“I am excited about the meeting.”

“Which meeting?”

“You know, folk, work and play.”

“Aha! Whispers, ranting and chugging!”

“Yes! heights, ropes and bridges!”

“Oh yes, the incandescent lights,

Hordes of insects,

Neon flights.”

“Rails underneath,

Roads above, and water overhead.”

“The visual grammar,

Libraries of signs,

The fluid red!”

“Fake films, battery parks,

Medical waste.”

“Full spandex suits,

Face paints and animal smell,

Life is late.”

“Atop such dreary mountains,

Of pollution and slime,

Folk work and play,

The neon mountains,

The civilized thrives.”

Photography and Poem by Nivedita


Respected Mr. Zero

Mr. Zero

Dear and respected zero,
You are the greatest hero.

In mathematics and arithmetic,
You play your part fantastic.

You are the greatest puzzle,
And a scientist’s struggle.

When I subtract you from any number,
You are as cool as a cucumber.

No loss, no gain, all my efforts in vain,
Add you to last and the number increases very fast.

If you are multiplied by the largest,
The result is the smallest.

People think,
You are valueless and the lowest.

That is why,
Students are bad to get you in their tests.

– Arunima


Colours (1)

Will it be black or white?
Or shadows in million shades bright.
For those times, I close my eyes
They dance to the tunes of my mind.

I wonder who gets it right.
My blue be your brilliant white,
Hot be the cool of summers
But doubt not the choice of colours.

I would turn black and blue,
Combining a ton of shades and hue,
Or just follow a rainbow,
And look not for new and know.

How long can I stay colourless?
Painting these shades, mindless!
Unaware, my ignorant self
Questioning mind, it will dwell.

So as my thought blurs,
Out of these trillion colours,
You pick yours, I choose mine
For any colour chosen is just fine.

– Siddhangana



I have an imaginary friend,

And that is you.

In an imaginary field,

Squares and rectangles,

Twilight and cathedrals,

Temples on shores,

Cabins on mountain tops,

Salons and wardrobes,

Hallmarks and plazas,

There we sat in scarves and stoles.

Everyone kissing in public,

Oh! Won’t you kiss me in public too?

We were fooling once before,

Beggars of warmth in unisex spaces,

Natural delight caught in the love’s flu.

Fall apart, hold, clutch, disappear,

You are a real echo, my friend.

I am listening to you.

And in between the folds of sheets,

Between the murmurs and the musings,

We return to where we were,

Some diffused beings in the city,

Some wanton fireflies on dashboards,

Some Samaritans in floods,

And speakers for late night cab drivers.

It’s our usual distress,

Making sense in blurs,

Just like you and me in between the folds.

Photography and Poem by Nivedita

Bizarre Hours

Bizarre Hours

So let me tell you,
About a man at the deathbed,
Who dreamt a lot.
His sleep was under the starry nights;
And of all the things he touched and said,
His child was his most difficult art and disguise.

Some things which he could not do,
He did not fail to pump it in his son.
Some things, half undone, half made,
Were thrust upon his generations to come.

The genetic graying is internal,
As the eye which saw the vintage cars,
Is bequeathed as the eye which sees the bizarre hours;
Of global wars on terrorism,
Victims as humanity’s delinquent.

As the information links up,
For more information,
Across the generation oh father!
For you dreamt a lot,
In your sleep under the starry nights.
You have forced dreams upon me.
I’m now your most difficult son,
Trying to do the things you could not do.

All aging is about bizarre hours,
Television, intercom and media farce.
I am sure, that you are a certain form of life on deathbed,
Resisting the poison that is fed to you
Through food, water and air.

Someday you will travel interstellar,
Without knowing how to ‘live’.

Photography and Poem by Nivedita