This is his story. A story which created history. Very few know him, even fewer understand him and perhaps no one ever got to see the real him.

Who is he?

He is anyone, everyone, and no one.

This is our story. A story of which we all are a part of.

A con man with an uncommon genuine smile,
Predicating an image that is still unclear,
Is always facing some or the other trial,
For his mind has both courage and fear.

Humble at the very core but not so much on the skin,
Just like the world we so much adore, we too are on a spin.
And to win?, Con man must be a kin,
And so we all have this evil twin.

Passionate is another charm of time,
Without which nothing is fine.
Each step in life is like a line.
His story is for him to design.

To be truthful, not being truthful is alright,
For with situations we need to change our sight.
Lose if you must for trying is right,
His story speaks about everyone's fight.

Who was that?

Surrounded by fields of golden wheat,

With edge of the forest as it’s fence,

Stood a small town with narrow bricked streets,

Harbouring nothing but suspence.

Many who went there lived the same day,

Uncertain of their own eye’s account.

Strangely enough they all lost their way,

When they met her, a mathematician who couldn’t count.

Her charm was perfect like an old magic spell,

Which gained the trusts of travellers she came by.

Her smile was innocent and meant only well,

And eyes were deep, beautiful and shy.

She asked three questions…

“Where lies the destination you are so destined to be?

For the end is similar for all. Just be free.

Do you really chase your dreams or are you trying to flee?

Careful, this answer is the key.

Close your eyes to see who you are supposed to be?

And just like that, they all ended up alone before a lake by a tree.”

No one ever saw her or heard her voice again,

Yet they felt estrange and rejoice,

Who was that girl and where did she vanish?

Or maybe she was conscience seeking a clear choice.

Rustic reading glass

A quaint summer comes to my mind,

As I recall that particular book.

Swing set of my balcony faced,

A small cafe with a homely look.

I frequented it every now and then,

To finish what I had started before.

My book of stories from every end,

And coffee that I always wanted more.

Times were tough back in those days,

Money was hard and work was seldom.

Making do with my rustic reading glass,

I typed what my imagination could fathom.

Decades have passed and here I am,

Writing just as I did before.

What keeps us humble is our past.

Time when I used to sleep on the floor.

Always treasure those who stayed,

Throughout your quest with highs and lows.

For me it was my rustic reading glass, now yours.

Wear to see what it shows.

A video journey of The Poet and the Pen

Almost all my poems had a featured image (which do not belong to me in any way whatsoever)

Each image was used with the purpose of letting my readers understand and connect with my words at a much better level.

This video shows my journey and the rich content this blog has to offer…

Read the poems once you are done with the video (especially those whose images you like)

See to know…know to read

Happy Monday!

Lost Guitarist

Tale revolves around an infamous man,
Who plays guitar like no one can.
In a small pub in the city of London,
Happened something strange with every fan.
It starts at ten on every night, and
With time whole pub goes quiet,
Yet I felt something was off,
I felt numb, I lost my sight.
Crowd kept listening till it was dawn,
No one left no one did yawn,
So mesmerizing was his music,
I felt strange as if he was a con.
Night ended and so did the show,
I got out and found the streets full of snow,
However something didn’t add up,
I just couldn’t let this one go.
Later next day I went for it again,
Pub staff said no one here ever sang,
On asking around I found this guy, mental
Said, “It’s been 60 years yet I can’t explain”.



On the cold night of December 23,
As I was walking by the lake,
Laid on the grass, a beautiful key,
Remarkable, hard to make.

Tempted to find the door it belonged,
I walked here and there.Yet,
Found nothing after searching for long,
So I sat on this side chair.

Didn't realise what happened next, 
But I woke up at the same spot. 
Everything seemed simple yet complex,
As I sat on the chair I had sought.

It was evening when I woke up, 
And people were walking around.
Medieval seemed the whole setup, 
Even the currency spoke of a crown.

On the far side I saw a man, 
Who looked just as did I. 
Smiled, left a note and a pen,
Written, "I am glad you came by".

Further read…

"I wonder how it will be,
A reflection from the future far,
Let I alone find this key,
And smile while feeling bizarre"

~The Poet,1765

House by the lake

On a cold dark night at around 2,
While reading and enjoying my hot brew,
I heard a knock on the main door
And a fading sound of walking shoes.

Alarmed and awake I asked for a name,
But nobody replied, no sound came,
I took my gun and headed towards the door,
And hoped that I won't have to use my aim.

On the other side, laid a small letter,
Who wrote it?, God knows better.
I picked it up and went to my room,
To read and understand the entire matter.

"Hello my friend, my name is Paul,
You don't know me but I know all,
I lived here way before you did,
In the room right by the hall.

I hope you are doing well,
Your poems always have a story to tell,
I know you must be very curious right now,
Does the attic still have that smell?

Don't be scared you are all alone,
I am the one whose house you now own,
Just wanted to let you know about me,
A past owner who now sleeps by the stone."

Eyes became wide and hands started to shake,
Was I dreaming or was I really awake?
Till date that night raises so many questions,
A letter addressed to the house by the lake.

The figure and the tree


It was dark and cold that night,
As I was walking through the park.
Drenched in darkness, everything was quiet,
When I noticed a figure behind a tree’s bark.

It seemed unusual for someone to be
Standing at that place during that hour.
So I kept walking hoping he wouldn’t see,
Because I knew something was sour.

As I was heading down the leafy path,
I realised that I wasn’t alone, thinking
“What if the person is a violent psychopath?”
I started shaking to the bone.

I lost the sense of time and place,
And forgot where I was headed to.
Started running just to make an escape,
Forgetting what was false and true.

After a while when I finally stopped,
I looked back to see. Strangely
The whole park was now gone,
Everything but that single tree.

Confused and scared I decided to ask,
What was happening to me?
To my answer a voice said,
“Go and ask the one near the tree”.

When I reached back to the said tree,
I demanded him to reveal himself.
As he came out for me to see, said
“You brought me here all by yourself”.

He showed his face and started to smile
And asked what do I see?
I saw a park which was beautiful once,
But now covered with debris.

The mysterious man revealed his name,
One which I can never forget, said
“I play one of the darkest games,
 Using Fear to settle my debt”.

Said he dwells inside each one of us,
Looking for a chance to break free.
For every time he makes an escape,
He waits behind that tree.