musings

are you willing to bare
your gnarled, shy body,
leaving the gold clothes
that cover you in mock beauty
to rot on the ground beneath
trodden upon by strangers
admiring of your nakedness?

would you, without shame,
or pride, accept another ring
round your trunk, another tyre,
one more stretch mark, left
un/measured, un/judged by
worldly and monked companions,
standing by your lonely, tired side?

will you be able to take comfort
in the strength of your creeping soul
that grounds you, reaching into
the moist warm earthiness
that sustenance is made of?

as the cold winds blow under
greying skies hiding a weak sun,
tell me, are you ready for the fall,
can you face the autumn of your being?

Don't

Don’t tell anyone. Yet.
They don’t need to know.
They already know. Maybe
knowing is overrated. But slippery
are the slopes of ignorance.

Don’t listen to them.
They’re screaming in your ears.
At night, they softly whisper
your denial back into you.
Keep the headphones on.

Don’t cry yourself to sleep.
Try to forget the dreams
you wake up with. Rub off
the unblinking day residues.
Watch yourself closely.

Don’t underestimate a shower.
Let your skin breathe water.
The rising envelope of steam
comes close to oblivion.
Momentary, until one day.

Don’t stay in your room.
Blinding sunlight can be as
anonymising, even if, less
charming, as the lunar dark.
Trust a good pair of shades.

Don’t fight your instinct
for numbness. It has its uses.
Who knew Spiegel im Spiegel
could be comforting at midnight?
Results may vary if you try again.

Don’t be fooled by your silences.
Their weight is not wisdom.
For now, dwell in your inadequacy,
Let it enfold you. Until like Bukowski,
either peace or happiness does.

Just don’t tell anyone.

risk

yesterday was a long time ago.
and today seems far.
tomorrow always sounds
like a good place.
let's meet. but not try
to relive the old
that ties us together.
we still hang
by those nooses.
tomorrow promises freedom.
it might be another trap.
but let's risk it.

resentment

looking away from
past shadows, we face
the sun in our pictures.
our smiles betray nothing,
though something stirs.
it will never be enough.
this. that we are trying.
building on foundations
that are mere assumptions.
when we are 65, perhaps
regret will become graceful.
and we would finally drop
a lifetime of wilful pretences.

bodhi

look back, look ahead,

turn your gaze inward.
speak your heart's truth.
give in to its deep despair.
trace its shapeless joys.
allow yourself to laugh
at your follies, forgive
others and yourself.
self-pity is tempting, but
self-love must be made
of sterner stuff.or softer.
work.work.work.
tire yourself. tirelessly.
rest.lean back.breathe.
let the sweat-ridden body
wash away the cares
of your besieged soul.

float in your silences,
let your thoughts flow
like leaves in a stream,
allow them to congregate
in crevices of stony banks.
leave them be. break out
of the forced calmness of
furious minds, with honesty
only empathy can carve.
above all else, listen.

listen with care to
firecracking noises,
the cracks in voices,
the peals, squeals,
yawps, howls, hoots,
tied tongues, earthy muffles,
fierce numbness, pins and
needles, torpor, stupor,
waxing, coaxing, waning,
the racing, pulsating, the
waiting, of split seconds
and entrenched aeons.

keep listening.
listen until you see.
see until you feel.
Feel until you be.
be.become.no more
the criss crossings
of empty(ing) dualities,
goings and comings,
kernels and shells,
yesterdays, tomorrows,
foreseen, untold,
unseen, foretold,
experienced, unlived,
nostalgia, regret, hope,
a pinch, a stab, 'et tu?'
no more. Surrender.
unto a watchfulness,
grateful and borderless,
embrace (your) infinity.

trailing

walk with me...
on these uneven trails
where our memories
should be nest(l)ing
on sturdy branches
we cannot reach.
being too old now
to climb these trees,
what shall we do?

is there another way
to relive love's glory
in shadows of virtue?
or must we go back
not quite empty handed,
but with nought to show
for the guileless roads
we had long trudged.

When the frost ridden
path had forked, we
kept promises aside,
and made our choices.
Someday i will return
to the oak that stood
at the fated crossroad,
and revisit our final goodbye.

nightfall

i look for you in the
dark veil of moonless
nights, in long shadows
cast by old sins. love is
foolish, a crescent sliver
will whisper tomorrow.
Your defection to light
will not be spoken of,
and rightly so. Loyalty
is overrated enough.

shadows

What do shadows do?

Do you know what they sound like? (a breathless night wind floating over crystalline desert sand. Or the unrhythmic rustle when you remove a first edition from the top shelf of a nineteenth century library still lit by the wisdom of ancient civilization and phosphorous lamps. Sometimes, a lullaby wrapped in a cradle of a torn sari. Or stolen trinkets.)

Shadows don’t rebel when grandmother wakes them up before dawn on winter mornings to pray to gods they are not supposed to question, in vermilion customs adorning supple skin that has yet to blossom.

Shadows don’t speak up when bathed in milk of tradition, and the healing touches of turmeric lathered across burn scars on their body that they must carry, in the name of history and justice.

Shadows don’t complain about anaesthetising desire with the well-meaning advice of aunts and mothers, the vomit that must sit at the base of their throats until a husband permits them to throw up at a designated place on an auspicious hour as per the calendar.

Shadows watch for adventures, spectating on memories they cannot make – of painting houses whose cement and colour peel off into homes that are now empty, and stand unsold on account of cheap sentimentality; of holding on to wooden makeshift mopeds racing across dusty roads that have now become cold flyovers, though the coconut seller's grandson still sits by the old street carrying on the family legacy, even of the betel juice graffiti on the adjacent wall.

Shadows follow the sun, the heat of day that sweats into their dark existence, cardboard, two dimensional lives that collect unique seashells left behind by tsunamic streams of fleshy words (not theirs), that shiver in the eternal spring of laughter (never theirs) that cackles and breaks into bouncing rays of sunshine meant but to deepen their earthly gloom.

Shadows cower in shallow corners, spawn darknesses, slip and slide across unmarked thresholds, eavesdropping on brightly encounters they make murky, and remain insignificant, never enough, racing to tick the boxes of unforgiving love, forever lost in the recesses of its emptiness and at the mercy of celebrated light and manhood.

What do shadows do?
They fall.