Strangers

Every time I look inside myself,
a stranger stares me back.

A man whispers incomprehensible words to himself
and falls on the floor, eyes open, hands on the chest.

A man peeps into the shady galley of flesh
and glistens his lips with a lusty tongue.

A man walks on the rocky path where the ascetics
once traveled through to see a thing called "white light".

A man moves his fingers along the edges of a
firewood while an old cook shouts, "that's fire."

A man drives straight because he doesn't know
where to take a turn and when to exit.

A man watches a boy bleed to death on the street
while a caterpillar crosses his feet.

A man stabs his heart to feel the pain.

Sometimes, at midnight,
when you call,
the men shake hands
like the rivers mingle
in the depth of the ocean.

Drip

Something drips all the time.
A water tape in the kitchen,
a leaking A.C.,
the eyes of a woman
beside her husband on the pillow,
the sky across the window top,
a pen on the pages of an unwritten book.

Something drips always.
You just listen to its sound
and think about some other time
when you imagined seeing it.
Life oozing out;
drops of pain
in the middle of one night.
_______________________________________

(2012)

A poem on love

A poem on love should begin with
a sketch on white paper.
A sun beaming between two hillocks,
small birds appearing just below,
a river flowing under a wooden bridge
that leads to a serene hut.

Children playing under trees,
green pastures around.
Two kids,
a boy and a girl.
Holding hands
looking at the horizon,
beyond the hills,
away from the drawing paper.

A poem on love should end here.
The sketch should be protected now
from a pale time.
Preserved;
not to see a decaying reality.

Nicely framed and
hung
on the lonely wall of your drawing room.
_________________________________________

(2012)

__________________________________________________

When I meet them,
I wear a monkey cap,
sweater, gloves, jeans, shoes.
Sometimes, even scarves.
Not letting their chillness
to touch my skin.

When I come back,
I shed those clothes of warmth,
masks; on the floor.
Lying naked on my mat,
I try to write-
something.
Some words
that can withstand
the chillness of their gaze.
_________________________________________________________

(Random thoughts - 2012)

Freedom

_______________________________________________
The man in him wanted to roam in the Himalayas
and the woman in him wanted to join the naked march.

I despise both of them
not knowing form purple to violet
at times not even able to separate from black to white.
I loathe them perpetually,
their ruthlessness;
their certainty.

One evening, I persuaded him to
climb to the 29th floor.
And looking at a bunch of grey clouds
asked him,
to sing a song to bring the rain.
When he was drawn to somewhere up
I pushed him down
and came back to my little corridor
and slept on the ground
feeling free.
__________________________________________________
(2012)

About an emotionally turbulent night

All night long,
I sipped water from a plastic bottle.
The gutters of Mumbai are full of diseases.

All night long,
I uprooted grey-beard.
Pigeons lay eggs inside my room.

All night long,
I tried to rearrange the pages of an old script.
Unspoken words act as lethal weapons.

All night long,
I cried over spilled milk.
Stains in the milk-pot are hard to remove.

All night long,
I cursed my  groins.
Swear words are not good metaphors.

All night long,
I waited for the sea to become a pond.
Sentimentality gives birth to bad poems.
_______________________________________

(2012)

A separation

Love that gnash its teeth
and scratch my skin
is the dog unleashed.

We had some racist arguments.
We hated the opposite breeds.

We walked to the nearby forest
and lost each other. Saying,
Goodbyes are not forever.
But for this life, we were certain.

Dog is a faithful animal, I heard.
Man is loyal to himself, I retorted.

We were committed to our separation.
___________________________________

(2012)

Nojusotrificalization

What happens when the whole of mankind
is put to sleep on the 7th day of an irreverent week
And the sea is spread throughout
covering the mountain's peak ?

What happens when the earth is brought to rest;
strings cut from a giant wheel
and the stars are compelled
not to burn themselves out just with a wisp ?

What happens when the black dots of space and time
are asked not to move away from each other
and mass is maneuvered
just to remain mass, once and for all ?

What happens when the forces unknown
are kept unknown even from the
supreme consciousness that kept it like that ?

It's alot easier now.
You know the answers.

Tell me, what will happen
when your words
won't matter anymore ?
________________________________________________

(2012)

Power of Love

And what remains
is not even left with.

With the sun finding a refuge
behind the mountains,
the little girl after selling
idols of Ganesha on the busy
streets of Mumbai;
goes to sleep with some
little idols clasped close to her heart
dreams about the
Ganeshas turning in to laddus.

I swim backward on my
bed of memories.
I collect a chocolate wrapper,
an envelope whose inside
once filled with love,
a word that hung
in the middle of her speech,
fading in brownian motion
when I switched on the light.

As I gather myself,
I realized;
even the power of love
can't held back the moments
that flew away just now.
___________________________

(2012)

PURSE

It was there a moment before.

Now, it's gone.

The black leather one,

bought after an exhaustive bargain,

near a railway station.

It was two years ago, I guess.

You can't trust them,

the folks in the bus

not for a brief second

to wipe your sweaty face.

They are out there;

vultures in waiting

picking moment of weaknesses.

What saddened me most 

was not her photo,

or the credit cards 

or the paper-soap I carry everywhere

or those few hundred bucks.

I am worried about the bus-ticket

I bought in exchange of a ten-rupee note.

What shall I tell the ticket collector ?

How do I get down on the road ?

I am worried about the nearest future 

in a place where nobody believes 

in it anymore.

_________________________________________

(2012)

SHOELACE

I had a pair of black ones.
In my entire childhood,
used to put to work
when someone tied knots
or the headmaster loosened the ends of a rope
tied to the tricolor.

Soon, my feet grew.
Became larger for the veranda
of my ancestral house
that used to host cricket matches.
I had a couple of pairs then
white ones, whitish-grey;
licking the dust around the country.

Now, I have stopped
tying them,
even paying attention
to those little things
of pride;
decade old cravings.
Preferring simple ones
without shoelaces.
_________________________________

(2012)

Pillow

Stain remains
of old coconut oil.

My nightmares, my saliva
leaves white past.

In mornings,
wet on either sides.
My mother and I
share you during night.

Green
fades to shades of grey.

A red bindi sticks
on one corner
once worn by mother
in those times
of whispers and tears.

Dear pillow,
you make me sink
on hard bed of time
when none is left
to watch me sleeping.
______________________________

(2012)

________________________________
A man must walk to clear his mind.
Sometimes, when the cobwebs are dense.
Thick forests need machinery.
Clear them and
Run.

A man must run to clear his doubts.
Evan if you got a sore feet,
a twisted ankle
or you have breathing problems.
Run,
Else the Cheetah of time
will catch you
today
which was meant for some other day.
_____________________________________
(Random thoughts - 2012)

Taste Good

Drink them.
All of them.
Salt in mouth.
Little drops
of tears.

Drink the tears of the eyes of your lover.
Young man, sitting by the window,
sulking on his past, seeing the tender light
of the sun on your cheek.

Drink the tears of the eyes of a hungry boy.
Drink that.
Drops of needs,
flies all over his body.
Don't hate it.
Don't be scared.

Drink the tears of the eyes of your parents.
Old eyes.
They do.
Watch them shade,
like leaves.
Watch time sweeping by.
Watch them brightening
when you promise to bring new handkerchiefs.

Drink those tears.
Salt in mouth.
Little drops
sticking to your own eyelids.

Do.
What you must do.
Feel.
Feel that your tears
taste good.
________________________________________

(2011)

THIS IS MY FREEDOM POEM

5 words,
I say, five words.
THIS. IS. MY. FREEDOM. POEM.
This is my freedom poem.

5 words,
5 names,
This is my freedom poem.
You don't go back to history books.
No sir, no guns,
no knives,
no rope to hang,
no guillotine,
no crucifix.
This is my freedom poem.

5 words,
5 names.
Recent times,
TRP news,
modern issues.
They will bury our tongues.

No sir, no Egypt,
no Arabs,
no axis of evil,
no Libya, no Syria.
Our land,
this place,
INDIA,
5 words, 5 names.

This is my freedom poem.
Five names.

1. Salman Rushdie
2. A K Ramanujan
3. Rohinton Mistry
4. M F Hussain
5. Safdar Hashmi
_____________________________________________

(2012)

And the critiques came from barracks
with their AKs, with their missiles.
They blasted the city centre,
they took the roof away from houses;
caps from the bottles
water spilling all over
without restraint.
My words are out of shape now.

Practice man, practice to be in shape.
I jumped into a track suit and a sports shoe.
I walked twenty miles a day,
sharpened my tools;
words, my worlds.
And the critiques came from barracks,
with scissors and nail-cutters.
Cut the crap dude !
Make it sharp
truncate the edges,
innuendos, nuances;
Show, what you got inside the stable.

_________________________________

(Random thoughts - 2011)

SHOUT

Twenty years ago,

When I was crawling on the ground,

A new costume in the wardrobe,

A new dish on menu.

They came, with their noise,

They said,

Don’t touch. Don’t touch that.

You will burn your fingers.

Bineet, that’s bad.

Don’t see that,

TV will spoil your career.

Don’t look at them,

Drunkards-hooligans-beggars-mad men,

Rats on earth.

They said,

Don’t taste that.

Meat is not for you.

You are a holy Brahmin, son.

Don’t hear those words,

Bad words, foul words.

Don’t listen to your mom.

She is an idiot.

No, no, not a sound.

No whisper in the class.

They said,

Bow down.

Touch his feet

He is a holy man.

Now don’t behave like a girl.

Don’t you dare!

Take this chocolate,

Pull up your pants,

Don’t say anything,

Don’t talk about it.

No worries. OK?

They said, don’t shout.

They said, don’t cry.

They said, you are a man now

God damned!

Don’t cry.

Yes, yes,

I won’t cry, no cries anymore.

I am a man now,

I am noise now,

I will shout.

Shout at the top of my voice.

_____________________________________

(2012)

9:11

It is 11 minutes past nine in the night.

I happen to see the clock that

Sticks to the wall

Since my father taught me

Read time from something that ticks

Every second of its life.

It never occurred to me

The other side of the clock that

Soothes the wall

I have never seen.

How come that happened?

What have I seen really does not matter

Since the hands that taught me

Language of a clock

Doesn’t go back in time.

I just wish this clock stops ticking here

Remain quiet at nine eleven

Like it’s other side.
_____________________________________________
(Random thoughts - 2011)

Pen

Cap on top of it
when opened longs for some scratching.
Words bloom on my fingers.

____________________________________

(Random thoughts - 2011)

Unbearable heaviness of being

A kid slips a newspaper

under my door

and the earth weighs heavier.

I drag my accustomed feet back

to the mat of my ancestors

swollen with sweat, semen and dreams.

I wear a mourning face to office;

carry a bag weighing a ton

and come home with my loads

when the sun sets with guilt.

The nights are usually long,

moist with sighs,

laden with mosquito songs.

I have decided just now,

I will live a life like

lying naked on a sea-shore

cold sand beneath and no moon above.

If you had

If you had asked for a
moment of silence;
I would have given you right away.

If you had said,
"Bring me a bird that sings the age old rhyme,"
I would have gone to the jungle of central india
and pledge a wise hermit
to grant me one.

If you had desired to see the
rainbows only in black and white;
I would have stretched my arms
touching the horizons
creating a prefect bow.

But alas !
you asked for love
and look here,
I have nothing to offer you
except for a bunch of words,
a jug of wishes and
a garland of prayers;

an ear for your sweet mouth.

__________________________________________
(Random thoughts 2011)

Short poems

__________________________________

Like dreams
Poetry is born
Out of indigestion.
___________________________________

Her voice was music;
her lips were tonic
and she was toxic.
___________________________________

The greatest crime
is to live;

The greatest punishment
is being alive.
______________________________________

Desire for adventures
My bed-sheet;
I rest.
________________________________________

I envy
Every child
With a bag
full of books.
________________________________________

Internal memory
got corrupted;
erase the past.
_________________________________________

Dragonflies
caught behind lenses;
houseflies look up to.
_________________________________________

Web of lies.
Like a spider I wait.
Night and mosquitoes are twin.
__________________________________________

The moment I lower the book,
sun rays pierce my eyes.

Reading books life long
to avoid His gaze.
___________________________________________

The smallest poem ever
has to be
her name.
__________________________________________

Box full of books.
My master;
let me sleep.
________________________________________

Heavy thoughts
humid air
suffering soul.

Sleepy conscience
mediocre morality
unfathomed  restraints.
_________________________________________

Prayers
kept on burning stove
to please the body.
________________________________________

(Random thoughts during 2011)

Loneliness - 3

Loneliness has roots in your gene.

Weeds in your lawn don't die naturally.
Chemical weapons only work on rodents and men.
With iron hands, you bury the lawn down;
steal rods, bricks, mortar and cement.

You put an all white double swing chair.
A beer in your hand you move
your legs back and forth in time.

The swing squeaks.
Your shadow slips underground and
a foliage creeps out of the tomb.

Loneliness - 2

Loneliness has a voice of its own.

You wake up to the sound of the metal clock.
Follow the announcement in a distant platform
where a speeding train halts screeching for a moment.

Grabbing a sandwich, you gaze up to the plane
that travels across the furrow of your forehead.
 You spell the word PEACE, P.E.A.C.E. like a chant
while the man in a black suite screams at a painting
of a village sunset hung behind your back.

You listen to the click of the central lock.
You listen to the whine of the blades of the fan.
You listen to the occasional crickets that
hover around your enclave.

At night, you hear the stars
breathe while they blink.

Loneliness - 1

Loneliness has a house of its own.

Each day brings a flock of dust

makes a nest in your living room; 

Layer upon layer.

Mundane affairs accumulate twig upon twig

and you forget to pick up a broom.

You settle down on the hardened sofa.

Pay rent month by month

for the unperturbed silence

listening to the symphony of a deaf Beethoven.

O' girl with vitreous teeth !

as you entered shattering the windowpane

and declared triumphantly 

This garbage bin must be changed, el pronto.

I am worried about the numerous birds

and their unhatched/half-hatched eggs

laid upon every nook and corner of the house

that has been feeding on me.

A story

Finally a short story in 99 words.


Ramesh never learnt to pick up his laundry. It has always been the household job. His mother used to pick it, then his sister now his wife. But things fell apart when Renuka, a genuine housewife, moved out of the house to live with an another guy. Ramesh missed her terribly the next day when he was about to leave for office. So he texted her. He started to think on what occasion she will need him badly and text him. 
Finally, he moved from the sofa only when he felt that it was time to leave the office.

Freedom

Looking thorough a mirror

rambling on my hair

I pluck one or two

moments of history.

Dead,

white stems and white roots,

out of my existence.

I take them in my palm

probe with curious eyes;

rummaging through my heredity,

I feel awkward

to own them,

their genes and their words.

Hoarding up courage,

wind-filled-lungs,

I blow them hard

to the direction of

my choice.

It takes a hundred million years

It takes a hundred million years

to rise from the hidden depth of the ocean

to reach above the clouds

inch by inch per year.

They say: Be a man.

Rock solid untill the water and wind

wear you out

turning into debris of something forgotten.

It will take another hundred million years

to collect your bones,

the chemicals to bind you,

hold you as a man again.

They say: Patience my child.

Have faith.

Be calm, steady and indifferent

to the angels and demons of nature.

I despise them all the time,

don't wish to play their games,

think that there must be a way out

when the rocks of mountain,

the clay of earth

and the exchange of dresses,

the whole illusion of time

will melt into perpetual nothingness.  

stones? what stones? the horizon stretches before me endlessly with not a grain of sand even... courtesy: http://pebbletrove.blogspot.in/2011/08/nothingness.html

My poems won't teach you how to swim

My poems won't teach you how to swim.

They tell you that

when you are inside that blue-green water,

you flip your hands, your legs,

you resemble a fish,

a big fish infact, a dolphin

sometimes you look like a mermaid to me.

They tell you that

the kid who used to jump into the village pond

had a name too.

And when he went for the lotus in mid-water

for the Shiva temple priest's daughter

a black chiti licked his feet.

My grandmother told me his tale

and I never set my feet inside.

My poems will tell you that

I don't know how to swim.

They will always tell you that

it must be amazing

diving into that blue-green water

coolness spreading all over

feeling the lightness of being.

A morning must bring a poem

A morning must bring a poem

along with the sun

and a night must end with a story.

My grandfather used to say this.

The day he went in search of a pond

inside the bright fullmoon,

stories inside me

oozed out from the pores of my skin

and poems dissolved

in my tears.

For many days and nights,

I roamed this mortal earth

like the cursed son of Drona-

a guilty warrior,

devoid of any pain or pleasure.

When I returned,

I saw a tuberose in his garden

spreading wings every night

to reach the periodic moon,

perfuming my heart.

Contented and tireless in its efforts.

Night watches tuberose's ascent

to embrace a distant dream

and the morning bee hums

love drenched sweet songs.

This morning,

after years of musing,

I felt:

I must bring you a poem

to tell the story of a tuberose

in the garden of my grandfather.

Rajnigandha / Raat ki raani / tuberose