How could you, how would you
Just come up with random things, on the spur
The prank of the refrigerator, the thought
Of having glowing star stickers
On the bedroom ceiling, signing
Your emails with a Buddha quote –
Stories, nightmares, dreams,
Wicked jokes and shower screams
In each room you left behind signs of you,
The good and the mad
The dirty and the sad
A garden that reeks of bad cutting
A sink that is tired of drowning
A toothpaste unclosed and hanging
Like most things, you too, left incomplete
Either too fast or either too early, for which
In a corner crying
without a battery change
Without the reflection
of your childish face
Even the clocks remember you


Waking Up

Just woke up an hour ago, from fiction
Into a tense-less world where
Masks were absent, the traffic blurred like a stream, the
Murmuration of birds tipping the horizon
Like my hands browsing tips of grasses, slow waves

With the sea on either side, the path
Occasionally emerging with faces from the past,
Language-less, calm
Their eyes sinewed by forgiveness
…I aged backward into skin and bones, thereafter
Thousands of new moons dazed me, I ceased
To be a body with senses and mistakes, instead
The past and future opened their arms
I reached my origin, becoming
A million years older
And a million years younger
Watching my entire being pass by
Changing every second


so many doors
knock them down
let the clogged memoirs out
for a serene stroll
the verandah waits for you

so many windows
with faces of bruised children
awaiting your forgiveness
light some lanterns and let them rise
create joyous images in their eyes
the sky waits for you

i wait for you at the end of this moment
i watch you disappear and reappear
i watch you age like everything else
you call me back to show me
the city of love you rebuilt
the streets pulse like veins from your heart
each house invites you for a feast
but you decline saying
you have more houses to build


formal, the response
to all questions asked
that tinker images of the past
swimming deep within the mind
on shutting of eyes, the sound
of memories flying from one building to another
over the noise of growing traffic
a city of thoughts

dissected, by watching
each experience dissolving
into the next, a chain of scenes
growing into a cinema, the
dream without the dreaming
a viewing of the views, on opening
the eyes, each image
a decided meaning
but within, each moment
the start of a stream

7.2.17 – in reference to cinema as a meditative art

Woman at the Window

her floral sari, ageing into paleness 
her window is stained by colonies of fungi 
they blur the outside world into a strange painting
she lets her fingers graze over damp furniture
reminding them of their lost senses
the house smells of unsaid things

walking past her on the cramped staircase
one senses an emptiness arriving and departing
her tired eyes accept the peeling walls as proofs 

I have never smelled food cooking from her kitchen
I have never heard music spreading out of her home
I’m assuming the phone doesn’t ring either
and why those hanging planters have been left to dry
one might never fathom only by observation

in her I see unseen bits of the women who make me
my mother, grandmother, friend, lover, sister
even the passer-bys who I will never register
being a man there are sanctums I might never enter

arriving at window she searches for rain
she kills another cigarette and drifts into her room
at times she opens the window and settles
seasoned by the silent sorrows of
the passage of a thousand moons