confessions

I.
I miss you, Ma.
It is nice here, and if I am being recorded
As I often am,
I will exhaust my limited vocabulary
In describing this as the best time ever.
My quieter moments, when i miss you the most,
are not captured, especially the nights.
But the yoga, the swimming, the posing.
The laughter, the lies, the tomfoolery are there.
I don’t know if you know, but
I do that for you.
I know you will smile when you watch it.
And father too. I miss him.
Not in the same way.
But we are family.

II.
I miss you, Ma.
I am filled with a trepidation
Very different from my fear of the dark
When you say you want to be a star.
Stars are so far. And dim.
The other day, they were watching
a movie about two kids whose
Mom and dad had become stars.
I asked them how that had happened.
They did not know.
I find I cannot sing ‘twinkle twinkle little star’
Without crying now.
(it is small mercy that I have outgrown it)
I don’t want you to become a star, Ma.
Because we are family.

III.
I miss you, Ma.

IV.
I miss you, Ma.
I see you singing along with Mehndi 

Hasan playing on your phone,
deeply lost in the world of whatsapp.
keeping the house together
the way only you can.
Dad was right last night.
Have you noticed though
You are kinder to me now?
As if something has changed.
it is in the crevices of these little
changes that fear has made a home.
To miss you is to miss the comforting
recklessness of taking you for granted.
After all, we are family.

V.
I miss you, Ma.
I smile, laugh, work,
sleep, and live out life in all its
glorious routine, but You
are not here. And i still am.
It is like i must unlearn
My visceral response to life, and
Find another formula.
It cannot be bought off the shelf.
Though well meaning friends have tried.
I will be fine, you had said and that teenage
rebellion is long gone to do otherwise.
Father daydreams more now, but don’t worry,
I am around for the reality checks.
Broken, but still we are family.

farewell

sixteen years
feel like yesterday.
ingratitude digs its heels deeper
as you walk to the receiver’s end
where old and new tastes
come together inorganically.

An orange ice candy
from days of yore melts
and drips down your hand,
onto your shirt
(of course it had to be white)
you should run to wash it,
you should.but you will not.
now the stain will stay
like certain other things in life
you should have scrubbed.rinsed.
been more careful about.

A playlist of songs jams
in your ears
traceable through years
and people (who may or
may not themselves be)

Neruda was a late discovery
but so apt at this moment.
(Borges though remains
the flavor of the week)

a strange neon memory
of pizzas, laughter and
awkward silences rushes in,
cold-shoulders you, dashes out,
and leaves you to wonder -
was it really from the library of
your own mind, rich in its
devastation?

The past crackles and wheezes,
fitfully overflows
with real and imagined slights
with sleights of hand
and heart
reaching out. delving in.
slipping through
the cracks that hold you together.
and letting go seems to be
the only way of holding on.

evenings like these are perfect
for ill timed but necessary goodbyes.

ghost towns

There is music. And noise.
Laughter. Stop.
Flash a smile.
Fall.silent. Speak up.
Crash. Arise, awake. Curl into a foetal position.
Think of mother.her love.amniotic fluid when life was about floating in safe spaces.

Your name.they keep calling you by your name.
And your impulse is to turn around to see who they are talking to. 
You have trained yourself to not make it obvious. And They never really figure 
what takes you that minute to respond.
How have you not warmed up to it.
It has been years. And yet you cringe.
And revaluate friendships that involve addressing you by that name
Asking you what you would like for dinner.
Sitting under Warm yellow bulbs.unsuited to edm.and conversation.and company.
Warm yellow bulbs.muffled in an order imposed.
Let there be light.and may darkness lunge at it.and emerge the victor.
For once. The underdog may never win. In fancy places with mirrors.
Where reading off menus makes up for things you cannot put a finger on. Coldplay cannot fix this.
Language and mosaic walls and reflections of apologies sought and given and the fragility of titanium 
and ice princesses and butterflies and wheels and children of the gods and..
grammar nazis (the only acceptable kinds in certain circles) will tell you about 'run on lines'. 
As if life can be short and crisp like they want from this sentence.
or.perhaps if only. Who is to say.
it is time to settle the bill. Pay up. Your share.
(Meanwhile outside the window,
Marks & Spencer says - "Life. Spend it well.")
And the last of us will step out of this ghost town with its glistening yellow lights and empty tables.
There is music and noise. Laughter.
Stop.

the architect

So, what is your talent?
They ask you.
You were warned against immodesty.
Result: A second long hesitation.
World’s shortest sparring match
ends with candour beating discretion
“I am an expert architect”.
They exchange glances.

“But I must admit
I build only for myself.”
They frown.
Peddlers of hope, vanguards of meaning
tend to be wary of narcissism.
And yet these peddlers of hope and
vanguards of meaning are also heroes
of a perpetual ethical, existential Baywatch.
Instinctively, they swoop in to rescue you,
throwing your way a potentially lifesaving buoy
to tow you to safe shores -
Interesting. What have you built so far?
What is your speciality?
You smile, despite yourself.
at the incorrigibility of both parties.
“My speciality?
Prisons.”

Someone somewhere dabs
as you step out
with a new building plan
clear in your head.