Saturday, December 30, 2017

The muse

The muse car-pools with me
and is silent for most part of the journey.
It adjusts its gaze occasionally to see
if I am noticing how things can be.
But I am just focused on my ends and
what it all means to me and the world.
It doesn’t disappear yet, it waits
for the moment when the windows darken,
the wipers flail and everything is washed
in the rain, and I observe something
that rings bells: bells of charm and not alarm.
And the inner leaves rustle in a metaphorical breeze.  

Sunday, December 3, 2017

The expanding universe

The fact that universe is expanding
has trickled down to me.
It has had no effect on my goings-on
as a normal citizen.
The car works just fine,
the apples still fall to the ground
as they did before and elsewhere.
But now there is a certain unease
when I write that you are moon-faced or
compare you to some other heavenly body.
I would like to expand too and compare you
to the universe and all its complexities.

Thursday, November 30, 2017

A drunken nod to the Classics

Long after you’ve read them, the scene
is still playing slothfully before your eyes.
A clear stage and a clever dialogue subtly hint
that something is wrong with the world.
A character is shown a long, slow mirror,
long enough to observe the folds in the
clothing or even count the number of lights
in the chandelier, precariously hung above him.
The story grows a beard, turns into a cape
follows you like a heroic shadow.
You ingest everything about it
so much that you wander in Wuthering Heights.
You tend to have Great Expectations about everything
leading to Pride first and then Prejudice.
Your adventures into wonderlands
end in abandonment in a lonely island.
You go through War and Peace and at every
turn of phrase, you expect Sense and Sensibility.
You call out for help to Emma and Anna but alas!
they’ve all left, without a word, with The woman in White.
You wonder about the balance in this Crime and punishment,
let out a sigh and suffer the Trial. Despite all this, you are
still Quixotic and dream of a Brave new world. 

Saturday, November 18, 2017


Always found between the lines
it is a slip stream of consciousness.
It sneaks into a home
while everyone else leaves for work.
It is a witness much different
from the usual silent witness.
It is the only one not to miss
the beautiful sunrises and sunsets
and everything in between.
It makes complete sense by itself.
It’s that distant feeling I get
when I write my answers in the present
to the questions of future. 

Monday, September 18, 2017

You have a history

You have a history.
Someone resembling you
did something terrible and their
stinky sinful clothes stuck on you
since then forward, onwards and thereafter.

You have a history
and someone whom you knew
rebelled against the order of things
and you are stuck in that place
eve since, forever and wherever.

You have a history
and someone in your name
started a war, filled his own pockets
and you did nothing. It’s your fault
from then on and till eternity.

You have a history
and your bloodline will be crooked.
It’ll destroy the world from being the
happy place that it already is.

You have a history
and you can’t hide from it.
It is sewn into your skin
Imprinted  on the eye balls
Written all over
that no help will come. 

Tuesday, July 11, 2017

Arriving early

They arrived early
for the anniversary dinner.
Even ahead
of some of the cutlery at the table.
They are here
well before the children that will follow.
They are here
taking one step at a time.
They are here
like the will before the way. 

Wednesday, May 24, 2017

Pecking order

I work in a glass house.
An old granny-type of building
Peering through its thick glasses.
Inside, I peck at the keyboard trying to make
bread and butter via a computer.
There is this regular visitor
that never misses a day of my work:
A bird pecking at the glass window.
It must’ve confused it for another bird
Must’ve wanted to kiss it up-close.
Or does it suspect it to be a still pool of water?
A taut vertical lake that is devoid of any ripples.

While holding tight onto the twig it chose
It seems to observe me for a long time.
Trying to make sense of this
part of the world before flying away.
Chewing one end of a pencil I try to note
everything down and rumple it up at you.
Knowing well that your heart is a frozen, faraway lake.

Tuesday, May 2, 2017

The lines of history

Lines of fate
Lines of authority
Lines of events
Battle lines, Bloodlines
Front lines, Headlines
Lines of graves and prayers
Lines in a textbook and on water.

Thursday, April 13, 2017

Driving lessons

The ABC of driving, the instructor tells me
are the accelerator, brake and clutch.
And warns that if I accelerate alone and don’t brake
then we all have to clutch at something to hold on to.
But soon I realize that the car is not capable of all that.
The only thing that works perfectly is the heating.

The rest of the alphabet of driving, he says, is to watch
other people on the road - both moving and standing still.
Only when I am at the wheel I see all these unnecessary people
on the road whom I would like to delete from the scene.
Honking can do this trick, he instructs, if the sound
is loud enough to be an extension of my disgust. 

Wednesday, April 12, 2017

Report from the hills

The view of the distant snow-clad mountains
made up for the lack of any paintings on the walls.
It was snowing during spring which the locals said
was very rare - as rare as our vacations.
We did nothing during the entire stay.
This is totally different from the nothing of the plains.
Wrapped in fleece blankets we looked like sketch pens
tightly packed in twos for warmth and ease.
The next day, the sky was clear and we could see
the mountains shake the snow off.
While we struggled to keep it within us
as we went downhill.