Maybe

In a distant city, 

On a rainy day.

When you get down 

From an auto 

To find a cafe.. and 

Stride on the margins,

To avoid the flash of

Street water-

Like two strangers 

Passing by with the 

Accidental exchange 

Of glances..

May our eyes 

Meet again.

I'll act like I saw 

Someone who looked 

Like you and

Turn past the corner 

Before one of us realizes 

What happened.

Guising in the shade 

Of the past, if any thought,

Crosses your mind..

To color your imagination,

and pull you back..

And if you 

Coincidentally, 

Glide around to 

Look out for something 

You forgot-

There, in the corner,

Buried in a pretense 

Of a magazine, I stand..

Hello! 

Familiar stranger.

Damn! It'll be hard 

Not to smile.

Imagination

As I sit here in my room,

Listening to Indian classical
Fusion on low volume.

I can't help but notice,
The swish of wind and chirp of
Birds, just outside the window.

Little away, maybe be in
The backyard, someone is
Washing the clothes.

Further away,
As I consciously make
An effort to listen.

There's a drill running and
Sound of running vehicles
And honking.

Beyond that, I hear nothing.
It's as if I'm deaf.

Then I look out of the window.
Stretch of houses, shrubs,
Trees, and a distant factory.

The hill meets the sky
Maybe some faint clouds,
And then there's nothing.

This deafness after some
Meters and blindness after
A couple of kilometers..

That's the limit.

Then there's imagination,
To mend, bend, and redefine
The existing reality.

There, only there I think
We're infinite.

Fate

I kicked a stone on
An empty road.
It rolled around tumbling
And disappeared on
The sidelines.

I kicked another that
Rolled to the wheels of
Approaching car.
The driver threw at
Me a fiery look.

I took one more in
The line of action.
Upon a kick it,
Took off to hit my
Friend in the head.

Now he's on the
Hospital bed.
Who I am? He asks.
I smile awkwardly
To hide my deed.

Years and years later,
When he realised
It was me. To return
The favor, he kicked
A stone at me..

Which bounced off
A running truck and
Hit his head again.
Who he is? He asks.
Looking at him, I smile.

His pending revenge,
It might take a couple
Of years again..
While another stone,
Might be waiting for him-

With his name written
All over it.

Poetry in handcuffs

When you force out the

Words from the ghetto of

Your rigid mind.

And they slide down

Perching, through the

Labyrinth of mutilated

Thoughts.

The life out of it losing

All objectivity and

The objectivity having

Squeezed out of life..

As they cascade down

Via the pretense of

A verbose pen to spread

On the charade of a paper.

The reader has to tie

It up to a chair to beat a

Confession out it, 

For some meaning..

Only to give up in dejection,

To flush it down into

Forgetfulness; in search of

A better meaning to life..

Than this tragedy 

Called poetry.

Symphony

In the good old backyard
Of mine in the village.
Nothing is in order.

Things lying around,
In their own emptiness,
Try to ooze life somehow.

The swish of wind,
Clips on the cloth line dangle.
To which the yellow
Marigolds rhyme in sync.

Crows caw from the
Eucalyptus.
Torn saree stuck in
The fence flutter and
The the periwinkles
Dance in style.

A broken chair and
Handicapped cot observe
This from where they sit.

The water pipe unevenly folded
Lies around with the broom
Like they're on a blind date,
To this concert.

Then there's a wooden log,
Paint-can, coconut husk and
A gunny bag full of trash.

A big water tank,
Then the water cans
And buckets.
Joining in as a family.

Washing brush, surf,
A dishwasher and a small
Stool on the marble slab.
The coterie glancing around
Enjoying the dusky sky.

In a shocking sort of awe
A hornbill comes hooting to
Relax in the crown of
The tamarind tree.

And like hell, the broken
Bicycle in the corner must be
Wishing for a bit more life to
Enjoy this evening's..

Symphony.

Role Change

Abusive fathers

Have turned to

Doodling and

Caring mothers

Are looking for

Amends by cooking

Really bad food. 

All the uncles 

Have stopped

Giving free advice.

Aunties have 

Stopped poking

Noses in personal

Lives.

The grandmas

Are forcing up

Sugar-free diet.

The site grandpa

Bought for 5k is

Over a crore now.

Friends have all

Turned decent and 

Stopped drinking.

Winds of change

Has gotten to me too.

I'm not masturbating.

The Coup

I sleeplessly flutter my eyes

To the long howling bark

Of my landlord's dog.

Is it her unanimous pledge

To the distant cry of others 

Of her kind? or,

Tonight, like every other,

They're celebrating the 

Delusion of dead humans?

Sometimes, I like to fancy this,

As a battle cry for an attack 

To overthrow our subjugation.

But then out of sheer loathe

Towards this bitch downstairs,

I would like to think of her-

As a petty snitch.

Who has been sent here to 

Spy upon us. 

To the lure of food and

Shelter.. or her own

Stockholm syndrome.

She seems to have betrayed 

Her tribe. To howl now, 

At this hour; for a display of-

Her fake allegiance to

Her lost comrades, who,

Hopelessly wait for her cues,

For a coup.

Chappal

Made of rough fabric,

Brown, size eight.

Off the main road,

By the Banyan tree,

A chappal sits, sullen.

In misery.

Thrown out off the 

Temple yard, kicked out 

To the sidelines, don't know

By how many.

A tramp in rags,

Picks up the discarded,

Measuring her against 

His foot.

And the kids laugh

As he walks, wearing,

An unsuitable match.

That's how it is,

Recycling, is bad 

For capitalism anyway.

For the religion,

It's widow remarriage.

Kaudi- The blanket

In her last years, Nani spent

All her time stitching Kaudi.

She did tens of them and gave

Them away to her loved ones.

She would gather all the

Old clothes, cut them up,

Stitch them in patches on

Stretch of old sarees.

These blankets she stitched 

So meticulously, almost

Every hour of every day,

Looked like her biography.

All the childhood memories,

Scattered in the red patches.

Her teenage days in the

Checkered yellow ones..

In the glittery embroidery

On the borders. 

Maybe about her first love 

Or a crush if there was one.

I got the last one of 

Her final work.

One of the nights,

The green patches in mine,

Told me all about the raw guavas 

In her father's backyard.

Now that I keep thinking 

About those violet, brown 

And the pink patches that 

Haven't yet talked..

Maybe that's where the rest

Of the world's libraries hide.

Man's Oldest Friend

So we grab you when 

You're just a puppy. 

We feed you, nurse you. 

Cuddle and sometimes clean 

Your shit. Then let you be in

Our family portraits.

We put on a leash, to let you

Roam at our will.

So you can jump, run and

Drag us to heaven and hell.

And when you have urges and

In seek of a mate, if you

Go on smelling genitals in

The streets. How dare you?

How dare you, 

Hop on the females? 

How dare you,

Publicly display affection?

Your sex drive doesn't 

Suit our morals you silly.

You need to comply to

Fall in our norms.

Here's what we shall do,

Let's sterilize or castrate you.

Even if you wanna procreate 

To take further your lines.

Then let's choose the best,

To engineer the cute ones..

When we say, 

Selective breeding is the best.

You should believe us as we've 

Always catered to your interests.

After all, you're humankind's

Earliest friend.

Weapon

In the first year,

He pees a trajectory.

That hits his father's

Nose.

At age five, he takes

Aim at a street bulb.

Hits it accurately,

With a stone.

When he turns ten,

Shoots off an arrow to

Damage a pig's eye,

From a wooden bow.

Then he fancies a

Slingshot at the turn,

Of fifteen. Off the roof

A pigeon shortly falls.

Now that he turns

Twenty-five, and

Stands holding a gun

In front of the mirror..

Unable to pull the trigger,

'Phew-phew-phew' 

He says..

He doesn't know why.

His tongue can be a 

Better weapon, 

Its agility Over the years

He has realized.

And in the thirties, 

He has but a big mouth,

To repeat lies and

Hack minds..

Weapons bring you

Victims. With words,

The victims become

Your weapons.

Propaganda works

That way.

Words are deadlier

Than bullets.

These days that's why 

He's fully engaged..

In political debates.

Sublime Story

Ever since I was a kid,

Each year this girl came

To the temple outside

The village for special Pooja.

We too went as a family,

On to seek Hanuman.

After many encounters,

A precedent was set.

I looked at her, she at me.

Our eyes met.

The permanence of this

Connection was limited

To recognizing each

Others' existence.

Only in fleeting glances,

We existed.

Then one year, she

Didn't come.

Then the following year

And a couple more.

Must have been married off.

To think about the worst,

The concern was not 

Beyond usual curiosity.

This year when I sensed 

A couple of eyes upon me.

With no usual ponies, 

Skirt or chudi..with a kid 

In hand, she stood there, 

Wearing a beautiful saree.

When I caught her eyes,

She smiled before looking 

Away. Then she went on

Her way and I, on mine.

So almost every year,

I met this girl.

In fleeting glances we

Recognised our existence.

Then she was on her way

And I returned to mine.

Some stories are feeble enough 

To be simple and sublime.

Tired Fragrancee

The wafted smell of jasmines,

While he passed the street yesterday.

Took him to the days when

His mother still fancied them

In her braid.

It seems like an era has

Passed now.

How his father brought them

To her from the local markets. 

How even she herself,

Stood arguing with hawkers,

For an extra inch of the wreath..

Now she doesn't wear any. 

When his father passed away 

And in what forsaken book

It must have been etched,

About the husband-less women,

And the flowers she fancies.

And if the natural order is just

Beauty and desire are 

The true measure of existence..

Then in every market, 

In the every hawker's wickers, 

A handful of Jasmines, 

That were ought to be in a 

Mother's braid..Wither in 

Tired fragrances.. 

And in all glory as they 

Waft past the noses of all the 

Over-aged sons, they slap them

Awake to the loneliness of their-

Widowed mothers.

Hypocrisy

Every time a male

Figurine pops up,

You pull up the ghungat 

To cover your face.

That's how women

Uphold family pride.

You go to the kitchen,

Whenever you're sad.

Sit down alone with a

Knife and an onion.

That's how dear,

A lady should cry.

You hide your panties,

Under a T-shirt on the

Cloth-line. Don't forget 

To clip them tight.

That's how female the

Underwears are dried.

And as you brood there,

Connecting the dots,

Back to the hypocrisy 

Of the tears and

The panties in disguise..

You may as well 

Consider the possibility

Of climbing up the ego

Of patriarchy to jump

Down to our self-respect..

As that's how your gender 

Should commit suicide.

Dissolve

Out here, upon this hillock.

As the tiny lavenders ruffle,

To the brush of my palms.

Little grasshoppers run

Awry and birds flutter their

Wings in a hurry.

Across the horizon, the clouds,

As they gather and bring

Upon the blessings of rain.

It occurs to me..

Right here. Right now. 

How I could just melt away,

Dissolve in the rain, and

Run down the muddy stream,

Flow through the city,

Join a river and then the sea.

Swim along the coastal shelf,

Mock them little fishes and

Freeze off to the dread of sharks.

It occurs to me, how beauty

And feeble gestures of nature,

Fills these hollow spaces in us..

Soften our edges to make us

Aware of our own existence,

Individuality and imagination.

Simplicity

Grandma said we

Hiccup when someone 

Really close misses

And remembers us.

The spasms of 

Diaphragm or uneven 

Flow of air to lungs 

Doesn't matter to her.

Likewise, to hell with 

Nebula, supernova or

Any of those 

Star-forming events.

She says, whenever

A loved one dies,

They appear in the

Sky as stars.

Now that she's dead

And I sulk on this

Terrace alone with

A beer in hand..

Looking up at the

Night sky at the

Stroke of midnight.

I wish, my fucked up

Life could cascade 

Down a little to that

Level of simplicity.

So that I could believe,

In the possibility that

The twinkling of the

Star in west-horizon,

Is because of

My dead grandma's

Hiccups.

Remembering and Forgetting

Reveries thrust

In beer bottles

Before discarding. 

Memories stashed 

In cigarette butts

After forcefully 

Forgetting. 

Any subtle trace

Of poetry that

Arises in my head.

I squish it with

My fingers and

Wipe out the stains

With masturbation.

Maybe I've 

Developed a liking 

To punish myself

This way. 

Dopamine works 

In a strange way. 

This repeated effort,

To remember and

Forget has formed 

Rough striations in

My brains. 

And whenever I rub 

My thoughts

Against it, the tones

That finds me..

Cascade down like

Sharp thrust of a

Needle down my 

Bones and I can't

Complain.

Incompetence of Language

In a language-less world,

When all the sharp objects,

Fail to capture human 

Desperation on rocks.

The quills stutter on the

Rough patches of parch

With the ink that's absorbed 

Across the surface.

I would want to sit staring

At the depth of your eyes,

Till a civilization falls at

Your feet, pleading to

Evolve itself a language,

That could fleet across

Our unwavering sight,

Only to declare,

Its helplessness to

Capture the dimensions

Of this one passing 

Moment.

So that then, I could 

Calmly explain, even in 

A verbose world, 

How incompetent I am, 

To describe our feeble 

Connection.

Begin Again

Each time 

The world tends

To end around me.

I rub my eyes.

Colors, flashes and

Swirl of starlight 

Gets to me.

My soul soaks in 

The Greek mythical river

That washes off

All the suffering.

Head pokes into

Into the sky of

Renaissance Italy.

Human creativity 

Is unbound.

A brief moment of

Belongingness 

Gets to me. 

Kind of nostalgia 

For unknown things..

Craving for that 

House that's not yet built.

To a place I haven't

Set my feet.

On the streets of

Ancient China,

Our eyes briefly

Meet..

We exchange a

Tiniest measurable

Human connection.

And that's where my

World ends.

So I rub my eyes

Again.

Swirls, colors and 

Bizarre series of

Accidents bring

Me here..

To meet you as

A stranger again.