Temporary Relief

The clock in the train station
has an itch in its back.
Rock-paper-scissor between
The second-minute-hour hands-

As to who shall scratch it
This time. And just for a while,
Everywhere- time has stopped
Past midnight.

No one is partying,
Making out or cursing their
Bosses or waiting for the
Next weekend.

None is hungry for a while.
Or depressed or dying
Out of shame. Or trying
Hard to fit in somewhere.

No power change, no war or
A threat of a nuclear attack.

It's just quiet- insects have
Found a comfortable niche.
Dogs free of leashes and the
Mountains, don't want to slide.

And before it could have
Gotten any better,
An abrupt streak of light
Appears in the dark sky.

This time, the minute-hand
Lost it, it seems,
Now that the back has been
Scratched-

Suddenly,
There are forest fires.

Wishfull

Tomorrow I will be past thirty.
That's four hundred dog years
Of age someone said.
Maybe I can wear a collar,
Tie myself to a leash and walk
By the garden to play fetch.

If we start putting it that way
Maybe I'm twenty tortoise
Years old I suppose.
Should I invite the rabbit for
A race again?

How about the six hundred
Rabbit years of age? I can
Already see the irony in that.
For the phrase, 'Fuck like rabbits'
I'm such a virgin.

Maybe I should count myself
With the old Banyan tree-
Only a couple of years old.
Maybe I would just stand and
Stare all day to observe and
Judge them all.

The comparison anyway has
Far-fetched by now, that I
Want to a Siberian Crane of
Age whatever I don't know.
I fancy flying over all those
Mountains each year to the
Sweet warmth of my village-

To tell a thing or two about
flight, to all the kids who are
New to flying kites.

Hopeless Quest

Sitting alone in the
Restaurants battling
With the spoons and a
Bowl of Idli-chutney.
Catching your lonely image
In the window glass and
Searching for yourself
In the cracks.

In movie theatres- early
Morning shows,
Sleeping there without
Any care for the plot
Or action and later on
Drawing philosophy over
Discarded condoms and
The spilled popcorns
In the last row.

Locking yourself in the dark
Of your room. Not wanting
Slightest of light.
And cursing that hole in
The window with no courage
To close it or let it
Fully distract.

These half-hearted efforts
To find yourself.
Asking deep questions to
End up falling in made-up
Dungeons-- to give
Over-thought meanings
To your shallow life.

The kind of facades,
You put up--
Masks you steal and
The identities you assume.
All for what?

To sit by the road again,
To paint yourself a
Self-portrait by copying
The faces of all the
Strangers that pass by?

Making Tea

First, you put half a cup of water
And leave it on the flame.
While you add two spoons of
Tea powder. Maybe a half more.

Then the same amount of sugar,
A bit less maybe.
Then you watch, till the bubbles
Show up with signs of boiling.

Now comes the milk, almost
The equal quantity of water.
Don't pour more thinking it'll

Taste better. This is not coffee.

As you pour milk and it mixes
With the decoction, you should
Observe the way it mixes like
Some mystical painting.

And as the color turns from
Black to pale and from creamy
To brown- the waft of aroma,
That elates your head-

You know the quality of it
Before even tasting.

And when you strain it in a cup,
The tip of your tongue already
Dancing over the moist fumes.
The first sip sends your soul-

Into the space. You'll have to
Pull it back after sipping one more.
And one more and more till
Your astral self makes peace

With your actual one.

The Misplaced Tile

The misplaced tile in the
Newly laid footpath.
It bothers me.
Who in their right mind
Could do that?

Did the Masons think
It was okay to put it in there
Without any thought?
Or the engineer deliberately
Planned it, to mess with
The passersby?

The red and black tiles
That alternate throughout
In perfect harmony-
Now, have a sudden ebb
Of surprise.

An older couple on the
Evening stroll might
Suffer a stroke by
The shock of that sight.

The conspicuous oddity
Of a red tile in place
Of the black can even
Attract aliens who admire,
Geometric maladies.

I'm more worried about
That one over-aged man-
Who might after years,
Become a child for a while-
And decide to walk only
On the black tiles.

And before he could
Smile over his little feat,
Step on the Red one
For no fault of his,
To have his day ruined.

Greener Grass

A boy sits astride the
High fence to make it to
The other side.
A girl is buried in books
Studying all morning,
To do the same.

Holding a yellow umbrella,
A vendor sits in the rain
On his vegetable cart,
Maybe dreaming about
Adding more colors to
His life.

Aren't we all the same?
Trying and dreaming
Of an unknown sea,
With better greens.

Like a nun who found her
Salvation by riding a
Bicycle through the
Crowded street full of
Ogling eyes.

A violinist finds it
While playing his music
To an indifferent crowd.

And maybe someone
Is chasing it by praying in
His single room all day long.

And some other-

In a medieval Egyptian
Brothel by having
Exorcist hymns whispered
In his ears in the name
Of nude massage.

I don't know what

The dry moss between
The tiles spread like a maze
On the terrace-
Little black ants obsessively
Follow the trail to solve-
I don't know what.

Strands of cobwebs across
The railings shine against
The rising sun.
The redundant Dish-TV-plate
Poking its concavity to harness-
I don't know what.

If it wasn't for the dirty
Underwear on its shoulder,
The clothesline across the
Rear windows would have
Eloped with the laundry basket
Long ago---

Like the chair left there,,

Facing the lake on the balcony,
Constantly thinking of
Jumping off in the water
Just for the sake of it.
Something holds it back-

I don't know what.

Pronouns

An earthen pot and
A plastic bucket sit,
Side by side thinking
If they should start a
Family.

Maybe one will be
Called a plastic-pot.
The other, as the
Earthern-bucket.

And if there's a
Third one claiming
It's gender fluid,
Then it can be used-

As a dustbin.

This Love

This love, sometimes-
It's just a blip.
Waiting in the corners
To make a point and
Then, not able to
Escape the cobwebs
It's been caught.

And sometimes,
It's just an elaborately
Woven novel with layers
Unveiling the plot lines
And finally waltzing

In a public library to

Find itself a fancy

Bookshelf to sit 

Haughtily all day long.

It has been a loosely
Edited Tarantino movie
Most of the time-
A heist gone wrong,
Murders, blood and
With the police involved-

Sometimes you're guilty,
Sometimes it's me.
The blame like a
Fire-ball passed on to
One another's peril-
To push each other
To the gallows ultimately.

And as the noose tightens
Around our necks,
Amoursly making out again,
Without any regard for
The hangman or our

Mutual unrest.

Unaddressed Issues

Who's gonna talk about
Those retired guitars,
Torn-out shoes and
The redundant lanterns,
That still want to glow?

And the broken bicycles,
Forgotten recipes.
Stopped watches that
Still want another chance.

The cold bowl of soup,
The lost lots of souls and
The shattered pieces of
The mirror that still
Want to reflect?

Rust-eaten door keys,
Dust-ridden rooms,
The dried leaves that
Scream about how
Brown is still a color.

The silly sisters,
The lonely mothers,
Angry brothers and
The hopeless fathers-
Who may just want a hug
Or a decent talk--

People that haven't yet
Gone mad,
Friends that haven't
Yet died and yourself,
Who still wanna give it
One last try-

Who's gonna talk about
Opening that room?
To pull yourself out of
The head of yours,
Where you often brood.

We Men

We men, we don't do
Sadness.

We often learn to
Hammer nails in our eyes
To stop tears from
Making it out alive.

Nail by nail, the emotional
Rapport with self that dies
And the attitude to fix
Everything by hiding it-

Good at erecting walls
Around our emotions
And vulnerabilities.
Brick by brick-

A seven-storied building,
That learns to smile.

Knowing each other's
Conditioned compulsions-
The son and father,
Unable to hug each other.

Unable to console a friend,
Unable to help mom in
The kitchen.
Unable to understand
My brother's depression.

We, with clenched hearts,
Closed minds.
Who can fix your broken
Bikes or leaky taps-

But unable to soothe
Your ailing hearts.

We who can laugh loud and
Argue ourselves to death.
But fail to look at the mirrors
And talk to ourselves.

This distance between
You and us, and the
Deep trench-like emptiness,
That keeps on sinking,
Within for generations.

It has set a precedent for
A supposed masculinity.

A bear with muscles,
Moustache and beard.
Dictating constantly
About how-

There's a manly glory in 

Being a corpse than 

A teary-eyed pussy.

The Bubble

What about the bubble on
The water? What if
It starts to ask questions,
About its existence?

Can it though? Does it
Have enough time?
Enough life?

Born in a blink and faded
In the next.
Is it what living in the
Present means?

Vanishing away before
Even the past makes
An effort to talk to an
Instance of future.

What if we're that bubble?
Just alive for an instance
In the astronomical time-lapse?
Vanishing away before-

The giant-eyed God
Closes his eyes.

Whose blink of an eye
Stretched maybe for over
An eon or an epoch-
And while his children

Play in the evening with
The soap water.
Blowing the bubbles and
Clapping when

Floating little humans
Burst open.

There goes a century
Of our expectancy in
An instance and our

Obsession with living

In the present.

What was the question
Again? A lifetime in
An instance or an instance
Containing a lifetime?

A bubble as a man or
Man, himself being
A bubble on the water
Of space-time?

Co-Passengers

Whenever I enter a bus,

There's always a person with

His bags on the seat.

Sniffing suspicion off anyone 

Who stands in his proximity-

He doesn't give away

The spare seat unless

The conductor hails upon

Him with authority.

A turban-clad old man 

With a coarse voice. 

Behaves like he has figured 

It all out. Politicians in his 

Pockets like spare coins-

Preaching morality to

Young people.

He expects everyone to

Fall in line.

Another typo who always 

Runs out of change and

Counters the conductor

With his anger over the 

The potholes on the road.

For his own mistakes, he

Has to always blame the 

Government.

The woman, past forties,

Protesting for her missed stop 

Or sometimes getting

On the wrong bus.

She always has to reduce 

Her son's age by a decade 

To get the ticket for half.

The dude with his earphones,

Always lost in his phone.

Looking at the GPS for his stops.

Needs to be shouted back to

Reality- to have him pay for ticket,

Before he jumps off in angst.

The kid who always has

His parents scream for his

Nature's call- maybe his bowels 

Only get triggered by the 

Wobble of this tin-box.

Then there are these 

College nibbas who have to

Stand by the door to pass 

Random comments.

Though I've done that in my days,

Seems like a nuisance now.

And there's someone 

Like me. In fact, that's me.

Always standing 

Without having a seat- 

Waiting for someone to get up.

I wait like a mantis to

To hold on to the empty seats.

All these strangers,

Having become quite familiar

Over time.

Some I hate without reason,

Some I despise.

Some are just irksome-

Without whom the feel of the 

Journey seems incomplete. 

And of the only few people I like. 

The considerate conductor,

Reasonable driver and maybe

The old lady standing there

Like rock without any ruckus.

And you of course, always in 

A chudi or jeans- just of

Right height and hairstyle.

You look like 'her' from

The back-

Please don't turn back

And catch my eyes.

I just want to look at you

As long as I can,

To keep the illusion of her

In you intact.

Faded

A postcard- maybe a

Twenty years old or more.

Faded ink; the lines stutter 

With missing words.

A dried flower in the diary,

A bit of fragrance and the rest-

Smelling away like soot of

Burnt paper.

In the same dark room,

An unrecognisable voice of

Someone from the past- 

Singing in whispers.

It's strange how memories,

Stick around-

Songs without a voice. 

Flowers without fragrance. 

The pics in the old closets-

Some with their faces 

Scratched off. Others

Beneath the fingernails-

As edgy bits that still 

Manage to feebly live on.

The Jar

End of every year,
I sit on the beach,
Get hold of a
Fistful of sand.

I press as hard as I till
Much of it slips away
From the gaps between
My fingers.

Whatever remains in
In the palms.
I put it aside in a jar.

I do this on repeat,
Till the jar is full of
The sand grains that
Chose to stick around.

Years have rolled down,
Decades have passed.
The grip has weakened
Yet what I retain keeps
Coming down.

Keeping up with old friends
Is a laborious task.
Now it takes more time
To fill the jar.

Remembrance

Sleeping with head outside

The window to catch

The dreams the winds carry.

Drinking tea under the sea

To have a taste of all the

Stories the rivers bring.

Soaked in wet paint to

Strand in different perspectives.

It's awesome to get to know

Unknown people.

Then there's always basking

In the mellow light of the

Setting sun- The departing birds

Have a thing or two to say.

I kiss your fading image by

The sea- those half-written

Stories and incomplete verses-

They get a meaning.

Suddenly, a thought grows wings,

To fly off as a seagull-

For your feeble remembrance

Nothing could have been 

A better allegory than that

I suppose.

Scapegoat

My landlord invited me to
Ganapati Pooja.
Giving the final touch to the
Decorations in the mandap-

He aligns the position of
The statue one last time,
To declare, Bappa can't be
Moved till the fifth day.

Incense sticks were lit,
Aarti was brought, camphor
Was burnt on a coconut and
His daughter started singing.

She shouldn't have but
She did. Even the lord
Seemed pretty scared.
Maybe he wanted to run-

But he was bound by a
Coarse voice's command.

I stood there hands folded,
Imagining situations in
My head. Trying to control
My laugh.

But the laugh as it
Hammers on the wall of
My mouth- unable to
Find an exit-

Rams on my nose with
Heavy cough and drool.
And laugh of course.

The song stopped,
She cried, everyone
Hated me for what
I did.

The Lord wanted to
Rescue himself from the
Whole act- to which he
Sacrificed me like a lamb.

Exhilaration

A spark from within 

Grows shoulders and 

Hands. And out in all 

Excitement, it leaps to

Grab it all.

Stretching itself, as it

Extends to the sky.

What it could have is

Only a drop.

Without slightest of

Disappointment.

It says- all right! 

Probably, next time.

And the meaning of 

Exhilaration, I suppose

Is that's all- giving it

Heck of a try and still-

Keep the inherent 

Fire intact.

Gender

From tree to tree the

Monkeys that hopped,

Have suddenly remembered

What it's like to fly.

Some weaved 

Themselves wings. 

Some had to steal from 

The birds instead.

The birds now have 

Forgotten the art of flight.

So they've imprisoned

Themselves in cages-

To feed on crumbs 

Thrown by men who

Think flying should be 

Banned.

Weirdest Headlines

The fresh dead bodies,
In white robes have taken
The night off to dance it off,
In a distant resort.

The lady of Led Zeppelin,
Eventually couldn't afford
The stairway. Had to actually
Die to make it to heaven.

Elsewhere, someone opened
The gates of the sky,
The pigeons in angst had to
Take refuge in the cages.

The girl who cried daily
To conjure evenings, suddenly
Stopped to check it out
If it had been morning.

Skin wrinkled and cracked,
A man grew old overnight.
Repeated past in head is
Living too much, one can-

Age thrice as fast.

A farmer in the countryside,

Has gone mad anyway.

It's said he had to use an axe 

To read between the lines-

The book that caused it was

The Prophet by Khalil Gibran.

Luxury of Grief

She, a mother at the

Age of eighteen-

Lost her son to 

Pneumonia last week.

Husband in a local brawl 

A few months ago.

In-laws in a bus crash

And her widowed-

Mother to asthma,

The year before.

Autumn hovering

Over her life,

People falling off like

Yellow neem leaves.

Her tears dry down,

Before even they

Could make it out

Of lashes.

Goodbyes, tired like

Worn-out feet of

Women fetching water 

In Lathur.

The weak roof on

her head, out of pity-

Has decided not to 

Collapse-

To let her have a

Discretion over her

Grief at least-

Not anytime soon.

Idle

A man by the roadside
With his broken car,
Instead of fixing it,
Tuning his guitar.

Fisherman, instead of
Baiting the fish,
Trying to tame the ocean
With fish-nets for what?

A rat in a painting is
Now homeless by
Eating up the canvas in
The night.

A fence in the locality
Has turned jobless again,
By grazing up the only
Apple farm.

A terrorist became
Kind after listening
To Sufi songs and a
Nazi with sore feet,
Has failed to trample
Fresh thoughts.

Like a monkey with
No lice to pick on-

Characters like these
With no closure,
Sit idle, wasted in
My stories-

The way I do with
A pen in my hand,
Instead of a broom to
Clean my dirty room.

Distance

We keep coming back

To each other.

To sit on park benches 

At an arm's distance.

To count all the roses

We couldn't have.

At train stops, temples,

Hills, tea stalls.

Sunsets and long walks.

To grow some more

Distance each time.

This time at different 

Ends of an aisle.

Ten empty chairs apart.

A caste, a few lakhs,

And a doused flicker of

Longing as divide.

Confused Mornings

Dreams like
Water balloons,
Burst open with
Wake of my eyes.

A worrisome thought,
Often filled with
Nostalgia and a
Little guilt..

Seeps down my
Bones wondering..

If I freed them
Or just kill.

Inaction

A pirate with both of his
Eyes intact.
His ship still safe at
The shores.
Sings about wretched
Winds at the edge of
The world.

Not standing the irony.
His compasses-
They give themselves
Away to the daily-rust.
In an attempt to find
Their deprived glory,

In death.

Confusion

A swordsman in
Shiny clothes,
Who fancies poetry
Wonders-

If he could write
With blood and
Sometimes,
If he could sever
Heads with verses-

Papers like empty
Battlefields, wait
For a taint and the
Swords at least
For some red paint-

As he sits idle

Doing neither.

Aura

Some people have a
Lit up face,
A mysterious aura
Oozing off them-

You can't take your
Eyes off their persona.

With a dead expression
And sullen smile.
Some, however upbeat,
Look just bland.

I don't know, in which
Category I fall in.
No one is gonna tell me
That to my face.

But if you think
I'm of the first kind,
Don't be fooled.
If you think, I'm of the
Second kind.
Don't be fooled.

I just might be a man
With a gun to my
Temple or yours.
Or maybe I'm the

One with flowers,
Out of goodwill or
Waiting for more
And more funerals.

Fortune Tellers

Of all the bustle 

There was at the footpath
Adjacent to Azad Park-
Of the hawkers, cobblers

Old-book sellers and
The beggars.
Only the fortune tellers,
Remain.

Sitting aloof, without
Shuffling their tarot cards.
Making no efforts to appeal
To the passers-by.

I don't know what happened
To all those seekers who
Wanted their hands read,
All the time.

Did everyone who sought
Got their fortunes,
And forgot this emissary
Of the lord?

What's the thickness of
Poverty to have them
Believe in astrology? I ask
With my eyes as I pass.

He vents a puff from the
Unlit bidi to point me,
At his parrot-less cage

And empty pockets-

To say that he was the
Only believer left.