Head Lice

My tenant. Who was my 

Teacher as well at the convent.

She was fond of me.

Gave toffees, and

other eatables.

Would catch hold of

Me whenever I scratched 

My head to pick lice

In the evening.

I would offer her flowers

Randomly. It felt nice.

That winter, Mom went to 

Her maiden home for 

The third delivery. Dad was 

In the Army like always.

Felt forgotten and aloof

For months in my big joint family,

And only Ma'am felt like 

Family in the absence of 

Mom.

After the summer holidays,

When I returned from 

Visiting mom.

Ma'am wasn't there.

Married off. Gone.

I waited for her as my

Aloofness grew louder 

In the house--

The itch in my head 

Wouldn't stop.

I insisted on shaving 

My head in the following 

Month, when Grandpa

Took me to the barber.

Something broke me

That day and I suppose 

That explains, why I hate 

Shampoo to this day.

Wishful nostalgia

You dream of her

Across an open field.

Standing with open

Arms. Wind blowing 

In her hair-

You running towards 

Her and clouds

Gathering just to

Pour down for this

Union.

You dream of her

Lying beside you-

Playing with her

Braids. Running 

Your fingers on 

Her feet-

Feeling her like the

Mild melody of 

Anklets.

Time frozen in her

Fragrance-

Peace chasing you

To be your slave.

But what happens 

To dreams?

What happens to

Dreams of a summer

Noon?

Heat gets to you.

You wake up to

The dead air in the

Room wondering if

It's tomorrow-

A sweet taste of

A cherry from a 

Past life gets to you

Aamidst stink 

Of sweaty reality-

You smile at yourself 

Like you always do 

And let it go.

Love, longing and Envy

Years later when you meet 

Your school-crush in a

Friend's marriage.

A three-year-old kid in her

Hand.

The tension in the air.

Jealousy seeping through 

Your eyes-

You laugh through all

The tantrums that come

Your way.

Upon that, others pass

On her kid to you.

After everyone failed

To cheer up his grumpy

Mood. He sits quietly

With you.

A weird sense of 

Attachment gets to you.

A feeling that, the kid could 

Have been yours if things 

Could have worked out,

Lingers in you.

Before you pass him to her,

You squeeze his cheeks

Hard till he cries.

She gives you a nasty look.

And you smile.

That weird sense of 

Satisfaction you got-

Unrequited love has its way

Of getting at you.

Adulting

Somewhere I'm still a
Confused boy who's
Not yet bothered about
The consequences.

I refuse to be a grown
Adult man.

Still biking around the
Supposed places with
My BFF, still believing
All the fun will be
Permanent..

The urge to become
A shepherd in the
Himalayas doesn't
Subside.

The longing to be a
Monk as an escape to
This reality is still on
Cards.

Somewhere the kid in
Me, running in the
Narrow streets of
My village with a tyre..
Has seen the adult me
Grow wings.

I flap and sour high.
Dive down screaming..
The air rushing to my
Face and tears drying
In the periphery of my
Eyes.

I lock eyes with him
And nod.
He smiles in approval.
Heck of a life.

Grandma's Garden

The marigolds with their 

Yellow for this festival

And jasmines oozing their

Whiteness.

The Periwinkles with subtle 

Pink by the fence that's

Always ignored and 

The roses in full bloom

Dancing on the only sapling

That came up well after 

Years of trying-

The blossoms in Grandma's

Garden was the beginning of

New Year back then.

She made Deities with

Cow-dung for the occasion.

Age-old tradition to pay

Tribute to our ancestors.

Anything that was deemed 

As a weapon was washed 

And worshiped that day.

The first time she had

Asked me for my book and

The pen for the pooja...

How I had felt like a warrior.

Fresh bravery in my bones.
Chased away pigs that day
In the backyard by myself.
I was heck of a Knight.

Baggage

Black coffee, no sugar- plain bitter. 

A Memoir of Dharmashala: Club from 1850s

when the British found vacation joys 

In the hills of their enslaved territory. 

'Cozy jazz' - playlist on the music platform, 

Plays endlessly, I'm all in even if it's hours long.

It triggers something in me

I think about this life. This damned life and 

The series of events that brought me

Here again. 

A friend who died

And the bike he left me in his will along with

A lot of vivid memories on it across 

Lands, oceans, and hills.

One or two songs from the playlist 

Or even more, tweaking the slow cinnamon 

Burn of our days from the college..

They take me back to pull my heart out

To the life at it's the barest laughter and 

We staring back at it with the coldest eyes.

Then he goes away. Twenty years have 

Passed and I haven't cried it out yet.

I feel like poking my eyes with this pen

In my to nab down every bit of tear that

Doesn't come out. But no. 

I have to drag this life for him.

I gotta feel un-poured rains for him.

And see the unveiled horizons. And experience 

That nightly starlight across the Himalayas.

And maybe someday at dawn, when the sun

Comes up across a snow-laden mountains

In the village of Zanskar, to bring 

Peace to my years of traveling streak.

I would then order two cups of 

Sea-Buck-Thon tea, to say cheers to an empty seat. 

And slowly drink it to fade away in 

The foggy wisdom the same evening.

Orchards

Somewhere, there's a memory 

Of waiting with Mom for a bus

To her maiden home.

Somewhere there's a memory 

Of Dad carrying me on his 

Shoulders to buy me chocolates.

Grandpa, showing me how 

The buffaloes are milked.

Grandma, giving me 25 paise

After I help her with chores.

A memory of running around 

With cousins and bruising 

My knees. Mama gifting me my 

First pair of Paragon-chappals

As I tagged along while 

Harvesting paddy.

The brief shudder of calm in

My veins every time I remember 

My childhood. Feels like,

I still sneak into those orchards

To steal mangoes. So delicious

That I'm forever thankful.

Hiraeth

At the edge of the world,

The house we built when

We were on good terms.

I stopped there for a while 

When I was passing by tonight.

A dinner table in the hall,

Two tea-cups that aren't 

Empty. Bindi on the mirror,

An arm length wreath of 

Jasmine that wants to find

Solace in your braids.

The small geoid marked 

With places we wished to go.

It still rotates.

The door is forever open

And the doormat still flaunts 

'Welcome' in colours.

The kid of our fancy calls 

Your name and I haven't 

Lied to her yet.

"Mom has gone shopping"

I repeatedly say and 

Believing my words, 

She goes on playing in 

My head.

Wish You Happy Deepawali

I wish you a Happy Deepawali.

I wish all your siblings holidays,

To make it home this time.

I wish those cousins and friends 

In the village, gather in your 

House to fill up the space.

I wish your dad makes you clean 

The house, put up those lights,

Wash the vehicles and fight

With everyone a couple of times.

I wish you play Uno with people

Around and be blessed with 

The luxury of gully cricket in 

The high school playground.

I wish those aunties bother you

With questions of marriage.

Grandparents force you to touch

Their feet, only to give you twenty 

Rupees like they always did.

I wish you a lazy morning 

With the preview of the match 

Playing on the TV. And the smell from 

The kitchen invade your senses 

When you're not hungry.

I wish you realize what's a home.

The smell of Oily Vada, the taste of 

Mix Mithai. The hints of light

That binds you in a fraternity.

I wish you all the mundane things

That come with a home.

I wish you a hungry stomach 

And blessings of a mom's kitchen.

More than the festival, I wish you

The sensibilities of it. I wish you

Completeness of all the emotions.

I wish a very Happy Deepawali and

The warmth of a home.

The World

In a world where there's
More to what meets the eye.
In a world where words
Can be weaponized.

In a world where algorithms
Dance like unhinged zombies,
To pollute minds and question
Feeble intentions.

In the world of FOMO,
Compulsive take on rapes,
Murders and epidemics.
Their expectations to form

Opinions on politics and
Ongoing wars.

In the world where the moon
Hesitates to transition into a
Steady evening- My mom learns
To send pics in WhatsApp-

The first bloom of marigolds
She grew for the festival of

Dasara. The yellow transcending 

Its hues to my face and 

How I smile..

Fragrance

The Periwinkles and 

The other small yellow 

And white flowers.

The names you don't know.

But their caress when you

Walked barefoot.

The impression of their color,

On the blanket of green.

The feeling that wafts past

Your nose..

This act of smelling the

Moments that have passed.

The bloom of spring in

Your heart.

Her face, which once had

Eyes, cheeks, lips.

It's all fragrance now-

Rose. Jasmine. Rain.

Last day of Delhi

After we talked for long on
Your terrace- last day of Delhi.
The half-beer against the
Full meal got to my head.

I didn't gather myself to
Tell it to your to your face,
So I sent you an SMS,
Can I Hug You..?

You didn't say anything.
Made excuses to sneak
Down the stairs.
Aloof, dejected..listening to

'No Surprises' I spread
Myself on the terrace
Cursing the shooting stars
That aren't in my fate.

Then a sudden brush of hair 
On my face and the warmth
Of your lips on my cheek.

When I opened my eyes-

A fading image of yours

As you rushed back down the stairs.
The sudden blues in the sky,
A bloom of roses and it played-

'What a wonderful world'.

Train to Your City

In December of that year,
I came out of Chandigarh
Station. The first glimpse of you.
Happy, awed- Butterflies.

We hesitantly hugged.
Unable to talk clearly at first.
Like learning a new language,
Saying stuff in chunks.

What a day it was.

We roamed around all day.
The rock garden, rose garden,
Skipping the lunch-
The street food marathon.

In the evening, while we sat
By the Sukhna lake, eating
Ice cream. I wanted to Kiss you.
Couldn't muster any courage.

Months went by thinking
Should I have? or otherwise?
The un-met longing, like smoke
Raising off burning desire..

The 10 pm train to your city
From Dharwad, it took a couple
Of years before it stopped
Mocking me over that

Un-kissed evening.

Recommending Songs

The songs I tell you about.
How the lyrics go, how the bass
Feels against a changing weather.

How the particular tone of it has
Soaked in a memory of mine
To become a fragrance.

I can smell it now. 'Rehai' playing
Against the soothe of her face,
Trying to absolve me from a
Confined place..

My soul comes out of the body
To stand on a table to guide me
Through a cosmic dance.

Then it screams about
My performance,
To an invisible audience.

And when I recommend you
That song and you can't talk about
It with the same euphoria..

I'd point you to my best friend to
Convey, how he'd exactly react.
I know you may call us gay,
But that's all right.

I just hope, you really listen to it
One more time. We need a
Third wheel you see and that's

The only screening we felt apt.

Old Dharwad

I feel like I met you in

Old Dharwad, where

Cement hasn't smothered 

The roads yet.

Your face gleaming with

Rusty shops and hints

Of raw literature that

Runs in the streets.

We sit in a forgotten 

Restaurant to have 

Haap-Cha and Girmit,

And you appreciate it

Using the only cuss word 

I've taught you.

You ask the meaning again,

It's just a superlative I say-

That's too much cultural 

Exchange for a day.

Your Punjabi soaked in

Kannada, our story 

Like a redundant name

Of a Hindustani song-

We walk from Railway station 

To my college, like

Postman carrying a letter,

From 1950s to the present.

Ancient Wounds

It occurs to me in a 

Sudden rush of angst and 

Excitement that I should 

Just text you. 

Talk to you about all the 

Places I have been..

And in all those places, 

How I've missed you 

Deliberately, to stamp 

Your face, in the high of 

The mountains, rivers and 

The slow betrayal 

Of the evenings.

On a hidden beach, 

Watching the waves crash 

And ships fade on the horizon. 

I wait for a bottle that 

Carries a letter from the 

Other side..

This knack for nostalgia 

And the reasons
You give to scar myself..
I scratch them in rhythms 

You know..

To listen to music that 

Screams your name in 

My ancient wounds.

The Romantics

Someone among the lot,

Would send an SMS

To watch the moon..

Good days back then.

Sun rose beautifully and

Even in the sunstes,

We had our hearts.

We, four-five romantics,

Sharing books and poems.

Good songs and talking 

Like everything would 

Remain the same.

We wrote, posted letters

To each other. Sometimes 

Met one another before 

The letter could reach.

Where's that craze gone? 

The grit of life we could feel 

Under our noses like we 

Breathed a special air..

It's been cloudy lately,

The moon has been 

Masked by a haze. 

The desire to reach out to 

Each other is so shallow..

That the longing to walk 

Barefoot often meets with 

The complaints of the lawn 

Being damp with 

The dewdrops.

Un-dated

September 2011, fresh out of
School. The journey I took to
Allahabad for an interview..

The train and 'Teri Meri' song
Playing against the flashes of
Your face...

Took a detour to Mumbai while
I returned. Met you outside
Kurla station past 11 pm.

So brief, could only have
A plate of Pani Puri in haste.

Sneaking past the railings
While I climbed the staircase
Of the platform.

I remember your fading
Image as you swayed your
Hand to bid me a goodbye.

The love and longing that was
Budding that didn't go
Beyond a dead friendship..

I rejoice that moment with a
Wishful thinking now. About
The 11 pm Butterfly that might

Just be alive, waiting in a limbo,
Outside Kurla station, on every
Un-dated September night.

When You Truly Arrive

There should be a hill outside
Your village. A narrow,
Walkable path up to the top.

There should be rocks, a lake
Fruit Laden trees and incessant
Rains to complain all season.

There should be an abandoned
Temple with names of lovers
Who didn't marry each other.

The old men and the young
Should talk about a vague ghost
That comes alive every new moon..

The adamant rusty hearts of boys
Who play cricket in such places
To prove them otherwise.

The grannies making papads,
Daughters going to schools.
Memories of making kites.

And years later when you
Return from a distant city..

The smell of crushed flowers
In wet tar, tickling your memories.
There should be a feeble heart

Blessed in you, that screams
Butterflies when you truly arrive,
To this place, you belong.

A Ride in Rain

Your hesitation to get drenched
While you ride- drizzle, stop, ride,
Repeat on the highway.
Seeking random shelters gets
Strenuous after a while.

It starts to rain shortly.
The anterior soaks. Your thighs,
Chest and belly feel the cold first.
A bit of the wetness seeps into
Your undies from the front.

The droplets that trickle down
The helmet, get through the collar,
Drench the back, along
The backbone.

By this time, the only warmth
You're left with is around your ass.
And you distinctively feel
The last drop that invades your
Preserved abode.

It redeems you-
Like a homeless man not hesitating
To commit a crime.
You're not afraid of the rain anymore.
There's no home left to protect.

All your restraints fall off and
Soaking suddenly turns out to be
A pleasure.