This Is Life

My extremely personal and autobiographical poem THIS IS LIFE has been published by LIVEWIRE JOURNAL.

Below is the link to a work that covers grounds of trauma and physical harm.

So read it and share your thoughts.


My topical poem ISOLATED LINES has been chosen by DREICH MAGAZINE in its latest issue.

I’m really grateful to the editor, Mr. Jack Caradoc, for publishing this particular piece. So read it and share your thoughts. I will share the print edition too when my copy arrives soon.



Similar to few of my previous forays into integrating the robust, dynamic quality of cinema with poetry, I once again bring the two disciplines together, to present encapsulations of various features in the verse form.

So here they are.


AMU(2005)- on filmmaker Shonali Bose’s affecting debut that chronicles the decades worth of buried pain and generational legacy springing forth from the 1984 anti-Sikh riots. It also doubles up as a linguistic amalgamation of an Indian-American
young person’s search for identity.

Mangled bodies
and murmurs of the past
don’t speak.
Our flesh and blood
spills out of almanacs.
Yet we choose to pick
the dates marked only
for festivities.

I’m a multiplicity
speaking in three tongues.
My mother’s speech
is a lost epiphany to me.
My family’s heritage
charred by looted memories
and kerosene bottles
strewn around the wrong side
of the railway tracks.

Tell me,
whom do I believe
when the urban village
is such a sunny tyrant
and wants a piece of my
birth name?

Mangled bodies
and murmurs are in the past.
let flesh and blood
spill out the truth now,
in the prelude to a riot
and a carnage of decades
and legacies.


LIFE ITSELF(2014)- a practical documentary on celebrated film writer and media personality Roger Ebert’s legacy intertwined with his final years on terra firma, a space he filled with his expansive world of words even in the absence of speech and impending death.

Instruments of Empathy
are like a country’s gifts
of gratitude.

Laughter and joy,
to moving images,
like crumbs of resisting
and the cyclical crash
of our spirits.

I found these
in an almanac
perennially filled to the last
with a Godsend.

Now in my final address,
my thumbs pointed towards the sky,
I say,
I’ll see you
where the real stars
house the earthbound.
Exulting in the company
I wish to now know better
with empathy,
laughter and joy.


TEMPLE GRANDIN(2010)- on an iconic personality who proved her detractors wrong by uniting the humane practices enshrined by her scientific tempers in the field of animal husbandry while also shedding renewed light on her experiences as an autistic adult whose mind literally held wonders of creation and beauty.

I’m no sullen little oddity
or even anyone
out of the ordinary.

I see the world
in images of profound
and fragmented impressions
of human cruelty
define my confounding arcs too.

To me,
is coherent,
often like a silent prayer
and nature’s Godly creatures
are our likely saviours
when loudmouths laugh,
deigning to hold me as an equal.

But a beautiful mind has its own saddle
and gallops over forfeited fields
with a mother’s commitment
and a teacher’s beliefs.

Life is a temple of knowledge
and discovery.
I receive them firsthand,
governed by such examples.


THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO ST. MATTHEW(1964)- on often provocative filmmaking auteur Pier Paolo Pasolini’s austere and transcendental take on the Nativity Story. A work that’s guaranteed to move devout followers and even agnostics with its humane delineation. It comes with a performance of a lifetime from Enrique Irazoqui, a most down to earth on-screen Messiah ever.

The Lord is humble
and pure,
eloquent at the hour of revelation
and predestined,
in his own words,
to be betrayed
at the altar
of mortal persecution.

in his saga of sage advice
and impending peril,
he is put on trial,
looking as anyone among us,
wearing the same soiled raiments
as the most impoverished here
and holding his anger and resignation
just as ordinary folks would.

Look we desecrate our Chosen One
with our own inaction.
We strip him bare
with our voyeuristic lust
for a public spectacle.
We hardly heed to his prescience
when all we participate in
is an untimely crucifixion,
and dissolving with the times.


CONFIRMATION(2016)- on the blistering courtroom politics invested in Clarence Thomas’ nomination to the United States Supreme Court when former worker and then current law professor Anita Hill opens up Pandora’s box on his misconduct meted out to her in terms of blatant sexual harrasment.

Hear me out.
Take notice.
I am wronged.
Put on the stand
after being pushed to
the very brink of dignity.

Hear me out.
I do not cry wolf.
Hear me out
because shame shouldn’t
be my only apparel.

Hear me out
when men defend
themselves with tricks
stale and furious
as the molten
shape of history itself.


PATERNO(2018)- on legendary football coach Joe Paterno’s final tryst with the legacy of sexual abuse of young boys appertaining to his longtime associate and philanthropist Gerry Sandusky.

Old principles
of ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell’
have passed into obscurity.
So have denials from older men.

There is a charge then
to this trail of crime
and Hell is right here
when our mentors
choose to hush
this sordid saga
as some kind of
open secret.

See if this Pandora’s box
doesn’t bring a sweeping storm.


THE SHAPE OF WATER(2017)- on Guillermo Del Toro’s beautifully realised, fabled depiction of nature’s wonders manifesting in God’s creatures on land and water while man’s egomaniacal rush is the monster we unleash on this seemingly innocent world of goodwill and industry.

The Shape of Water
into fables,
its countless drops
meant to symbolise
the propreity of evil
as equally
as a sheltered dreamscape
of Love,
and Escape.

When the fable soars,
Water becomes
a microcosm.
A sacred space.
An upholder of grace.


IRREVERSIBLE (2002)- on Gaspar Noe’s open provocation of a work that dares to show us the basest instincts of humankind when victim and victimiser both occupy a brutally realistic nocturnal world ruled by racism, homophobia and most importantly, the heavy weight of sexual abuse.

Left for dead.

The City of Lights
brought to a halt
by its crimes of passion
and reduced to a pulp.

Now the procession begins.
A retributive fever,
like an epileptic seizure,
this shared love
among friends.

Under the cover of Night
watch as Men become
beasts with no burden.


FRIDA(2002)- on Julie Taymor’s memorable portrait of Frida Kahlo’s legacy of physical pain and the artistry that surmounted all odds beyond that frontier.

Kiss her
on the edge
of her broken spinal column.

There rests Phoenix
wincing with pain
and under the inevitable
shadow of a near-death

There she rises
with the grotesque
and the beautiful,
piercing the hallways
of life’s twists and turns
with Art
and immortal.

DEATH ON THE NILE(2021)- on Kenneth Branagh’s excitingly mounted and excellently cast thriller based on Agatha Christie’s famed Poirot series of books.

Cry Wolf!

Cry Murder!

A voyage such as this
brings out cohorts
and players
as they exchange
glances and conspiratorial airs.

At the primed hour,
when tables turn,
who then picks up the
burden of guilt and reproach
and makes it out of this boat?

Bid for their money
when the decks are stacked.
A prowler on the hunt
and ready for attack.

A killer on the loose
A dubious profession to choose.

So cry wolf.
Cry murder.
The guilty ones
always sharper than
the others.


Prithvijeet Sinha reads ‘Golden Light’ from Issue XIV, Inklette Magazine

Recently, my poem GOLDEN LIGHT got published by INKLETTE MAGAZINE. It was such a privilege then to not only have the print text grace its annals but also be represented visually through my recitation on its official YouTube channel.

Poetry conjures a visual world rich in details, subliminal beauty and complexity. So here I share the video of yours truly reading GOLDEN LIGHT with you all.


We bought a home
On a lease of  thousand and one expectations and heartbreaks

  Putting lock and key to our prime,
 Our abode well past its due date
  Where infighting and tears together rhymed.

We bought a home
Put our feet on its threshold,
on a day when twin towers collapsed.
Foreboding death of wishful thinking,
Our hopes crawled along pint sized miles.

 Fifteen years past
Our unerring passions
were made to last
For a blanket of hope
A roof of our own.
A home made on
exact principles of our soul.

Not the one rented to us
Where land and lord rhyme together
Syllables of division
wrapped around its very


We filled it with life-like spirits.
Every inch enlivened
with goodwill and generosity.
A prayer for happy times
found in its calloused pillars.

No marble statues or Rosebuds
Or even a distant hallway echoing promise
Had we wished for.

But a storm had swept these plains.
 These four walls,
Meant to not outlast months,
 Had been robed with years.
  A heavy burden indeed!


 The clouds under our eyes held experience,
Hope drifted in and around
A wreckage of bricks and paint,
Reflected in dull walls
and serpentine leaks.
Damp insides and blue layers to peel.

But we saw the world here,
unfolding in all its mystery.
And oh! what a remonstration of the world did we mount,
 On flags painted with hand prints and oversized palms.

What skilful melody escaped from these walls?
A tune here.
A discordant note there.
We composed such ballads of uneven proficiency,
It broke our hearts.
Made me often open the balcony door one floor high.

Hail those 2004 summers,
 Those playthings sombre.
 My homecoming always rests here
 In these hollow openings.
 Shape shifting,
Witless and yet beautiful
in its hand written rules.

All I can do now is revoke my spirits
Let it ride pillion
to happy thoughts of yore.
 Of photo albums with buck toothed grins
Catalogues of cheerful dins.
Curtains laced with anticipation
Chaperoned by cobwebs.

These staircases have I licked and tickled
Like piano ivories.
White washed rooms have I said goodbye to,
in my sleep.
Only to enter its premises, 
put pen to paper on the same bed.

For here I rested my head on pebbles of wise thoughts and flew with the kites above,
dropping a clue.


 Our hearts now yearn to do all of these in a familiar abode,
 A home of our  very own.

I rehearse my prayers
My folks keep their eyes open
Feet on the ground.

 Eighty seven days,
 Two thousand and sixteen wishes aside,
 We still yearn to find our own yard.



NOTE: This poem was originally self-published by me on my Wattpad poetry collection WHISTLING CHIMES around 2016.


A poem inspired by this photographic work.



When the last ships left
imperial shores,
the burden of upholding
ideals of an impossible expedition
congealed in the hearts of
’em sailors.
‘Ahoy! Captain’
rang the chorus
through clattering teeth
and calcified hearts .

Set for a ghost town
on the edge of the world’s
hypothermic frontier,
there was a doorway,
an architectonic body of
and icebergs still as Eternity.

The men passed under it
and a green light
came from the dipping point.
The sky and the endless sea
had become one gigantic lighthouse.
The surface crackled
with its intensity
and sailors all,
inebriated on the brink of discovery,
felt the myth
of the outer world
coming true.

A third eye opened,
like a hungry lion
receiving its feast
in lifetimes,
a blast marked this silence
and the dread of icy apathy
took them into a psychedelic whirl,
through forms never seen
and creatures wholly unlike them.

A missing link
gone askew through time and space,
lost to history’s formulaic appetite.
The last ships lay stationary there
in a land before time.


Words can come from oracles,
like sirens ringing out of wooden floors
while mother waits patiently over the threshold,
eager for the plane ticket in his palms.

Words come from motormouths,
gaping wide at the valley
till the altar of adulthood reveals
a mountain peak
and the same sirens
produce squirts of anxiety about the future.
Words left over
as the final call on the summit.

He picks up tatters left as clothes,
chopped blocks of wood
as dying sacraments of the migrant’s pursuit
and puts curved stones
on the nape of his neck
to ensure tunnels
don’t enter the wound there.

To go away,
leave at the earliest,
is the command.
But he holds himself vigorously,
stubborn as a mule
and sacrosanct as a child,
by the scruff of a green soul,
veins blue as those embroidered
suits kept away,
their soft departures unbecoming
for those strange climes
he’s banished to.
An eventual exile affronting his constituency back home.

The words are cruel stipends to him,
repaid with mere confrontations
and a yellowed, soured disposition,
like a drowning body
recovered from deep down the lakes
where alligators await their fodder.

Say anything.
Only don’t cry out,
‘He’s one from a dying breed’

‘He’s one from a dying breed’
now rings like sirens
from oracles passed down
as the family tree.