We will never be able to understand the lives of the street hawkers or road side dwellers or anybody who has broken off the leaves of life because we all have our own story to go back to. A story we all are interested to write in our own way. 

We are all in someway swimming and floating and drowning in its waves but we have a story. They don't. They don't have hope. 

Imagine you are stuck in an endless night for eternity, will you be able to see the light and smile? You will be frightened beyond imagination for the first time but slowly you will fall in love with this beaming beauty, an unquenchable hunger. 

Now do you really want me to believe that leaving this ocean of sunshine you would ever try to live a life in a sightless tunnel even for a moment. You and me sometimes might slip into the shadows of ourselves from time to time but sinking into a black cloak that devours souls quicker than we can breath? Huh! Let's stop. Let's not talk. It's fine. 

Someday the broken, bruised and battered will rise and then we won't be able to explain. Its destined. So lets rest now.

You are a river
waiting to be born
out of the tears
that could unburden
the dying earth.
Let it bleed
through the crevices,
when there is still time.
The lost kites will not return,
to the sky.
They are done for the day.
Not all pain flow outward,
some travel inwards.
Don't depend on the rain,
they must have lost their way home.

Like an image hanging by the curtains,
tied in knots,
like creepers in my veins,
a calendar dangles across my mind.

An unfathomable soul, invincible heart
Yet how blue the lifeless flower lie,
suspended mid air,
fading from morning to noon,
inside closed windows and shut doors.

If only time could look beyond realism and write it's truth,
some answers might have been left in the folds,
tales of a dawn that never met the dusk.

But I never looked back, I couldn't.
Never dug the left overs,
Broken mirror can never show the whole picture.

But I still worry if there were any meaning,
or if they exist now,
perhaps some new stories have been scribbled on those walls.

Now no one speaks, not even in hushed tones,
not even a sigh escapes the breath,
yet like a sapling it grows inside me,
I cut it's limbs every year but can't destroy it's roots.

What is this propensity to prove me wrong?

Cut all my words into a dice of your own?

Why sharp the edges and use the syllables like knives on our hearts?

Why these pointed stares?

All that you throw,

fall like water on a frying pan,

And all that remains are smokes and stains.

Life is neither diabetic tea cups nor salt-less curries.

It could be though,

Try adding a dollop of smile,

one that shows your dimples that I always found difficult to dodge.

we could have dipped our fingers in those curries
and all ego would have sunk in the bottomless cup of life.

Words can heal wounds and it wasn't even a bruise
but those silicate thunders that brought storms
even on a breeze less desert nights,
just gets amplified through the veins of a decade long tunnel of togetherness.

Weren't we happy in the pitch darkness of tunnel,
where all that we had was our voices to throw anchors and roam around

or just float in the galaxies of imaginations,

of a sightless horizon.

Why this propensity to fathom the depths then,

why now when we don't even remember

the last address of our lives?

Many seeds sprout out 

of a virgin land of dreams,

bloom into trees,

clouds hang from their branches.

They could have danced in the wind,

stood tall, listening to the night angles.

kissed the dawn, still hung over 

from a drone of the flowing river.

Instead they died under a desert sun.

rain snuffed out the fire

but drowned its roots,

leaves left to float into the drain.

1. A MEMORY slips through the crevice,
a ray finding its feet 
through the closed doors,
no traces left behind,
no finger prints, no weapon,
yet sleep bleeds,
sprawled on the cold floor,
every time, every night.


2. How could the memories,

escape the horrors of partition

to find a home near a river

that only cleaved his childhood?

Memories of a nation he was born,

against one he found his home.

Wrapped in a saree,

against his mother's chest,

under sacks full of red chillies,

he had escaped one frightening night.

Resonating screams from the shores,
piercing the night sky, his early lullabies.

All stories of blood,
rests at the bottom of the river bed now,
Like shadows lost in a moonless night,
into the hazy rainy forest land.

Yet a kaleidoscope brings reflections of past,
time hallucinates, weaves yellow images,
of a drunk afternoon of death,
and a boat that escaped its shore in 1947.

Segue

Life and death
stand across a mirror
divided by a river,
of sparkling stars.
You can walk to the other side,
float seamlessly with open eyes.
Have no fear, don't cry
A shadow always melts in the sun,
Only to appear again at night,
under a azure sky.

1.

This slavery is shrinking the sky,

Soon I would be able to measure it,

with a tape or on my fingers.

Stars too will become countable,

like these coins in my pocket.

When the evenings smudge in the glass houses,

we too will melt away slowly

First the words will fade,

then our senses-love and forgiveness

Only hate will remain and

fear.

2.

This bubble will burst,

Sooner than I can possibly decipher,

and then when I fall,

free-falling like the rain,

for an eternity,

weightless and worthless,

into this empty pit of self consciousness,

bottomless into the core.

Will you give me a hand?

Will you pull me away?

I could have brushed all of it aside,
And would sit under a saffron sky, 
singing songs of patriotism.
But I can see the clouds milling around, 
embracing into a pattern.

The winds swept away my home, 
rain melted all my paper boat dreams 
but nothing changes the face of clouds.
They look back with crimson eyes now, 
thundering down with a frenzy. 
Its stares can burn past me,
and turn me into dust,
a mannequin of ashes.
The breeze that whispered meekly once
now breaks into a vitriolic scream. 

What this euphoria and pride for? 
Why this chest thumping for belonging?
This longing for a home 
which doesn't figure even in your honeymoon packages? 
Is it for what you and me wear in our fingers 
or dangles around our neck 
or its for the one we could not bribe our way out, 
though we try everyday?


Alas! This sudden saccharine love 
makes hating the only option now.

A postcard to 1967

For long they wept by the river,

waiting for boats to bridge their hunger,

making clay lamps from the river bed,

soaking the wicks with their blood.

they sent signals to the island of hope

The night only got darker,

but neither the postcards came,

nor the boats returned to the shore.

They ploughed the lands 

with hands and fingers,

dragged their feet for food,

but hunger is an insatiable beast,

and soon this incurable plague stared at their face.

So one day they rose in despair,

and fight for their crops before they fall,

bullets rained under a laden sky,

across a crimson land, their bodies roll.

A rage had taken over them that day,

And it still fuels their fight,

decades after decades, swept like leaves,

but there is still no end to their plight.

Verses of a meaningless song

A Four letter word
And a journey of seven heavens and hell.
Circumventing planets, stars and galaxies,
Still no sign of home.

----

A weapon tastes blood
And grows a secret blade
Hate cut both ways,
Keep it away from your tongue.

----

The Isle is not far from here
A few nights remains to dawn.
Don't doze off now, not yet
The boat is ready to take you to sleep.
Tie the remaining broken threads in a knot,
You will always remember who you are,
Long after you are home.

-----

Don't search them in your pockets,
They must have escaped through the nights,
spilled over on weekend binges,
Or vapourised in midnight haze.
Torn socks can't keep you warm through winters,

So stop running now,
Hold your breath as long as you can.
And you will find them again.

------

Dreams have a voice,
They talk in hushed tones.
Don't try to decipher them,
Caging them is losing them.

-----

Vapours on glass
gets erased in sun.
If you try to swim across the night,
Be prepared to get wet in silence.

------

You can't store hope in a jar,
This pickles are timeless
But dreams won't last long here,
Mix ginger and mustard oil,
And spend some time under the sun
They will remain forever young.

-----

One tea spoon of sugar in a cup of tea
That's how he liked his mornings
He learnt early
Too much love or too little
could be injurious to health.