My sky is what I walk for
My sky is there I know it
My sky has colours I look for
My sky has depth I seek now
Its black is plain, its white is pure
And its grey has fixed shades
Having hues of different lives
To make for the one
That is my alter ego now
Sometimes, it rains wisdom
At times, it’s all about a joyous walk
Sometimes, it stops speaking
Though still covering me
Expecting me to look for meanings
In its colours, and their symbolisms
Thankfully, I say to life now, that,
Colours are again my soul elements
I knew they were called names
I know they made for varied thoughts
But for me, they always meant life
Black for personifying completeness
White for an uncompromised purity
And grey for definitive touch of them
My sky has colours with meanings
Speaking for my needs
They come to sit with me
When today refuses
Its transformation into tomorrow
Giving elements to my thoughts
Giving me the reasons
To hold up for the sky
That has been there for me
Yes, they complete me
And celebrate me
In my part of the sky
Disappeared into brilliance of black
But visible in subtlety of white
And identifiable by firmness of its grey
They sky is there, and I am there
And it’s not the day
When it chooses to remain silent
Its colours are in harmony
And the day is echoing the fusion
Ready for its journey into tomorrow
Though I didn’t call it today,
It has come to sit and think with me
Making it a special day for both of us
We are there, together,
Reading into one another’s minds
With meanings
So intrinsic to our existences
Today, like yesterday,
Looks like a new dawn
But with shared values of mutual silence
To live with the lives
And to go beyond them
Today, my sky’s silence reaffirms
That it is there with me, with my colours
In my several lives
In my living them severally alone
Yes, my sky was always there
But had stopped coexisting for some time
Draining colours of their depth
Yes, the loss was mutual, and,
Today, the silent communion felt that again

September 14, 2015: 35 years into the journey of ‘life beyond this life’..



©/IPR: Santosh Chaubey –


Time had stayed on, the night was here to stay
Isolated, thoughts were alone in a nowhere precinct
It was warmer there than the cold visage bestrewed
Silence had never been so tender and perfervid
For thoughts to speak out their vestal assertions
Forced by the vicissitude and enamoured by the lay
Time had to change the countenance it had had so far
Thoughts had met their bard under the waxing moon
In the loneliness of the night’s nowhere gallery
Beginning a conversation silence had always sought
The night had just arrived and was here to stay..



©/IPR: Santosh Chaubey –


It was raining that night. The flesh was already soaked, almost invisible, in the notes of the drops, which left the voices only, after getting merged or lost.

Yet, the soul was not.

The corporeal presence was in the flow. And the flow was unrestrained, like a fully blossomed Monsoon night is.

It didn’t desire the surreal. Though disconnected from the flow, there was nothing like dreaming in or dreaming about.

Yet, the soul was not in harmony with this human aspect of the moment, of the night.

It was raining incessantly. The outpour was musical by the consistency followed by the drops in their eagerness to meet the final points of their journeys.

But the body could not perceive it.

And the soul didn’t show any inclination to sit with the flow to understand if there was any lyrical subjectivity.

Rather, it was looking into the space that spoke of having contained thoughtlessness.

The soul was trying to get free of the elements, perceived and unseen, unspoken and planned.

Yes, it didn’t crave for thoughtlessness but it didn’t intent to ignore it either.

The musical continuity of the outpour didn’t feel charming enough. But, it had masked the other voices and the silence could read it.

It saw a way in to see if it could understand the ‘why’ of the soul acting indifferent to the body’s presence.

And it did find the way in.

The silence was speaking now. It was trying to establish conversation with the soul.

But, then, suddenly the it stopped raining; the journeys of the dropped were hijacked midway.

©/IPR: Santosh Chaubey –


Looking off the window,
Talking to the distant thoughts,
Eyes fixed far in the absence,
As it is has become so everyday,
Like this moment,
As was the other day,
Reminding the windows,
The mundane opens in the life

Looking off the window,
I see the mundane on the go,
I read its presence,
As I did the last day,
As I get it into the moment now,
Telling me the other side of life,
The mundane so naturally builds,
For us to remain us, men of this world

Looking on the window,
Trying having sensed the expanse,
Looking to feel again,
As if I’ve travelled the distance,
To be one with my that ‘Self’,
When the mundane ‘Self’ sounds arguing,
Like it happens sometimes,
Pushing me to look inside the window

Looking on the window,
I dig down deeper as thoughts converse,
Not knowing the abyss of the creeper,
Nerves seem to cry from beneath,
Recollections flash upon that inward eye,
Reflections reconcile for that soliloquy,
When the calm feels vacant and pensive,
When solipsism gets talking and restive

WHEN I DIG IN.. (July 29, 2009) – Reworked, Rewritten (November 2, 2013)

©/IPR: Santosh Chaubey –


He was not able to read the Absence in him, an Absence the paradigms of which were so familiar to him.

He loved to read and read regularly the writing of his life experiences, their liveliness and the void of their silent moments.

But something was amiss this time.

Also, the want of the ‘Absence’ was shadowing all other that was present.

Though, he still loved to read the life, he was not in communion with his soul to read the Absence today, because he was not able to personify his thoughts.

They were running together. They were not talking.

They were walking together. They were still not talking but their steps were in unspoken unison.

They were trying to read each other. The silent space between them was uniting their thoughts to converse, giving them the opportunity.

Yet, he was not able to read the Absence in him this time. He was not able to personify the Absence in him this time.

He was not able to experience this experience though he knew he had to read it, to make sense of all other that was present.

There was no other way but to come back to it, to try again, to talk to the silence of the Absence, to sit across its personification, to read the life, to make sense of the passage to the time again.

Life is about living it regularly.

Living is about reading the life consistently, in fusion with its liveliness, in harmony with its silence.

A life’s identity is about existing in its fulsomeness. It is about inhabiting its voids.

He was not able to make sense of everything else in the life today. He was not able to talk to the Absence in him today.

©/IPR: Santosh Chaubey –