Compromise

For me
writing is a zebra crossing
painted on a lawless road
I try to reach over to the other end
Sometimes, shouting all along
and drawing attention
But almost always, end up contemplating
a compromise to be at peace.
The fire within will die down with time
like the brightness in the school album.
It will be remembered rarely
as a fashion that is passe.
Only these words would remain as a mirror
exposing the leakages on my skin
Unable to contain the ideals that escaped.

Heaviness

Like whispering leaves
in the evening breeze
we lean on each others' shoulders.
We own and yet disown
We comfort and yet not indulge
There is a degree of helplessness to us
A limited degree of freedom
There is nothing we can do about it
Except pushing it behind ourselves
And cutting through all the years.
That is how nostalgia is built
Something that is behind us now.
At times, it is cold and heavy
like a necklace of stones
Hanging heavy around our necks
And pulling us to the ground.
But we go on with that burden
to climb new heights.
Like a stone being rolled uphill
Heavily and helplessly.

Eternal summer

The clouds disappeared suddenly
Like the relatives after a festival.
The indefiniteness of solitude is back
with its blues and other hues
And without its centimeters of leak.
Once a while there is a "tup" sound
A suicide cracker bursting itself
in the afternoon heat.
The chill in the air gives me a shudder.
How Time is starting to be cold
And throwing another year into the bin!
And like a worn out Halloween mask
exposing my vulnerabilities with each calender.
I long for a siesta in this eternal summer
I long to do nothing-
Today, tomorrow and the day after.
I long for such an abstract illusion.
Tomorrow, like a tough exam in the school
pulls up a knot in my stomach.
I cannot ask "Why me?".There is no answer.
I lost myself somewhere back then.
In those years, when I should have
stopped for a thought or two.
Not being sure when I will meet him again
I drag myself like a log of wood on tar
Making a screeching noise-
Neither a prayer nor a shout for help.

My dear words

I can start off directly
with a rhetorical conclusion.
What will the body be filled with?
Shouldn't it have a head?
Shouldn't I care for a tail?
Shouldn't it be, atleast, anthropic
and jumpy like our ancestors?

Like the hiccups that won't leave
Should my words stay for long
after the act is done?
Should they be melancholic
like the incessant rain when you are stuck?

An injection shot or an anti-biotic?
A small pinch now or a bad stomach for a day?
A pain in the ass or a bitter tasting tongue?
Where, what and how should they be?

Hyderabad

From the heights of Charminar
Life seems small and unimportant
Something to do away with.
Pearls scintillate in the streets
Adorning your journey
To the minaric heights.
Countless pigeons flock its windows
Like warring ancestors for control.
They fly off now and then
For prayers in Jama Masjid.

In Salar-Jung's museum
Rebeca, in her delicate folds
Welcomes you to a scattered past
Swords and shields
Nut crackers and ivory cases
Fancy pistols and barreled guns
Sexy goddesses and meditating Buddhas
French furniture and Japanese clocks
Bidri crafts and Chinese jade
Endless things in the galleries galore.

On the banks of Hussain's tank
Are poets of the yore
Stuck with their verse, and
Looking up to a smiling Buddha
Clad in a folded robe
And dressed up for the sermon.
As you traverse along
The necklace adorning the ascetic
There are lovers, lost in each other
Like Quli and Bhagmati.

The Shahi tombs lie abandoned
Lost to time like an ancient love.
Once in a while visitors turn up
like memories of nostalgia.
The dynasty rests in peace
As the sun sets and it loses sight
Of the palace on Golconda.
Pin drop silence around the fort
Except an odd couple dancing
Before a moving camera
Like Shiva and Parvathi
With takes and retakes.

Away from this bustle
In quieter streets
There are unmarked graves
And surviving fort walls
Weeds grow through them
enshrouding their existence.
Stories as children we hear
Of treasures being carted away
Every night to Istanbul and London.

The city sleeps sound
With the undercurrent of love
Of Quli and Bhagmati
Still seen on the bridge
In each others' arms
Listening to the Moosi
As it carries away
The sorrows of the day.

Afghanistan

War, like a video game
In the rugged terrain
Two soldiers, white and black
Almost brothers, fight in the slack
The enemy, an unsophisticated hero
From the previous version.
Food and weapons.
Weapons and food.
Men to kill.
Men to guard the killed.
Arms in arms.
In love this could mean something else.
Breakfast: On a table supported by Kalashnikovs.
Lunch: Near the barricades, if alive.
Dinner: One could be, to the worms.
Across the Atlantic, the indices soar
The economy booms like the bombs.
Listen, you can hear it booming.
If peace could create so many jobs.
May be it doesn't
Someone has to do the killing
And bring home a piece of peace.

How am I

How am I a mirror
Of the times I live in?
If at all anything
I am a mirror in an empty room.
Now, what am I looking at?
And from which direction am I looked at?
And what is understood of me?