Mind of Seasons

As the April sun shines over
The ripe and unripe mangoes.
As the dusty roads lead to
Fruit-bearing shrubs and
Fully grown Jamun trees and
Those sweet blackberries-

You should have the mind of
The summer to understand
Those parrots who leave
The cashew-apple half-eaten.

And as it rains and the July sun
Shies away to the gloom
Put up by the nimbus clouds.
The kamikaze go into hiding
To bring out the paper boats-

One should have a mind of
The monsoons to understand,
The shudder of the lush greens,
That's transferred to the dogs
And the drenched vultures.

The December sun who withdraws
Himself as the fog surrounds
Everyone's better sense.
The kids that refuse to wake up
Early in the morning and
The dew drops on the Chickpea leaves
That call for the harvest-

One should have mind of winters
To understand those sheeps
That lent you their wool to warm
You in a shawl your uncle brought
When he went to hitchhike in
The terrains of the Himalayas.

Letting Ironies Meet

I try to sit on my chair,
With a book and pen with
Its lid open- To try to
Corner my thoughts with
A hope to make something
Out of them.. like it really
Matters.

It does though.
It doesn't too.

The writer's face I assume,
Wears away and comes
Back constantly while
I try to ponder over
The existentialism of this
Entire exercise.

Not the wind and the rain
Not the rivers and
The mountains, Please!
The way I've exploited them.
They should slap on me a
Harassment case.

I hear the vehicles honk
In the distance.
The boys chatter as they
Play cricket.
The neighborhood lady
Washing clothes- clink
Of her bangles.

I try to bring the barking
Street dogs.
But they've made many
Guest appearances and
Comeo roles.
On any random day they
Might just decide to give me
A taste of rabies for
Using them without any
Rewards.

Then I keep drawing shapes
On the paper without any
Fresh ideas.
A tree in the corner appears,
A circle, square and
A vague geometric house.

I think about you and I
Like I haven't written enough.
A long list of my family members
Cross my mind too, without
Triggering anything.

After everything was compared
To everything else.
After the leaves became feathers,
The flowers became damsels.
All the old men became
The village banyan tree and after
You became a chill goddess.

The rusty engines, the dry grass,
Dilapidated huts and
Looted ancient temples.
Ahh! It's tiresome!!
To not find correlations.

And then I thought I would
List all the things I'm tired of
Writing and ended up
Writing about the same-

Compelling the obvious ironies
Face each other before 

I let them die without any 

Glory.

The Science of it

This distance- the kilometers of it.
Nautical miles of it.
Light traveling for years of it.
The longing- the depths of it.
Width of it and ever sinking,
Irrational, Pie value of it.

And of this bleeding heart,
The lub-dub of it,
The crimson ooze of it.
The effing ache of it and
The indifference to the ebbs
In ECG of it.

And this desire burns like a
Blue flame.
The absent black soot of it.
The fusion reaction that
Got out of hand and
The hydrogen breeding
More and more helium of it.

The love, the idealism,
The unfelt grit of it.
The unconditionality of it.
The abrasive nature of it.
The urge to chase it down
In all enclosed compartments-

Its presence and absence 

At the same time.

The enigma of it.
The Schrodinger cat of it and
Heisenberg's uncertainty of it.

And the rush of my lust
That spreads all over the floor- 

The fluorescence of it.
'Newton and Apple' kind of
Obsession of it.
Time dilation during an
Orgasm and the sheer fucking
Relativity of it.

Raqeeb- The rival in love

He plays the flute
Standing on an old
Telephone booth to ask
The wind often, if 'she' can
Hear him play.

He plays it like a smooth
Refuge of warmth on a
Winter night. He plays it like
Slide of a water drop
From molten ice.

He plays it like capitalism
Wanna stop running and
Catch up some
Music lessons ASAP.
And he plays it like-

The dustbin nearby
May wanna fall asleep.
But the plastic wrappers
Inside don't let it
As they wanna dance.

The dogs have heard it.
The birds have admired.
The dragonflies have given up
Their flight to listen him 

Play all night.

Not bothering with anyone's pleas.
The wind swirls deaf.
When asked 'why' it says-

It has been in love with the same
Moonlight-soaked beauty-
The boy wants to send 

His song to.

And the tune is so good,
Out of jealousy-
To her, even out of mistake
It can't convey the song.

Novembers

Novembers are the monsoons
Passing the baton to the winters-
One leg on the boat that sailed
And the other that's poised to leave.

Novembers are the sleeveless T-shirts
Inviting the cozy sweaters for
Their brief retirement party,
While you keep tuning-

The right speed of the fan, cursing
The technology for not figuring
Out a regulator with a speed notch
Between two and three.

Autumn would have taken out
The horses out of stables by now,
To hitch a ride to conquer
The lush greens of the trees.

Meanwhile,
The Novembers become
The oceans that refuse to lend
Any water to the winds.

And the angry air blows dry-
To beat the land with its cold.

The Novembers finally turn as
The agents caution.
One has to store the fire-wood,
And the requirements of food.

Some may start carving for
That one lost person and
Some might start getting closer
To the one beside them-

As the Novembers turn out to be
The agents of longing too.

Itch

This urge to scratch the
Itch on the other hand,
Bite nails and chew the
Hardened skin around them.

The itch on the thighs, and
Around the groin and the ass.
The itch around my head,
Because of too much hair
And entangled thoughts.

The urge to scribble on the
Margins of books because
Of the itch in my mind
That just keeps saying
"Why not?"

The itch of lust hiding in
The pretense of love and
The want for love that
Wants to scratch but never
Gets a chance.

And the itch of the
Stomach of course that's
Not confined to the usual
Roti-Kapada-Makan.

And then the itch of bigger
Ambitions that have
Tentacles spread across
Far-fetched horizons
To have it all-

Like the one to dig tunnels
In search of a meaningless
Light and when found at
The end of it.

Sit there waiting for the
Moths to test the validity
Of it, as there's also a itch
That thinks it might just

Be a mirage.

Union

The broken lover, 

Out of grief sits scribbling,

Her name on the beach-

Persistent, till the sea

Remembers who she is.

In the middle of the ocean,

From around, another

Part of the world.

Another lonely name,

Finds this one and now

There's a new affair.

The onslaught of the

Saline water that often

Subsumes things-

Has made an exception

To write a new story

And named it as rain.

Watchful Gaze

Your image flashes in my mind,
Constantly like fluttering of eyelids.
It's almost, as if, you're
Watching me from within myself.

And under your watchful gaze
I have become conscious of my
Day-to-day things.

So when I wake up and stand
In front of the mirror to brush.
I don't spit it all over the sink.
It's as if you're standing beside to

Guide me through the process,
Like a high school math teacher.

My hands reach my back properly,
While taking a bath.
Rinse my hair thoroughly while
Applying coconut oil.

The maroon shirt goes tucked in
The Light-grey trouser with a
Tie that's purple or blue. And then
The bike with a helmet always to
Protect my not-so-important head.

Sometimes,
A wishful urge comes along,
To do things differently, messy-
Like I always do--Unkempt hair.
Dirty socks. Unwashed dishes-

Deliberately, I spill some milk on
The breakfast table,
Thinking, that you would come
To tease me into a correction.

But it almost, always, never happens.
Your murky angry face,
Never takes things in hand and like
Always the next day resumes again-

As it should-
With the jeans going along
The right shoes and eating rice in
The lunch with a spoon.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

An Evening

To the effect of

Too much heat.

It has rained a

Little this evening.

The taste of 

Coffee is blended

With the smell

Of soil.

What more do

You need?

Scattering through

Raindrops, 

Sunlight filters

Through the

Eucalyptus trees. 

A halo around

Flying birds.

A painted

Distant horizon.

A suble sensation

On your skin.

What a beauty..

A presage for arrival 

Of good days

Ahead of schedule

It seems. 

This bliss in absence 

Of thoughts.

Disposition of a

Suspended mind.

Each breath is a

Formless hymn.

I seem to have

Become a 

My own dream. 

Ohh! Is this what 

Living in the 

Present means? 

You and I

On the eastern

Edge of western

Ghats.

Amidst the bustle

Of tall trees and

Green grass.

Beside a lake or

A small pond.

We shall build

A hut, 

You and I.

When the 

Herdsmen come 

Playing flutes 

And the hornbills 

Hoot to the 

Footsteps of the 

Sheep.

Picking them

Nuts and fruits,

We shall spend

Our days,

You and I. 

The running water

Of the river is

Sweet they say.

Tubers and roots

In the wild are 

No less than

A feast they say.

So we shall 

Befriend a beast.

Nurse something

Feeble and weak.

And confining all

Our secrets to

The whispers of

The trees.. 

We shall become, 

Those nameless 

Lovers in folklore,

You and I. 

Hopes to Regrets

The light has
Quenched the dark.
New hopes have
Come to life.
To the songs
Of a nightingale.
Lilies have decided
To dance.

An old tree has
Fallen down to
Make a way to
A new plant.
A dream to
Open its eyes,
The possibilities
Seem infinite.

The child in me
Seems to have
Grown a beard,
Age has taken
Over time.
Days seemed
Hopelessly long.
Yet years have passed
In the blink of an eye.

The night has
Clocked twelve.
Shards of memories
Have returned back,
And my longing to
Drench in the rain.
The water has
Caught fire.