ever after

the heart tingles.
shivers.laughs.
dances to the tunes
of the pines
that pricked it
once upon a time.
swims playfully
in the depths
where it floundered
once upon a time.
flies teasingly
into the abyss
that was its core
once upon a time.

once upon a time
will dawn again
tomorrow.
like it has so often.
for now
let the heart flutter
and find its happiness
without the crutches
of ever after.

hush

it crept in silently
years ago,
slipped in with love,
longing, regret
uninvited, unnoticed
hid in dark corners
stealthily building its empire.

seasonal monsoons
outside the window
remind her
of the perennial cloud
in whose shadow
a fearful heart breathes.

its not all over though.
words rise
in brazen rebellion
and quiet discontent.
so long as they dig tunnels,
scrape through trenches
escape and/ or attempt to escape.
a faint heart
will live to fight
the tyranny of silence.

purpling

i am going purple.
people are noticing.
one can explain a black eye.
and hide a black heart.
but this purpling.
how do i tell the world
(or even why
-as if they'd understand)
of you
coursing through my veins.
"I am not coming in to work
from tomorrow.
Sorry for the short notice."
a few abuses later,
the world moves on.
and i look up colours
on good old google
to find a name
for the shade i am turning.
three hues to black.
now two.
the countdown has begun.

all the same

laughter rings
as old friends meet.
the inconsiderate heart
goes on sinking.
in a haze of smoke
the dying sun
sputters the promise
of another day.

says an emboldened mind
to its drowning counterpart -
dont worry my friend.
you will be wrangled out.

and adds as an afterthought -
in any case
the deep waters you live in
have corroded all hope out of you.

crossings

i meet you
in awkward phrases
from days of love
long past.

the silence
we had negotiated
on those last few nights
over alarmingly easy sessions
of looking away
finds its way
to old conversations
every evening
(or alternate perhaps)
and cuts them up
into bits of incoherence,
lives out its contract.

at dusk sometimes
i still meet you
in awkward phrases
but i am not sure
what they mean
anymore.

flights

don't flap your wings so much
let the breeze carry you
(you neednt be the eagle)
fall into the warm embrace
of a dancing tree.
enjoy a stray cloud's shadow.
soar above rush hour madness.
spend a cold night
in the dark despair of the abyss.
surprise the sun in the morning.
go, give it a peck.
find a friend.fly alone.
play hide and seek.
forget to be found.
dare to get lost.
give yourself to life.
bon voyage.

promises

everyday promises.
every day promises.
keeping them
was always
the responsibility
of another day.

dante's peak

i saw you the other day.
unforeseen showers lashed
the city of my heart.
faded colors of the past
came alive
and i have been walking
on rainbows since.

book of life

your silence haunts me
from the deepest dungeons
of the mind
where your memories
dance. unchained.
a word from you
will set them free
and all hell would break loose.
the choice
of the lesser horror
isn't mine to make.
who is writing this book?
i know you can hear me.
take a break.plan a vacation.
monsoons in the mountains
can salvage us both.
pack your bags.trust me.

walled in

he said.she said.
the walls listened.
as they had for years.
and peeled off
bit by bit
in silent protest.

giving up

the tenacity of my words
finally breaks down
and surrenders to your silence.
this heartbreak
will never be spoken about.

leaving behind

the whispered unweaving
unknotting of a love
that had come together
on a thunderous evening
many monsoons ago
needed this downpour.
steady.but quiet.
in its onslaught.

it has been drizzling
for days now.and through nights.
i have gone back
to the terrace without fear.
so much has changed
about it.and us.
 
for the first time now
in the life i had made mine
when i go back drenched
dripping with lovelessness
i would have left you behind
in muddy puddles
on that uneven terrace
for the sun.
and i know it won't disappoint.
tomorrow morning's forecast.
sunny.with a chance at life.

nostalgia

visiting revisiting un-visiting
known places
with just-getting-to-know faces.
laughter.
full throated.half hearted.
weighing scales
measure past and present
and find one wanting.
life finds meaning
in quantifying
old proximities
and new distances.
love will have to wait
for a promised
uncertain future.

incompatibility

seeking solitude
in crowds of strangers and others.
a deeply held sorrow
punctured by uncontrollable laughter.
travelling the world
within the confines of a windowless room.
numbing oneself anew
with continous shots of old begrudging pain.
singing songs of freedom
and painstakingly reinforcing prison walls.

Sigh.
to be incompatible
with oneself.

secrets

the flies seem to know it.
when they sit on you.
in hordes.
its the rain, the humidity
you tell them.
flail your arms around
in a string of abuses.

the rot inside
is easy to hide
under laughter
and conversations.

walking dead bodies.
the secret of this civilization.

tedium

i am tired of you.
i think you are tiring
of me too.
this love lived in circles.
where beginnings
feel like ends.
or some such.
you at the centre
drawing out my periphery.
me reaching out
from unspilling edges
to a fixed you.

youth allowed illusions
of endless beginnings.
how we blushed
at the prospect of eternity.

but age is demanding.
it wants linearity
novelty finality
proximity.

one fine day
the circle will find itself
unfinished
and all the love
will seep out.
sluggishly.but surely.
and you and i
will breathe free.
once again.

lost

lost
in deeply closed conversations
in comfortably closed spaces.
there is laughter.
noise enough to drown
the heart's silence.

numbed limbs
feel a sinking
every time doors open.
dancing leaves
outside the window
beckon.
gaze averts itself
to furniture.

life is a prison
of one's choice.
the truth of freedom
lies
on the other side.
walk out. if you dare.

landscapes of life

My dear friends - you want to address them - don’t reduce the landscapes to pretty backgrounds for your pictures. Where is your sense of wonder? Look around. The solitary boat in the middle of the sea. That’s what life can be like. Or perhaps is. Maybe Donne was wrong. Maybe man is an island.

Maybe we are these crows. Hovering around. Scrounging around for food. We, with our voracious appetites. Our hunger is not merely physical – our minds, our souls - seek nutrition. Can the senses satisfy this/ us? As eyes devour breathtaking scenes; ears listen to sounds – laughter, waves, love, sparrows, friendship; as olfactory senses are rewarded (and occasionally punished) – fresh grass, sea, tea, cigarettes; the tongue relishes sugar cubes, bitter coffee; and the skin feels the warmth of the morning sun, the vitalizing touch of sea breeze, the melting glow of borrowed passion.

Even as the constant chatter of shattered dreams plays out in your head; ‘time for new dreams’ – you tell yourself in the odd moment of quiet. That doesn’t last. And you go back to gazing at the sea. (feeling at sea). The lone boatman out to catch dreams with an old tattered net. The sheen of optimism on the surface of the sea dances and entices him. But he knows dreams inhabit the dark and the deep waters. Treacherous. He knows. The glamour is for that crowd sitting by the shore marveling at the waves, living out their lives in sugar cubes and sachets of tomato ketchup. He is part of the glamour for them, his rickety vessel skipping about as an epitome of an ideal life. Perhaps they have their own struggles. Perhaps the idealism of life is possible only from a distance.

Meanwhile crows peck at litter boxes. More cups of tea and coffee are ordered. Conversations and silences fight it out. The sun becomes oppressive. People seek shadows. The boatman finds company. Or competition. Waves crash into rocks in fierce passion or hateful contempt. Lovers sitting by them get drenched in the moods of the sea, their own stories indelibly coloured. Crickets and flies make home of sticky afternoons which you saunter across in a state of blissful homelessness.

Where is home? Apparently, home is where the heart is, or the other way around. Perhaps there are times when heartlessness is the desired state of being. Not cruelty, not blinding self obsession, not a lack of empathy (though these may be empowering in themselves). A certain sense of freedom, of opening oneself to unimagined vistas of the mind as well as the body, to go beyond the comforts one sets for oneself, to feel at ease with the scorching sun, and the rain, the walking in and out of unknown terrains, exploration, getting stranded, oneself – in all the choices one makes, to constantly question and be unquestioning in final acceptance, to acknowledge shallowness and depth with equality. Perhaps equanimity may be too much to ask for, perhaps we like prejudice – isn’t there a warmth reserved for loved ones – family, friends, etc? Trust and love as their well earned legacy. And then there is the alternate narrative that embraces all. You sit on that fence between the two beliefs. (where else could one have found you?) it doesn’t amuse you that you have chosen the fence once again. There is plenty to play with but you find a strange comfort in the discomfort that is the fence. Maybe that is what homelessness is about. Or contentment in the state.  There is no place called home. No yearning to return. No Eden. No paradise. The nostalgia of the brick building is gone. The people who first made up that sense, and its need are still here. They mean much but are free from a bondage where success is measured against the ability to create such a need.

You have not quite got to the stage where the world is your home or ‘vasudhaiva kutumbakam’ (the world is a family) – for doesn’t that subvert the purpose by privileging the very idea of home and family that you are endeavouring to normalize? And so, to be sure, you venture out. You meet strangers. Have conversations made up of half hearted lies where you step outside of your own self but stop short of the many interesting people you could be, the lives you had imagined to lead, the possibilities that might have touched reality in you. But an unknown fear holds you back. An old fear. That has pushed you to inaction. Made you wary of life. Weary of/ in life. And there you go seeking comfort zones. Brick walls. Coffee house. A book. And you look out at the lady who stares out of the painting on the wall. It might have been an audacious gaze. Cherry lips, the red hibiscus tucked in her chignon, the fierce eyes. But strangely, the eyes are lowered. Why? What made her do that? What could have forced her to tone down her fiery passions? Or was it her choice? Who could say? You finish your coffee and head out. Into the sun. A random thought crosses your mind at that moment – what if you were looking into a mirror? You hand reaches out to your hair knotted up messily. No flower. You heave a sigh of relief. You dare not look back across the street you just crossed. If you had, a wilting hibiscus might have caught your attention. Or not – getting trampled under oblivious feet preoccupied with rushing to someplace or the other. If the pace of life could be measured in trampled flowers, we might finally begin to understand ourselves.