Sunday, June 26, 2016


The earliest memory
of a poem that I have is
from when I didn't know
too many words.
And so, I wrote
in meticulous cursive
what I could about
life and death and people.
It made me feel better
than a evening full of
unhindered play.
Not much has changed.
Except that I now know
a few more words.

Tuesday, June 07, 2016

The Hunchback of Bohri Mohalla

His back is bent.
Stooped perhaps 
from the burden of age?
Or the heaviness of a heart
witnessing the world
changing around it?
Or from the weight of a life 
lived long and hard?
Or is it a love 
lost that he 
shoulders even today?
Or maybe what he carries,
unseen by those rushing past,
is a sack full of
some sweet, some savoury,
just waiting to be opened up
for those willing to stop,
but for a moment, 
and listen.

Inspired from a photograph by Nasar Husami 

Handed out

We are dancing
in a trance, a frenzy.
Thoughts are
abandoning us.
There is nothing 
we cannot do.
Nothing that 
we cannot have.
For we are deaf now
to all but the music
of tinkling coins 
falling on to 
stone cold pavements
like alms handed out
with derision
to our begging beings.