random number 3931

random number 3931



He took a deep breath and came close to her, overlooking knots of people strewn about him, some cussing, some getting cussed at; he wanted to touch her simply to confirm that his madness does, after all, have a real cause, like a guerrilla sliding his hand down his waist to clutch his gun and feel its cold steel solidity in the wake of an armed revolution, as if that could defy his humane doubts and plunge him into the center of his cause.

“I love you, and I feel ashamed to tell you this. You with this laugh, these fingers, these dirty pair of converse, look so human and incapable of understanding what I’m saying”.
She with her laugh, her fingers, her dirty pair of converse, drew back.
“You’re making somebody feel so loved, is that not enough for you lovers?”

random number 3931

Of Bodies

// Of Bodies

Do you think that bodies are
like bended rivers, unexpected
gusts of violent desire rushing
forth from the hidden folds of
dark curves and darkening moles?
Do you clutch these moles
like you clasp the craggy edges
of a mountain, when falling in
your nightmarish vision of death?
Do you think I’m here to save you?
Do you think I will if I were?
What changed in twenty years
that a dimpled elbow transformed
from a little girl’s hand they’d hold
when she crossed the road to
the hand of a woman you need to hold?
Do you think that bodies are
cheap shimmery glass-gin potions
of magic you’d bottoms-up and forget?
Do you think I’ll allow you to forget?
Do you think I will if I could?
What changed in twenty years
that they can no longer stand the sight
of her chest which they together
made sure would never crack?
Do you think a body is a torpedo
you can arrange to explode at a distance
from you, sans the singed embers
of grief and burning smell of anger?
Do you think a body is the unfolding
of a poetic image through a meandering
meadow, slivers of your ghastly revelation,
concrete, precise, measured, revised.

Do you think I’ll reveal you?
Perhaps, I will

curtains of desire

curt.jpgThe helm of my mother’s saree,
the waning and waxing of her skirt,
grandmother combing her grey wired
mythic tales into meaningful combinations,
pickled petticoat
discoloured with history,

the comings and the goings
the cruising along their fenced orchard,
under gulmohar sky in April’s explosive red
“breeding lilacs out of the dead land”
in December; burning memories
of deserted lovers in autumn;

anchored on the same spot
growing into a thin curtain
in rootless fluttering,
rootless suffering;

like a window
letting it come
letting it go

Chambers of history

niz.jpgAround the octagonal
Nila gumbad in Nizamuddin
I will find 8 ways to love you
That will stand the test of time
Since 1625,
On cold Christmas eve
overlooking Humayun’s Tomb
anticipating the dargah
I will love you
chipped desecrated
desperate blue
hung between history and death.
You can love me back,
Or else there’s
the ghalib street
a desolate walk away

love in the times of …

Last was September
the 18th 2016,

In a churlish desire
I found you slathered
like ideas on my
cinnamon hit
filter coffee,
refusing to go down
the dry throat until
Had to whiz through
the coffee house
in SDA market
and make quick love in the loo,
used up all their tissues.
The places you chose to remember me!
It’s January now
And cold, very cold,
and silence alone
wraps itself on my tongue
frozen in uninspired immobility,
while you warm other people’s beds
who now write better poetry!