Of Shadows

 

Of shadows, the ones left behind
which later became nameless nomads, reciting
stories to each pavement they rested over
allowing themselves to be dented, reformed
by each surface that made love to their passing
occasionally hiding in unlikely places
each time a sunrise attempted an ambush.
Pursued by cats and the occasional lunatic,
escaping from one conniving space to another
learning the art of bending, spreading, shielding
they finally gave offsprings one summer night, since then
a city once coloured by a single mood
found moments of grey to balance itself out

Sunrise

 

Sunrise, know that you are alone
the gull that carries you on its wing is a thief
the sea that lets you spread uses you to cleanse its face
the flower that breaks into a bloom uses you as an alarm
and you, slowly emerging from the mountain’s forehead
send luminous gifts to cities who in return
cloud you with smog and the gossip of cars
Sunrise, know that tomorrow will be the same
somewhere someone craves for you to be replaced with rain
somewhere someone craves for you to be the same each day
and while there is no land you haven’t touched
in one distant dark village an old woman knows
that your arrival means
one day less, and one day more

Kutch, Circa 2016

endless white chapped by
earth’s cracked face
onwards a mirage tempts
cheated eyes to draw closer
offering only more distance
in exchange for more distance
the falcon unperturbed
sits inside your scope sage
and from a mile a wind delivers
fresh dust as lunch and dinner
relished only by onagers
cut by the road a lark 
flees
with a rant and disappears
meanwhile the dry sun
settling into a sleep finally
reveals a real horizon
under its orange finish
the oasis, a bed of pink,
suddenly
throws a million petals into the sky
departing flamingos ignore you cry
rewriting your dreams forever

At Times

At times a man leaves his bedroom as it is
climbs down a flight of stairs wearing yesterday’s shirt
smelling of indecisiveness he ventures across a beaten street
his ears passively attend to the temple’s ruckuss while
a memoir flies in like a newspaper and catches his attention
it dances around his gaze like a dragonfly, 
then
turns towards him suddenly, a rickshaw cuts
the distance between them in half
on either side, the longing to reunite

At times a man wakes up in a new city
his arms furry like earth’s skin in a faraway grassland
he wears the new season and throws his glance out of the window
hoping to find a flock of ideas circling the sky forming a graffiti
wishing they’d follow him to the local train station on a Monday morning
he steps into a human mess of hands and legs and sweat and bags

wishes and rants and silences and gags
adjusts himself to stay ironed for the rest of day’s first half
silently wriggling out his phone he scrolls across the world’s debates
and while focussed, his shoulder is tapped by a sudden breeze,
scared, he turns around, and witnesses his entire youth pass by

Afternoon

humid breath 

between the rain and I 

a steamed window

one kettle
brews a future sip
of both tea and mint

intoxicated, 



leafbird dashes

once grey air 

now flourescent green 


damp wood
-
quiet lungs
perfumed 
final monsoon

Landscapes

your hair rivers onto the bedsheet
tracing movements made by the rest of you
your eyes move nervously in a dream
viewing their own private cinema
your fingers gently tremble under a moist breeze
I plant my warmth at your feet

adrift in you earlier I discovered forested lakes
in me your voice echoed across endless mountains
eventually water-falling over my shoulder
and turning the room into its lake
then birds flew out of us one by one taking turns
as we gazed upward with closed eyes searching for a sky

collapsing onto rippled cloth you became a range of dunes

awakened by the stillness of night
I witness you take new shapes beside me
the scent of our time passing grows gradually
buttoning myself I let my palm speak to your forehead
a soft fluorescence robes you like an ocean

Riverside

I love this, just
the river and me
no spectators
only migrants from Siberia
all feathered

Swamps clot around us. Morning,
the shrill comeback of geese
Decors the air, newborn
grass waves its first poem

I love it most when we all settle
Me with my eyes and you with your universe
every bird speaking its own dialect,
without a translator, all grasp
the faint alarm of a predator. Magnificent take off –

Endless echoing percussion. Binoculars.

Flowers

Really, such pretty flowers, aren’t they?
Growing amidst the noise of doubt
Blooming in smoke, watching forest fires
Standing among a horde of dead men, decaying
After being used in a war
Even the planes couldn’t stop them from growing,
neither could the invaders, neither could we
Really, how pretty these flowers are
Watching life sail by sagely, and even
While dying, undressing gracefully
Leaving behind scent for a hundred days