The Cafe

The cafe smelled of people,

And their sad shining smiles.

There was dew

On my prose,

That deep caffeine dusk.

In my cup 

A summer's breeze,

In me,

A winter's dream,

The dew turns into a shower,

For the breeze will blossom

To a flower.

They speak a language,

I no longer share.

Do you hear?

Did you try moving closer?

I looked back into my cup.

There was dew,

Over all that one could hear.

Unseen Battles

It is the middle of the year,
The unseen battles
Are unbearable to bear.
There are invisible sounds,
Invisible yes,
Audible, oh yes.
Fleeting moments breathing by,
Minute after useless minute.
They do not wear the hue,
Of a nostalgic garden,
No more,
Of a snow clad mountain.

The watch awaits winding,
The pen needs refilling.

Yet there were times,
When the gin was ready,
Right after breakfast.
And we had it swiftly
Like undoing ribbons,
Off presents lying by.

The lights were diffused,
Akin to discipline.
And nothing mattered more
Than life embracing,
Waiting upon us
At the other end
Of our bed,
Even as the sun played through the curtains,
It knew, it was
Forbidden.

We owned life,
Once.

Exit

Are you afraid of chambers?
Lawyers', doctors'?
I am.
And the apprehension,
In the ticking silence.
I dislike distortion,
And ECG charts.
And the count
Of heartbeats.
I dislike not knowing,
Even as I am curious,
Even as I am staring,
Praying unto the ceiling.

I try thinking of simpler times.
My cycle's bell tinkling,
The laughter of our youth,
Even as we stood,
At counters,
Queuing.

Some friends are lost,
Most are on the other side
Of a screen.
They do not know,
Of my distastes,
Or my muted scream.

I feel my blood pump,
All the way
From nostalgia,
To Siberia.
I am afraid of chambers.
Please exit.

The walls collapse into a forest sleeping,
Oh, to never stop dreaming!

Alterations

Everything eventually alters --
The sun rises and sets,
The day slips into the night.
The suggestive implies,
It is always more than
What it was.

The unspoken words,
Gush out a story,
A letter churns out,
A lifetime.

The isolated alphabet,
It conjures lands.

May-hem

"May in Ayemenem is a hot,
Brooding month."
Have you heard it somewhere?
Read it perhaps?
May everywhere, is the same,
The same stifle.

I knew myself well,
Ageing well,
Writing letters, reading none.
No stamps stamped,
No papers breathed.
I loved you still.

But May is a month to brood,
And blow some disgust,
Into the face of life.
Language wore out,
Like earphones
And earrings,
Over-worn.

We went together,
Hand in hand,
Small little things,
Their loving Gods,
And I.

When May is done,
I will return
To the undone.
I shall love again,
Love twice.
Letters will be written,
And kisses stolen,
And the mist on my glasses,
Will smile over life.

The earrings will shine,
And the earphones will sing
Newer songs fine.
And next year,
May be,
May will be a passer-by,
And watch brooding die...

Letter to Daughter XXI

Sweetheart,

Do you find meaning in the colourful blocks you build, and do you, when you break them back? Do you look for meaning? I wish I could learn how to vacate my mind of fears and anxieties and breathe in the beauty of dull moments. Every morning when I straighten the pillow of your head shape, when you are in school, battling books and boredom, I wonder what is the meaning of meaning. Till the shape dissolves and I give up. Of course, there is no meaning in meaning. But who could I ever explain that to? I slowly recline with the cup of tea, intended to refresh, knowing well I do not want to. And I fall asleep again.

This has been my routine since the last one, two years, now? From a time I revived the letters, to now, where it flourishes -- a cheap fake; from bringing you home to now having you out in the world, life has changed so much. As it so demands. You no longer spell 'jiraaf', but it is a part of me, intact in its wrong spelling, the endearing tale on a tattered paper and gold spots all over my soul. You no longer ask 'Where is Daddy?' It feels, as if, starkly, and overnight, you have swallowed all the meanings of life.

As we grow together, I learn more from you than I thought or knew I ever could. Your charming kindness with which you cup my cheeks and ask for a day-off from school, your cold shoulder to messy bus-mates complete with silent, ferocious looks and of course, your rationale in explaining the existence of greed -- why a new school bag and a new water bottle, both, are essential.

I never knew I was capable of such an extent of forgiving and tolerating.

You have made a mother out of me.

Never a moment when I am not all yours,
Momie.

I Want to Write Like You

"I want to write like you,"
I get to hear, often.
Should I feel happy?
Slightly.
Have I ever wanted to write like you?
Like anyone?
The closest,
I thought,
Was once when I wanted to paint,
Like someone.
I was young,
And my head was full of wilderness.
No,
I do not wish to paint like her anymore,
Or you.

Wisdom tells me I cannot,
And ethics tell me
I should not.
Any replication would belittle
The art to craft.
I could only appreciate,
Be inspired with a work of art.

I'd much rather be your painting,
Static in my lyrics,
As I watch the world pass by.

All the City's Secrets

The slight bite of the lilting sky,
As seen from a stolen window,
Is freer,
Than I have lately been.
They reveal secrets of
The city I breathe in.

The tightrope sways,
On either side of no.
One a wayfarer,
Another knows not
Where to go.
I smile down,
Captivated by the clock,
Killing one slow hour,
With another.

There swims happiness,
On dusty roads.
And there, look,
There's survival,
Selling candies and pins,
And hankies and hooks.
The women in the other building,
Look out sad too,
At their men,
And their children,
And the rupee in their hand
Or two.

They look at me, wondering,
Anger, envy.
I look back wondering,
Poetic frenzy.
The city's secrets are safe with us,
We share differences,
And it's silences.

Musings

To,
The many, many poems,
And stories
I wish to hear...
Where are you?

Did you fly away,
To the rains
Who sprang from rivers?
Are you bottled inside
Petite perfume pieces?
Are you awaiting
To be plucked,
From the bouquet of stars
Across the sky?

Stay there.

At the tip of my pen,
Awaits rejection.
There is no room
For you.
I cannot do to you,
What I did to them...

Them,
In their grand madness,
And their,
Severe mediocrity.
Them,
In their,
Composure, displeasure,
At home with me.
They who grew out,
Into me.

Stay away.

In the arms of the clouds,
Play.