Final Act of Love

As a final act of love,

I've learned saying 

Your name without 

Making an ounce of 

sound.

I've learned to deal with 

The emptiness without 

The need to fill it up.

And to love without 

Expressing it,

To yearn without the

Need to show it.

To remember without 

Collapsing--

The art of conversing 

Without the need for 

Reciprocation-

Silence is new language,

And healing is just

Accomodating wounds.

You're not longer a

Scar, just a space

I like to carry.

And perhaps that's 

What love becomes 

When it outlives the

Destination-

A steady embrace of

Letting go..

Wishful Fantasies

My garden blooms 

with memories. 

Sky fills with hopeful 

reveries. 

The weightlessness of

my heart must be a hint

of an unknown longing. 

The urge to fly- 

must be a sign of a 

distant love arriving. 

The persistent chirps of 

sparrows from the balcony,

The fresh shoots on the 

Almond trees-

Spring must be an 

anomaly of her feelings.

Sometimes, through my 

stained window, 

When I see a rainbow in 

the sky- I wonder if 

she put it up there.

Do seasons still wait 

For her approval?

The weather still complies 

To her instructions?

It almost makes me

Believe,

That somewhere,

She too thinks about me.

And the earth, 

Briefly bends in our 

Favour.

Keep it moving

One word at a time, then a sentence, a follow-up sentence, and then another. You stutter in broken sentences, than plan something grandiose. 

The moment you start giving importance to creating something extraordinary, you become a victim of that. Create average, create mundane- shit, vomit, and spend words like it's dust. 

Then mold, edit and reshape it into something good. This is wrestling, this is boxing, this is dirt racing. This is a constant battle with laziness. This is to keep the pen moving.

Let it move, don't think, don't put your mind to it. Let the pen do the thinking. Action, that's the only thing that matters. Go on and on about how something is this, that, or whatever - or how it can't be. 

This is needed. The only redemption is to keep the pen moving. The only redemption is to let the pen think. The only redemption is to just blast it out of your head while you do the etching. 

Remember- One word at a time, then a sentence, a follow-up sentence, and then another. There's no secret ingredient. Miracles don't happen you aren't ready to get your hands dirty.

Unbecoming

to gently dissolve 

like salt in water,

to gently disappear 

like fragrance in air-

the way your name 

tastes on my tongue,

and the way your face 

is imprinted on my walls.

to escape in your 

reveries and be lost,

and to trace you back 

to reality and adore-

my days roll by like this.

and months, and years.

to know someone exists

and to yearn for 

something that's yet 

to happen-

the river of my time 

once touched your feet,

and by the sound of 

your anklets- my life's 

unbecoming.

Pen and Ink trails

The tip of my pen 

slides on a blank paper. 

The trail takes me 

nowhere to anywhere,

to everywhere-

I am where my 

pen moves. 

The wet sand on feet,

The snowy breeze 

of the Arctic. 

The mellow sun shining 

upon a hill and 

Flamingos flying en masse

to Lake Baikal--

I could go to space if 

The trail takes me or

spend nights in my grave, 

if it's deemed necessary--

I am what my pen 

make out of me.

My mind seems to be 

a dark room and 

Only ink can guide 

light there.

and until I put it on paper, 

I don't even recognise 

my thoughts. 

It's my face or a mask,

I don't know. 

I hardly know what I feel. 

and if you sense it

after reading-

let me know.

Displaced. Rehabilitated.

If I could begin again 

I would walk on the 

same roads.

Eat the same berries,

and rejoice the same 

fragrance of jasmines

that reek nostalgia 

of my village. 

I would adore the same 

cattle while they return 

by evening and 

I would be a little more 

curious about the small talks 

of women while they 

fetched water from 

the distant borewell.

If I could begin again, 

I would fly the same kites 

from near the village pond. 

Hang with the same friends 

with small dusty legs and 

have the same thorns 

poked in my feet while

I played with them.

But alas! The water from 

the dam rose one day and

overnight my village got

submerged.

we got dislocated.

we're rehabilitated,

the government says-

But the absent hunger 

in our full plates,

begs to differ.

So do the chirps of 

sparrows that lack

authenticity.

Third Eye

I bet you think about me.

those days when you 

complete your chores,

watch all the TV there is.

Done with those 

Daily items by 11 am,

While you kill time out of 

Boredom-

From one corner of your 

Mind. From the visuals 

of your third eye-

I sneak in your thoughts.

But you’d hate it, 

Wouldn’t you?

You conjure your acts of 

distractions,

Hold me by the neck to choke 

me up and try to rub me off

Like I'm a bad stain--

Dying like that from 

your hand,

It would be a pleasure.

But you don't do that,

Do you?

You can't just ignore me

and flush me down a

limbo.

You find my ghost

Lingering in your drafts-

Half a sentence. Half a sigh. 

Words thought but never 

Penned. Never sent-

You try to wipe it all,

Thinking you’ve erased me,

but I still hum between 

your thoughts, 

Like static on a radio.

You’ve moved on,

You say-

But moving on is just

another form of haunting.

And maybe that's why.

You hold me hostage 

in your ribcage.

to treat me like a trophy. 

or maybe as a 

contingency plan?

Oh Bloody Hell!

The sleep is gone.

Dreams restlessly dance.

The days flirt with 

The evening breeze and 

The sparrows sing in my 

Heart- it churns.

I dress up well to have 

a glance of you-

Jitters, butterflies-

The sky isn't blue anymore.

My yearning has painted 

The world in your colours. 

There are feelings 

Better than this I bet.

But now that it has 

Happened to me, 

How I wanna scream 

about it.

How I wanna lace up my 

words in your reveries,

and float away in the 

Paper boats I made while 

I was unbecoming.

A star has just fallen 

for me asking 

If this is love-

I'm Buoyant. Baffled

Bamboozled-

Ohh bloody hell!!

I have no one way of

saying this, but 

Yes, yes. Hell yes..

Thrift shop

I saw God in a 

Thrift shop.

Blue jeans, dirty jacket.

Doubtful, unsure-

Negotiating the price of 

Blessings for all the 

Half-hearted prayers--

Needs of parched 

Farmers discounted 

From the fate of sailors 

who despise rain.

Tears of mothers,

Compensated out of

The debauchery of 

Chauvinistic men.

The cry of animals for 

Carbon footprint 

Left by private jets,

And the death of soldiers 

From foul-mouthed

Politicians.

I saw him beg for 

Mercy for kids against 

A caricature of POTUS, 

To no effect-

But he stood his ground

Counting coins of

Patience to bet it all

Against a hope that was 

Nowhere to be found.

Because when miracles 

are outdated-

If he doesn't look for

them in a place where 

things are useful again-

Who else would?

Luck

The journey is sleep, 

Or sleep is a journey.

For me, I don't know.

I sleep in buses..

I sleep in buses, and 

I hear my co-passengers talk:

Drunkards complaining 

About the price hikes,

Women despising their 

Adamant kids.

Grumpy old men 

Negotiating ticket prices,

And middle-aged 

Boasting about their 

Sturdy crops.

My villagers in the bus,

Who doesn’t let me sleep 

With their small talks,

Often warn me about 

The old witch in the 

Front seat.

They tell, she steals 

Luck by touching 

Whoever is asleep.

They fear, but I don't 

think I have to.

Luck has always been

a contagious disease,

and maybe she’s 

just the cure.

I hate talking to you

Maybe I hate talking to you 

when I can't write. 

Maybe you are a mirror 

that reflects my face

whenever I can't write. 

What I mean to say is 

I start running away from you 

Because I can't face you 

with writer's block. 

Maybe you challenge the 

only purpose I am left with

and maybe that kicks a 

small midlife crisis.

Maybe you demand me to 

become worthy of a 

conversation, and when I 

Get away in dejection- 

And eventually when 

sentences land on 

fingers like melodies-

There's this urge for 

validation that brings me 

back to you.

Should this feeling have a 

name or it shouldn't? 

I leave that to failed 

Therapists.

 

I am just happy knowing-

you make me write,

and I can breathe in peace 

for one more day.

Justification for a Marriage

Do I have to be a

Cornered dog to 

Get married? and

Do I need grow a 

Spine to live alone?

You think I haven't 

Thought about this?

You think I haven't 

Sung a rebellion before 

I could accept the

Obvious?

Expectations of the 

Family. Sentiments.

Middle class aspirations-

My teenage rebellion 

Dissipating as I aged-

What if a laid-back,

Mundane life is an

Armour for the Wars 

I wanna fight?

What if I live by every 

Vow I take?

What if I learn to weave

My poetries in her

Braids?

What if all my cynicism 

Will be dodged by a

Daughter I'm gonna raise,

And be content with the

Cheers of the pitchers 

I'm gonna enjoy with 

Friends I don't forget?

Of all the overthought 

Outcomes- IFs and ORs, 

AYEs and NAYs.

As the world paints itself 

In grey-

May be redemption lies

In taking a chance.

And because history 

Will repeat itself and 

Every boy is cursed to 

Become an adult 

Like his own father-

Maybe I'm gonna get 

Drunk and recite to

My wife tender poetries of 

The people I adored till

My daughter is gonna

Believe-

What cynical poets 

Can become when they 

Become a parent.

Alternate Names For The End

Doors slammed shut, 

Opportunities lost before 

you could act.

Last nail in the coffin and 

Momentary lapse of reason. 

Epilogue, eulogies, 

Epitaphs. Graduation and 

Unemployment hand in

Hand. Then birthdays to 

Remind you how 

Depreciating you are.

Death, demise, 

Passing away, fading, 

Forgetting. 

Sheer oblivion and then 

There is apathy. 

A marriage, a child, 

a justification when it's 

Not needed. 

And the need for a God, 

When common sense 

pretty much does the job. 

Your presence felt like 

a menace. 

Absence, indicating relief. 

Hope where it shouldn't-

Love, lust, and other such 

Nonsense to indicate 

Everything is alright.

Dreams sent to archives.

Meaning lost to labels.

Somewhere between 

Farewell and full-stop-

A breath that never 

Returns.

Cursed to Endure

I remember counting 

the last pages and

closing the book. 

I remember very well,

how the story had a 

dramatic end-

Death, justice 

and redemption.

Yet there is a sunrise 

on the horizon. 

The birds seem to be 

chirping again. 

Flowers blooming

and fresh paint like

hope smearing itself 

on the canvas..

For what? I don't know. 

The redacted memories 

keep resurfacing. 

The healed wounds 

keep finding new openings. 

The closure I wanted 

edges itself into a 

continuation and the water 

I drank out of thirst 

reinforces it again. 

Caught between a wanting 

and a desire unfulfilled. 

I stare at the ceiling

beseeching the end this 

for once- 

And for a moment, 

image of Ashwatthama 

flashes before my eyes. 

And I understand how-

 

Some stories are beyond 

Beginning or an end-

You just have to endure.

Shakespeare's Ghost of Bhishma

My decision made in 

haste was sealed 

By ceremony- Drums,

Garlands, Applause-

They lifted me onto a 

pedestal overnight

and called it greatness.

I watched my choice

harden into a role.

Watched myself become

an adjective- steadfast, 

incorruptible, eternal.

Every celebration

tightened the knot.

How a man is trapped

not by chains but by 

applause.

Duty grew louder than

Desire. Responsibility 

Felt stronger than

My inner voice-

So I stayed. 

I stood guard over 

The decisions that were 

no longer mine to 

Protect futures that

Excluded my own.

But what good is a 

Resolve without 

contentment?

What good is a decision 

without happiness?

A vow without revision 

is a virtue disguised

as violence-

So beware of the sour

Old men who have no

Respite for reflection.

And remember me not

For the Resolve I made

But for the Warning

I became.

Blurr

She slept on my lap in

The college lawn once.

Hugged me under the

Streetlight at night.

Dragged me to the biggest 

Romantic movie of that

Time and took me to her

House to make me 

Meet her mom.

It was all new to me.

Hesitant. Awkward.

And totally on backfoot-

But it was nice. I think.

On a college trip, 

She made me carry her 

Near the waterfall.

Everyone around cheered.

Months after that

When she said it.

Said it aloud like it was 

Obvious- I froze.

I snapped.

I said nothing.

I didn’t accept or deny.

Maybe I wasn’t ready.

Maybe I didn’t trust myself-

my future,

my ambitions,

my unfinished plans.

Maybe I was afraid

of it becoming real.

Then I pretended I

moved on.

She moved on faster.

Got a job, changed city.

She got married and 

Now has a kid.

A decade later, when 

I think of her sometimes.

Not as regret or rejoice.

But as a loose recapitulation.

It's just a blur.

On cold nights like this,

when memory returns 

uninvited, I can’t tell

If those moments truly 

happened or I imagined them.

I wanted something

beautiful to have happened

to me once. And it did.

But revert back to reality 

Like it didn't.

This constant lingering 

From doubt to fancy-

A poem is the worst thing 

That can happen to you

On lonely nights.

Or the best, depending 

Upon the levels of misery 

You're dealing with.

Instructions for Dividing a Country

(to Radcliffe over the Indo-Pak border)

The scaling for this activity 

On the map- one inch equals one mile.

So keep the pencil sharp.

A millimeter here can throw 

A village elsewhere-

From Graphite to uranium enrichment,

They may never forgive geometry

Or geography.

Clear your throat before you begin.

Do not cough.

A cough can move a mosque

behind a temple,

a temple behind a mosque to

turn prayers into knives.

Check your eyes.

If they blur, pause.

Wear your glasses.

Weak vision can send a mother

running with a child on her hip,

can decide which side

her husband will die on.

Make sure the lamp is bright.

Dim light turns homes into targets.

It decides whose Urdu becomes illegal,

whose Hindi becomes suspect,

whose name is enough

to drag them out at dusk.

Drink water.

Dry hands shake.

Shaking hands redraws citizenship.

Shaking hands make people choose

between Kalma and survival.

Do not think of trains.

Do not imagine compartments

sealed with silence,

filled with bodies that reached

the right country too late.

Do not picture women

cutting their hair,

smearing ash on their faces,

jumping into wells

to avoid becoming trophies

of victory.

Avoid names.

Names are dangerous.

Names decide whether a door opens

or set houses on fire.

If you feel tired, stop.

Fatigue invents massacres.

Fatigue makes people believe

this separation is temporary-

that they’ll return after things settle.

Well, they won’t.

The houses they lock

will be occupied.

The fields they leave

will be renamed.

Their dead

will belong nowhere.

Do not imagine gods.

They will be invoked anyway.

They will be dragged into this

with slogans and fire,

forced to watch believers

kill other believers better.

Sign quickly.

Fold the map neatly.

Leave before consequences arrive.

If you stay, you'll be worshipped 

For the favour you've made.

They must not know,

You're their Messiah.

Temporary Address

Do that in your 'sasural'

Says Mom.

We tolerate you, but 

Would your in-laws?

Chuckles Dad.

Once you marry,

The room will all be mine-

Declares my loving Brother.

But should that be

Alright?

When these windows

Remember my childhood,

And the walls echo my 

Tattered first words-

Should the air rehearse

my exit? Should the mirror 

Constantly remind me, 

How my rent is due here?

Why would everything 

Repeat itself to 

Pack me away?

Home these days is a

Conditioning draped

In care.

A departure dressed

As destiny-

A quiet loosening,

As if the roots should 

Learn early, how to 

Apologise for growing.