A late winter song

Finally, she came and sat on my shoulder

Her fur against my skin

And her purring, rhythmic and relaxed

Just a little over my heart

Then she took her cheek and kept it on mine

I sighed and wished

That she would stay a little longer

Hoping she wouldn't notice 

The frozen sun in my belly

...

We are the children of noone
We can never truly cry
We only melt once in a while

We digress the other times

The suns in our bellies

Are frozen to ice

Our lake is our sea

Without its tides

Nothing can break the deep snow beds

Connected to our navels

Our teeth continuously chatter

And our feet are always cold

The ankles a little rusty

As we jump up and down

Just to keep them from freezing to the bone

We layer up as hard we can

Always a little more

Lest we have less

It is normal

Normal, yes

Just like ending a conversation 

Awkward or hard pressed

with a smile

We have different smiles

For different modes

ripping the corner of our lips sometimes

Our skins are always thirsty

We shed like snowflakes

On our black coats

Warmth is a faint feeling

Like a view from a distance

When you don’t have glasses on

And don’t know if it is a polaroid you took

Or a postcard you bought

It is always the wind

The wind that rips through clothes

And seizes your core

It freezes the emerald lake

To a dull grey

Replacing the songs of the seagulls 

with its constant roar

But, their bellies have the sea

And its waves

Unlike us, the birds migrate
But, the suns in our bellies

Are frozen to ice

Our lake is our sea

Without its tides

We are the children of noone

And will bear none of our own
We are not hardwired to a place

There is nowhere we belong

We yearn for a feeling of longing

But, all we have is a winter song

I wish raindrops on my face

The pool I carry is already full

And water just keeps spilling over 

But my clothes are at a safe distance 

As raindrops fall 

And run into the concrete 

Like a familiar scene 

Under the yellow streetlights,

From my living room window 

I imagine 

The rain outside

Is sterile

As I only look at it

A dull ache pulls me towards the floor

And eats up all my strength

And my feet get cold

I wait for my body’s cyclical shedding of layers within

I could never adjust
My ears still lose their sharpness
I hear dull voices

Just like that time

When I could only hear

But could not see

Anything

I am aware of the raindrops on the ceiling

Above the white walls

And that monotone of Ms Godbole

As she scribbles derivatives on the white board

In her beautiful handwriting

Are you alright? She asks I think, 

I wish someone would carry me outside

But some four people will have to move

Before I can get out of my row

And throw some water on my face

And I would come out from the blackout 

Just for a second 

Lucid

Outside that aseptic math classroom

With my head on concrete

Water running down my chest

And my wet hair 

Sticking to my forehead and ears

Under the pelting rain
The first thing I would see and hear

Is the wind in the trees
And I would know then
The smell of rain

बस यूँ ही

कोई ऐसी रात
जब दिन बहुत दूर लगे
और तुम्हारी उँगुली के नीचे
मेरा हाथ हो
तो उसपे लिख देना
कुछ ऐसा
जो कहने की ज़रूरत ना हो
फ़ुर्सत में ही
जो कभी तो होगी

कहते हैं वो की
पतझड़ में किसने घोंसले बनायें
इधर उधर बिखरे पत्तों को बटोर
किताबों में रख लेने से थोड़े ही घर बसतें हैं
पर यहाँ तो ना दीवारें ना चौखट
बस एक हथेली
पर बनाया हुआ घेरा
बार बार वहीं पर मना लेंगे
आधी सी कार्तिक की शाम

बस यूँ ही

Sheher

कुछ नही होता शहर बदलने से
माँ कहा करती थीं
शहर बदलने से लोगों की तासीर नही बदल जाती

वो होता है ना ऐसे
जब चन्द किलोमेटेर दूर ही
ऐसा लगता है की शहर बदल गया


तुम और मैं थोड़ा सा चलें
और पहुच जायें किसी दूसरे शहर
जहाँ हम अजनबी
और हमारी किसी से जान पहचान ना हो

क्यूंकी मुझे पता है क्या होता है शहर बदलने से
जैसे धूप पड़ने से चेहरे का रंग बदल जाता है
या जैसे पानी में जाने से त्वचा गल जाती है

शहर बदलने से सतह के नीचे का आदमी
अपने आप ही उपर आ जाता है
वो होता है ना ऐसे

जब चन्द किलोमेटेर दूर ही
ऐसा लगता है की शहर बदल गया
दूरी का मेहेz एहसास ही होने से

बदलता कुछ नहीं
माँ सही ही कहती थीं
पर सतह पर आता है कोई और

और हम मिलतें हैं
उन्ही परतों से
जब हमें लगता है की शहर बदल गया

थोड़ा सा टाइम

थोड़ा सा टाइम
अपनी जेब से निकाल कर
इस टेबल पर रख दो
फिर मुझे एक बार में उसे गटकते देखो
अब वो मेरा हो गया है

अब वो टिक टिक नही कर पाएगा
अब वो एक बड़ा मैदान है
जहाँ दूर दूर तक कोई नही दिखता
अब वो एक ढेर सा पड़ा है
जिसके पीछे हम आराम से टिककर बैठ सकते हैं
बस उसे वापस मत माँगो

जब तुम वो कविता पढ़ रहे थे
मैं कविता के साथ
तुम्हारी आवाज़ में खुद को सुन रही थी
और टाइम मुझे ज्वार-भाटे जैसा महसूस हो रहा था

असलमे टाइम तो
सेंड क्लॉक जैसा नही
रेत के घर बनाने जैसा है
मैं हमेशा टाइम चुराने की ताक में
मिट्टी को साधते हुए
एक छोटी सी डिब्बी बना कर
तुम्हारी घड़ी उसमे लॉक कर देना चाहती हूँ
सिर्फ़ थोड़ी सी देर के लिए
हम हम हो सकते हैं
शायद

मैं लालची हूँ
उस टाइम के लिए
जो मैने कभी अपना नही समझा

जो टाइम तुम चूयिंग गुम की तरह चबा रहे हो
उसे गटक लो
फिर मैं और तुम
वो खेल रचेंगे जिसका कोई मतलब ना हो
उसे चाकू से काट कर सलाद बना लेंगे
या फिर आधा आधा बाँट कर
धीरे धीरे पिएँगे
उसे गुब्बारे की तरह मरोड़ कर
एक प्यारा सा कुत्ता बनाएँगे
और फिर उसे उड़ा देंगे
हवा में

मैं लालची हूँ
उस टाइम के लिए
जो मैं अपना बनाना चाहती हूँ
पर तुम सही कहते हो
अगर मैं उसे अपना नही समझती
तो शायद, मैं लालची हूँ
उस टाइम के लिए
जो मेरा हो नही सकता

थोड़ा सा टाइम
अपनी जेब से निकाल कर
इस टेबल पर रख दो
मैं भी यही करूँगी
और फिर उनमे
कोई फ़र्क नही होगा
शायद

In the dustbin

take the past

like used paper

and throw it in the paper bin

with a crumpled crunch

it is of no use

except to signify

the number of drafts

which have made

the tedious

contours of the final final.doc...

but also scramble the next second

to fetch the paper

that was rolled into a ball

and read what it says

different it seems

by its mere displacement

so next time

maybe it can be smudged

with blue ink

folded in two

making a butterfly pattern

making it impossible to read

the words that imprison

as a page in a forsaken diary

which no one wants to read

if only time could be beaten to pulp

like paper-mache

and hung like a mask on the wall

I would not find a muse

in the dustbin of the past

craving for the digital sound

that sounds like a crunch

I am a house with no windows

I am a house with many doors

The doors are not metaphors

Afraid to unsettle the dust

On the outside handle

Would you open the closed ones?

The doors can function as windows

How do I click a picture?

Without blocking the door for an instant

When the camera shutter falls

But some are locked from the outside

How do I make way for a glance?

Without opening the door

And risking the ocean out

But some doors are always open

I am a house with no windows

I am a house with no windows

10.10.13

Form flows

All into one

Formlessness becomes

The order of the day

To name a thing

Is to draw a line here

And a line there

And cut out a piece

Before the flow starts

And the edges dissolve again

Before something oozes out

To take its place

For that instant

The name is all there is

And form 

Not what it used to be

measuring lines

The phone turns to kilometers

Kilometers not longer than the distance between words

Words pile up like carcasses after a massacre

But, there is no buzzing of the bees

Only silence

With the stench of some base frequency audible at times

Like a distant loudspeaker

Meant to reach more people than interested

I open and close drawers

Organizing things in a neat order

Even the photo albums

Where photos are laden with moisture behind cellophane

Rereading books for underlined words

Hoping to label each drawer with them

But everything is a road

Marked by kilometers

Even the database of arguments and poetry

Has a ravine in between

Probably just the difference of width

Between the left and right arm’s circumference

Maybe it is just the probability

Of someone else answering the phone

Other than the intended

The kilometers between the phone and me shrink sometimes

But the voices have the ambience of large halls

Seething with distance

All the high frequencies get lost in transmission

There’s only the muffled vibration

But, it is apparent that no matter what the unitary conversion

Space and time have an unstable equation

The markers are all fudged

There remains mere displacement

Kilometers without any significance

All that matters is that even though

Earlier it took more time to reach

With the coming of the faster line

The distance only increased

And the phone fell short in every bit

The only markers lie

In the twitch of a muscle

At the hint of a familiar scent

Or the pit that appears in the belly

If its depth can be measured

We can know how much it really was

The distance between the two voices on the phone

Untitled

to put a finger on what really drives you towards something

that thing that changes your face

and takes you closer to the life in your eyes

what is that perversion that takes your sleep away

when a smile emerges on your face

not in wont of being shared with anyone

opening an imaginary realm which you can inhabit

with your bare feet rooted in the ground

that file, the store room of inscription, the teleporter,

the place where stories were written

never to be read

and you stumble there

to put a finger on it

and just stay

evading linearity of time

refusing to leave it alone

striving for that transitory delusion

of a momentary

euphoria...

mosaic musings

I can always love my past loves

putting them safely in boxes

to fetch them

when I wish to make a connection

long lost

but possible still

through things

that remain

love’s residue is also love

not a sum of parts

but a whole in itself

i cant quite separate

each one 

and measure

if it counts

this cannibalistic desire 

for canned jars

of lovers

turning to wine

Stirs in the attic of my stomach

where with each year

a knot loosens

and a line appears

on my face

reminding me

that this one-sided

adoration

is all I have 

Quite like a life measured in “coffee spoons”

someday, I will look back

where they all are neatly arranged

in no special order

but each in its special place

the only place

where I could bear to have them

forever

this mosaic sculpture of my design

I can always love my past loves
reminding myself of Porphyria’s lover
a pathological toying with form

but evading patterns

always moving closer

to the continuous present

of love

and
being

Like the wild grass

don’t save me

as I run through this vast meadow

facing the horizon

with my eyes closed

…

In these empty lands I meander

calling upon the moment

where the tangerine sky

meets the grey of infinity

where

you–

see me

like the burning sun

which glazes my skin

leaving an imprint of its gaze

hold me

like the ground

which doesn't shake

when I move

love me

like the sea

with enveloping waves

always throwing me off balance

meet me

where my feet are planted

like grass

harbouring the falling dew

think of me

as nothing more or less

than a song

especially written for you

…

and let me fall back

to the ground

as I am not

like the wild wind

sweeping you off your feet

I am like the wild grass

which grows anywhere

and except holding the soil

offers nothing

what's left of us

I found remains of us

in the visa bill of our last dinner together

it is one of the things

that's left

of us

I scanned it carefully

memorizing what you and I ordered

remembering its taste

as if there was something in the detail

tooth picking my heart's cavity

as if it was the first of the last from

what's left of us

I will plant the bill carefully

in the files of us

with everything else

hoping to find it again

like those flowers I kept

in my books

always finding them again

with their colour changed

in the fading mirrors

of our sea

where like a receding hairline

the water retreated into a mirage

leaving only a few broken shells

always changing form

blurring the remains of us

there is no adjustment possible

from what we thought would be

as what's left of us

is also the ever after frame

carpentered by the high tide

of the excesses of us

From the oozing molasses of my heart

there will be sunshine soon

bursting into perhaps a honeysuckle

which i will water

hoping maybe that someday

there would be more than just an empty shore

that's left of us

where

you and I

will no longer be

us