many people that one wave could know?! People meeting, people laughing, people fighting, people crying, people in love, people breaking up, the kids selling the roses, the chaatwaalaas, people from ages ago! And its just there, right there, doing it’s everyday crawling on the sea and dying at the bay. I bet it knows every guy that ever fell in love with it and watched it everyday until his last breath… And now it’s going to watch me grow and die, but it’s just going to be polite and carry on even after me… It’s probably witnessed this place turn from a calm port city to the chaotic hodgepodge it has become today and all the people that have been a part of it. Can you imagine how crazy this is?!”

He looks at her and finds her adorably gazing at him in awe. She sips from her cup and then looks at the watch and gestures at him in sign language that it’s time to end this and bid farewell to this comfort for today. But moreover, not only does he fantasize about doing this baywatch again tomorrow but pictures himself doing it all his life till he is all wrinkled and bent and tears of happiness are rolling down his lips into his mouth. He pictures the old himself and feels the teardrops on his tongue, and only then does he realise why the sea is so salty. She pokes him again and pulls him back to the reality of the city of dreams.

He has to bathe, dress up, drive through traffic, reach work on time, he remembers the drill. They smile at each other… she comes close and leaves a seal of her lips on his. He gestures at her in sign language that he loves her, and she repeats the signs. He then looks at his mug and then at the sea again, and for the last of that morning says,

“Well this mug is empty… But don’t you worry, we have a whole sea for ourselves to finish…”

The Highway Demons

Bike RideLife and Other Such ThingsTravel

imageThe four legged rope stretches out and hooks upon the back seat, holding a bag of luggage and tarpaulin to save it from sudden downpours. The Helmet strap clicks and the early morning warm up of the engine wakes up about everyone in the neighbourhood. A long journey awaits; the highway awaits, for the forthcoming villainous hours in which it will take me through every possible discomfort that it can. I pull down the screen of the helmet only to realise that it is so cold outside that my warm exhales form blinding blurs of steam on it. The warm jacket mischievously lets in some cold breeze through the sleeves, disturbing my little escapes from the exposure. It is so early in the morning that its not even twilight, and chirping of the crickets is still the loudest sound around. The rusty joints of my ankles and knees crackle as I bend them to get on with it. My gloves feel ‘not cozy enough’ to me and I feel like I didn’t tie my shoes tight enough. I sneeze within the helmet, spraying spit all over; and right now, I am only getting started…

Since 2010, till now (2016), I have conquered about 25000 kilometres of Highway distance on bike. And I kid not when I use the word “conquered”, because only the ones who have been out there, riding, for distances unimaginable, know the struggle, the real effort that goes behind being true to oneself as a “Rider” and taking everything that the road throws at you.

Out there, there is no limit to what can happen. Out there, it is you, your bike, and a road that is stubborn and never ends. Out there, you don’t get to give excuses, you don’t get to lay off for a while. The wheels roll, and roll, and roll, and soon a pain climbs onto your back and down to your pelvis. The journey starts and the only thought that rules your mind for next 15 minutes is whether you tied your luggage to the back strong enough that it wont fall, and frequent loud fluttering of the tarpaulin keeps deepening the doubt in your mind. You wish you had not drank that much last night. Light headedness and nausea and sleepiness plunge into you like a dark demon haunting a house slowly. You start thinking you can’t make it, and last night’s whiskey only wants you to crawl back in the warm blanket on a fluff bed next to her tender skin. You try to imagine her, to loosen up your mind, but even in your vision her back is towards you, and your side of the bed is cold, like death, and you are frozen with irritated bones. And to add on, the sky decides to spill and surge and intrude into deep fabrics of the denim jeans. All hell breaks loose onto you; and you have come too far to go back, and too far away from your destination yet…

You’ve come about half way, and the rain decides to give you some time off. The jeans is full of mud and the raincoat dripping gradually inside the undergarment; the cold winds doesn’t spare you from any chills. The bigger vehicles rule on the single lane roads. The government bus driver carelessly tries to overtake a truck in front of him and comes speeding right at you, regardless that you would have no road to ride on. The bike gets down the road and the bus whooshes by hardly an inch away from you; your heartbeat sprints ten times faster but you’re alive, only stuck in a puddle of mud off road.

 At frequent intervals you paas by flocks of crows devouring every dead creature lying slayed on the road. Such scenes are anticipated much earlier by the sharp stench of rotting meat, of death. Dogs mostly only because they are too stupid to be running bonkers on the highway, sometimes cats that were suicidal may be; though I’ve also seen pigs that were unfortunate enough to die under heavy duty trucks and arranged for some good pork and bacon for the scavenging birds. More over, there come times when you imagine yourself in the place of these animals turned vegetables, when you pass by an accident scene that happened last night or a few hours ago. Windscreens smashed, the whole of cars damaged to the core and crooked, trucks fallen askew off the ghat, bloats of blood just lying upon the asphalt; such things that would turn your stomach and give you the shivers.

But… You ride on. No matter what, the gears change, the accelerating happens and never do you doubt even for a moment the person inside you that believes in this highway life despite all it’s demons. It is the answer, travel, riding, hiking; it is the most beautiful answer to life.

I speak of courage, and determination, but the truth is everybody is scared; it is overcoming this fear that takes the real conquering. It is the feeling after finishing the distance, that really makes the difference. One often forgets to acknowledge the one thing that is with you all the times giving a strong face to the highway, the bike. Nothing is possible without it. So many miles, so many journeys and all is worthless if it had not been cooperative and courageous itself. It is one unexplainably profound feeling, riding the highway, and if you haven’t experienced it yet…

Go do it!

Rum on Her


Red ThreadOn her fourth, her eyes closed, she throws back her head;
Like the Bernini’s sculpture, only silhouetted in red.

She takes off my skin and I hers. In the gloomy dark room, our rum laced blurs.

The ends of her tresses rest upon the collar bones. While the rest of her only halos in scarlet tones.

We consume each other, sip by sip; Spilling a little on our delinquent trip.

Irresistible strength in her bodily lure; and for this I’m afraid I have no cure.

She dives for a casual swim in the liquor in my head; Her breasts facing heaven, back arched t’wards the bed.

The carmine photons cloak her and sink; Overflowing from her immeasurable brink.

The smoke from her cigarette forms strokes of paint; Our limbs feel lighter and minds fall faint.

Her hair suddenly bow and curtain my face, A familiar fragrance leaves it’s trace.

We exhale some steam but we aren’t done;
Two empty glasses, only getting ready for another one…