Love Stories

The night has fallen all over us

like rain falling on young lust.

The flour mill has resigned to a long-pending sleep.

The playground has reduced to a shy silence.

The temple pleads guilty of unanswered prayers.

The truck is stationed firmly like an obsession,

and with the false blue of its tail lamp

in its rear-view mirror, through a singular byway of sight,

moment by moment, we unbutton the night.

We shed a tear at midnight

Go berserk with laughter at one,

And fall dead-silent at two.

Imitating love stories,

the two of us. 

(First published in Dance of the Peacock: An Anthology of Indian English Poetry)

Ripples

Remember the ripples

that made loquacious shapes

on the taciturn lake!

The boats carried dim lights

The moon suffered a miscarriage

The wind walked in slowly like a thief

We were frozen

in a moving world

like an iceberg

in the middle of an ocean

In your eyes was

the warmth of three winters

The sky shivering

And I surrendered

(First published in Dance of the Peacock: An Anthology of Indian English Poetry)

A Winter Night

A winter night invades me

Like you once did.

It draws me

Into a pool of radiant memories,

flooded with you.

As you surround me

Crowding my mind like compartments of a local train

You sink in my moment like spattered ink in paper,

Burn within me with the mild flame of my lighter,

Enter my ears with a Pink Floyd song,

Toss a coin with you on both sides,

Kiss me into a world where timepieces are kaput,

Walk out of my sleep from the fringes of a dream

A winter night invades me

And leaves me gently with unmingled madness

Like you once did.

(First published in Dance of the Peacock: An Anthology of Indian English Poetry)

Andheri

You silly suburb

of eventualities!

Your derelict streets,

betrayed bars,

rotten corners

of loss and dismay,

ephemeral memories,

the escaping smoke

layered uncomfortably

over your malls and markets

scream for justice -

that was reduced to rubble

like your love stories.

(First published in Brown Critique: July 2013) 

The Crossover Wind

The crossover wind

whistles through the woods,

traces an arc above the sea.

An enclosed sea coast,

being spied on through the window,

of a cheap hotel room,

draws a face, so lovely.

Inside the room, a dusty lampshade emits light,

In the shape of me. The shape of me,

and the crossover wind,

travels a distance over the sea.

The crossover wind

trapped between the hotel and the sea,

a prisoner of the evening.

The frayed ends of the evening,

prick in my eyes,

initiating the gradual process,

of engendering the night.

Two eyes. Two anachronistic captives of an anachronistic night,

hunt for their murderer. Their murderer,

like the crossover wind, mad and noisy,

seeking its identity, restlessly wanders.

The crossover wind

greets this town, exchanges a smile,

grabs a whit of it from the native air.

The midway hangs

cut by the sea-shore off the midnight,

like the memory of an ex-lover

suspended in the twilight.

A private shadow, entangled by the hotel walls,

sinks in the sea. Sinks in the sea,

when the crossover wind,

frisks the him within me.

(First published in Enchanting Verses: November 2011)

My Anger

My anger is your slave

It’s loyal to you
Like I once was
And like
You should have been to me

My anger wants
To run around in the open
Do salsa with you
Dine with you
Make out with you

But it can’t
Because
My anger is your slave.


(First published in Brown Critique: July 2013)

Remember, Remember

One day, when the sun will rise intently from the centre of the sky,

and uncover the byways from the time-spat dust, on which

we walked on chilly nights of a solitary December,

and discovered lands, invented emotions: time and again

as we converged at secluded corners of day, hand in hand,

getting lost in the dark of many alleys and several turns

of the night; you may remember. The piercing chill of love

and the temperate cloud above: remember, remember;

the hypnotic December: someday, you'll remember.

(First published in Blue and Yellow Dog: Winter Issue 2012)

Kala Ghoda

Not by the absence of the dark horse

Nor by its history that overlays your fortified stones;

You are known: by your antiquity that treats you like wine

And by your magnetic connection with the mundane;

By your musical and multilingual corners,

Your libraries and lawns, and streets that trifle with them;

By lanes turned towards sandwiches and sev-puris,

And by your compassion wet with cold sugar-cane juice.

You paint self-portraits

On walls of daily chaos and nocturnal silences

Inspecting the anatomy of Bombay

Through the city’s inverted lenses.

(First published in Pyrta Journal: December 2012)

An Urban Evening

The hour is stretched across the letters

That slide along the restaurant board,

And reduce the titles to mild jitters

Bombarding against the giant door.

Packets smuggled into the outskirts

Of the evening and its formations,

Its quiet iterations, cryptic translations,

Miniscule divisions and infinite revisions

Packets emptied and frisked

By long nail-painted fingers,

Rolled into a stick. Licked. Lit,

Circulated in a gang of mingers.

From the languid parade of time

The youth stages fantastic escapes

The night quickens under its long feet

Trampling the evening’s countless mistakes

At a distance of eight drunken steps,

Across a couple of quarrelling couples,

Beyond a gathering of ex-teammates,

Reached by a pair of Indian chappals,

Among the waiters and waitresses,

Lime slices and fruit juices,

The gossip lingers.

Manchurian’s cooked with a tinge of violin

Tied to the present with its flaccid string

In braceleted hands the evening flashes

And the wind shaves the cigarette ashes.

I am an observer of this urban evening

Like the fluttering of these blackened leaves,

The muttering of a million mes. 

The air is embroidered with tar

Forming the boundaries of this bar

And the slowed wheels of the cars

Have cascaded my circumstances

With

Thinking and its aimless branches

Pushing the world into parallel trances

O the uninvited,

O the unwanted,

O my loved one!

I want to sink you

In the mouth of this hour

Or spit you out like a long-chewed gum

But life without you is a thankless habit

Like smoking weed into an empty drum.


(First published in Muse India: Sep-Oct 2013)

Two Sunsets

All that you owe me
is a couple of sunsets.
Not a ray more, not a ray less
all that you owe me
is a couple of sunsets.

Two incoherent stories
wrapped around a coffee mug
a kingdom of two rooms
expanded to a hug.

A cake cut into
pieces of time,
savoured over
a private rhyme.

All that you owe me
is a couple of sunsets.
Maybe a ray more, maybe a ray less
all that you owe me
is a couple of sunsets.

(First published in Brown Critique: July 2013)

A Sonnet for the Causeway

What dazzles me is its mundanity: two pairs of legs,

hopeful and unruly, treading down the road as if

– so effortlessly - creating a Geometry of freewill,

stopping by hawkers, biting into burgers, their

selves shadowed occasionally under the roof

of an Irani cafe – enticing a middle-class hunger 

through Keema Pav, Bun Maska and cheese omelets.

The way the causeway emulates the unbridled walk

of life with its veiled climax, recurring bifurcations

And tempestuously planted surprises is as

fearlessly artistic as the two who have ventured

into the vastness of this luminous, brazen afternoon,

stamping a tiny yet indelible, almost perennial,

mark on the timeline with their faint footprints.

Ham Sandwich

I have a ham sandwich in my fridge.

Deep-fried ham. Wheat Bread.

But that won’t suffice, will it?

I can get you some sauce.

Would that do?

How about some sausages as well?

And I’ll spread some butter over the bread.

Would that be good enough?

Hey, listen! Or do you want something completely else?

I could get you Poha or Parathas from the next lane

I am just wondering what, what the fuck,

will make you have breakfast with me again.

(First published in Muse India: Sep-Oct 2013)