Monthly Archives: May 2014

What more from an old woman

WHEN I study that the me in the mirror
fails to replicate the me in me
but just reflects the cheek with its oil and fat;
when I grasp the fact that these derma layers
would one day be just justly
none better than a torn piece of loin cloth,
the favoured morsel for the cemetery soil;
is it then I’d realize I should’ve retorted
to the compliment of an erstwhile neighbour
in the stained seats of a congested train from the east
“you look too fair to a dark father”?

Lo! stranger!
How would you ever know it is this dark dad
that sanctioned all the fairness in this unfair life of mine?
How I wish I could disown my “thanks” to you
that was bitterly too undue.

WHEN the echoes of the empty rooms
amplify the eerie strains of isolation;
when the unscathed undertones
of my own living room fountain grow so screaming,
filling the void with sounds of voiceless violins;
is it then I’d realize that I should’ve stayed
some more time beside you my mother,
whose whistle lines never whispered the loneliness
nor sang the tunes of unease of your disease;
who passed only sleepy wakings through nights
and stirring slumbers through days,
sipping only aching agonies as antidotes

Do you know I blundered
by leaving you for lame little excuses?
How I wish I could repudiate my “I must go”
that was way too unjust for you.

WHEN the pearl pinky blushes of the park roses
fail to grab my attention,
when the purple-laden clouds pass by
with the least lightning on the lazy limbers of my sleeping psyche
when all my sacred chantings start with your name,
shunning the lousy leers of loathsome scallywags,
coyly revealing the unalloyed yearning of mine,
to entwine my feeble fingers with your firm ones;
is it then I’d realize that I should’ve let the waves
drift beneath and bless our feet to be frozen for eternity
on the beach sands of our, our time

When would I ever let my love unveil itself –
Love crystallized, love that longed not to leave but to live with you?
How I wish I’d never uttered the “Bye Pal!”
that indeed was undeserved by your pristine soul.

WHEN the laughing gases around here
drench me with their hugs and handshakes
for all the otherwise despised heeds and hearty breaths,
(shhh! in the disguise of discipline),
when tears are feared ready to roll down
the moment a frown is found on my visage,
when with narcissistic strides I march up to my province
claiming the world under my feet;
Is it then I’d realize I should’ve darned
the delicate laces that had bound us
for more than a tutor and a tyro

How do I furbish the coarser
course of affairs, to wise up to the art of unlearning?
How I wish my ever so loyal “you’re my God”
hadn’t played too unjust for my heart.

After all, the wistful wish hangs back though,
Pronouncing the factual fashion of being-
If only words were just passing winds
and their wounds just discoloured patches
on the skin of the subliminal,
ease would be the glide along this frost and cold;
equable would be this long haul to respite
in the bosom of eternity.


Falling in love with a Buddhist monk

He had calm blue eyes and stubble

A whisper of a moustache too

Some grey that dotted his rotund head

A smile that called out to you

Of faraway lands and little known faith

Of peace, of war, of smiles and death

His words- titillating and yet pristine

Like ripples of water in sunshine shine.

He spoke of truth, he spoke of love

He spoke of things unknown

And yet he spoke with such candor

Unnerving and true to the soul

Clad in bare robes he seemed warm enough

While bitter winds froze my veins

But I looked at him and his beam

Was like dawn through the cold rain.

How lovely it would seem if all my life

I spent with that serene spirit

Resplendent thoughts his wisdom would lend-

Resplendent emotions elicit.

How peaceful it would seem if all my life

I could bask in his words of merit

Words- sonorous and murmuring at once

Words- like those of no poet.


T’was to be a day of epiphanies

For I learnt I’d fallen in love

With Buddha, his Dharma, but nay, also

A tranquil wandering soul.

But alas, life is not so kind

For he has vowed the life of a monk.

Woe betide me for I have dared

To fall in love with a Buddhist monk.

Beautiful is You.

Feel the rage seeping through your veins. Shriek at the top of your voice. Slap someone on their  back so their teeth chatter. Sing like you’re the only person on earth. Stick your tongue out at someone when they deserve it. Lick that chocolate off your fingers, not giving a shit who’s watching. Laugh your head off, loud and raucous. Swear once in a while.

That hot headed anger where you hear the fuzz in your brain and where you feel your blood boil like hot steel kept under the sun all day, the guitar strum that reverberates through your hand when you slap someone hard and the melody that is in the cacophony of your laughter- being wild is a plethora of music.

Oh, the joy of day dreaming, gaping open mouthed at a point in space when your eyes gloss but you hear your mind whirring away in your very own eden of imagination. Oh, the joy of the  unabashed flush when your eyes meet his and you cannot help but smile crookedly.  And oh, the joy of stifling a grin and failing miserably,  a snort escaping you as your friend nudges you to evoke a fresh bout of giggles.

That moment is precious when you wake up in the morning, your curls at their disposal to look like popcorn and your pillow case a little wet with drool, your eyes hating the light one moment and welcoming it the next. That moment is precious when you scream at the top of your lungs because there’s a vile cockroach in the bath. That moment is precious when your nose runs and  you quickly wipe it away with the back of your sleeve.

The most beautiful you are is when you sneeze in the middle of a well composed speech. The most beautiful you are is when you slip and wildly teeter to gain your balance, the most beautiful you are is when you draw in your breath sharply after you’ve bitten off that chilly. The most beautiful you are is when you don a moustache of ice-cream and don’t realize it.

You are precious because you are impulsive and awkward.

You are beautiful because you are you.

Pray tell me

Sometimes I wonder on warm sunny days

As I do on nights that rain

Sometimes I wonder when I see your joy

And sometimes when I feel your love, oh boy!

What I have done to see life smile

Through your eyes, through your eyes.

I ask you now, why do you love me?

Do you see someone else, a someone pretty?

For if you saw the me I saw in me

I’m afraid like me, you’d want to leave.


Ink-blue sky and thundering clouds

A bolt of lightning through the din

The patter of raindrops on freshly mowed grass

And there- the earth’s speaking back.


He’d looked beautiful in the rain

His hair sticking to his lovely face

The heavens were exulting in our joy

Petrichor- I remember vividly.


That delicious aroma of freshly baked bread

That whiff of wine ages old.

Can come not near the sensuous scent

Of the earth speaking back to the rain.


He’d kissed me first in the rain

His hair sticking to his lovely face

And as he took me in his arms

Petrichor- I remember vividly.


Tales of flowers and fables of trees

And the myriad madrigals of moths and bees

A mighty epic subtly put

That’s the earth speaking back to the rain.


Suddenly, he drew away in the rain

His hair sticking to his lovely face

He disappeared, leaving me in his wake

Petrichor- I remember vividly.


That tang of home, that pang of love

Of soulful firsts and farewells

Petrichor- I remember vividly

That’s the earth speaking back to the rain

Can not the world be vague?

Bound books, thick and theoretical and imposing intelligence on students still unaffected by the many masks the world wears, abysmal aberrations they are indeed. There is this animal instinct in mankind to define everything, as if every grand and trivial object on earth can have a definite form. Define man. Define woman. Define love. Define the ray of sunshine that graciously streams in from the open window forming criss-cross patterns as it falls on the tiled floor. The sense of satisfaction when one has something succinctly defined and written down in a neat hand is as they say, out of the world.

But we must beg to differ.

If anything, this satisfaction can only be next to that of not being able to label, bring to form, delimit. The sense of joy in knowing the unknown is out there, the thrill of anticipation of something beyond words- the knowledge of being ignorant is bliss.

For words cannot define the moment your puppy pushes his wet nose into your hands. Words cannot define a cuddle that lingers long after.

Words cannot define that sudden jolt of fear when you find him not beside you. Words cannot define the shudder running down your spine.Words cannot define the quiet relief when you see a familiar face in the crowd. Words cannot define the fact that you remember the scent long after they left and no, words cannot define the abyss of longing that follows separation.

But no, it is also not possible to define why man feels hungry. Not for food, but for love. For something that he claims he has found, but lacks the next moment. They cannot define how his heart houses someone one moment, and quite somebody else the next. How his heart refuses to let go of a person long after they’ve transcended through to Elysia. How his heart guards his soul. How his mind is a jail his heart is bound in. How even as his life goes on, his heart stops living.

How his heart breaks into crumbs of nothingness even as it pumps blood.

How love makes life seem like a bag of old leaves waiting to be raked up.

Man is complex, and complex seems to be an underrated word. No we are not defining man, for to put the mass of physical traits and emotional anomalies with its bagful of conflicting emotions and unattainable desires in shapes of ink is sure to be unyielding. Try to define man, and you find volumes of poetry; but try and leave him uninhibited in his space, and you find in his complexity unnerving simplicity. Simple because a smile conveys the tremendous joy that lifts a man to the level of frenzy. Because a tear contains the battered remains of a broken heart. Because a kiss has in it the constrained longing of a besotted soul.

Define not the innocence of first love, define not the trembling shyness of lovers, and define not this world.

Let the bound books, thick and theoretical and imposing intelligence on students still unaffected by the many masks the world wears, abysmal aberrations as they are, not misguide you.