The Blank Page

challenged me.

It dared me to write,

to speak my mind,

to be poetic,

to break the silence.

But my mind remained

blissfully apathetic

to the screams of the page

before me.

The page dreams

more than my mind these days.

My world is stagnating

Along with my soul. 

Funerals

I have attended
all my funerals -
buried my selves
with no pomp or show
except fitting tears
and beautiful elegies.
After each heartbreak
there would be a me -
an us, a memory -
to bury
and move on.
After each funeral
I have risen,
Restored,
Only to walk up to my
next funeral.
Every burial
has been more sombre
than the previous,
Every new elegy
more beautiful.
There's one last funeral
I need to attend
before saying 'hi' to you -
The burial of
my last sane self.

March 26, 2013

The Stench

I am saving my teardrops,
gathering them
one by one -
Now I have
a pool of them
somewhere inside me
where once there was
a heart
devoted to your moments.
Moments of love,
of laughter,
of tender fights,
of clamoured arguments -
Moments that have turned into memories
that the heart
cannot hold
any longer.
I have drowned them all
in my saved pool
of tears.
Now all there is
are rotten carcasses
of what once smelled of you.

March 24, 2013

Life (Dug up from a 2007 hand-written note)

I.
The sea of life
is spread before you.
You have to swim in it.
Not with the hopes of reaching the shores,
But with the dread of not being alive for another day.

II.
The monotony of life
Numbs you to quietitude.
And every time you move,
it hurts.
And so long it takes to come out of that numbness
That you lose every other sense.
In the end,
Nothing.

III.
Life is a long search
For love.

You find it,
lose it,
come across it accidentally.
Destroy it by chance,
Discard it,
Run after it...

It eludes you every time
And yet deludes you into thinking
that you have it.

The long search ends without triumph,
And yet you are happy. 

The Passing of a Stranger (Dug up from a 2006 hand-written note)

In the Dark, on a New Moon day,
On the barren land,
There walked a stranger on his way,
With a black pony at hand.

Clad he was in dark garments,
And his head was covered too;
On the pony were his saddlements,
Which were all of a dark hue.

His pace was slow, his footing sure,
And wary he was of arounds;
He looked prepared for anything to endure,
And stopped he at all uncertain sounds.

From afar he looked no crook,
Though sure one cannot be;
But one could discern by just one look,
That he was not pleasant to see.

Altogether a foreboding look he bore,
But then, the sky was dark -
So was the land and waters before;
Even a dog would have feared to bark.

He walked on, pursuing the poor beast,
To carry on with his tired hoofs,
An evil pair they looked, to say the least,
Though there can be given no proofs.

Steadily the Sun rose and the dawn crackled,
The foreboding look vanishing,
The rays struck every sand grain and they chuckled,
The pair now further wandering.

With the rise of the Sun, all was plain,
And the pony now looked so brown,
The man we doubted was a mere plebian,
Walking off on an errand of his own. 

Ashes of memories

The cigarette butt began to burn,
And that foul, tarrish smell enveloped the fingers -
The last pinch of ash,
like withering human-years,
falls off the cigarette in a silent weep.
She turned to her reflection in the mirror,
And her charred lips spoke of a love
taken away.

In the end the butt has to be thrown off -
Having sheltered the line of tobacco
Until its embers melt in the altar
of human yearning
and unspoken pains.

Her eyes glinting like sunshine upon the river,
Her face rigid as platinum,
She picked the last spot of ash
and tasted its scorched remains;
They arouse memories of the nights
When cigarette butts and ice cubes splayed on the floor
Alongside naked bodies and satin sheets.

The taste of alcohol from the lips that parted to whisper her name,
The smell of smoke settling into her hair
like his skin on hers,
The nights that turned into day without a flicker of sunlight,
And half-eaten pizzas awaiting stray consumption.

The cigarette is burnt again,
And the butt has singed her fingers,
But the smell of love that wraps her being
lives on through the ashes of memories.

Two Reality Bytes

I.
Wake Up.
Wake Up.
Wake Up.
Do not snooze the alarms.
It's alarming.

Wake Up.
The call is Intense.
You cannot ignore it anymore.
No. You should not.


Wake Up.
The bells are tolling.
You will be next
To be eaten by the demon of laze.

Wake Up.
Before it is too late.

Wake Up.

Wake Up.

Wake Up...!

II.
Love songs.
Sugar.
Pepper.
Chocolate candies.
Pink ribbons.
Jalapenos.

The world is too sweet.
Let us pour chilli sauce
On your cake,
Darling.

Trust

I love the rains,
They soothe me so.
And when the rain clouds
Hovered above me,
Threatening to pour,
I laughed at them.

Bring it on, I said,
Unknowing of their plan for me.

I wish I did not trust the rains so much.

Now I am drenched as the soil beneath the river,
And the sun is nowhere to be seen.

More love poems

I. Soft hands
When you first touched my hands
You said they were soft as a pillow
And kissed the palm as if it were a bud of rose.

Yesterday when I caressed your face
You turned away from me
Muttering, “Use some cream.”

I looked at my withered hands
And found scales and scars and wounds
Of fifty years of love.

II. In Love
Everyone said you and I were in love.

I laughed at them,
You scorned them.

Yet I buried my dreams in your smell,
You bathed in the radiance of my smile.

You and I
Were not to be chained by
Social labels and mores.
But we never realized
How chained we were
By hearts and souls.

Nights were a reason to wake up to make your brunch,
Days were a reason to enter the depths of my locks.

We still denied we were in love.
"We just need each other,"
We reiterated,
In the hope of convincing ourselves.

One morning,
She came in with a bubbly laugh and a cheery face,
Made your eggs and your bed,
Said she loves you,
and took you away.

All I did was gawp after you.
We were not to be chained by
Social labels and mores.
And we are not in love.

I laughed again.

Sally’s weekend

(June 2010)

Most of my weekends are spent waiting for someone to remember me. Meanwhile, I wander about the house, or my little cosy garden, tidying their little corners and searching for pending work. Usually, Rachel might call and say she wants to go out shopping or pay up some bills. Whether I have some work outdoors or not, I tag along. She seems to derive some comfort talking to me about the house, the people, the works. I let her babble on, as my eyes wander along the roads, shopping malls and restaurants. There are families, children, couples, college students, boys, girls, middle-aged people, oldies - all around with someone or the other they trust and like. Rachel and I like each other’s company. We have similar interests in conversation. We have common topics to chat about.

And when she’s not in town or if she’s doing that weekend shift at work, I am alone again. I wait for someone to call. There’s Anaita, or James, who could call. Or I wait for someone to send me a text message. Why didn’t Charlie, Amelia or Stanley remember me yet? I watch a movie, listen to some songs, cook somthing. Stare at the mobile every third minute. No. No one’s called. There’s no text either. Nobody remembers me yet.

Finally boredom overtakes my self-respect, and I text Stanley. “Hey, what’s up?” Immediately comes the reply: “Oh darling, I was just thinking of you. The weather’s so romantic. Shall I come over? Are you free?” I am disgusted. I reply: “Oh boy, no dear, I’m not at home actually. Travelling to the grandpa’s. So sorry sweets. Catch you later!” No reply from the other side. Opportunists.

I call Harris. His phone’s engaged. I don’t have much hopes about him returning the call. So finally, I stop seeking out the men and decide to check on what my girlfriends are up to. Amelia picks the call and says: “Hey sweetheart, my dad’s given me some work. I got to finish it today. I’ll call you back by evening?” All right, all right, busybee.

I don’t have the courage for more rejections. I feel dejected. And I get back to the garden and the house. There is no lack of work around, but I keep wishing there was someone to help me out. I wait for 48 hours. And a new working week begins. Until another weekend looms. Until another 48 hours of waiting….

Me and my books

The books I read every night,
Once came to life upon my bed.

The Tagore collection hummed melodiously,
The Sherlock Holmes fidgeted restlessly,
And Tinkles jumped about enthusiastically.
The Kamala Das stories came to rest in my lap,
The PG Wodehouse wanted a ride on my back
And the Ruskin Bond beckoned me to play carrom.

My quiet room was suddenly cacophonic,
Leaving me baffled.

I picked up the Holmes and gave it some tobacco,
Lent my mp3 player to Tagore;
Rested Das on my teddy bear,
Gave Bond to my kitten;
Put Tinkle in the cage with my birds,
And laid Wodehouse on the swing.

Finally, they lost their energy
And allowed me to sift through them,
Agreeing to share their knowledge and pleasure, joys and sorrows.

I held them to my bosom and slept peacefully again.

Followed

The lurking shadows,
The eerie sounds,
The mysterious scuffles,
The entombing silence -
Nothing but myself hounds me.

Snippets from a poet's mind

I.
The eyes once refused
to see the colours of hope.
And now the darkness has settled upon them.

II.
We heard a song together once
And rode upon its lyrics to heaven.
I came crashing down when the CD got stuck,
And you got stuck in the audio output wire.

III.
Those memories pain me yet.
What do they do to you, dear?

IV.
I want to be like the tides,
That rejoice in nothing but the frolic
of carrying memories
but not in burden, not in pain.

V.
I look out of the window every time
I hear the mating screech of kites.
They care not for a dime
Of my two watchful eyes.

VI.
I watch the clock tick,
Listen to the chirp of birds,
Feel the breeze from the ceiling fan,
Follow the notes of my thoughts.

I'm quite busy, darling.
No time for sorrows, loneliness or pain.

VII.
True to my word,
I didn't speak to you so long.
But what about the million conversations
We carry out in my head every day?

Opening Up To The Night

I.
Every night,
A tear waits to escape
from the well of the face.
There's nothing to holding it back;
There's free will and independence -
But for a ray of hope
in the brain that dries it
before it can make its escape.

II.
There's something about the dark.
Its mysterious quality is captivating.
Dreams are born in the night
And so is love and most of my poetry.
It hides fears and affection in its bosom.
It scares and comforts,
It pains and pampers,
It breeds violence and peace.

When all's bright, during the day,
There's all the life and the world to seek.
But it's the night that brings you out.
You stand face to face
not with another, but your self.
It scares and comforts,
Pains and pampers,
Breeds violence and peace.

Conversations of a night

I.
Why, darling,
I'm sorry
I slept off before you finished your story.

What were you saying?
Oh yes, your father died when you were four,
Your mother was raped by his best friend
And you,
Yes you were sold to Thailand.

I am so sorry about that.
But I'm glad I came to Bangkok -
I saw such beautiful sights,
Such ravishing women -
And met you.

I had such a great night, thank you.
I'm going back to India tomorrow.
You take care.

Darling, you were awesome.
And so sorry about your parents.
Especially Mother, Yes.

II.
Did you dream today too?
Forget it.
This is it.
No moving forward.
Honey, the darkness is all you've got.
Enjoy its soothing, personal touch.

Your darkness is your alone, isn't it?
Find me a day that's yours.

No, don't aspire for it.
Stagnate.
There's bliss in it.

What?
You choose to move on?
And leave me alone?
All right.
Let melancholy be mine alone....

III.
The dawn brings promises
Of more memories, good and bad,
Of new acquaintances and relations,
Of fresh rays of hope and peace.

A cup of coffee in hand,
We savour the promises
and promise to do our best.

The phone rings.
Your father passed away
peacefully, in his sleep last night.

Suddenly you dread the dawn of the night
And the end of the smooth darkness.

Picking up pieces

I.
Mirror reflects my being,
But where do I look to find my soul?

Somewhere within the walls of this body
It lies maimed and shattered.

Picking up pieces after a massacre
Is not easy,
Not motivating.

Will you help me,
I ask the mirror.
And it stares back at me in silence,
As helpless as me.

I look around again,
And everyone is picking up their pieces.

At least, I'm just one of them.
Not alone in my misery.
Heartening.

II.
Her life’s in a mess.
And she plays Freecell,
Wins the game,
And assures herself she can conquer it all.

She goes to the Church,
Looks at the imposing Christ before her
And sheds a tear,
Apologises to her men,
And pretends to be strong.

Alone, at home,
she smiles into the mirror,
Which too scorns at her.

There are tears of grief somewhere,
That struggle to break the steel armour.
But if she lets it break, would she be happy?

No.
She has to live her life.
She has to clear the mess herself,
Pay for it through her own karma.
She smiles again at the mirror,
And it smiles back at her.

Right.

Subconscious and life

I.
The mesh of bodies
Sprawling on the Earth
Is oppressing.
I'm struggling for breath underneath
And the far-away winds
Are eluding me.

I walk along the shores
For hours,
But there's no end,
No destination in sight.
The sea is tired of seeing me -
It is driving me away with its crashing waves.

I am on the hills,
Climbing up and down,
Along the ceaseless paths of green and brown.
There's no horizon in view
And there's no other escape.
I'm tired of walking.
It is growing dark,
And the woods are turning hostile.

I am standing in the market,
Not a known face around,
No hi, no hello, no what's up.
I am looking for friends,
But their voices far away
Merely add to the tantalising dreams.

This is no dream to wake up from,
Not a life to live out,
Nor am I in a trance.
Where am I?

II.
Being at the right place in the wrong time.
Meeting the right people at the wrong time.
Asking the right question at the wrong time to the right people.
Being wrong when I am supposed to be right.
My life is a play of words –
between rights and wrongs.

It is a happy tragedy,
A sad comedy,
Of ceaseless aspiring,
Ceaseless content,
The works.

Escapist's poems

I.
So very weirdly,
Everyone cribs about work,
Love and Life.

About how your work
Leaves no time for anything else
And how love is lacking,
Life is slacking.

Yet,
When something decides to show up,
We run around trying to hide.

We are driven,
Not by courage,
Not by lust,
Nor curiosity,
But by escapism.

From life, love, work
And the self.

II.
When we open our old drawers
And find those sheets
of tidily jotted scribbles,
We are torn between
Wanting to throw them
and cherishing their memory.

There was once a 'me'
That loved these, we say,
and shut those drawers again.

The little self
scribbled on those sheets
Go back to sleep,
annoyed for having been woken.

And we get back to the tidying
Unaware and unattending
to the shards of self scattered all over,
Too scared to put them together.

III.
We talk of old romances,
of little love notes
and stolen kisses,
And joke about how silly we were.

But somewhere deep inside,
We nurture those seeds
Or pamper those wounds,
And yet close our minds on them
So we can live peacefully -
Or so we think.

Him, her and me

I dance to the tune he composed for her,
I chase the dreams he saw with her;
I walk the roads they paved together,
I relish the love they shared.

I,
live with them,
And they,
know not who I am.

A married lady's plaint

What did I wish for?

A smooth skin rubbing against me and arousing me,
A soothing touch sending shivers down the spine,
Warm smell of you as you hugged me,
And a night of romantic talks.

And I got,
Your grazing beard on my chins,
The touch of your sweaty palms on my breasts,
The stink of tobacco from your mouth as you slurped on me,
And you snoring away after withdrawing from within me.

I watch the flickering moonlight
And dream of another man.