Transparency is Sin - Snippets from a Life


Biography should begin
from that coffee mug
you toss against the evening sky
and the ocean below,
As you fall
out of love.


The letter i wrote to my uncle
when I was just four
had a wrong address

I was happy when it came back
for, I knew it had come back
meeting my uncle 
and the doll would follow.


Men I loved didn't love me back 
or vice versa
but every now and then,
I tried to patch up with a chanced opportunity
May be, like the lizard rushing through
the sunset seascape on my bedroom wall
to catch the fly like comma

the flight of seagulls 
crossing the canvas.


My first love in school was a christian boy
whom I hated, while he loved.
But, I remember writing 
a rather long philosophical treatise
on the politics of social disharmony and personal threats in the condition of being in love with a catholic boy with regard to future prospects of food and shelter.

that was an eye opener
I never knew before
I was such a mature person!


Every time I kissed my boyfriend 
I noted it in my diary
I knew it wont last long and so titled it
"End of Days'

I must have hit a century, before the end, which
I forgot to mark.
for, by then
It had become a casual 


I fell in love with the colour pink
when, while in school
I saw a girl cough and pull out
a baby pink worm.


The last blow came in the form of a car.
The car could have been excused, 
but not that self portrait he cropped out of it
glancing across 
the lethargic street, 
drained of oblivion.


She left poetry, in the beginning of her teens
for the man who loved it, also loved her breasts.


I  write what ever I feel like
filth, blood or voluptuousness.
For I no more have that man of a litmus paper
who sucks in my every word and paints his skin a dragon tattoo.


I married because my family thought so,
Had a child, as I thought that was normal
Forgot love, as i felt it was a pre-marital un avoidance
Traveled for work
Cooked for taste
Shopped, slept and sexed
for that was how I thought everybody was.

And when this man told, he loved me mad
I thought, shall have some change, 
if not love!


as I kiss my son and he blush
and we laugh joyfully,
I think of my own eighth year
when nobody kissed me 
as a kid, yet
held me close,
drew me in to in-between spaces
and loved me 
as a woman.


My body is my language.
Read poetry in my early teens
from my erect nipples
and love
from neckline goosebumps.
Now, as I lay aroused
I sketch a skin 
to translate 
my red wine lust. 


is so beautiful a word!.,
with the sound track moving 
from high pitch to low
and the lip movement like the flowering of a bud, smiling
Yet,  you see the vase, not the lotus
The bee, the honey 
and the Queen.
The curves, not the throb. 

Just the red
over the blue blush.


He spreads on to my skin
like a wall full of 
black butterflies.


I had great plans for pregnancy
To bathe
To laugh
To read fairy tales and write poems, to spur the infant imagination.
and even to read scripts, for a spiritual foetal beginning
all I could do was
watch serials, to scorn
Read rape reports, and later theorize flesh and blood.
Have broken sleep
Sour mouth and 
Dirty tongue, to discard lovers.

The only enlightenment, I had 
was to realize,
Hunger during pregnancy 
has much to do with boredom.


Nights without crickets 
and darkness without glow worms
is what you call meditation.

A color blind rain forest. 


You see night droplets on planet red
as ladybugs gather on the dance floor.


This is perfect time
to write a poem.

I ditched my love
for a lie.

and said on his face,
rhythmically, with a falling intonation
“I don’t love”.
and added extra syllables
as I murmured
“but I don’t want him to leave me”


The stars may be white
but I paint them shapes
strawberries and butterflies,
on your shoulders
while you sleep.


One for you
and one for me
For the day.

Thus u exchange
Packets of warmth,
Once in a while.
Amidst regular boredom
That creeps in to every fantasy.


Relations are cross stitches
diagonally reaching the other shore,
Where u meet the needle prick
of another layer interwoven.


That’s how they started writing poetry
Sitting huddled together.

Swept aside,
Like war bodies
In a common grave.


Secrets will betray me
The day you die.
They will walk out to you, in queue,
from my eyes, that night.
Black and white
Of a language

Call me a cheat, then
As you leave.
Let me lie,


The man I married asks me,
“Do you know? 
how ugly you look when you hiss at your son”
And he reminds,
“He is a man and you a woman, 
so better arrest your anger.”

I am at once, jealous

of my son’s manhood at seven
And wonder, if 
a woman in labor
is equally ugly
with her facial muscles rigid
Choked throat and
Shivering patience.


When God is love
and man is man,

Every woman is a poem.


At least one lie should remain
as it is, when you die. 

Truths are unromantic, unlike lies
that you cross spin 
with rainbow colours
over your smile.

Lovers are not for loving
but for building castles
of fairy lands and ocean beads.
To know the wind,
as you fly
and to feel the cold
as you sink.


After knowing a poet for so long,

its essential, you need silence
to know poetry.


Her earliest memory
hangs over her wish
to stab her grandma
sleeping beside
So that,
her mom would come back
for the funeral.


Once upon a time in the kingdom of water lilies in a remote hamlet down the river across the bamboo bridge there lived a little cutie called love. She was born on a winsome night when stars had lured dandy moon to their jasmine bedspread. She grew a butterfly and flew a honey bee. Years afar I can see her fluttering her colours as a love menopause.


Some fears are like the seventh wave,
They hit hard, even while
you play card games of distant memories,
Narcissist moves of redemption,
on a silver moon shore.

Revolutions are nostalgic
like those early hours
when u smoke,
and smoke.
You cross the river
and come to me
I shall show you how
the forest menstruates at midnight.


That day, after we made love
I opened my body to the winds

Sweat, saliva and semen
were tattooed over my skin,
taking forms of animal shaped constellations 
and ushering in, the fate of the Medusa.

I roam over the skies, and
roll around my bedroom floor
for an eternity.


Some people are like clouds
They wander
out of your senses
Only to stroll back, leisurely
Forming popcorn skies
And showering in


 sunbeams and gulmohars
like love and longing

cruel April
'broken April'
silent and distant April 


 The day I became deaf

It's only when sounds,
U realise, you are naked.

Voids, blanketed
Under hilarious laughters
Arguments, nailed
Over other backbones

Lies and ecstasies

Monologues, asides
and the kingdom of fantasies
Withdraw, like a lost army

Now that, I needn't speak
And will only look
I fear,
My eyes will tell the truth.


 This time

I shall save it
In deep recess

and feel
The subtle waves, like
Flowers on a stream.

This time


Silent paintings
On the night sky

This time

Naked November
'Winter's embrace'

of blue berries

This time

a love,


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