This body

This body is my cage

and lathi to freedom

A vessel for my rage

and saathi to see yam

It lives as it dies

It dreams as it cries

Held by my arms

Folded in my palms-

A philosophical,

psychological,

physiological,
disequilibrium

I wish I was a painter

I wish I was a painter.

I’ve been writing for years now

and I still haven’t found 

the other 

nine hundred and sixty words

I need to paint a picture of

my mother standing-

looking out into the balcony

through our mosquito netted door-

her silhouetted back facing me-

still- 

as the trees outside-

as if she were 

waiting 

for something

someone

some thought

some silence-

in a cold 

monsoon 

evening.

Sari and Lipstick

1 meter

       2 meters

                3 meters

a piece left 

for the blouse 

7 metres of cloth

in the name of tradition.

masterji, please

make the blouse tight-

it’s my best friend’s wedding.

handmade art

wrapped around

my body.

the fingers

my mother taught

pleat my pallu

poised to bedazzle,

but not trip over.

they too are passed down

like the knowledge of

how much waist 

is homely

how much waist

is temptation.

tribal earrings

and silver necklaces

bought at

chandani chowk 

like a bohemian.

only sophistication

can turn tradition

exotic.

toner-

check

skin lightener-

check

concealer-

check

lipstick-

check

kajal-

check

bindi-

check

Beauty lies 

in the eyes of

the culture that raises you. 

The fan

In the dead monsoon heat
I turn up the dial to maximum.

The whirring fan
opens a vortex
sucking in
the plastic
                wedged between 
                the corners of a cupboard,
the painting
                with men sleeping
                after a hard days' work,
the loose linen
                swaying uncertainly
                from my limp arms.

With each nod to the rhythm
                  a brown paper packet of medicines
                  slowly drags itself to the edge of the table.
                  when it inevitably falls to the ground
                  it will drag itself against the floor
                  looking for a new edge to break its
                  compulsion.

Few things embrace
                   the energy of monotony
                   like The fan.

Each drop of sweat
                   moves uncomfortably
                   on my forehead
                   as The giant winged fly
                   hovers above my head.

I remember

(For Baba and other lost loves)

Bending Time and Space

-Dedicated to Ma, Babu and the relentless

Dearest of my fickle heart,

I know you'd bend time 

If you could

I know you'd break the world

If it would

Make me a bit happier.

Dearest of my troubled soul,

I wish I could give you

The light you deserve-

I wish I had more than this 

Unsteady glow 

Of volatile gases

Full of potential

Empty of promises.

Dearest of my uncertain life,

This world is rife 

With people like you and me

Reaching across 

Light-years for each other

Only meeting in dreams

And other places 

We do not understand.

Dearest of my beating heart,

Hold me tender

In your tired mind

And I'll make us

A quiet fire 

That won't burn us 

While we're sleeping.

Someday,

We will find a shore

Where we can 

Dance with our shadows.

Shadow Dance
by Girasole Sonoma
https://www.pinterest.com/pin/405675878939135413/

Storms that Rage

Storms that rage

at the shore of my mind

drown out the cries

of thoughts

trying to swim to safety.

All lifeboats thrashed

into tiny white and grey shards

amidst the cold

spray

that turns the extreme

to unfeeling.

Only Darkness floats steadily-

Darkness can hold so much anger.

Blue anger,

White darkness,

Dark blood-

In some hell,

it hangs like

a pretty picture.

Gus Van Sant
From "Good Will Hunting"

Quiet Afternoon

Everyone else is sleeping.

Even outside 

the snake skinned stick, 

curled around wires, 

sways in the wind sleepily.

The bristling sun is halted by

trees

wooden doors

and thick curtains.

The living room 

is lit dark

and still-

Enough for 

an idle thought

to appear but not linger-

Enough to 

blur

outlines of

sun

wind

stick

tree

door

and me.

Sometimes

a bird chirps unceremoniously

in the afternoon-

Sometimes

a striped lizard scurries along

a hard wood beam-

Sometimes

the shadow of leaves shifts

on the ceiling-

and then

a thought becomes 

an idea

an idea becomes 

a story

a story becomes 

a poem

a poem becomes 

an agenda-

and then

the stillness breaks.

Perhaps that 

is the tragedy

of a quiet afternoon-

A perfect stillness

broken

when it is known.

Footsteps of Monsoon

I had forgotten what monsoon sounded like.

Desperate whirring fans-

trying to cool air

that presses down with

the weight of its

unshed tears-

unable to break the

silence 

of salt

slowly 

sticking

to cloth

and skin.

Without warning,

a heat wholly opposed

to evaporation-

Evaporates

with a chilling cry

into the rumbling clouds.

The clouds hide their faces

in dark beards that stretch the sky

but the wind carries: 

the sound of their 

watery footsteps 

beating on the pavement

louder and louder

Pach,

PaCH

PACH-

faster and faster

Pach,

PachpachPach,

PachpachPachpachPach-

the sound of their 

watery hands

beat on the door

Dhar

DHaR

DHAR-

the sound of their 

watery ghunghru

strike on the roof

tapar

Tapar, 

TaPaR!

There is no sense

to this liberated chaos-

liberated children

liberated garbage

liberated bodies.

Shimmers of 

silver gota on a pallu

crackles in the sky 

as the clouds move onwards.

They leave a promise of return

on an unspecified date:

the familiar

uncomfortable silence.

A papiha trills for respite

as the darkness turns grey again-

I had forgotten the sound of longing

for footsteps heading 

home.

Uncredited: news18, June 17 '20

Diary

I open

my diary

with trepidation.

It's inked with patterns

of flashy loops and 

angry dots

tattooed

on pale pages.

Memories so obscure

and intense

my ears feel red

at the thoughts

I never knew 

I could have.

A letter - a photo-

falls out.

Of a lover -

or a best friend-

I don't remember.

My chest clenches-

I can't tell

if it feels like 

yesterday

or a million years ago.

Amongst the flowers

I planted at every corner,

more scratches and scribbles:

Some trains of thought

never reach their

destination.

Did they run out of steam,

or were they derailed by life 

unable to be

photographed?

I wonder what would have happened

if I had caught that train

yesterday- 

or a million years ago-

I'll never know.

 

.

How I long to console her

this past me

that nurses wounds with

tepid shots of optimism.

I wish I could tell her-

This girl

who may have died

yesterday

or a million years ago-

it doesn't say-

it will get better.

But I cannot make false promises.

I want to tell her

She will never be alone

that I understand her-

I always have.

I know the unfillable emptiness

between the lines of 

self-seriousness

and self-mockery.

The longing 

for a future that could be-

for a past that could not.

But I cannot make 

the same promises I broke

yesterday-

or a million years ago-

I don't remember.

Tattoo print
https://www.pinterest.com/pin/538883911640680431/

Ode to Socks

Perforated terse cotton

purple, black and white.

Luxury wrapped around

dusty

ruptured 

feet.

Protection 

against the poison stabs

of mosquitos and 

other quiet mercenaries.

Every monsoon tries to deceive me

into freeing my toes of you.

The intoxication of humidity

comes at a price:

an offering to tiny winged gods. 

When- eventually-

my head clears

and I choose you-

You-

without malice-

used to my weaknesses-

hold together my bruised feet

ever so lightly to truly free me- 

so I can sleep,

and I dream,

and I start anew.

How do I forget how precious you are?

You are unlike any other breathing thing!

Even as the earth kisses you-

I leave you to fend for yourself.

But others do not forget.

When I let you out of my sight-

the gods steal you away from me.

The cupboards consume you

The washing dissolves you

into thin air-

punctuating

my belonging to you.

Even when your soul is cut in half 

you are patient.

You wait for a being beyond purity

with your abandoned step-sisters-

united in your purpose

of protecting dreams 

and the beginning of new days.

So simple is

So 

simple is beautiful.

So

simple is

foundation or 

fleeting?

universal or 

unique?

origin or

odyssey?

fact or

faith?

essence or

echo?

I'm sorry-

let me explain

simply.

When the rain patters

on hot tiles

it fills up between

my toes-

the smell of life

churning in wet mud

rises up

embraces me-

I close my eyes

face to the skies-

I wait 

for the trembling 

hand of thunder

to reach my ears-

and dust 

stale taste 

off my soul.

So is simple.

Source: freshmadedigital.com

 

Light Blues

I was waiting for a light

T’keep me comp’ny for the night.

Heard a whisper 

from a corner

and it made me feel alright.

I was shooting for the stars

They said I wouldn’t get too far.

They can’t see me

standing lonely

on the cold red dirt of mars.

He was waiting in the wings

Ready with a diamond ring.

Should’ve known that

life’s a Cadillac

that’s too filled up with things.

The party started in the storm

They were trying to keep warm.

Took my jacket

cigarette packet

Got lost trying to get home.

Told my story to a girl

With brown eyes and pretty curls.

She found it funny

and said "honey-

You are still young for this world."

I was waiting for a light

T’keep me comp’ny for the night.

Heard a whisper 

from a corner

So I finally slept alright.

The Starry Night
Vincent Van Gogh

Simple rhymes for the early 21st century

too many lives

too many lives

too many lives

a technical glitch.

too many loves

too many loves

too many loves

lost to the abyss.

the world  

divided between

those who do

crosswords

and 

those playing

"you're it".

let me forget

let me forget

let me forget

I can't pay the rent.

let me regret

let me regret

let me regret

this life I've spent.

the hair

dissolves between

curls in 

bleach

and

curls left

unkempt.

won't you begin

won't you begin

won't you begin

a solemn preach.

then put us in

then put us in 

then put us in

bars that won't breach. 

The mouth

twists between

a gape of

hunger

and

a gape of a

screech.

open us now

open us now

open us now

we need protection.

close it up now

close it up now

close it up now

we breed infection.

the house

cracks between

concrete of

walls

and

concrete of

foundation.

Associated Press
https://www.indiatvnews.com/fyi/lockdown-4-0-guidelines-30-districts-to-see-stricter-guidelines-after-may-17-617927

Waiting

The heat has caught on
but for now
we found a roof
that casts a long shadow.

The day beats on
pulsing out from
concrete and tar
without us.
Cracks
of roof and skin
expand and
retract-
conscious
of sweat
that tries to save us.

A lizard slips inside
panting.
It's fat with the mosquitoes
who sat on our sweat
to draw undried blood.
We are blood brothers now-
together we wait,
as our eyes
follow each other
suspiciously.

Time had stopped so

many times for us
we had to look away.
It knows,
we do not wait for it,
we wait for shade.

But the shadow would not
wait-
even as we moved at its every whim-
it is in too much of a hurry
to follow the sun.

So sweat mingles
with sweat mingles
with sweat,
As the umbra shrinks
us to a corner.

Now the shadow
turns its back on us,
our brother has
abandoned us.

Time stops,
and clicks its tongue.
We search again
shading our eyes from
the sun
that has months
before it sets.

The Persistence of Memory
Salvador Dali

Falling in love

I've fallen in love
a couple of times
with myself.

How easily
I broke my heart.

Could you blame me
for giving it
to you for
safekeeping?

Lemonade

I find solace in old poets

I find solace in old poets.

Poets who wrote

before these times.

They remind me that-

nothing worth feeling

hasn’t been felt before

everything worth feeling

is worthy of expression

I am not new-

still, I am 

I have not changed
unrecognisably-

even a world

in upheaval

does not change

its upheaving

all that much

They remind me that-

this world is human

because we 

preserved

and distilled

experience

in small 

airtight 

jars

of words

spaces

and colour

all beautiful things

are poetry

because
poetry
is

what makes the mind

stir and 

shimmer

like the moon 

in water

held by 

cupped hands

poetry is not a choice

it is necessity

for creating 

for preserving 

for being

They remind me that-

we are not alone-

the past

always gives

the present company

the present is 

another poem

waiting to

console a future- 

"we are here because,

       we are here because,
we are here"

A view

Crybaby

Tapping my fingers on the table top,

The thirsty boy is sucking on his lollypop.

He’s looking at me like he’s made a choice

He’s twisted his smile and lowered his voice.

He says,

“The bar is getting empty and we’re still alone,

So common sad girl I’ll take you back home.

I see you nursing wounds with cheap spirits out here

Promise won’t ask questions when I see your tears.”

I say,

“Boy, you don’t know me, wish you had what it takes,

But I’ve really had my fill of stupid mistakes.

Sure, I’m lonely and I still don’t know why,
But babe, you’re not the lover who’ll see me cry.”

Tapping my fingers on the table top,

The pious woman suffers in the coffee shop.

She’s had enough of my rhythms and blues,

She thinks it’s time someone gave me a clue.

She says,

“Is this chair empty? Are you all alone?

Don't they teach you to be a lady at home?

Suck up your problems and act like your age,

You’ll look pretty if you smile so don’t be sad with rage.”

I say,

“Woman, you don’t know me and how far I’ve come,

I’ve really had my fill of trying to be someone.

Sure, I’m lonely and I still don’t know why,

But back off, mama, or you'll learn how to cry.”

Tapping my fingers on the table top,

The radio man's profit margins cannot drop.

He’s told himself he’s gonna save some souls,

He’s an honest man and justified in his goals.

He says,

“The world is ending and you’re all alone,

You have no say in your broken homes.

They’ll never understand you so listen to me,

I’m gonna teach you to hate and make lots of money.”

I say,

“Man, you don’t know me, what I fought to get here,

I’ve had my fill thinking of self-absorbed fears.

Sure, I’m lonely and I still don’t know why,

But you’re not the saint I’d pay to stop me cry.”

Tapping my fingers on the table top,

I’ve thrown out my scribblings and all that I've got.

Haven't eaten for days and I’m screaming inside

I’ve been wondering if death is a good place to hide.

I say,

“I know you’re empty and you’re so alone,

You can’t do nothing, you can’t make a home.

You’ll never be happy cause you’re such a fake,

Give up, we know you don’t have what it takes.”

I say,

“Hey, you don’t know me and what I can do,

I’ve had my fill hating myself cause of you.

Sure, I’m lonely and I still don’t know why,

But you’ll never get the best of me when I cry.”

No, they’ll never get the best of me when I cry.

Card IV: Rorschach Inkblot Test