Again

So I decided to come here

and face the music that

once loved me. And somewhere

tonight, as the fireworks burst

and the stars came up, I saw your

eyes and looked into them again

and as the music played,

you were mine and I became

yours, all over again. (more…)

Growing Up

I told you long ago
That I had grown up
Altered for the better
Casually crushing
Your hopes for sympathy
Forgiveness
Needless chatter
Comfortable silence
I said
It was never love
Child’s play
A rocky distraction
Of youthful lust
And clandestine mistakes
Today
I remember you
As I tell my story
To another one of you
Charming
Caught in a haze
Of blinding allure
Distracted as ever
Perhaps
I have not grown up at all (more…)

New poetry on the Tuck Magazine

I am happy to announce that I have two new poems, ‘Sometimes I Forget To Think‘ and ‘Mountain Speech‘ published on the Tuck Magazine,a political lit, music and arts  journal based from Canada.

The link to the poems is http://tuckmagazine.com/2016/11/16/poetry-613/

So go right over and check them out! 🙂

 

Narratives of the Lake

I enjoy solitary walks on the side of the murky
lake with its gluttonous fish and their unthinking feeders.
It’s therapeutic, I tell myself.

The grey-green grass, dew kissed leaves and dark marshy footpath-
They’re all part of the poet’s parcel.
I’m supposed to love these kinds of places.

Some days, I pay the men with the horses exorbitant amounts
so I’d have a pony to pretend was mine.
The ones I got were always ordinary,
ordinary as the dull grey pigeons that shit all over the city
buildings in New Delhi.

In Shillong, the lake is more alive
but the fish have dull eyes as they gather beneath
the bridge, fighting for their bread crumbs
and corn chips.
The water reeks of death
like someone was murdered and drowned
as naive fish watched and waited.

Do lakes and death walk hand in hand?

Ride

Death is a white man with alabaster skin,
pretty blonde hair,
un-calloused hands
and eyes grey as a monsoon sky.

I met him just last week
In a dream where old friends became strangers
and god was nowhere to be found.

Death was a man
and there was no fire, no streets paved in gold,
nothing waiting for me-
just a polite gentleman with a black Cadillac
ready to take me on my last ride.

He opened the door to the back and led me in,
whispering secrets I could not comprehend and
answering the questions that were running amuck in my mind.
Then he closed my coffin shut and all I knew was darkness.
There I lay,
as I felt the car move at blinding speeds on a curved road
much like the ones back home.

I wondered why my last ride was so miserable,
But then I heard him say it was for the best.
It was better for me to feel and not see
The life I passed by.
So that when we reached,
my heart would be free
to turn to dust and
return to nothingness.
For suddenly I remembered all the people I loved
And all ones I hated
And in that moment, I did not care anymore.
I became free.
Free to approach annihilation.
Free to die.

You see,
Love is strange. But, death is stranger. (more…)

The chores I hate

I hate sweeping floors and mise en place
and to do for people, things
I know they can do themselves.

That is why, I create lists upon lists
of the chores I hate,
knowing that I will find solace
only in a few moments
of unguarded poetry.

But then, one day
my father told me
my poems were no longer poetic
and my words, no longer enough.

So I decided that day,
I’d stop writing
if writing was to be a chore. (more…)

He goes through phases

He goes through phases with his hair and his heart.
Sometimes, he likes fur and big goggle glasses
but then, he turns grey and is a mystery all over again.

I tell myself I know him,
but there are nights when
I see dreams of his face but not his name.

It’s difficult to remember it all.
It’s difficult to articulate it all.
So, I bury the memories under sand
somewhere in my mind’s backyard
and walk away. (more…)

Tell Me

Am I a dilapidated structure that looks like a castle on the outside?
A mirage in a wet desert of unclean dreams and forbidden conversation?
Or am I real like your breathing on my neck, gentle nudges towards the sad, narrow path?
Tell me, who I am. (more…)

Sky full of stars

A short story I wrote about a family, torn by a painful past and an uncertain future…

5 Feet Tall

Abul

To Abul Ahmed Firdauz, Varun was just a young boy who did not need to know the past. At seventeen, Varun needed to know nothing but his responsibilities as a son. There was a field to plough, an exam to pass and a mother to care for. The last thing he needed was to foster childish obsessions.

But it was tiring these days. Their arguments were longer and louder. It isn’t very easy when you are fifty five years old, poor and suffering from arthritis. The pain is unbearable sometimes. So, he pulled a chair outside to their front yard and sat down to rest after a long day. Smoking his hand rolled cigarette, he looked up to the sky and sighed heavily.
Insha Allah, this will pass soon enough.

He liked sitting outside every evening, blowing out little rings of white smoke into the dusk that turned to…

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