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

Untitled

वो किताब बार बार एक ही पन्ने पर खुल कर
टकटकी लगाए, इंतेज़ार करती रहती है
खिड़की से हवा के आते ही
मानो वो किताब का हर पन्ना
उस एक बदनाम पन्ने को धकेल कर
छत ताकने पर मजबूर करे बिना नही मानता

पर उस पन्ने को कोई याद नही रखना चाहता
उसके कान मोड़ कर
कोई बुकमार्क भी नही करना चाहता

मानो की, उस पन्ने को कोई तभी पढ़ना चाह सकता है
जब वो अपने आप खुल के आँखों के सामने आ बैठे

मोज़ाइयिक सी चाहना

जिस तरह मैं अपने पुराने घर में बसी हुई हूँ  

कई घर बदलने के बाद

(आज भी सपनों में मुझे
अपना पुराने वाला घर ही दिखता है)

तुम कुछ उसी तरह मुझ में बसे हो

अब तुम यहाँ रहो या ना रहो

बसे तो तुम हो यहाँ

थोड़े ही से सही

तुम्हारे गालों के गड्ढे

इसकी दीवारों में आलें बने बैठे हैं

तुम्हारी खुश्बू सीलन की तरह मेरे

टीबी के बाद के बचे कुचे फेफड़ों पे हावी है

तुम्हारा गुस्सा छत से पपड़ी की तरह  

धीरे धीरे मुझ पे टपकता ही रहता है

घर में सिर्फ़ तुम ही नही

और भी लोग तहख़ाने में जमे बैठे है

कोई दीमक सा मेरी पुरानी क़िताबे पचा रहा है

कोई अलमारी के उपर की धूल में छिपकली जैसा छुपा है

तो कोई मेरे कपड़ों पर कलफ़ की तरह कड़क सा लगा बैठा है

सोफे के पीछे के वो सिर के तेल के निशानो के पीलेपन से

लंबाई नापने वाले इंचों के आगे के नामो से

और पुराने कलेंडर वाली कील से

जिसपे एप्रिल अभी भी लाल है

पुत जाएँगे सब तुम्हारे जाने से

इन्ही से घर वाइट वॉश चाह रहा है

सब सफेद हो जाएगा, नये जैसा

और हो जाएगा नया, वो पुराना फर्श भी

जिसपे हम गर्मियों में चटाई बिछा कर सो जाते थे

घिसाई के बाद उसपे, पाउडर डाल कर

मैं बिना स्केट्स के ही इधर से उधर फिसलूंगी

पर फिर भी मुझे पता है

जब मैं कभी अपने ख़यालों में  

कॅमोड पे बैठे ताक रही होंगी

तुम मिलोगे उस मोज़ाइयिक फर्श पे

किसी एक धब्बे में अपनी जीब चिड़ाते हुए

और मैं हमेशा की तरह हंसकर झल्लाओंगी

बस शायद यही यह घर चाह रहा है

Untitled...

शब्दों को मरोड़  कर

उनका सत् निकाल कर

गड्ड गड्ड पीया जा सकता है

छाननी में छूटे हुए
फूस की तरह पड़े शब्दों को

ग्रीटिंग कार्ड पे
रिसाइकल भी किया जा सकता है

उन्हे उबाल कर

नींबू से फाड़ कर

समय और तापमान का सही तालमेल बैठा कर

दही भी जमाया जा सकता है

पर मैं चाहती हूँ कुछ ऐसा

जैसे दही में चीनी मिला दी हो

की शब्दों की तासीर ही बदल जाए

नेरूदा के चेररी ब्लॉसम के पेड़ के साथ
बसंत की छेड़खानी की तरह

या एलीयट के आते जाते 
माइकलएंजेलो की बात करते लोगों की तरह 

ऐसे शब्द जिनको कह देने के बाद 

कुछ असर दिखे

बस नापा ना जा सके

…

मेरी दादी के बड़े पेट की तरह

जो मेरी बहन और मेरे बीच बँटता

लिपट जाते हम
एक तरफ मैं तो दूसरी तरफ वो 

पर मेरी दादी के पेट का शब्दों से क्या करना

उसकी गुड गुड आवाज़ में थोड़े ना कोई रस या अलंकार छुपे थे

पर चार फीट की खाट पे

मेरी दादी, उनका पेट और हम दोनो,

ऐसे फिट हो जाते

जैसे कुछ शब्द, कविता में हो जाते हैं