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?

Morning

The wings over her eyes,
flap erratically,
as crumpled sleep,
makes its final flight.

Her eyes quietly blossom,
tiny rivulets of red,
crawling towards an island,
muslin black in a white sea.

She rolls over,
in cleansed hate,
and a pail full of black,
tumbles over the soggy pillow.

Hands outstretched,
in a lazy eternity,
she hopes to build a cave,
around her growing flame.

She then peeps out of,
a swirling sea of warmth,
cheeks dipped in blush,
a storm brewing on her lips.

Curb

Let me build my shanty over the chequered pavement of your heart.
Then, I shall wait.
For your limping past to come along and raze it to the ground.

Slave

Branded with pride, poisoned and fed,
Like a shark robbed of its fins,
A fanciful lark, bound to her bed,
Committed, that most unforgivable of sins,
Daylight's slave, singing my own requiem,
Tenderly, I have become, one of Them.

Smoke

Beauty, she saw, with glazed eyes,
Sweet nothings, he uttered, with a lisp,
Mingled together, those abused fingers,
Love was never meant to end in a wisp...

Paean

Called the bloodied lark,

Twisted beak and frozen lip,

Aggrieved, I disembark,

The beloved Crystal Ship.

Grace

Naghmahaaey ghum ko bhi, ai dil!
ghaneemat jaaneeye,
Be sada ho jaaega
yeh saaz-e-hasti ek din.

-Mirza Ghalib


Even the songs of sorrow, heart,
should be deemed a blessing great,
Time will come when the lyre of life
will sink in silence deep.

Twist And Shout

I slowly made my way across the road, walking gingerly to the divider and then finally, in staccato bursts of panic, to the other side. I glanced across the promenade. It was crowded as it always is. I spotted a narrow portal of loneliness somewhere and made my there. Propped myself up and swung my legs over the side to face the sea. The gorgeous, halcyon sea.

I'd come to Marine Drive. And just like everyone else there, I just wanted a few moments of peace, a chance to get away from it all. I was sitting exactly at a spot across the iconic watering hole, Not Just Jazz By The Bay. The place where the Mumbai's Bombay hobnobs with each other. A place where the even the most neatly formed chignons give way to the moment. I looked back at the pub across the shoulder and then let my eyes wander to sights and sounds of that legendary promenade. The familiar sights of overweight ladies, anorexic PYTs, bare legs and hairy chests, young families and grey moustaches greeted my eyes. Women who looked oh so lovely as their make up mingled up with the sweat flowing across their face. Young girls with legs so marvellously skinny that you'd be amazed as to how gravity had forgotten to do its job. Men who seemed to be spending more time changing the settings on their iPods than actually jogging. Kids wailing over the need for the biggest balloon available and parents arguing fervently for the one that's the most colourful and guys like me who had nothing to do but blankly stare at the art film being unveiled in front of our eyes. Oh well, the Marine Drive usual.

I turned towards the sea and the wonderful succour that it offered. The city spread across my eyes. A vista so beautiful that it takes my breath away, no matter how used I am to it. Night was gently snowing onto the city; dusk saying its last goodbyes. As the illuminated skyline rose into view, the tendril of serenity softly sprouted in my mind and the weight of calm rested on my shoulders. I continued to stare out at the sea, the gentle waves, the light foam that burst into view as it brushed against the rocks near the shore, the black sea ahead and the twinkle of the city beyond.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the couple sitting beside me buy bhel and roasted groundnuts from a hawker. He looked towards me, raised his eyelids expectantly but I declined. Suddenly, a burst of horns erupted into the air. A car had stalled just as the signal turned green and the ones lined up behind it had begun to believe that noise could actually cause motion. The yowling crescendoed and I was soon brought back to the din that had crowded the place. The cars bawling, the steady pattering of footsteps, the wailing of newborn kids, the clamour of a hundred discordant voices. The dam of repose in my ear suddenly broke and the river of cacophony flooded my senses, washing away every of nibble of tranquility in my mind. I looked around the promenade. The streets lights had been switched on and the entire place was drenched in an uncomfortable, mournful yellow glow. I noticed that the couple beside me had gotten up and were walking away towards the road. I looked across my shoulder towards the road, glancing at the marble plank that announced Kilachand Chowk and turned my head towards the silhouette of the hawker walking away in the distance. In between the curve of those glances, something caught my eye. Sitting there, on the tiles of the promenade, just a few feet away from the riot on the road, in the midst of a hundred swaggering legs, were three little kids. I looked closely. They were street urchins: a boy, his sister and an infant, hardly a year old. They were sitting there, a bunch of misshapen legs and tattered clothes, unmindful of chaos around them and engaging in silly games like making faces and gently tugging at each other's shabby hair in an attempt to amuse the baby. The boy seemed to be hardly seven years of age and his sister, even younger, barely four. She sprawled herself on the floor and with her cheek to the ground, slowly lifted her eyes towards the sitting infant and suddenly blew her cheeks up, made her eyes pop up. Then, she slowly began to crawl her fingers towards the infant, one step at a time, inching towards the baby and about to tickle its soles. The boy standing over them, looked at her and smiled. Then he sat down and took the infant in his arms and began to call out to his sister. She came closer and he handed her something which she clasped tightly in her fist. Then the two them inched closer towards each other and the three of them were just about to huddle close to each other when a car that had stopped near the traffic signal belched out a whale of a shriek. Worried that the baby might begin to cry, the boy quickly stood up and handed the baby to the girl who wound her arm around it, her palm still clasped and they began to walk. The girl took tiny steps, stumbling across the tiles, barely able to hold the baby up. They staggered towards me and reached the spot beside me. The girl heaved the infant over the ledge and placed it on the seat exactly where the couple had been sitting a few minutes ago. Then, she placed her hand on the seat, beside the baby, her palm facing down and unclenched her fist. A sliver of glitter hit my eyes. They were a row of coins, about ten of them, and they had fallen onto one side, like a stack of dominoes. The infant sprawled across the seat and tried to reach for the coins, unable to resist the shiny pieces of metal. The girl who was tying the knot of her pyjamas until then, quickly moved her hand towards the coins but in the process tossed one of them over. She looked up towards her brother who was sitting beside the infant and and stared at him pleadingly. He got up, bent over and picked the coin up from a heap of rubbish. Just as he got up, he caught my eye. I smiled at him and he smiled back, a fleeting, uneasy smile. Then he began to walk away. The girl quickly collected the coins, swung the infant over her shoulder precariously and began to walk away, behind the boy.

As I watched them walk away, I suddenly realized that throughout the entire episode they had never once asked me for any money and I, lost in their world, hadn't even offered to give them some. I looked around to find them but couldn't spot them anywhere in the dispersing crowd. I realized that they were probably off to find a place to sleep for the night. They had probably been begging throughout the day, on the promenade, at the traffic signal, the little girl darting between the speeding cars with the infant hanging by her hip. This walkway is crowded throughout the day and now that night had set in, the place was slowly melting away to emptiness, a town bereft of its inhabitants. Evening had placed upon them, the end of another miserable day and beginning of another desolate night. The dusk had marked the kids' doom.

I cast my eyes down and slowly shifted them back to the sea; it was time to leave. Just as I swung one of my legs across the ledge, my eyes fell onto the seat. There, right at the very spot where the infant had been sitting some moments ago, were some words that somebody had scribbled on the slab. As I read them, a stab of irony pierced through my heart. A stab so cruel that only something as haunting as Bombay could have wielded it.

There, scrawled at that very spot on Marine Drive, in a haphazard mess of letters, were the words :

" The World's Best Sunset "

Marbles

With muffled footsteps across my mind,
Often this thought gingerly peeps in,
We play the game not ever knowing,
When does it end, when do we win?

Conversations never seem to end,
And yet silence always seems to weigh,
Why is it that in the midst of smiles,
Those dollops of laughter have melted away?

Aches the crystal ball, to fall off the edge,
For never unpunished goes a good deed,
To remind you, lest you forget,
That no matter what, the future will bleed.

No new doors left to be unlocked,
Your dreams too sleep behind bars,
Even God's afraid to play tonight,
Look up, there remain no shooting stars.

Smiles sweeten the air, joy erupts,
Yet in the corner, mourns the clown,
Wondering, with a tear down his cheek,
Have we all grown up or died down?

Sealed With A Miss

Tell me dear, would you have the guts to fall in love with a stranger?

There Walked a Lonely God

I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind,
In balance with this life, this death.

-W.B. Yeats "An Irish Airman Forsees His Death"

13th Floor

I think I managed to find a room with a view at the Heartbreak Hotel.

Red Earth

The wind will always taste bitter for innocents have been burned,
Will we ever realize that a gift of hate will always be returned,
I wonder, when will we ever learn,
That war sells cheap, but peace has to be earned.

Cold Comfort

Somehow I feel that all these moments are rough and jagged just so that they can fit into the jigsaw of my life.