secret santa

how does your silence find me
every time? it is precise and cold.
across summer evenings and winter
solstices. Nestled in what they call
the 'janus-faced hour'. When my laugh
pierces the entrails of a dull night sky
and leaves it grappling with glossy
smithereens of desire many light years
away, there you are,as sure as the north
star, my own Santa, always ready with
your gift of quiet. Its always christmas
with you, and i sit stoking embers of
unlit fires in non existent chimneys,
hanging an old sock that mother knit
before i was born, whose pair has been
long lost in the forest of carelessness
that life has somehow made it through.
sleeping dogs and snoring watchmen fade.
There is no snow. No reassuring breeze or
the pitter-patter of rain that songs are made of.

tight lipped nights burn into overcast mornings
heavy with the festive spirit of solitude.

festival of calm

you haven't written in a while.
and today as i look out the window
at a world lit with the glittering hopes
that festivals tend to string along,
i wonder about the darkness that
has left you in unbreachable silence.
you are that one house on this street
with no string lights, diyas or rangolis.
passersby would presume the owners
are away. Meeting and greeting. but
If they wait and watch long enough
They might catch an unsure shadow.

I have left a candle at the gate, and a text
on your phone.(it hasnt got delivered yet).
now i will wait for the firecrackers
to diffuse this quiet, that is far from calm.

the genealogy of a poem

There were days when a poem was needed
More than any other need, even breath
Or breath only enough for a poem.
Sore and bleeding from all the
Scratching, the skin felt rough
and cagey. But the hands kept itching.
Layers of skin peeled off
But no poem flowed.

Meanwhile,
The mind rattled in its empty spaces
(where words used to be)
with the sight of malice and entitlement
in a twelve year old who goaded her brother
to kick a younger child for daring to aspire
to the rich man's playground.

Ears burst with lingering voices of desperate men
telling stories of hope and "tempered grace",
only to be found hanging from their bedroom
ceilings when they were left to themselves.

Over time, you have accumulated pity
Where once there were poems
Guilt edged love out,
And the fear of loneliness wrestles
with the comfort of it all as daily recreation.
Forgetting and remembering
in turns and at the same time,
what you have become,
You hope words can fix this.
that time can repair what you
Have wrought upon your dreams.

But what pain deserves a poem
And what poem deserves this pain

There were days that you needed a poem.
And there were nights when a poem needed you.
But all you had at the end of the day was a requiem
for an unwritten poem.
And there were mornings you woke up to
the smell of smoke that reminded you
of the electric crematorium
(Though there isn't one for many miles out.)

flight of freedom #4

What rages within you
could have been love
had I not reached in and
discovered Russian winter.
(Who am I to complain –
vapours of liquid nitrogen
cover my own frostbitten heart.)

How far have we travelled.
To now find ourselves out
of our depths, without sight,
hope, or sensation. Frozen.

May the warmth of un-expectation
thaw out the blaze that engulfs us.

Until spring then, Godspeed, my friend.

flight of freedom #3

The furious shadows of fire, or perhaps the
fires of known and unknown shadows, will
burn down illusions of freedom, as much
as its burden; but, painted in melted wax,
when we plunge into the ocean,those flames
and those shadows will meet a watery grave,
and the sun, in anticipation of its own twilight,
would not be able to help that sinking feeling.

As for us, we will float in untapped memories
of corals, and find ourselves sleeping in oysters.

flight of freedom #2

These wings were never meant to fly
Straight to you in raging fits of passion.

Nor to be plucked out in forlorn despair
In fear of time’s machinations, or love’s.

These wings were not accessories
(Not a gift of red bull, or whatever else)

They were not of the world of butterflies
Adorning gardens of luscious spring.

They were not shards of unsteady moons
To be put together in dreams and diaries.

These wings were not delicate chains, nor
awkward gifts of unwanted memories.

These wings were my rebellion.
And Icarus had the right idea.

flight of freedom #1

I shed the last vestiges of my past
today. I plucked each memory out.
it was slow and painstaking. They
had said, it was important, even
necessary, to move forward. I look
different now. Not better or worse.
Different, now that my wings are gone.

In the distance, I can see someone
picking up feathers of unknown hues.
with an unbecoming delight.

My past will sit in a small brown vase
In the intimacy of books and unwept
tears. Meanwhile, I shall spend myself
staring at an unchallenged sky.

Freedom, it turns out, is only about
choosing the chains, and timelessness
binds us just as well as its counterpart.

hide and seek

4:47 am
You sounded rather calm
when you got the call
(and i have seen you surprised
at every mundane sunrise)
Your monosyllabic response
was matter of fact in acceptance.
Sober you couldn't manage hysterics
even when the occasion demanded it.
As if it wasn't the news of my hanging
you were being informed about.
You kept the receiver back on its base,
and went back to sleep.

They would have found a note
If they had checked your messages.
But your phone had been dead
longer than me.

2:42am
"Would you look for me?
Where would you begin?
lost to time, will the words
of a younger me blaze a trail,
or will the breadcrumbs of older
silences lead you astray?

would you dare put your hand
in the hornet's nest of my mind
(that could not sort through its
own memories) to pull out a
forgotten hope of meaning?

could death be one more night in
a tangled mass of festive string lights
that cannot be unknotted?"

They would have found your reply
in your message drafts folder.

2:51am
"Where do i begin?
At the lingering inadequacy of every day,
or the disappointment that weighs heavy
on the laughter we still share,
the anger from this pretence of sanity
or perhaps the sheer exhaustion of having
nothing to say. But we will be free soon.
And in time i will find you.
Like i always have."

But they never cracked the security code.
And you never woke up.