Showing posts from November, 2015

Scripts on Your Body

A middle aged female body,
Returning home from work
Walks like a balance, swaying between
Polythene of vegetables and hard earned time.

They come in different sizes and shapes,
Tired, with disheveled hair and displaced sarees,
checking the pace of their steps and the awaiting chores.
The sight of that bundle of warmth, walking ahead,
like penguins or the rhythms of the quack,
brings unexpected tears. Your overflowing heart.

Every home needs a middle aged woman, to show
the marks oflove women carry on their bodies.
Those that they sow, and
Never reap.

After Dark

Each day, each hour one lives
Is a step towards nothingness,
Not even memory in its most primitive form
Comes along that night, When you
choke your breath out as never again.

The moving train and the vanishing green,
One sleeps like an unsung rain
Abandoned, like the shadows one leaves behind.
You become the darkness outside your study,
sounds of the night that scared the child in you.
Or the snake trail on desert sand
Like the rhythms of summer.
A haunted tree, birdless and raining leaves.
The white flowers, like stars in your courtyard.
The loneliness of a one foot lane or
the sway of the kaattaadi.

But never again,
Footmarks, walking home or
A love, like Spring. The hues of your evenings,
the agony of withdrawals or
thoughts of it in some nether land

Time Traveller

When people die, you travel
to meet them for a last time.
The road becomes a metaphor
and the sky speaks of infinity.
You realize the link between
Time and travel, and fading distances
You look up from your window seat
And decode patterns of clouds in frantic collage.

Death is frozen like lifeless lips, Grey
and separated, like distant lands.
The disheveled curls and the wind
On your face, take you
to the backyards of yesteryears.
Laughter, evenings, jasmines
Smell of home, mother, incense
The swing, the heights, your nights
and the early hour designs.

A memory, now, refusing to smile
Sleeps on the ground,
Cross, like a child wanting toffee.
A body, tied up in parts
to check further flights of fancies.
You join the race of withdrawal symptoms,
and the assembly of crows.

The last wish remain, so do void
As armchair and that spot in your living room.

Birds have stories too...

Can you imagine the pain, the gripping face
and the screeching cry of a one year old
Burning alive?

What would have been the little mind frantically searching?
His mother? Her hug? Or the fresh air from the fields?
He would have died of exhaustion
Trying to push the pain away from him
Tired, he slept in peace with his little sister as
life left them.

Now, he won’t know
the meaning of his skin tone
Or the creed, to which he belongs
And he wont live to realize
the betrayal of his own race.
He is expelled for ever.

Cuckoos are born of such tiny souls,
Who no more believe in a home, a land.
They scatter like the first rain and
Don’t stop to see their seeds sprout
Among us, the vulgar of the species.

Next time you hear a cuckoo sing,
close your eyes and listen
to the cluttered rhythm
of tiny steps

Please do Die

My only wish
is to hear,
he is dead.

Dead, Like a log of wood
in the rain. The decaying slip.

This won’t do justice enough
to the many closures , many truths,
and the many many-ies draped over me.
Or may be not.
Yet, for the fakeness that is,
And the self-centered coldness
The best denial should come from life
Like a still born womb or
An unburied body.


Relations die a natural death when there is nothing in common to talk

Words have abandoned me
And smiles too. I stare on the walls
and at my children. Sullen.

On whom shall I stretch my arms?
And breathe out the fatigue of the day
And sit careless, facing the sea,
counting birds flying west.
For whom shall I rise, a full sky
when the sun sets

Every love is an urge
for a new space,
of fresh conversation.

A female in love with a man is half drowned in incest.
For she looks for that father she never had.

The Beauty of Life

The beauty of life
depends on how much
you can let yourself free,
from the colored glass cases.
And leave others too, to the rain,
to the open fields, like birds flocking high.

See the earth in you
Expand to hold the green
See the rain on the mountains
Shading hues of green on your chest
Rivers, fresh tears gather polluted desire
To become the unexpected swirls of the sea.

Find a spot from where you can see the setting sky
and the infinite city, like a distant mirage
The red robe becomes your wings
as you fly down. Not a kite
looking for its food, but
you are a seagull
in search of
its sea.

The fall is not a metaphor, or of Icarus
But the celebration of wind
in your lungs, and the
lightness of your
fingers, across
your heart.