the inescapable

cynicism wondered

at the mournful victory -

what was the point?

trapped

i want to bury you in silent shame
but the rules of the game say
i cannot vote against myself.
you are not worth breaking a rule.

for one more day

say you will stay.
humour me.
let us live the lie
if only for one more day.
and when tomorrow morning
my roving hand finds 
your side of the bed empty
it would be 
the truth i should have woken up to
a long time ago.

passing time

garrulous minutes
fill a lonely hour.
Nostalgia.

a memory

A silent memory speaks to me. "I wish to go", she says. "Its time", they say. I nod and untie the little knot at the end of my dupatta. I hear her fly in a hazy sigh.  And yet what is it that lingers in the creases of the dupatta whose ends remain entangled long after?

this and that

you know what's tiring?
this. 
ah, but now it has become that.
now if this were that...
but then again, it is, isn't it?

if only life were signified
by something other than 
this tiresome fluidity -
or is it that?

the wishful rebel

but how would i know its time?
i see signs all around -
what signal am i waiting for?
nobody's told me the password
i never learnt the code 
(i am certain there must be one)
i stand looking at the fading horizon at dawn
and gaze at the burning crimson at nightfall
i keep turning around 
expecting a tap on my shoulder.
there has got to be one.
how else will i know, right?

i ask my heart

it is not your loss to grieve
it is not your grief to mourn
then why do you ache,
why do you feel heavy?
tell me .. i want to know.
the silent sadness of the heart
is all i get.

i am talking to you...

Stop me.
so i can go on.
Laugh at me.
so the tears arent afraid to flow.
hope for me.
so i know its the end of the road.
take me seriously.
so i can play through life.
respect me.
so i can roll in the mud.
reassure me.
so i wait for nothing anymore.
define me.
and watch me break free.

nostalgia

Nostalgia,
you make my yesterdays glow
come paint my today with your colours.

youth nor childhood match
your glorious sepia tint.

i want to be beautiful again,

i want to feel whole again.

spread yourself and cover

all of me and mine.

important conversations

the corporate office of the mind
in its innumerable cubicles
is busy in furious page turning
to find a conversation starter,
any conversation starter,
now that the filter of appropriateness 
has been set aside.

every page that makes it
out of the tattered files
that are our lives,
and their most recent, 
even if the most mundane memory -
'REJECTED'.
"it does not seem right" 
"it won't work."
"too risky" -
too much reasoning, same result;
too much thought, same action.

rejected conversations.
dejected conversations.
unsaid conversations.
dead conversations.
it is safe to shut down the office.
the work has been outsourced
to silence.

sophistication

just look at the rustic shambles of your life.
for god's sake.
of course they laugh at you when you talk of spending your day sitting alone humming a tune.
of course they scoff at you for not being like them, and what's worse - not even wanting to be like them.
your world - its the stuff of nostalgia. things one talks about, not lives out.
yes yes, they did say 'keep it simple'; but simplicity, my dear, is fashion speak.
really now. didn't they teach you anything?

wayfarer

a bus overflowing with known faces
on a deserted road.
trippin' through life.

rebellion

hush. stay quiet.
it is not time for you yet.
they must not know.
wait. for the signal.
until then,
seethe, but lie low.

heartbeat

my precious,
may every day
be your day.
as it is for me
may it be, for you.
a life lived
in the span of a heartbeat.

follow me

follow me.
ask no questions.
close your eyes, 
hold out your hand -
feel the breeze 
and walk on.
when all becomes still
know that it is time. 
let your hand fall,
open your eyes
to your destination.
don't look for me,
i wont be there.
breathe in the quiet
live out the solitude.
it is well earned.

being us

say your piece. i won't interrupt.
i promise to try and listen.
if you find my eyes wandering
don't stop. just carry on.
i will come back
to put the pieces together.
though cracked,
we will be whole again.

canvas

a gaping silence

throws itself

at the wall of memory

puncturing the wounds

words have made –

patches of quiet

hide the vociferous blood

that has streaked the canvas -

life.

a paling discolored misshapen blot.

performing the past

performing the past

desperate fingers

groping

for the afterglow of glory

in a mistaken pursuit

born of overwhelming hindsight –

a slippery moment

a lifetime of slime

tripping through

the geometric patterns of time

blueprinting

kaleidoscoping

deconstructing

the landscape of memory

the upside down elitism of the past.

too much...life

an oscillating pendulum.

a running tap.

too much noise.

a drooping bottled leaf.

an open-mouthed stuffed dinosaur.

too much silence.

gaping at the holes

that life is lived in.

nostalgia

can i be the child i have long outgrown?

will you let me be her?

it is too late - you say.

but i don't recall anything of her.

its like it never happened.

i need 'her' to explain 'me'.

my protests fall on deaf ears.

the heart must learn

to live without memories,

the self, to coast without anchor.

life, to go on, unconsoled.

no man's land

"where do we go from here?", he wonders aloud.
standing in no man's land his feet stay rooted
while his mind draws lines of belonging
and his eyes look on the fences on either side.
but how is he to decide? 
and to decide, mustn't he know who he is?
"the side you choose will determine that", says someone.
a pre-decided identity awaits him whichever fence he crosses.
"but shouldn't it be the other way around?", a tiny voice chimes. 
"how do you mean?"
the man, the mute spectator, wants to know where this is going.
"i must choose knowing where i belong. 
so i need to know myself  before i make a choice."
"or you choose where you want to belong
and that gives you a ready made "you"."
"in that case too, i must know myself first
so i can understand what i want."
Silence.
He knows the conversation is over.
Checkmate.
There is only one voice that stays, and says to the man - "Know thyself."
and so he sits down in that unknown stretch.
perhaps this vast empty space is just the place
to fill the glaring blanks of his existence.

that old coldness of the heart
freezes over.
happy new year.