To an Eternity . . . In Love ♥

As the last leaf falls from the branches of time,
Drifting slowly, agonizingly, towards nothingness
A heart emptied of love; a soul dead from pain.
I wait in vain for a false dawn – unbecoming,
An unmanifest of emotions, of love.
The earth, moist and tender, caresses me in its embrace,
The rain reminding me of the drop of life left
Within the obscure walls of my heart,
Beating for a love that’s already come by and past
Far, far away. ♥

In Love with You . . . Always and Forever ♥


Waiting an Eternity

Quiet my heart, cry your tears in seclusion.

Rejoice; for today the love of your life will be married.

“Be the best man at my wedding, Vishnu” you said, nonchalantly;

And that was the knife to my heart; I died.


Do you remember at all, my angel?

The years of love we shared together,

The dreams of togetherness beyond seven lifetimes,

The castles of unconditional love, the stories of eternity

Etched on the walls of our beating souls?


I still ache for you, my love.

I yearn for a glimpse of you – surreal;

Across the floor, I notice

My angel with her hubby, happy and content;

Dressed in a resplendent saree;

Your hair braided till your waist,

Your voice, divine and enchanting;

Your face, the little mole on your lips,

Your deep blue eyes, your heavenly smell;

You laugh, and you smile,

And he kisses you gently on your cheeks,

I feel my tears burn my soul to cinder;

And, I move, in haste, to wipe them away,

Lest you see them;


My soul is missing you much, my love.

I wish for a single whiff of your heavenly breath on me;

A single strand of your long, luscious hair to brush past my face once more;

The music that lulls my heart to tears;

The imprints of your kiss, the echo of your whispers of love;

Will survive within me – long after I pass.

Erase me from your heart, my love.

Never were you mine;


Come to me, oh beautiful death,

Embrace me in your heavenly arms;

Let my soul be stripped of life,

And my heart be filled with eternal love. 

To an Eternity . . . In Love. ♥

Eternal Love

Eternal Love


As the last leaf falls from the branches of time,
Drifting slowly, agonizingly, towards nothingness
A heart emptied of love; a soul dead from pain.
I wait in vain for a false dawn – unbecoming,
An unmanifest of emotions, of love.
The earth, moist and tender, caresses me in its embrace,
The rain reminding me of the drop of life left
Within the obscure walls of my heart,
Beating for a love that’s already come by and past. ♥

One Minute Reads: Family is Everything

Its been 3 years since I moved out of Chennai. There were belongings that I took with me to my new abode, Bangalore. Books, clothes, shoes, mobile phones, goodies, and cash. Some physical objects, some tangible. Some intangible. I left my heart back at Chennai as it refused to make the 8 hour trip across the Tamil Nadu border into Karnataka. Its been 3 long years, and though I have settled down in Bangalore, I have never really felt at home. I’m a family person. I can’t imagine a day without speaking to my grandparents, my parents, my sister. Today, I chanced upon a few photos hidden inside a long forgotten diary that I had carried with me. Love . . . Brother and Sister Love . . . Brother and Sister Mom and Daughter Love 1623577_419303368216364_2042999753_n 1896867_419394584873909_554203801_nI looked at these photos and tears dropped from my eyes. How I miss my family. Some relationships can never be forged again, some memories can never be replaced again. My family has been, and will always be my greatest gift from God. I miss Chennai. I wish that I go back to the place I love the most in the whole world.

True Love. Never Dies.

January 31st, 2014, Koramangala.

I was walking alone along a secluded street late on Friday night, with the beautiful night sky for company. I love the supernatural, and so just to keep it exciting I had decided to walk the lonely road next to the cemetery. It was a moonlit night, and the whistling breeze bristled with sounds of the supernatural, the whispers of the dead, and the insects sang a soulful tune that accentuated the eerieness.

In the misty light cast by a lone streetlight, I could sense a silhoutte of a man leaning over a fence, plucking flowers from a gigantic tree whose branches hung low over the street. I walked closer to him, wary of being trapped alone with a strange man, but also with a beating heart that sensed something amiss. On close inspection, he seemed like a beggar. He had tattered clothes, his face was gaunt and bony, and his pale skin glistened in the moonlight.

I reached within inches of him, and he was still oblivious of my presence. He was lost in his own world, slowing plucking flowers and placing it on the fence tenderly. I cleared my throat, expecting him to stop and look at me awhile, but he didn’t hear me. What a waste of flowers, I thought to myself. I gathered a little more courage, and squeezed my fingers together in an attempt to sound even more brave than I was.

“Hello Mister . . .stop plucking those flowers. Is it your property?” I told him.

He turned finally to face me. I couldn’t make out his eyes. The streetlight cast shadows on his face that hid his eyes, and all I could see was two empty hollows . . . like a black hole. I stepped back warily, taken aback by the features of the man. He looked at me incredulously and  turned his back on me, continuing to pluck flowers from the tree as if nothing had stopped him in his reverie.

I was intrigued. I wanted to know what he was doing, at this late an hour, in a secluded street near a cemetery, on a moonlit night. The man finally finished plucking flowers, and he gathered all his collections into his hand, and held them together tightly. He whisked away, leaving me in his wake. I followed him for a little while, but I stopped the moment he opened the cemetery gate and entered the graveyard. I was afraid of following him inside. I have a fear of ghosts, and even though I act brave, I really do fear that I might be possessed by a ghost someday.

Through the gates of the cemetery, I watched him, walking past a dozen tombstones . . . he seemed to know his way. I watched him more perplexed than ever, as he knelt down in front of a tomb, lay the flowers down, kissed the cold stone slab, and left without another glance.  I was scared of walking into the cemetery, but, curiosity got the better of me. I slowly opened the rickety gate, the echoes of its wails sending shivers down my spine. I walked past the tombstones, cold and eerie, the crackle of dead leaves under my feet increasing my pulse rate to a million beats per second. I reached the tomb he had kneeled next to, and I squinted my eyes to take a closer look at the inscription on the tomb.

“Sarah . . . the woman who never died. Living in our hearts. (Dec 2nd 1985- Jan 31st 2013)”

As I read the inscription, a tear silently rolled down my cheek without invitation. I realised that this man was the husband. What happened to Sarah, or to the man is a mystery . . . but, like all the beautiful mysteries of this world, this one would best be left unsolved. But, one thing was for sure . . . that night . . . as I walked back to my house, tears streaming down my face. . . I understood what love truly is. True, unconditional love . . . Never dies.  For the death of a person might mean that the person can no longer walk this earth again, but . . . the love of that person lives on . . . for an eternity more.

True Love . . . Never Dies

I love you Dad . . . Always and Forever

I lay on the open terrace beside her. The divine smell of her long, luscious hair traversed the inches that separated my lips from her forehead. The wind stroked me tenderly with its ice cold fingers. The jet black sky was punctuated by the glow of million of stars. The moon beamed with all its glow, happiness personified.  With my outstretched arm, I cuddled her even closer into me. I was in love. Pure. Eternal. Love.

“God’s most amazing painting . . . the night sky. Isn’t it?” I asked her.

She grazed my neck with her tender lips, and ran her fingers across my chest.

“I thought you were his most amazing painting” she said with a smirk.

“Bad joke Maya” I retorted.

I turned my face towards her. A smile was playing on her lips. She looked up into my eyes with her blue eyes that were as beautiful and as deep like an ocean. I searched her eyes, eternally lost in its resplendence. She smiled reassuringly and placed her hand on my heart beating wildly and crazily for her.

I was in the most beautiful place in the universe. The moonlight danced across the whole world, the gentle breeze and the million of stars felt like magic floating in the air.

I closed my eyes. 

My dad was standing over me. I could feel his breath washing over me. He was smiling, grinning at me. I peered back at him, disbelievingly. 


Father - A son's Hero

He smiled. “So happy for you son, that you married the woman of your dreams” he said.

“Like father, like son . . . dad” I replied, grinning.

He smiled back at me. “That’s my boy!”

My dad was my hero. Always was, always will be.

“I miss you dad. Why did you leave me?”

“I never did Vishnu . . . I never did. You can feel me, caressing you always.”

“But you are dead dad . . .you left me.”

“I never died Vishnu ma . . . I’m always alive. In you. Around you. Within you.”

Tears streamed down my face. I missed him like hell.

“Do you love me dad?”

“Always my little one. This moment . . . Every moment. Forever.”

He reassuringly brushed my hair with his hand.

The moonlight filtered through my closed eyelids into my mind. I felt at peace. 

I could feel him smiling down at me. I could feel his warmth, his love flowing through my body, assuring me that his love for me was true, always true.

I wanted to be in that moment forever, suspended in my own dreams, with just him for company.

Maya kissed me on my chest and wiped my tears off my face. She understood my silent communion with the one man I loved beyond the world.

“I love you Vishnu . . . “

I clutched her fingers even tighter and kissed her gently on her forehead. “Maya  . . . I love you more with each passing day…each passing moment. I’m crazy about you.” The moment I finished speaking, I realized that my dad had told these exact words to my mom moments before his death.

Dad, you are right. You never left me.  

I smiled.

She smiled.

The night sky and the million of stars smiled back at me.

“When I die, where will I go? I will be here in the winds, in the night sky, in the million of stars, in the moments of happiness; and if you loved me, you will feel me around you, always. In your silent moments you will feel my presence. Wherever you are . . . your love will keep me alive…always. And you will find me in your very heart, in your every heartbeat.” he had said to me on his deathbed, his frail arm placed across my heart. 

I remembered.

I lay Maya’s hand on my heart, where I knew my father was. Resting in Love.

I love you dad . . . Always and Forever.

A False Heart


Tears roll down my cheeks unremitting,

Questions thrust at me unflinching,

False accusations…to them I have no answer,

No shield nor mask to protect being wounded,

I hear the evil cackle of laughter,

The ruckus, the cheering, all in jest,

I can hear everything.

My reality seems grim, dark as hell,

And I will go down in history books,

As the convict for a crime I didn’t commit.

You know me for the person I am,

The day I die, with a blemish on my record,

Please don’t believe the naysayers,

I was always true God . . . always true, always pure.

My legacy will live on,

Even if it means tearing my soul apart,

And like the tears that stream down my face,

My withering heart will remain unattended.

When I Die . . . Do not Cry | Audio

When I die,

Don’t shed tears,


For I lived my life to the fullest,

The way it was supposed to be.

When I die,

Don’t weep,

Raise a toast.

For I achieved all that I aspired to be,

And made a gang of friends and well-wishers.

When I die,

Don’t feel low,


For I always followed my heart,

I never gave up, nor gave anyone up.

When I die,

Don’t lament,

Fly high.

For I was a phoenix rising from the ashes,

After every failure.

When I die,

Don’t weep,


For I lived life as an adventure,

With no fear, nor anxiety,

But always with courage, and confidence.

When I die,

Don’t ponder.

Feel proud.

For I forsake my ego,

I made love my religion,

And hearts my temple.

When I die,

Don’t brood,


For I lived life like a song,

And lost myself in its divinity.

When I die,

Never be sorry.


For I lived life fully,

And, loved with all my heart.

When I die,

Don’t worry,


For I leave the world a better place,

And go back to the One who I always loved.

When I die,

Don’t sulk.


For wherever my soul might be,

Your smile will keep me living on.

For an eternity more.


I recorded this poem in my own (untrained, unedited, unmodified) voice. Hope you like it. 

Instrumental Credit: Nils Frahm. Track Name: Sol.

Bankerupt: Conversations with Ravi Subramanian

What if your wildest dream was meeting a person you truly adore? What if an early saturday morning turned out to be the best moment of your life? What if you get a book personally signed by an author you consider to be your role model? What if you actually meet the John Grisham of Banking? Well, that’s exactly what happened to me. Me and a few lucky ones in Easy Library, Koramangala.

The moment I knew Ravi Subramanian would be at EasyLib for tete-a-tete, I was completely thrilled. The excitement, the tension was palpable. I sat up the entire night thinking of questions I should ask him when I meet him up close and personal. The thought of meeting him, like reading his best seller books, didn’t allow me to sleep at all. No media . . . No flashlights, no papparazzi, no glamour . . . just him. And us.

Ravi Subramanian | Bankerupt

For all those who don’t know Ravi Subramanian (is there any?), he is a banker by profession and has penned five popular thrillers on banking and bankers. He is the winner of multiple awards. All his books are based on financial crime. His thrillers include, If God was a Banker, Devil in Pinstripes, The Incredible Banker, The Bankster and the latest one Bankerupt. Additionally, he has written a non-fiction, I bought the Monk’s Ferrari.

Ravi was truly humble, down-to-earth and highly easy going. He was able to take constructive criticism from the audience, questions that might have thrown any author off guard. He was charming and cool all the while. He told us about his personal life, how much of a struggle it had been, the real life incidents that influenced his novels, the stinging remarks he received from critics, his two pence on writing a thriller and his inspiring talk to budding authors. As much as his books are a rollercoaster ride, the conversations we had with him were of similar vein.

On handling criticism

When his first book “If God was a banker” was released, he received a lot of negative, stinging remarks. Critics dismissed the book as a piece of crap, with feedback ranging from “He has written a book worser than Chetan Bhagat!” to “Don’t bank on it (the book).”

“It helped me grow as an author. Criticism, if taken constructively, will help a writer improve. My first book had loads of sex, no strong women protagonists, and every character was either black or white. I changed that completely from my second novel. Now, all my books have no sex (Sex DOESN’T sell, great storyline does), strong woman characters and people who are grey, neither completely black nor completely white. It helps. Embrace criticism.”

Inspirations for the Novels

“Everything from real life. Each and every one of the incidents that happen to the characters, the characters themselves . . . everything is real. My stories are all about simple, ordinary human beings . . . I draw from real life. There is no better canvas.”

Plots for the Novels

“I don’t have a fixed plot in mind when I begin writing. I don’t even know what the twist in the story will be! I just take it by chapter. At the end of each chapter, I would have four or five different ways of taking the story forward. I just make sure, I take the most shocking, controversial route in each of these choices!”

Style of Writing

“I write very short chapters. In Bankerupt, I have 77 chapters for 312-odd pages! Short chapters help keep the audience hooked. I don’t concentrate more on character development. The more I include chapters on protagonists grieving for the loss of a loved one, the more chances that I might lose the audience. My aim is not to develop characters like in a romance novel. I write thrillers…and thrillers must be page-turning and lightning quick. However, it’s a choice you make. It works for me. Identify your strengths and use it.”

Pages, Fonts and What Not

“Typically, a thriller should be 300-350 pages. And ya, around 270-280 words per page. Anything more, and you would lose the interest of the audience. Cover design is very important too. An average buyer spends around 7 seconds looking at the front cover, and 12 seconds reading the back cover. If you don’t attract the reader within those 19 seconds, you’ve lost a potential buyer. Once and for all.”

Tips for Young Authors

“Anyone can write a thriller; Just have a murder within the first five pages of the book, and a shocking twist in the climax! But, yes . . . to weave all real life stories together from multiple sources, different time frames, takes a lot of effort. Give the author also some credit!”

A parting note

I had a personal talk with him before I left. He had this to say.

“If you have a dream . . . follow it. Yes, you would be afraid of criticism, it is normal . . . but, don’t give up. Be brave. If you love writing, if that is what you truly want to do in your life . . . give it everything. I have a day job, and I come back home, tired, famished. But, I don’t stop writing. 9pm to 1am is my slot. My zone. I promise myself that whatever happens, I will write. Keep writing. Always. And one day you will be a great writer. Good luck Vishnu.”

Ravi Subramanian is my inspiration for his courage. He carved a niche for himself as a master of corporate thrillers. My world in the end wasn’t left bankerupt, infact it was filled to the brim with happiness, passion . . . and love.

Ravi Subramanian | Bankerupt