Leaving Behind

the table creaks, a dove
takes sudden flight
leaves behind a twirling feather

it thuds the floor mutely

the town rises home by home
street by street, step by step
shadowless faces smile and yawn
a sun softened by a quilt of clouds

grey and thick like my grandmother’s hair

she does not live here anymore
only her cats do, a few spice bottles
transperent and organised
they tell us about her past and future
the kitchen window lights up like a film screen
outside, a row of doves
take flight and disappear
leaving behind a fluttering echo

Lake

the lake ferments tides
occasionaly they lap at our feet

geese rise in the distance
flaps echo through conifers

in the empty shikara my feet plant
we row
tranced by cutting waves
we watch life drift by

Forever

strangers meet over zebra crossing
briefly brushing, forever departing
forever floating unknown
as masks in a crowd full of stories
in them i often pierce my gaze
my neutral scan looking for ailments
which remain untreated, only spoken of
only rewritten nicely as fairy tales
ending without an ending
forever lucid
forever floating aimlessly

Five Things I Desire From Monsoon

Drizzle. Touch me faintly, at first
then all at once, as a downpour
Dissolve me beautifully as I become
A body of rivers

At night, percussion outside
Providing me a beat to breathe with
Caressing my ears like a distant lover
Bringing soft breezes

Direct every bird in the valley, to
sing their dreams together, giving us
childhood songs to remember
later in urban summers

While others bring me troubles, you
bring me my antidote – the aroma
of your tears wetting mud

And much later, over a grey terrace
Mask my woman’s face
with yourself, as I uncover you
using touches, stay with us for longer
As we grow fond of you

Grey Season, circa 2011

my fingers draw patterns on fogged glass, downstairs
the street smudged by a slippery season clogging
the quaint town with the stench of puffed wood and
occasional touches of passerbys whispering taunts
that get replaced by smoke from tobacco pipes
– vintage

while the lonely houses fixate their gaze
towards the hazy peaks troubled by clouds the
greyness of noon is plucked by that one colourfully
dressed lady carrying a large bag, crossing the street
and stopping over to buy some vegetables,
her pink scarf becoming a colourful star

later she cooked me for and I thanked her for everything
the beef stew seasoned with mountain salt and pepper
the scarf- I asked whether I could have it, she smiled
and let me carry home an old teacup
on which colours mixed like moody rainbows, curtailed
by the discipline of patterns

Aziz

the noon sun carpeted the floor inside, spilling
onto the stairs like water
eventually reaching his feet as shadows
Aziz

stood leaning against the windows, stressed
sorrowing the death of his kitten
whose name flushed his mind in regret, even
his mother wasn’t spared

noon became dusk, the calls of prayer
echoing across the square pulled him
his heart languishing on the road, wondering
why this pain pierces suddenly, hoping
that the day would become better –

– fast broken, the evening clanked with tea
and dates poised with bees, he looked
in the corner and found an old cat, licking
rotting wounds, its eyes
asking
for an end