India my land of predilection

You enthrall my soul

A miracle, a benediction

Secret love lived and untold

Memories garnish my aging heart

As I stand on death’s threshold

A spiritual guru who guided my script art

A man who inspired the pen I hold

Land of saints, gods and statues

Disparity, fun, marvel and the unexplained

I carved an image of human values

On the whore, the poor and the betrayed

In my exquisite five stars’ hotel room

I lit an incense stick and I meditate

My life has been an exploration of the gloom

That shrouds the ignorant and the illiterate

My experience of books

Of novels and poems celebrating love

Leaves me insatiate and bleaks my looks

In pages only I find the meaning of ‘love’

Anita Bacha©












I am waiting for your letter, my friend

For me, this is not the end

I did not want to let you go

But people say you are a gigolo

Scorned, ridiculized your only true friend

I will wait for your letter till the end

Morning come, I open my letter box

I see, sleeping, a little fox

He opens an eye, yawns lazily

No letter for me, my buddy

I walk up and down the road

Never getting bored

An eye I keep on the postman

I am waiting for your letter, my friend

 As luck would have it I smile at passers-by

Deep within I want to yell and cry

Remember our laughs and cries

To-day the same emotions arise

You have been exceptionally kind

To an old woman but never mind

One day you will remember, my friend

Sitting by her bedside, holding her hand

I am waiting for your letter, my friend

 Jot down a few words with your writer’s pen

Here, in Crouch End, I watch the autumn leaves all alone

No laptop, no Skype, no phone

I am waiting for your letter, my friend

I will wait for your letter till the end…

Anita Bacha©

Processed with MOLDIV

Processed with MOLDIV


World Poetry Day

My Poetry

My poetry is my inseparable lover

At night I snuggle and slumber with her

A velvety couch of imagery is our dream

Of mystic lands, beings and forms unseen

In the morn my eyes open to her beauty

In her silky tresses I thread myself furtively

Her kisses are words of ecstasy

Burning my skin as evanescent paper arduously

As she carves with the pen of immortality

She turns to ashes my poet’s frisk and folly

Turning my heart to lyrics of past life and mystery

Together we plough in the pasture of divinity

Anita Bacha

Short Stories