Night

12.11 am. Let it begin. Raincoats soaked,
teapots cloaked
by thick steam, the murmurs of shadows
passing in and out of their faces

Books browse the breeze, their flaps open
pages stroked and shivered
unwritten bits whispered as wants
sitting on moist ears

Like a workshop, the bed, busy and frantic
rises and falls like an ocean, whose waves
travel towards the silent coasts of windows
faraway and sleeping

Probably

I’ll probably talk about myself in bits and pieces along the way
As we river into life’s slower years with a softening memory
The glass that separates the reflection from the being will dissolve
And sorry doves alighting on grey buildings will take off

In the soothing streams of my childhood you’ll dip rough fingers
And the mountains that hold my ancestry with release scores of eagles
The horses that run into you will burst into a million butterflies
Each carrying a day of my life, hinging between now and then, flapping

And the hush of leaves that follows you windily in my city
Shall stop before the shop where I kept a tab all my life
Within each shelf are preserved secrets, some expired, pick them all
Or none, your call, you may leave anytime

I wait for you at the end of it all besides the lake
Where clouds collate over its face, the birds float over the mirror
And age stops all of a sudden like the clock on my grandfather’s wall
I still remember it, the dial mute and the hands hanging like sorrowing branches
You will sit with me and watch me become a man one last time
Awaiting entry into the sanctuary, breathing, counting every breath on its way out

– translated from Marathi

Roast



Friday night. Slow roast, an oven pregnant

the guest waits at your table, pouring wine, adjusting table mats
staring into the fruits and finding her childhood favourite

an untouched sweet lime

passing time
the window calls you both, you bond and chatter

wine reduces, only the residue, lingering on a future kiss

…but you miss
she watches you go blank

her eyes get filled with growing scenes 

watching them build and dissolve the breeze blows inward

the night deepens, her touch 

finds your arm



the oven ticks.


Drama, the Scent of Mangoes, Love 


yellow, the colour
of a summer morning’s arrival
windows disrobing one by one
letting in the season gradually
trees heavy with sweet fragrance

glowing warmly into a town
sounds born from each home, idols
uncovered and water strewn on streets
I wait for you seven years later with nervous glances
your dog, the calendar in your room, your mom’s ghost
watery tea with toast
saucers whose edges have the aftertaste of you
the yellow morning brings me to you and you
to the point of time where stories have been forgotten

in the patch of forest before the paddies
the path leads onward and finds the creek, the sun
travels in a boat and is pecked by gulls, your eyes
young and unsure, meet the sea and look into me
“which is your favourite fruit, you coward?
are you still fond of coconuts and jackfruit?”
I hear you like the ocean hears the wind
rippled, I continue to smile
another season passes

Urban Montage

Present in the room was the glow of Chinese lamps and the settled smog of firecracker aftermath

A putrid stink of leftovers and the familiar intuition of regrets stamped over the air within the walls

Eyes thrown around the television remote searching for excuses to alter the fate of channels streaming nonsense

In rooms around the neighbourhood the echo of stagnation moves around like a ghost gathering ash

Faces come together behind a soggy curtain scream out their private angers and gather a spoon and plate to relish what comes after