Author Archives: Prabha Prakash

About Prabha Prakash

I am a CA, who loves words more than numbers. My first collection of poetry, “Lost Monsoon” is set to be released by Writers Workshop, Kolkata. I blog at and also write for Times of India blogs. My poems have been published in reputed magazines. I firmly believe that penning ideas on paper has helped me retain the warmth within myself and to keep moving forward with a ray of hope. I can be reached @

Don’t seek answers.

Don’t seek answers.

Only disappointment will answer you.

Nor seek shoulders to lean permanently on-

They’ll only tremble and shake when it aches.

Instead, grit your teeth,

Swallow that blob; yes! that bitter dark globule of helplessness;

Let it flow down your throat;

Let it plunge itself into the crimson flow of your blood;

Let it dissolve and dissipate as tiny particles in your arteries;

Let it transform;

And let it come back to you as sweat, as tears, and as fresh bursts of breath,

As you exhale,

And heave a sigh of relief;

Letting it out,

Once for all.


Memories, when they haunt you,

Don’t resent.

And don’t drive them away.

If you do,

They’ll come back to you like boomerangs.

Instead, allow them to pass through you,

Let them cause that sting,

That spasm of pain,

And that pinch of uncertainty of life.

But, as time passes,

See them gradually losing the venom,

And the aches becoming much less painful,

Not because you have grown resistant;

But because they have lost their resolve.

And one day,

You can tear them away,

Like the dried skin over a healed wound.

But for that to happen,

Give them time.

Let the cuts dry.


A lot has been written about you,
Oh! Fragile piece of wonder!

As you sway, I draw parallels;
To my own self-
The way I flew with the breeze,
Ignorant of the destination.

Today, as I come back to you,
I can see your leaves
And your flowers
Offering me the same feel- goodness they did-
When I held them within my little hands, decades ago.
How is it that you emit the same tenderness,
Even after years of adversity?

They say your roots are not strong enough-
You can’t even withstand a mighty wind!
But my question is different.
Nothing has shaken your beauty yet.
Is being soft your greatest strength?


“Thatha, what is Shangri-La?”
“Ah! Where did you get that, dear?”
“I was playing with the thesaurus!
And I found this word on ‘S’!”

“It’s paradise, dear”
Thatha said, smiling.
I pointed to that Milton’s book
“Paradise Lost” it said.

“Can we lose it, Thatha?”
“It’s within. Complete bliss.
It’s extraordinary.
It’s a place of delight”

“Like, our home, Thatha”
“Yes”, he smiled.
Next day I wrote a poem
On the new word I learnt
Wanting to surprise him-
And move him into tears.

But, Thatha he was!
How can I outdo him!
He surprised me instead,
People said,
“Thatha is in Heaven, child”.

With tears, I asked myself,
“Isn’t our home Shangri-La?”


Sometimes it throws weird curve balls at you,
The obscure predicament called life-
It makes you twist and turn 
And whine and wail;
Compelling you to revisit those places you bid half-hearted goodbyes;
And forcing you to gift farewells to what you thought was an eternity.

It makes you move around in a whirlwind
Where you’re so dizzy like a kid on a giant wheel,
And before you understand;
It’s all over.
You’re estranged;
Surrounded by ghostly laughters
Of your abandoned past.
Now, nothing matters to you.
There’s nothing familiar.
Just you and the oblivion;
With bits and pieces flashing in front of you
Like fragmented vignettes from a long forgotten dream.


It’s not something that blooms overnight
Or that visits you on your specified intervals;
You breathe it,
Inhaling all that comes your way
And letting out the ones that left an indelible mark.

When you revisit yourself
In the innermost confines of your thoughts
You get back what you lost.
A pen that bleeds with you.
That heals you
And gets you back;
The way to yourself.

A Lost Monsoon…

The “new” sheds its charm
Amateurish and incomplete
And stoops down-
As if in defeat-
To the peerless grace and completeness
Of what was-
Of the beauty in cracked walls and leaking roofs
And wrinkled hands and damp floors,
Of an old rain that was a unique contrast;
Days when the droplets poured into our hearts
And a warmth spread in our souls-
As if proving to be a visual oxymoron;

Today, the rain sends chills down the spine
Forming a frozen void within,
Searching in vain
For that lost solace,
The cuddling hands
And that serene face
That are now stiff and pale
And numb and cold-
Indifferent and invisible
With tears burnt
And emotions buried-
Dissolved in the monsoon.


They came and left-
Those faces
Some vibrant and some dull
A few genuine, a few blistered
And a handful skilled on swift yet incredible transformations-
The most improbable revamp and
Inconceivable make overs.
And then some messy
Creepy, and overtly sophisticated:
And some rarely visible.
At times some faces splash
In the middle of my dreams
And some visit me
In the unlikeliest of hours-
In irrelevant combinations.
But today,
I don’t look for faces anymore.
Of late, those faces taught me
That they never matter.
I stare at their soul instead;
That’s veiled by random sundry faces.