Mind The Gap

Huaz Khas:
Sway with the remiss curls of her hair,
waves crashing against
the lush shore of her cheeks.

Karol Bagh:
Curl up in the careless panache
of the turned up edges
of her boyfriend jeans.

Chandni Chowk:
Waltz with her fingers,
as they trace ginger, sexy curves
across her moonlit phone.

Vishwa Vidhyalaya:
Relish at the reflected words
of a Marquez novel in her daintly
balanced maroon spectacles.

Jor Bagh:
Swim in the black sea spilled
across the corner of her eyes,
coastlines of a louche kohl.

Nayi Dilli:
I'm always leaving this fickle heart
at the lost-and-found counter
of the Delhi metro.

Local

I climb aboard the surprisingly empty 8.43 local,
stand by the door with a copy of Seth's Mappings
and trickle through the dewy words, when the vocal
chords of my copassenger begin to quiver and he sings
a well-known ditty and then another by Rafi,
with a smile on his lips and a voice too scruffy.

I'm standing right beside him, drenched in a yellow
solace, weaving though Seth's balmy thoughts, knitting
some of my own verse, a rather honeyed glow
spreading within me, as I ponder over the befitting
mix of poetry and song, this moment's lilt
that serendipity had so painstakingly built.

I savour the minty aftertaste of this bubbled reverie
but we're both abashed by the rush of this brazen,
unintended warmth between strangers, when the blurry
din saves us. We go our separate ways from that haven
of metallic succour and corrugated sunbeams;
two succinct murderers of childhood dreams.

An Immovable Beast

Wine spills across these parchment lips,
Comes in the inky entrée: marinated clichés
and puerile claret, the joint hands out forceps:
they've got sterile opinions for takeaways.

Sip some claret, and hear the jejune folk
jabber, bereft of metaphor and flourish,
I hastily gobble, ruminate and choke
upon the bland remains of a frozen dish.

The buds remain dead, the tongues flick in line
and polite conversation and fake outrage,
routinely intermingle to spew out anodyne,
But for any wisdom, they refer to a tainted sage.

From the corner of their mouths spills out bile
An assured faith in retching among these convives,
Self professed gluttons, they sip on faith and guile
And harass the Tongue with tridents and knives.

Swallow their pride, for they too are well-fed,
sitting across a 56-inch table, they chew the cud,
"No spice mister, the mouth gets offended!"
Not a flicker of dissent to enliven the taste bud.

I mutter below my frozen breath, "Words don't hurt.
That's not offence Sire, just a censor in drag",
But remember, and slip back to my vapid dessert,
That tongues at this table can only loll, never wag.

For Better Or Verse

On Time's hackneyed path, you'll choose your curse,
A flogged awakening, or wilful swoon,
But I found myself, under a sky full of verse,
On an ill fated island, a blissful maroon.

Then you stitched a life, so cheaply bought,
And gave up on love, a trifle too soon,
As you followed The Piper to rot,
I sat there putting words to his tune.

I waited on, battered but proud,
Quietly swallowed silence, weaved myself a boon,
Strung together with Words, this shroud,
Warms the wintered bone, wipes the dripping noon.

Now fed with routine, you cease to cease,
Nestled cosy in daylight's cocoon,
Harp not about your sunlit victories,
For a poet has endured the raving moon.

UrBane

These gray hills, dot the city,

but the stars don't seem closer,

from a flyover.



I waited all night,

but no dewdrops fell from that,

solitary streetlight.



Amidst a thousand hot rushing headlamps,

I shivered and shivered.

Found no warmth.



Huddled did I,

but gentle shade never tiptoed,

into that bus stop.




These black ribbons seduce,

yet I ache for the touch of my

wet, pregnant earth.

Gagged

I awoke again, my spine laced with ice,
No veiled threat this, the last roll of dice
The lingering scent of that sodden dream,
A grody Hand had strangled my scream
Every letter it snapped, every word shattered,
And across my eyes, the gaudy ink splattered,
It tightened its grip and managed to choke
Every word I uttered, that’s when I awoke,
And gasping for breath I stumbled across
To my broken window, peeling the doss
Uncorked it open and was agape to face,
The same Hand and the city, locked in embrace.

It brings to me the plague that’s struck this land,
A unflinching urge to give the helping Hand,
The Hand when you need to torch a show,
Where Balbir Krishan let his love aflow,
A Hand that’s eager to throw a Husain out,
On the froth faced urging of a depraved lout,
For showing a Mother bare, unfettered and wild,
Did you not suckle at a breast as a child?
Or a Goddess of Learning uncloaked and pure,
Pray, how else would knowledge hope to endure?
A Rushdie from a fest, then the Hand forbade,
On the gravy train, it sniffed and preyed
The Hand that crawls into eager young minds,
Erases curiosity from every blackboard it finds,
That’s what we hope our children to teach,
Piling upon the heroes already out of reach,
The very men who taught us to scoff,
Should not be dared to elicit a laugh,
So, burn all your books, ban those essays,
Thought will escape in more sinuous ways
I know cartooned sheets you will rescind,
But how can you hope to imprison the wind? 

So today, if a crime you wish to commit,
Just write and speak as you see fit,
Arson in your mind, burn your mental pelf,
For no Hand can point a finger at itself.
Offend every hero, disrobe every god,
through the muck of life, make them plod -
And stand by those who compel you to think,
Waltz with words and wage a war in ink. 

A nation that quells all uttered words,

Will peck itself to death, like mirrored birds.

Restless

What recourse is left for a wounded soul?

A heart that wanders with a begging bowl,

With eyes that seek a corner warm,

A cave like the one these eyelids form,

No waves lap upon the restless shoal.

How do I cosset this troubled mind?

The kennel of peace, it refuses to find,

At every passing thought, it barks,

Its own sorry acreage it marks,

But then begins to snap, at its own behind.

Under tortured moon, the heart does sail,

With beholden taunts, the winds assail,

It seeks every horizon in sight,

Surrounded by sea, night after night,

But where find the water, that fills this pail?

What crumbs of blossoms, the world can dole?

When, to burn the forest, there be enough coal,

There's only so much that Hope can knock,

Upon a door that Fate has locked,

Then what recourse is left for a wounded soul?