A. Day.

Gazing at the sky lights
In between the drudge day,
I see you climbing up on my thoughts,
Showing me the life ahead.

Another day goes by
Into counting more days
Until I can see your beaming smile again.

With coffee in the jar
Whiskey in my humble bar,
I conjure up the promising evening
That takes away the week’s dread.

And the day comes just too late
And falls away much too soon.
The air, the sheets,
The strings and all that’s bittersweet,
Treat me like a betrayal
After you leave.

The night comes and it comes unaccompanied again,
I gaze into sky lights,
Losing to my dreams again.

The Awkward Air

The air is hungover with the anticipation of awkwardness.

Speaking frugally, we are dissolving conversations in the cocktails, thinking of formidable ways to overcome our anxiety.

All the while thinking to ourselves the virtues of a single malt.

Touching upon subjects of creation and annihilation, we succumb to the worldly ways of winning over a frivolous evening.

Surrounded by a handful, the pretense of these 6 minutes was hardly lost on our delusional manners.

Our words opened into a Juliet balcony and then restrung themselves over scattered, repeated motifs.

Who drew the first blood, was never known, but she and I were left pale, gasping for air.

We could feel the sentences evaporate into staggered glances at the bustling room.

Not soon enough, the outline of the corners of our lips widened to bid adieu and shut instantly.

Our eyes met briefly and then left each other, only to be reminded years later, of a misguided fantasy.

I left her, and she left me, deserted amidst our self loathing thoughts of another failure.

Another failure to make a friend in the overwhelming crowd, another failure to shatter through our shells, another failure to be one with what’s-her-name.

The Ringing In My Heart

Like the dark shadow beneath a lit window
You leave me cold
And desperate for warmth.
As if the light was hushed
Not only in the alley
But burnt out from our hearts.
My damp pillow reeks
Of the stories
I told myself to sleep.
In them, you were one
And I was many
In them you were you
And I was me.
Hunched beneath the light
I am fond of the dark.
A few startles
And some mist later
It is a prose
Ringing in my heart.
It is all one,
One blanket of black
Through which I see me
And now, less of you.
It swallows me
In one instance,
Leaving no sign
Of body, nor soul.
The truth is a distance
And the black escape
Is a lie.
Eye to eyebrow
Lips to ears
The shadow darkens
All that glimmered
When I entered
Through the door.
The ringing in my heart stops.
I can breathe no more.

Declogging : The Art of Exaggeration, Drama and Tackling Tea Aunties

Ahem, so picture an evening when your neighbour Tea Auntie-ji (a gibber term I had to coin for neighbour homies wanting tea every time they visit) comes over to your place and you, like a decent host, welcome her to a cup of tea and marie(now digestive) biscuits. After slurping on the first few sips, she pretty much gobbles much of marie and tea and tea and marie in between her gossips and wide-eyed reactions to Mrs. Mehta’s niece’s successful marital bliss and honeymoon destinations. Her evening rendezvous ends with your mother saying “Aate hain hum jaldi hi”(we shall be seeing you soon) and the pleasantries, last minute steals of updates follow where the lesser significant neighbours are discussed quickly because how could they be left out of the rendezvous syllabus. Amongst these moments are 7 particularly specific seconds when Auntie-ji offers to wash the china she drank her tea/marie concoction in. Under obvious social obligations, you refuse her “genuine” interest to get wet with Vim drips while battling Mum’s red, spectrum eyes which command you to sink with shame. But what do you do when she asks for the twentieth time in the six point fifth second ? You snatch away the not-so precious china(‘cos who are we kidding) and shield it from Auntie-ji, asking her to go home and do her own dishes, all a frenzy of exaggerated reaction only to communicate to her that she, being a guest, holds the place of God and cannot possibly be allowed to wash dirty china, figuratively. 

To your relief and the crumbling china’s, she gives in, blesses you and returns to her evening of neighbourhood hopping.

Whoever accused us of exaggeration and drama must not have lived in Geeta Auntie’s colony. 

I rest my case.

Dearest..

I have forgotten the lines on your face
I have asked you, “How have you been?”, a lesser number of times these gone years.
I have been preoccupied.
And I have forgotten,
How wonderful it was to be cuddled by you,
To make dinner an exercise
Because veggies wanted me to go run,
And come back to them.
That’s how you made nutrition my fun game.

You are my old man now , and a bit hazy
Functional to the toe,
Not a bone which is lazy.
But you look like you have crossed over time
To a place of innocence.
A place wherein I look at you
And feel a cross section of emotions
Mostly of wanting to throw a fit of refusing egg plants.

Uncle, if you here me, know that there is a heart here
That thinks of you in the sparks of daylight and sometimes, late at night.
That remembers the scooter and the crisp hair
Ricky Martin and snoring snares.
That remembers you with all heart,
And this heart, remembers you with all love.

Love Story

In the humdrum of brisk living,
And the badgering of diversions
From unbeknownst sources
Of betraying knowledge,
I want to carve out time,
Time to think about You.

In the felt clutches of emotions,
Residues of desperation
Lead me to your thoughts,
Which once were you
But now are all of me.

Like alloys of heart and mind,
Ripples of water and snow,
Functions of alpha and gamma,
Our hooves are resting
Nowhere close to ground.

Time alone binds us
And the only release is it.
For to measure your love
My darling,
This lifetime is too cheap.

Gazing at highlands of tomorrow
Caressing the carvings of today
I push the world to a mute
Chasing the melody of your footsteps.

Longing and belonging
Somewhere in the cracks of your heart,
I dare and I dream
About marshmallow coffees all my life.

Many paces covered,
Many more ahead.
From where I stand
My feet seem equipped.
And I walk to reality,
A kind of a story
That’s one of it’s kind.
A love story in it’s own right.

In my still eyes..

In my still eyes
Are blurry kodaks of a young child,
In my still eyes
Are long lost friendships and lullabies.
In my still eyes
Are my grand mother’s hands,
In my still eyes
Her salt & pepper head, reflecting a dozen lights.

In my still eyes
Are the swallowed instances of pride,
In my still eyes
Are unfulfilled words of spite.
In my still eyes
Are the dreams that once were me,
In my still eyes
Is all I could ever be.

In my still eyes
Are memories of dismay
In my still eyes
Are footprints of kindness.
In my still eyes
Are the regrets of a past
In my still eyes
Are faces of the future.
In my still eyes
Are fears of solitude
In my still eyes
Are hopes
For a house in the woods.

In my still eyes
Are melodies to unwritten songs.
In my still eyes
Are lilies of milk and wine.
In my still eyes
Are stacks of untouched hay.
In my still eyes
Are flowing whites and some grey.
In my still eyes
Her eyes search mine,
In my still eyes
She still shines bright.