The Unborn Child

Met this girl.
Rose-toned, rain-scented.
And things happened.
Love, lust, dreams.

Yeah, dreams.
Rushing in a tiny home
By the edge of the city.
Near a creak.

We dreamed together of
Petting a small panda.
We dreamed like we
Petted it in fact.

And one day. Like all those
One-days in parentheses-
That inevitably happen-
We fell apart.

Goodbyes stretched across
Length of my city,
Reaching only the closed
Doors.

It's been years now.
This house could have been
Bigger and baby-proofed.
The little panda sometimes-

Comes in my dreams to
Rest on my right arm.
The next morning my
Hand aches-

Like the sourness of a half
Remembered memory that
Stares like a cat all day from
Below the dining table.

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.

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.

Lost Curiosity

The moon no longer
Follows me while I
Travel at night.
The rooms that lead
One from the other,
The curiosity is
Long gone and
These days, I don't
Get lost.

The trails on my
Palm, that often
Grew like a forest to
Build cities full of
Castles, chokes
Out of weariness.
Like the paper planes
Forgetting to fly.

Often not giving
What was asked,

Imagination like
Broken street lights-
Sulks in the confines
Of the blinders
Of the past and
These days I don't
Believe the fact
That I'm a spy from
The planet Mars.

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.

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.

The child in me

The child in me 

Wants to go to

My grandpa's place

To be lost in his

Stories again.

Climb the trees

To eat unripe

Mangoes and

Eat all the roasted 

Cashews without

Sharing with anyone.

The child in me

Wants play with

Fire. Conjure, 

The courage to

Leap in to 

Experience things. 

Learn, unlearn

And re-learn.

Just like how

One has to be

Persistent to craft

A kite and put

It in flight.

The child in me

Wants to imitate

Shaktiman and

Also understand 

Gangadhar.

Believe I can fly.

Still be grounded.

Ignore the wounds

On my knee and

Run again like

There's no tomorrow.

The child in me

Just wants to talk

To the adult me,

To hold hands and

Shed masks.

Fill courage and

Say it's alright.

Climb mountains,

Sail across seas to

Show how belong,

And where to 

Belong.

When I was Young

Once, 

When I was young.

I would summon sunsets

And tame stars to adorn

My little sister's room.

Colors up my sleeve.

I believed in a life,

That's etched in crayons.

Once, 

When I was young.

I would make boats 

With papers to 

Chase the rain.

Dreams could fit in

Chocolate wrappers.

Expectations in

Glittery marbles.

Nights were for

Good goody sleep.

Evenings for the

Cool breeze.

Morning tea to

Shake the mind

Freeze.

A free desire within 

That would aways 

Tease.

Everything wasn't

Planned and neat.

Complaining, 

We didn't sag like 

Dead meat. 

Roads were great,

Trees were free. 

Looking at us

Even birds did glee.

Once, 

When I was young.

Moon followed me

Wherever I would go.

Grandpa lived in the

Sky, as mom claimed.

Venus was just

A good friend.

Peeing wasn't shamed.

And dreams weren't 

Confined in names.

I love shade

I love shade. 

Things with some

Degree of fade.

Worn out here 

And there.

Bruised, blemished,

Still their 

Entirety Intact,

Oozing life somehow 

From around 

Somewhere.

Like setting sun's 

Red on blue inlay. 

a memory on rampage..

Sometimes a pain,

Sometimes sweet

As rain.

On a stormy night, 

The ship that

Went on a sail.

Trails of longing,

On faded pic.

A lost love that

Sneaks past mid-night

To evade sleep.

Like the tunes of 

A song on tip of

My tongue,

That I fail to

Recall.

The days of

Childhood that

That seems to be

Escaping from

The clutches

Of my mind.

Blessing in 

One way,

From the other, 

A disgrace.

I love shade.

Things with some

Degree of fade.

Reminiscing is a Full meal

Memories have a 

Wrinkled face.

Nostalgia feels 

Like grandma's

Place.

Cosy, comfortable.

Worry free and

Free, fat food at

Will.

Reminiscing is

A full meal. 

And I've been

Dipped in the 

Trance of past

For so long that..

Now, I'm an 

Overweight ass.

My mind may break 

Bearing all my past.

Doctors advised me

To exercise and run...

But in the end,

It took some writing 

To shed calories 

From my head. 

Horizon

Waiting,

I've smoked time,

Like, it's a 

Petty cigarette. 

As all I

Wanted was 

A ride back

Home with you.

But now,

It looks like,

The home is

Overrated.

I'm addicted

To the idea that

You're that 

Boundless horizon

In the west.

Childhood

When laughing was 

Actually laughing

And weeping was

Really weeping. 

Remember the days when

Everything was simple?

Hate was just a day 

Of not talking and 

Friendship,

A toffee away.

Unmasked smiles,

Un-adulterated tears.

The moon wasn't just

A celestial rock and

Granny had taken refuge 

In the brightest star.

Gone with the Winter

The memories of
Those late night talks,
The rain did sweep.

And the unconditional
Sweet-little-warmth,
The winter did freeze.

There's a cold calm,
A stab of apathy and a
Kind of murky-charm left.

Like a scenery contained
By the withered leaves,
This feeling too is-

Beautiful. Colourful.

Dharwad

On the darkening blue,
An orange inlay.
The sun's setting
Birds on their way.

Dharwad; No difference.
Smells all the same.
The Mirchi-girmit invokes,
The good old days.

The taunts we made
And laughs we had.
Ran and Roamed around,
Worthy of some pretty scars.

Without any signs,
There was a last day.
Blink of an eye;
Careers, Responsibilities-

Life's now a long drag.

Nostalgia

Doesn't this
Lavish lush of
the greens and
The gentle gush
Of the winds...

Tickle some old
Melodious memories?

The monsoons,
Dancing on the roof,
And the birds
Rolling heads
And chirping...

Invoke the forgotten?
Scratch some scars?

While a cup of tea is
Coloring this evening.
Nostalgia is riding it.
Few sweet. Few salty.
Some mixed vibes.

Vivid Memories Still Blossom

How can I forget those days in your
bosom,
The vivid memories still blossom.

P.T sir stood with a gun,
To tell us importance of morning run;
Behind every effort shun
that, we had greate fun.

Even after our every grudge,
House Masters used to urge;
We thought they were greatest pest,
But now I realise, they were the best.

One day,
I was late to class, after a noon nap,
which I took at short gap;
I remember that Principal's slap;
which had sounded like clap.

There is no substitute for Navodaya's
Bisi Bele Baat taste,
and surely everyone is missing the
tradition of sharing paste.

Those memories can never perish,
Recalling those I still relish;
Those who have forgotten are foolish,
And those who remember will cherish
.
So beautiful were those days,
to embrace them again, I pray;
Why those seven years didn't
remained as such,
The memories haunt me so much.