scholar citizen

Will this do? you ask.
When government is nation,
democratic protest a conspiracy,
when voices are silenced through
algorithmic collusions, and realpolitik?
In drawing rooms, families applaud
“Serves these Maoist anti-nationals right!”
Is this thinking enough?

long walk home

home is far.
the feet know their way
but they may not carry.
is it that easy
to cordon off my hearth?
unlike you, my home
keeps its doors open
dissolves its borders
in my heart.it remains
the lullaby my two year old
Tara closes her eyes to,
at night when the streets are empty
and the dogs lie beside us.
i look at her.and then at the stars
to guide me.their twinkle jars.
the morning sun is all heat and dust.
like i am to you.perhaps, tomorrow
you will wake up to me.
my little one atop these
tired shoulders will still smile
at you through the hunger
on her face, that you mistake
for dirt.and maybe you will
let us pass.or give us a ride.
it is my destiny to remember,
yours the luxury to forget
that i am the cement
of the citadels that
you look down from.
with pity and disgust.
i can hear your tv blaming me.
i hide from the sirens, and
from infected gazes.
i am not the affliction.
there are no buses.the train
we came by six years ago
stands deserted at the yard.
my cracked lips cannot
afford even a wry smile
when my Tara asks-
'even the train is home,
why can't we?'

walking into the night

in the distance
a blurring moon
bears witness to
the weight of silences
pressing on the heart
of the solitary traveller
shrivelled in the cold
that cradles his dysphoria
in a lullaby of discomfort
that was not his legacy.
clouds cloak shy stars
and all is dark.
the road ahead, a mire
from yesterday's rain
still drunk with tears
of hollowed promises
that have settled into
crevices of frosted grass
with no strength to
even crackle underfoot.
who will speak up,
and for whom?
as the traveller lumbers
in a muted rage
of restive vacuity,
the witness blurs some more.

tonight is a protest of silence.
and the universe stands
in reclusive solidarity.

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.