Appooppan Thadi

I leave her
and walk back
as the ferocious summer sun

seems to melt
the shiny black tar
under my feet

and I melt like wax -
beads of sweat
find its way down my forehead.

The shining white hair
on the tar
like a caged man

pulling at the chains
trying to break free
to lift itself into the air

and fly.

I remember,
once when we were together
and I held one of these fair

beauties of freedom
harsh,
crushing it

plucking the seed out
and how she scolded me
for plucking the purpose out

of a poor appoppan thadi.

Now I see men
and women
crushed

being plucked out of their purpose
between the fingers of everyday
grounded for what seems forever

while they were destined to float
to heights
to places

to where their seeds will plant dreams anew.

They are stuck
in the tar
and the heat

of everyday abstractions
of expectations
of impossibilities

and I see them wither.

I knew she was right
in more ways than one,
as she oft times is.

Note: Published in The Sunflower Collective on August 8, 2016. 

Lawyer

Today, I walked up to her desk.
It was messy, unlike her
brisk appearance
that wears the shades of the rainbow
with a casual finality.

There were books,
predictably pertaining to the laws
unruly, unlike her
hair that falls neatly
to her sides.

A hygiene product sat whispering
to the laptop cooler
all black, unlike her
words that smother you with their certainty
and playfully warn you to stay out of trouble.

Probably,
I will talk to her before I go.


---
Note: This poem was published in Algebra of Owls on July 22, 2016. 

The Elevator

My fingers play a tasteless rhapsody
as I slowly rise to my doorstep;

watching my fingers dance in the mirror
I realise
the girl in the elevator
has lost her voice.

It is the season of sickness
and longing wraps its long fingers around my heart.

I disappear into darkness,
a soap lather feather
dissolving in the shower.


---
Note: This poem was published on Spillwords on July 13, 2016.

Untitled: Prose Poem

Remembrance follows forgetting

what follows the river down its course is the truth of all the time that it flowed through: through my childhood mornings spent on the sandy banks shimmering in the early rays of the hungry summer sun still waiting by the horizon for us to offer our prayers, my grandfather offers his obeisance like his forefathers have done for ages as I dip my self in the water’s bosom to wash away the sins of stepping on a bug I didn’t see and of competing with a squirrel for the first bite of ripe mango this year

but time will flow by

sins accumulate with a revengeful ferocity and there is no river left this summer to wash me off my deeds and no memory as powerful as my late grandfather’s prayers lost in the din of the millennium. What will happen? What will.


---
Note: This poem has been published in The Unprecedented Review on June 14, 2016.

Silent Poem

This poem is silent,
lost his voice on his way to a protest meeting.
Now he keeps his silence,
protesting the silencing.
Or maybe the brave middle-class poem
is just scared.
Ever since he valiantly voiced his view
that silence is a weapon of the masses
the token of resistance
has been stuffed down the throats of his countrymen.
So the poem goes home,
and returns his awards to the Akademi. 

Note: Excerpts from this poem was published in a feature in the Deccan Chronicle on March 21, 2016.

Poem: Remembrance

i remember how well you remember me

meeting again
after
a brief gap
of centuries

you shook my hands
     welcome back
your eyes gleaming
your face split open in a terrible smile

Spellbound

It has all gone dark

and my spine tingles as excitement peaks

dead are the monsters who in my dreams do creep.

I remember cummings

i like my body

my memory is disjointed

against your body

oh, cummings! your words do excite my mind

but my body is mastered by a different softness.

When the fingers lay entwined

unable to find their true owners

but run riot over every bit of skin they find

the darkness prevails

and the excitement leave us breathless

and we pant 

and ponder

the beauty of existence

and tears roll down our cheeks

what mastery of the body

what bewitchment of the mind

I wonder if even buk can tell us

buk is careless

you tell me

but go to pablo, your mate

I know your distaste for buk’s dark honesty

but pablo, I agree, is our man of the moment.

While I still wonder, 

the calm washes over us

and we breath normal again

and darkness is blinded

by a well-meaning stranger

who haunts the dreary corridor.

Grandmother

I.

(Thanks to kind Fiona Bolger)

My grandmother sits there
chanting in a muted voice
krishna, krishna, krishna krishna
the prayer drifts on
playing its own music
hitting all the chords right
the words forgetting themselves
in their own rhythm

as she slowly drifts
to an uneasy sleep
induced by a mix of pills
and exercises prescribed
by the man in white
whom she loathes above all

as the advertisers on TV
drone on ceaselessly
explaining the fundaes of stock markets
and the newsmen lamenting
the fall of rupee
as the markets flopped

as her dreams fill with nightmares
of the doctors' white coat
whiter smiles
waiting to prise her open

she startles to wakefulness
and as on autoplay
resumes the quite chants
om parasakti nama
om parasakti nama
om parasakti nama
om shanti
shanti
shanti.

II.

She sits on the porch
on a creaky stool

leaning on the red armrest
looking out at the world passing by

her eyes never saw much
ears failing now

but in the bicycle bell of the newspaper boy
she hears how the world fares

the sun seeping through the trees
shows her lives no one ever sees

in the void of the house
she lives a hundred lives

past converses fluently with an uncertain present
leaving the present a muddled mess.

The Anonymous Man

The days have passed by
     By the roadside he stands
          Eyes fixed on oblivion

His body melts into thin air
     Like a salted snail
          And no one notices

The world goes by
     The rush hour traffic twists
          And turns its way around potholes

Life was a balancing act
     He was caught by surprise
          And sent toppling down to anonymity

Routine

A Tanka.

Just by the window 
seated in the moving train
I wait a while for
my thoughts to run through the streets
of all the sand castle dreams

Messiah of My Words

I see my words wander through the crowds

They sniff at the coffee shop

To see if you are still there

Mingled with the smell of mismatched filter coffee

I see them wandering through the corridors

Peeping through the half-closed doors

And grilled windows, making sure

That they won’t miss your rare visits

They seem to like the way you casually feed them

While you just sit there

Talking about yourself

Frantically waving your arms around

Adjusting your hair

Wiping your eyes beneath your glasses

And sometimes about the world

How it is rotting

How you see people smiling towards their deaths

How you hope that there is redemption

How you are saddened that a messiah is not at hand

How you dream about being the messiah

But just look down at your feet when you are back here next time

My words lie there faithfully

Waiting for your caress

Waiting for your fingers to run through the furs

And for the treat that you always carry around with you without even noticing

For my words,

You are the messiah they are waiting for

Chatting

Like the railway tracks 
running parallel to each other

kissing one moment

and missing the next

we wait on the other side -

missing and reminiscing -

for the green dot

for the drop sound

for the blinking light

You Are.

You are a recurring taste in my mouth

A song playing in loop in my head

A rhythmic beating in my heart

You are bright blue in my dreams

A rising moon in my starless sky

A vision in my waking hours

You are the dreams of my past

A momentous relief of my life

A storm in the pits of my stomach

You are an ache unexplained

A mark of words unremembered

And of thoughts unthought. 

Anticipating a Goodbye

The day I fly away
you'll think all the sweet words
I whispered in your ears
were all a big lie

the stories I made up
so the nights will be longer
that the magic will linger

and on one of the sore nights

when the gift of remembrances haunt you

you'll ask questions

answers for which I never had

and will never have

know that all I know 

is that I love you, truly.

Karmic Injustice

This is a guest post. It is unusual, yes. But this needs to be shared. Karmic Injustice was a coinage that we stumbled upon together. Urmi and I. These beautiful words from the painter partner describes what she was going through at that point and what Karmic Injustice means to her.

When we coined that phrase, I didn’t realize that I would have to use it so many times later. When I first said Karmic Injustice, it was just about me and one story. Now, 6 months later, it’s me and countless stories. As every friendship crossed a milestone, a new story was unveiled. And with every new tale of pain, my heart broke a little bit more.

Karmic Injustice... It’s just this. A word to describe the woes of those who have no woes. Like me. With my perfect life and happy endings. Karmic Injustice describes that which makes my existence unjustified. When so many around me cry, I can neither share their worries nor can wipe away their tears. Karmic Injustice is that itch in my heart that yearns to find out why! Why the world is so fucked up. Why can I be allowed to laugh when so many cry. Why need someone stay hungry while I nibble my dessert.

My mother assures me that there is justice in fate. That my happiness is not to be tainted by guilt. And yet, I cannot have faith in some reasoning that remains elusive and invisible. Karmic Injustice defines not just the tears of those unfairly punished... but also the first world problems of those who shed no tears. 

Oh... to dream of the day when I can just pluck the petals of my happiness and spread it all around...

Hanging by a thread

On a thread we are tied,
ear to ear.

The same rhythm throbbing in our heads,
flowing through our veins
and the same thoughts streaming through us.

With shared dreams
and forgotten heartbreaks,
in a piece of music -
we love. 

Sonder

Sonder

at 3 am

being good

following the words and dreams of a great father

watching

          through the broken window pane

          the dance of the city lights

               behind the shadow of the tall tower

i remember you

torn pages and dry ink.

Fragments #2

What do blank white papers mean to a girl in a dream who walks down rows of bookshelves, feeling the spine of every volume, examining the obscure copy tucked away in a corner and who looks up suddenly to watch the overpowering beauty of the silver moon in a wet monsoon sky?

What does a dried up pen mean to a silent poet who follows beauty and passion and love in their vague, forbidden paths with a toolkit of words and who occasionally looks up to share a piece of the silverware surrounded by weak, twinkling stars?

Do they care for a meaning at all? 

The Imperfect Perfection

She wrote a poem
on the perfection of the imperfect.

He wrote an essay
on the imperfection of the perfect.

On the shelves of the local bookstore
they sat facing each other,
perfectly imperfect.

On your departure

Oh, yes! 
definitely,
you can leave anytime you wish to -
the doors will always be open.

but do not turn back once you step out
for you will find all the doors closed,
and maybe even the windows
because I hate strangers peering into me.

do not try to knock
because I would have stopped listening to you
and do not try and pay a visit later
because I would have more guests, and you will not be needed.

yet
if,
and only if,
you chose to stay
you will find the warmest heart beating for you,
the softest beds for you to rest,
the strongest hand to hold you safe,
and the surest shoulders for you to cry upon.

i see that your mind is set,
then not let me waste my breath
let us say goodbye
and bid farewell forever.

[This poem has been published in the Issue 8 of Poetandgeek.com.]