in memoriam - phillip hughes

it has been two years.already.
not that i have thought of you
in these two years.
or that i knew of you
before that.
it was a fleeting rendezvous
with the idea of you.
(as it is with all rendezvous)

you were born five long years
after i was,and the script
placed your exit
three days before
your twenty sixth birthday.

(i remember feeling then
that my twenty sixth
was the year of fatalities
of another kind
from which i haven’t since recovered.)

I don’t know your story.
(except what they built
over twitter and other eulogies)
does it matter?
you were there. and then you weren’t.

two years later
there is a small report 
in an online newspaper
on the other side of the world
that has found time and space
to spare for you.

And i remember,
i had cried then. at my workplace.
stolen away from sympathetic voices
that discussed you over coffee.
what a tragedy, they had said,
with the customary sighs
before moving on
to the gorgeous earrings
of one of the mourners.
at home i had kept replaying
the scene. on youtube
and in my head.
trying to make sense
of this script that was giving me
more screen time.

two years. to the day.
loss finds me again
(but it is not yours, chimes an afterthought)
and staring at that news report
i am not sure what to do.
i look at your picture - twenty six
would have suited you.
perhaps i should look up
what i was like
at twenty eight.

(whirring in the background - the playwright must have had a plan.)

kashmir

k is a recurring dream
that i can never fully recall.
it stays with me in snapshots.
sometimes it is
the image of a bleeding eye.
corroded silver jewellery.
sometimes it is
the fear of forgetting my name.
an abandoned poem.
they fight over it
on national television.
k faithfully visits me those nights
and pulls me into
a tug of war at the end
of which both of us lie
fallen in swathes of blood.
(I don't wake up then
bathed in sweat and fear
like in the movies.
nor run to wash my hands -
"out, damned spot".
I usually hope to sanitise
it all, us, with local disinfectants -
an old song, a childhood picture
with the right sepia tones,
a faiz couplet, the whiff of saffron -
if i can help it.)
I have also come to predict it.
book nights, autumn evenings,
sunset skies
days of lingering solitude
have a dedicated space for it.

But never in so many years
has the dream been
of that picture postcard
on whose one side is
a dewy valley lush green
from days of love
and on the other
in your handwriting
slanting like the sunshine
the words -
'paradise is a dream.'

you took away the paradise
(though it wasn't only you)
and i burnt the postcard
(though it wasn't only me)
now the dream remains
an ashen legacy of crimson.

a moment

in the middle of the day
a little before
bored office goers
break for lunch
and the air reverberates
with the joy of the city's
children at the end of school day
silence prepares
for its victim.

and among many crevices
finds him suspended
precariously
in the space between
a written and unsent whatsapp message.
at that point
afternoon traffic becomes tone deaf
unsure thumbs stay frozen
just a moment longer
and in the din of everyday life
as the right thumb
reaches out to discard the message
And the right hand takes the phone
and puts it away in a back pocket
or a sling bag
or throws it on the bed
 
- unknown to you
in that whiff
silence has caught you.
and the words that will find you
in a minute from then
will never be able to make up
for that moment of silence.

a thing of beauty

a bright yellow butterfly
stands perched
on the door of a
public restroom.
a picture of
delicate gossamer rebellion
against its unworthy mothness
(the spiders don't care anymore)
holding fort
under the lone flickering light
that throws rusty shadows
of the unnameable.
ready for flight.unmoving.
its gaze is turned towards
the floral wallpaper
whose hard to believe
initial radiance stands
expectedly dulled,
corrupted by occupational
hazards.
(Would it have noticed
that the lily has petals missing
or that it is not the season
of chrysanthemums?)

meanwhile the licentious room
open to varied onslaughts
throws them back karmically
on suspecting and
unsuspecting visitors.
virulent vileness
greets abused senses
flinching in perfidy.
uncensored bawdy encounters
scream from walls and
sometimes cabins with
broken latches
unstymied by the rattle
of an exhaust fan falling
off its grimy hinges.

in this wholesome frame
of equivocal hideousness
a spot of beauty can be repulsive.
but the bright yellow butterfly
does not understand.
and holds its ground.
pasted on the door.
ready for flight.unmoving.

muddy water

did they see you
come in with glazed eyes
your heels in your hands
uneven folds in your dress

did they suspect
the nature of your consent

did they wait
for the morning
to unleash their questions
made of stone -
those incoherent barks
of dogs in heat

or
did they corner you
in the dim light of the street
barely reaching you
before you could shut the door
to what needed
to be left outside?

did they whisper
judgments meant
for you to hear
that sounded eerily similar
to what screamed from televisions
and laughed in twisted emoticons
on whatsapp humour?

now that you are home
sleeping a disturbed sleep
with legs closing themselves
tightly, arms occasionally flailing
then falling
and a pain that has not left
your face since you came back,
i wonder if i should have asked you
about tonight.

for now,
i will lie next to you
and let my gaze travel
from you to the yellowed moon
outside the window
in the backdrop of
other closed doors
behind which i know
what people are saying.

third eye

blank spaces
don’t always need filling
there is a quiet in the void
that
like a lone feather
separated – by will or force (who knows)
from its herd
falling through the sky
in a breeze less elegance
is uncertain of destinations
forgetful of origins.
a pair of eyes
follow that nameless flight
that is but descent to them
what does it matter
how graceful it is
grace cannot undo
the sinking .
and so they float back
those eyes
to appealing heights
lending themselves
(a little too) comfortably
to successful conclusions.

in the distance
a third eye
an inept embankment
of life’s griefs
blinded by greyness
finds itself shorn of the luxury
of a universe colored and peopled
and fills the spaces
of its autumnal memories
with the melody
of dissipating smoke
(in a reverie of its own making)

origin story - a poem speaks

This is my question for you -
Is there a story, the story?
Do you actually remember how it all started?

Who am I ? Where did I come from?
Packed in neat little boxes,
my ‘stories’ have invariably been written
in black ink. Times New Roman. Font 12.
Glossy white paper.
Do you notice though
'About me' is always an about you.
Or is it the other way around?

'Fascinating stuff', that scrubby fellow had said.
the one who visited yesterday.
not to me. I doubt he could hear me.
the one who has the rights for your tell all.
about me. And some others.
(without my consent. or theirs.)

You told him over lunch,
how you looked for me.
in sweaty armpits of lovers
as much as strangers on the bus.
the jostling went on even after i came.
(You greedy bastard.
Always wanting.more.)

i could have been the midnight miracle
that headlined the out of print magazine -
or that forecasted monsoon
responsible for this year’s drought -
perhaps a temporary respite from boredom
crumpled and hidden away
when your company arrived
at the coffee shop.
(did you throw me away, and 
then come looking in
the desperation that only hope can muster
among filthy quarter plates and rotten food?)
was i the hurried patchwork
of discarded limbs and sinews
from all sorts of places
put together in slow painful deliberation
and then declared ‘functional’?

Oh, how you have boasted about
those fantastical adventures .
when you met me in kubla khan's dome.
wrestled me out of an alligator’s mouth
just in time.
dug me out of the grand canyon.
recognised me in a lost & found ad.
or was it the missing persons one?
 
Always playing to the audience.
Always playing me to the audience.
as if i were your personal whore
pimped at your fancy.
just like that.

and I travel
from one fine print to another
unsure whether you are my albatross
or i am yours.

unfinished

when an unfinished poem
chances upon you
be ready for questions.
empathy is important.
memory may desert you.
love is likely to be one sided.
self doubt might be mutual.
 
when you chance upon
an unfinished poem
do not rush through it.
finishing it need not be a priority.
apologise if you feel like it.
allow yourself to wonder.
walk on the periphery of the blank spaces.
 
remember those moments for
an unfinished poem is a mirror.
relish these chance encounters
with yourself.
they may not be all chance.
and believe without fail
in the beauty of the unfinished.

shades

Orange is the color of wish fulfilment.
Yellow of laughter.
you must be taught to like the prettiness of Pink.its not easy.
Blue tends to hold on to forgotten loss. in soft tinges that dab the fringes. But purple struts proudly with remembered ones.
Stubbornness is the color of hot magenta. Sequined with faux stones and egos.
Contentment is chocolatey. not dark or milky. not cloyingly sweet. or delectably bitter. Somewhere in the middle where comfort sits.
Comfort is petrichor earthiness. Ochre.
Surprise is sometimes cyan, often lime. On warm evenings, it is amber.
Green is the arrow that pierces boredom. India green.
Boredom would be the sliminess of stagnant water.mossy and fungal.acid green laced with brackish spots of scratchy arsenic.
Security is the maroon pallu of mother's sari in which you hid from prying eyes and over eager but insincere kisses.
Mauve is gratitude sprouting especially in spring.
Humility wraps itself in peach.
Famished egos are the color of power. Nothing says power like black, except in the real world.
Hunger is dust.
Pain reduced over the auburn flames of rage turns burgundy. Dark. Viscous. Sluggish.
Sepia tones inhabit warmth.
Freedom is the color of simmering embers fanned to life.
Hope is now off white. Over use seems to have dulled it. On foggy winter mornings, off white also clings to despair.
Acceptance is the color of your skin and orientation.
Resignation is the color of the neighbourhood aunty's face when i tell her about us. Mixed with crimson consternation.
Control is the color of delusion.
Colorless crystalline dreams glisten in the black canvas of forbidden love. Loneliness.
Dredging out the palette, life
is the dregs of penultimate breaths.
And in one fell swoop, all is the color of silence.

in memoriam

i will forget your luminous eyes.
My own betraying heart
that at the thought of you
used to leave me in tremors.
That love bathed in spring sunshine.
That angry exchange of silences.

eventually.memory will fade.
like the colors have
on the wall we painted
with motifs whose meanings elude me now.
i trust time's pitiful strokes
to make our stories
Self contained anomalies.

And perhaps i will forgive.
And be forgiven.
For the horrors of my imagination.
But for now
let me carve this portrait
in stone
for the sake of a poet
who will soon forget
poetry.

reflections

the eyes are accustomed to darknesses
tinged with the whites of distant phones
and the dab of orange from the street
stealing through that little crevice
between the curtain and the rod that holds it.
There is the occasional blueness of
computer screens of night owl roomies
who will unsuspectingly turn on
the lone light in the room.
The blitzkrieg of lethal sharpness pierces you
As eyebrows frown, lashes quiver, lids roll unto themselves,
through scrunched noses and clenched teeth
you yell for a belated warning.
Once he finds what he is looking for, the light is turned off.
A casual apology accompanies it.
And ghosts of light dance before you
with the clarity of a water color painting
barely retrieved from unexpected rains.
That is what life is like these days.
That was what love was like when it visited
All those years ago.
A flicker. Blinding light.
Then ghosts. Love runneth over.

love note

love is in the air
screamed the crackling voice
on the radio.
what she saw
through the haze of a swooshing wiper
was a veritable swarm of cars
frozen in a directionless chaos
and as the woman crooned
about monsoon’s first love
set to tune by revered geniuses
she drowned out
the screeching hopelessness
of a stranded ambulance
whose designated role now
was a strobe light
color coordinated
with that idea of love we cling to.

promises

to be young again.
to tear through memories
dust them off bookshelves
forget them on jostling metros
knowing there will be more.
youth came with
the promise of plenty.

and then one day
you find yourself
clutching to a torn sari
not entirely sure why
the weight of time
gathered around your waistline.
the dust of bookshelves
accumulated now in the bare crevices
of a mind full of things
with forgotten names.
the itinerary of old days
now rests in incomplete inventories.
and the promise of plenty
comes through
in ways memory cannot comprehend.

overview

But what is there to lament.
So we loved. and they turned out as expected.

We grew mistletoes on sycamores over
graves of loyalty that we had dug

even as we commiserated.

We stole furtive kisses. And castigated infidels.

So we missed the midnight shower
cooped up in an air conditioned room
surfing the net envying holidays others could afford.
We slept in. and chose the reality of books.

 
We laughed. and got mad
And never spoke again to best friends.
We cried. and got mad
And never talked of ourselves again.
We left time to its machinations.
We danced in the solitude of summers
Bathed in our inadequacies.
And sat under invisible winter moons
listening to vinyl records.

We made light of our losses.
and spent days not getting out of bed.
We pretended. We pretended to pretend.
We fell for fallen heroes.
We fell. We made excuses.
We took the high road
and found ourselves in shifty back alleys.
We let fear overcome necessary action
and courageously backed bad decisions.

We nailed hypocrisy.
We choked on our own morality.
We traded old friends for random acquaintances
we met in shady places.
We made our own gods and then desecrated them.
We blamed others.

We travelled with blinders.
We sat eavesdropping on other conversations.
We lied about ourselves. To ourselves.
We bought the dagger and played victims.
We preached what we were too lazy to practice.
We followed rules. We made exceptions.

We did much. We did nothing.
For all that
What is there to lament.

It is what it is.

aging

it was not a meeting of old friends.
by strict standards of temporality.
(they would have met
thrice before,
each a carefully plucked opportunity
from a universal conspiracy of plans.)

conversations flowed,
occasionally lingered,
lilted, and sashayed,
easing around, sometimes jumping over
boulders of silence, experience, ignorance,
much like the mountain streams
they had sat by and relished
long ago.
 
a year ago, trudging across knee deep snow
they had seen
what the scorching sun did to frost,
much the same happened
in that room with a beautiful view
between laughter and their hearts.

by 3 am, they were cracking up
just looking at each other.
they signed off at pre-dawn
with a cup of tea,
 
and when all was finally silence
in the backdrop of the calm breathing
of transient youth,
the view from over the hill
seemed less daunting.

coffee love

the after taste of another day
is a saccharine bitterness.
piping hot.
in a porcelain mug
chafed at the edges
that tells you
to live. love. laugh.
sipped to the crystal clarity
of the next ticking second
the watchman’s whistle
late by an hour,
and your own laboured
caffeinated breathing
that has once too often brewed
into a melancholic cough
rattling a chest
heavy with its own emptiness.

for the second time in the day
you feel alive
and as the last of the drops
trickles down an upturned porcelain mug
cracked at the bottom
you finally find the courage
to close your eyes
to the day that has been
now rendered memoryless
reassured that another 
two hours twenty-five minutes away
the dawn of a new day
will find you
this time with a steel tumbler
(and similar intentions)
floating with the strong aroma
ready to taste
what the day has in store for you.

photographic memories

sepia tones remain fashionable
the indelibly happy places.
that you yearn to revisit.replay.relive.
experience tells you
you can keep going back
the same light. the same camera.
the same models - old friends
mossy fences, corrugated loves
the same pre monsoon stickiness
(or winter drowsiness).
 
autofocus. click.
there you go.
got it.
you are seven again.
or sixteen. twenty-four.
at the closed gate you jumped over
for a midnight snack at the hawkers.
on the highest rock
of a lush campus never yours
looking out at the deserted open air theatre.
any one of numbered memories.

but when the picture develops
in that little dark room
at the far end of your mind
accessible only through a sulphurous tunnel
whose bend
(that may or may not be its end)
finds no light
as you immerse the paper in the solution
that holds the key to your own grayscale hopes
unexpectedly but unsurprisingly
what will emerge on that once blank slate
will be an original.
a clear descendant of its predecessor.
should you be so lucky.
but all too often
unburdened by that legacy.

at that moment you will find yourself
retreating unwillingly
unwittingly from that dark room
exposed to the dense realisation
(without a trace of nostalgic remorse)
that the lens has changed.
you have changed.
and that has altered everything.

cataract eyes will blur all you once knew
and the present will always be
a watered down image
of the past you struggle
to revisit.replay.relive.

inheritance

love met her at the crossroads of poetry.
or was it the other way around?
in a fading memory
they were still distinct.
and yet inseparable.
as the dust settled all she wanted
was to meet her benefactor.
once more.
(she wasn't sure why)
one or the other of them.
had left her an inheritance.
even as both repositories of magnanimity
had slipped away just as they had come.
in each other's raging company
on to other unbidden roads
of unsuspectingly hopeful travellers.

perhaps this is how it must be.
perhaps she is never to know
whose legacy it is.
that wistful longing
still searing through her heart.

seasons

it is the season of mauve flowers.
all year long the bare branches
of the jacaranda tree
stand. unflinchingly.
a sight unto themselves.
a life lesson.
pitiable. enviable.
 
until spring makes us forget
lets us see the world
through mauve tinted glasses.
floral flavours find favour.
and for one breezy season
we dream with our eyes open.

incandescent dreams
soon to be blinded and dimmed
by fierce and mellowing suns.

as the tree will turn itself over
to other seasonal onslaughts
it will be but the spring
of our discontent.
and the bare jacaranda
much like our vacant eyes
will follow trails of
the trampled remains
of once upon mauve loves.

plans

let us meet
once in a year
a leap year perhaps
on a random day
neither picks,
chosen by elimination.
let us meet
and not talk.
not watch others.
not fiddle with our phones.
not catch up on lives
that steadily walk away from the other.
and when our time is done
let us go back
to wherever is home
knowing it shall nevermore be
where it once was
in that shared balcony
when your music
and my words
found wholeness together.