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.

smile

The front page of the newspaper
reserved usually for the
worst news of the day
accompanied by a tediously ghastly
image of death
takes a break today.
Instead an ad proclaims
in font bold and glossy paper -
A smile is your best friend.
Its free.
(Not the toothpaste though
that apparently guarantees
a shining spectacle)
There is a lot of literature
out there that exalts the smile.

Recently lived experience tells you
it is the answer you have been looking for.
In defiance of years of research.
And a seeming mastery of words.
This is what it has come to.
A simple smile.

Not the one you imagine
on your mind's face
that moves no facial muscle.
This curve has got to be tangible.
All of the world's demands,
that hold your person to ransom,
met by this rather wieldy contrivance.
It doesn't have to mean anything.
Just flash a measured beam
Nothing too drastic
(showing of teeth is permissible
but avoidable post lunch)
and everyone is on their way.
Without the awkwardness of words
you have told them what they want
to hear. you may not know it
yourself (but that's okay)

Nobody asks you why you are smiling.
It is a language unto itself
that delights in appearance
and seeks no further.
Smooth as ice. But warm.
melting on the outside.
The polar ice caps at
the centre of your heart
remain untouched. as they should.
and you can go on
churning in a silence
that admits no camaraderie
save that of its own solitude.

Meanwhile, outside the clinic
the dentist's SOP reads -
"My mission is to spread smiles."
A brief thawing.
An interminable frost.
You smile.
And walk away.

the anatomy of pain

What do you fight pain with?
The laughter of a ten year old.
What if her head is shaved, and
there is a cannula permanently lodged in her arm?

Find another child. or
Look the other way, at the stained wall.
Apathy might yet be the good fight.
if you feel like it, throw in a prayer.
but be careful what you wish for.
Concerned but not involved is a good plan too.

Some people including your favourite doctor
Choose pills. Neat.
But that changes the battleground.

Solace has been known
To be found in comparison.
'It could have been worse' has
assuaged many a curse.
freud might be brought up here.
So could schadenfreude.

Drudges swear by their mantra -
'May every waking hour be a working one.'
No time for pain, no need for a fight.
That could 'work', who knows.

Meanwhile, the little girl
hugs her mother with a bruised arm
and on her way out, smiles at you.
right there, that moment tells you
all you really need to know -

Don’t fight pain. It is the last bastion
of the civilized.

Outside the window,
A man is kicking a dog.
Machines are honking at one another.
Three boys are sitting ‘together’
texting each other lewd things
and sharing guffawing emojis.

Your facebook feed brings up Gibran
on this world poetry day -
“Your pain is the breaking of the shell
that encloses your understanding.”

condolence

i will remember you

forever more

in the lingering incense

of charred roses.

the body is smoke

and flies with vultures

(the spirit always soars higher

with the eagles)

they used to say

you were ungraspable.

i can hold you now

in a small brass receptacle.

i think everyone agrees

ashen is not your colour.

especially when semal and jasmine

line the street i carry you across

to what was once home.

it is the onset of spring.

and i sit here mourning 

this autumnal shedding

wondering where the fallen leaves go

and how the branches hold back their instinct

to reach down and bring them back

into their fold.

does the tree know its loss?

should i shake it out of its reverie

urging it to look down

at what was once its own?

does it need consolation

knowing what is gone?

where are its copious tears,

the swollen eyes

red and numb?

in the silence that comes

of unasked questions

i find myself

sitting with you firmly

in hands that have not stopped shaking

under a tree that has no shade to offer.

it looks at me

with a warmth that reminds me of you

and asks, without malice

- 'what kind of loss have you known?

'cultures of protest'

so you detest
and choose to infest
certain cultures of protest.

I am painting my body
The shade of your ire
The bruises you gifted
Spell freedom in dull black and blue.
i doubt you can read it
But can you feel it throb-
a determined pulse in fiery red
that writhes resolves and revolts?

your fingers still clasp my arm
where i have Angelou tattooed-
'Still i Rise'.
Do you know her?
classrooms and libraries
seminar halls echo with the voice
of that phenomenal woman;
all you hear is someone's mann ki baat.
But can you see me rise and
walk up to you unafraid of the mob
you always seem to need with you?

I heard you on tv today-
What makes you so angry?
(I read somewhere anger stems
from low self worth)
There is also a saying.about empty vessels.
What are the chances you would have heard it.
But can you hear the voices
(of those who teach right from wrong)
dignified in their words
as much as silences
telling you your time is up?

Wake up. Smell the coffee.
We can organise tea if you so prefer.
Come sit across the table.

(Though your lathis and bricks tell me
that the room for discussion
has been demolished,)

Leave your saffron clout and un-reason
at the door. Bring your reasons.
Lets talk.

For otherwise
You are nothing more than
incoherent ramblings of fear
and insecurity seeking an ego trip.
Sorry.your flight has been cancelled.
Here take this shred of decency.
(it lay unclaimed outside college.
Must belong to one of yours.)
And walk away.

Too much to ask?

P.S. - Be afraid. Be very afraid-
You say.
Right back at you.

happy new year

The oranges disappeared
in the famished rush of midnight.
the fragrance of their
flowery rind remains.
takes you back to warm afternoons
many winters ago, the picture of
a sweater knitting mother
sitting on the terrace
checking lengths of arms
and torsos every so often,
as you munched on peanuts
carefully mined from stubborn shells
that rose into quaint mountains
by the side of the bedspread
and indulged in the comfort
of bountiful laps filled with dreams.

A sneeze unexpectedly
breaks the reverie
and pushes a new agenda –
that picture - did that happen
or have we invented more pasts
for ourselves
than our journals and monochromatic
kodak pictures contained?

Soft snores from another room
separated by a wall blue as our nostalgia
declare that this would be
one more night of
uncertain memories of definite things
that the morning will shrug off its shoulders
like we dismiss deaths
in faraway cities tucked in
other continents.
distance can confound
your sense of reality
lulling you into the consequentaility
only of the immediate.

Meanwhile
citrus is the flavor of this last day of the year.
in its lingering zest,
the new year promises
many more scented yesterdays
that may or may not have happened.