The lone walker

He said
what he wanted most
was to see
what the world
looked like
as he stood on
the mountain high
against the howling wind.
He said he wanted all.
He wanted more.
But many a times
on his lonely climb
he found himself thinking
of the dust settling in
like an unwelcome tenant
and the gentle wind knocking
on his now locked door.

The lone walker

He said
what he wanted most
was to see
what the world
looked like
as he stood on
the mountain high
against the howling wind.
He said he wanted all.
He wanted more.
But many a times
on his lonely climb
he found himself thinking
of the dust settling in
like an unwelcome tenant
and the gentle wind knocking
on his now locked door.

The Shoppers

It was crowded.
And there were 

thermocol snowflakes
hanging from

the domed ceiling.
There were 

glass windows,

mannequins, 

ice cream cups,

coffee smells, 

paper bags,

reindeers, 

ringing bells,

polished floors 

and bright lights

like stars captured 

and shut away 

in chandelier prisons.

And there were people.
Some gloating exhibits.

Others gaping onlookers.

They were holding hands 

with their own mirror selves

and leading them on
through a magical mystical 

material mist.

And as they tried on
their self worth
in mood-lit trial rooms

they looked optimistic

and a manic gleam
shone in their eyes.

Like stars captured

and shut away

in ribbon tied

gift wrapped prisons.
More things could make
things better they felt.

I too turned over a tag

and thought to myself.

Oh look!
They are giving away

happiness at a discount.

And frankly,
at that moment,

it seemed affordable. 

The Shoppers

It was crowded.
And there were 

thermocol snowflakes
hanging from

the domed ceiling.
There were 

glass windows,

mannequins, 

ice cream cups,

coffee smells, 

paper bags,

reindeers, 

ringing bells,

polished floors 

and bright lights

like stars captured 

and shut away 

in chandelier prisons.

And there were people.
Some gloating exhibits.

Others gaping onlookers.

They were holding hands 

with their own mirror selves

and leading them on
through a magical mystical 

material mist.

And as they tried on
their self worth
in mood-lit trial rooms

they looked optimistic

and a manic gleam
shone in their eyes.

Like stars captured

and shut away

in ribbon tied

gift wrapped prisons.
More things could make
things better they felt.

I too turned over a tag

and thought to myself.

Oh look!
They are giving away

happiness at a discount.

And frankly,
at that moment,

it seemed affordable. 

Untitled

They say, a strong mind
knows no yesterday.
It sees only tomorrow.
For bygones are bygones,
not the midwives of
weak, helpless sorrow.
It lives not survives,
they say, in the
secure knowledge
of its own strength.
No shadows on it
by cruel words are cast.
No scars remain,
no wounds last
And they say too,
that a strong mind
dwells not on
the follies, the losses,
the unfinished endings
of the forgettable past.
They say it moves forward.
Plays the part.
And they say a strong mind,
it turns around and calmly,
very calmly says - Be quiet
to the damned heart.

Untitled

They say, a strong mind
knows no yesterday.
It sees only tomorrow.
For bygones are bygones,
not the midwives of
weak, helpless sorrow.
It lives not survives,
they say, in the
secure knowledge
of its own strength.
No shadows on it
by cruel words are cast.
No scars remain,
no wounds last
And they say too,
that a strong mind
dwells not on
the follies, the losses,
the unfinished endings
of the forgettable past.
They say it moves forward.
Plays the part.
And they say a strong mind,
it turns around and calmly,
very calmly says - Be quiet
to the damned heart.

Evening Games

Could there
have been perhaps
a game of hopscotch
made of smiling circles
sitting together like guests
at a pretend party of toys
instead of these rigid
square blocks chalked out
and numbered and smudged
by skipping childish feet.
And could the swing perhaps
have sailed effortlessly
over the trees into
a star spangled sky
without a tiny body having
to rock backwards and
forward, straining bony arms
on metal chains hung on hooks
as the dusk gathered like
the rush of a hushed wind
gathering in wild unbraided hair
masquerading as a gentle ruffle.
Perhaps.

Evening Games

Could there
have been perhaps
a game of hopscotch
made of smiling circles
sitting together like guests
at a pretend party of toys
instead of these rigid
square blocks chalked out
and numbered and smudged
by skipping childish feet.
And could the swing perhaps
have sailed effortlessly
over the trees into
a star spangled sky
without a tiny body having
to rock backwards and
forward, straining bony arms
on metal chains hung on hooks
as the dusk gathered like
the rush of a hushed wind
gathering in wild unbraided hair
masquerading as a gentle ruffle.
Perhaps.

Of poets

Dizzying heights. Last flights.

The rush. Shush. Hush. 

They think there is poetry in death.

But there isn't.

There is only the indignity and tragedy

of a human being gone to pieces.

In life perhaps,

there is still some hope of finding a poem. 

Of poets

Dizzying heights. Last flights.

The rush. Shush. Hush. 

They think there is poetry in death.

But there isn't.

There is only the indignity and tragedy

of a human being gone to pieces.

In life perhaps,

there is still some hope of finding a poem. 

Millstone

He said the arms around
his neck were stifling him.
The heels digging into his ribs.
And he said that the burden
was too much, too great.
It was holding him back,
pulling him down slowly.
But he knew not that
what he called a millstone
was in fact the anchor
keeping him from drifting away,
falling apart and sinking into
the turbulence of his own mind.

The Barefoot Monk

How do you get up every time?
However hard the fall.
How do you dust yourself off
and wince at your bruises
for not more than a moment?
You look onward, forward
and look back only with
a faint fondness or squinting eyes
of recollection that look
not for anything but learning.
You fall but don't fail.
You fail but don't falter.
You falter but don't forgo
the purpose you set out for.
You charge against the wind
as if someone is holding you
steadfast, solid, to the ground.
You head against the current
as if the horizon were a ship
sailing silently towards you.
You walk knowing that
the earth will stop quaking
and hold its breath still one day
while you tremble in the joy
of glorious, irrefutable victory.
In your eyes swim no questions
of doubt or answers of illusions.
There is a resilient belief there.
Sustained by your unrelenting faith.
Always, always ringing true.
That neither the beginning
nor the end of you is only you.

The Barefoot Monk

How do you get up every time?
However hard the fall.
How do you dust yourself off
and wince at your bruises
for not more than a moment?
You look onward, forward
and look back only with
a faint fondness or squinting eyes
of recollection that look
not for anything but learning.
You fall but don't fail.
You fail but don't falter.
You falter but don't forgo
the purpose you set out for.
You charge against the wind
as if someone is holding you
steadfast, solid, to the ground.
You head against the current
as if the horizon were a ship
sailing silently towards you.
You walk knowing that
the earth will stop quaking
and hold its breath still one day
while you tremble in the joy
of glorious, irrefutable victory.
In your eyes swim no questions
of doubt or answers of illusions.
There is a resilient belief there.
Sustained by your unrelenting faith.
Always, always ringing true.
That neither the beginning
nor the end of you is only you.

Untitled

There is happiness
to be found in
the eye of the storm.
Tornadoes
spinning like tops
in the palm of your hand
as you mold them slowly
this way and that.
And happiness is there
in the gentle breeze too.
Filled full with the smells of
roses in a balcony garden,
freshly done laundry
and satisfaction.
There is joy hidden in the
the beat of a drum
and the thunder of feet
as countless follow
the path you tread.
The marches you started,
the journeys you led.
And there is joy too
in the tuneless whistle
that escapes you on a
particularly flawless day.
Happiness. It's there.
For some it's in the world
they hope to make.
And for others in the one
that's already their's to take. 

Untitled

There is happiness
to be found in
the eye of the storm.
Tornadoes
spinning like tops
in the palm of your hand
as you mold them slowly
this way and that.
And happiness is there
in the gentle breeze too.
Filled full with the smells of
roses in a balcony garden,
freshly done laundry
and satisfaction.
There is joy hidden in the
the beat of a drum
and the thunder of feet
as countless follow
the path you tread.
The marches you started,
the journeys you led.
And there is joy too
in the tuneless whistle
that escapes you on a
particularly flawless day.
Happiness. It's there.
For some it's in the world
they hope to make.
And for others in the one
that's already their's to take. 

Chalked out

You test the water
and feel the thrill of
the biting, acid,
electric, primal cold
run up your leg
like a vine gorging
quickly, hungrily
on spring's fullness.
You back away
and bury
your restless feet
in warm, inert sand.
There, you are still again.
Steady.
You wake yourself up
from dreams.
The ones that show you
exactly, precisely
what you want.
The nightmares of true
desire you dream.
And from them you
wake up in cold sweat,
choking on a scream.
You clench your fists.
Around time, life, fate,
people, coincidences
and consequences.
The stars form for you
constellations that you have
painstakingly dictated.
You have many fears
and very few
unanswered questions.
Don't you?
For not even to yourself
the reins you seem to give.
Just from one day to another
you reluctantly live.

Chalked out

You test the water
and feel the thrill of
the biting, acid,
electric, primal cold
run up your leg
like a vine gorging
quickly, hungrily
on spring's fullness.
You back away
and bury
your restless feet
in warm, inert sand.
There, you are still again.
Steady.
You wake yourself up
from dreams.
The ones that show you
exactly, precisely
what you want.
The nightmares of true
desire you dream.
And from them you
wake up in cold sweat,
choking on a scream.
You clench your fists.
Around time, life, fate,
people, coincidences
and consequences.
The stars form for you
constellations that you have
painstakingly dictated.
You have many fears
and very few
unanswered questions.
Don't you?
For not even to yourself
the reins you seem to give.
Just from one day to another
you reluctantly live.

Dinner table

He was remembering,
sitting alone at the table,
the taste of pepper in
hot soup.
And the feel of starch
as his hand brushed over
the ornate futility of
the white lace tablecloth.
The ornate futility that
had slipped quietly
into the conversation
hanging heavy in the air.
He was remembering
the day when he had seen,
with looking back eyes,
the crunch of fresh apples
and the shine of a knife.
The gleam of polished,
naked mahogany.
The glint of a sun ray
from a time before
the table was laid with
glittering, superfluous
silverware.
He was remembering,
sitting alone at the table,
the voice that flew across it.
What was for lunch?
How was work?
Was the traffic bad?
Just yesterday
she had wanted to know
even about the most
mundane things.
And today
while he was dying alone
she was living on in oblivion.

Dinner table

He was remembering,
sitting alone at the table,
the taste of pepper in
hot soup.
And the feel of starch
as his hand brushed over
the ornate futility of
the white lace tablecloth.
The ornate futility that
had slipped quietly
into the conversation
hanging heavy in the air.
He was remembering
the day when he had seen,
with looking back eyes,
the crunch of fresh apples
and the shine of a knife.
The gleam of polished,
naked mahogany.
The glint of a sun ray
from a time before
the table was laid with
glittering, superfluous
silverware.
He was remembering,
sitting alone at the table,
the voice that flew across it.
What was for lunch?
How was work?
Was the traffic bad?
Just yesterday
she had wanted to know
even about the most
mundane things.
And today
while he was dying alone
she was living on in oblivion.

मत सुनना रैना की बातें कभी

ये रौशनी के झूटे राज़ तुम्हें बताएगी 

चमचमाती चांदनी में भी फिर 

इसकी मैली सी आवाज़ ही सताएगी 

मत सुनना रैना की बातें कभी

ये रौशनी के झूटे राज़ तुम्हें बताएगी 

चमचमाती चांदनी में भी फिर 

इसकी मैली सी आवाज़ ही सताएगी 

Untitled

That night you asked me
to sing to you.
And I knew that if I did

the wind would carry my notes 

without feeling the burden 

of a tuneless voice.

And I knew that if I could
just coax the sound out

you'd like the song I'd sing.

But yet, try as I might I couldn't.
The songs and the tunes and
the notes and the lyric would

just not come to me.

It didn't seem difficult and
my incessant no sounded
ridiculous even to me.
But something held my voice
in a vice like grip and I kept

choking from inside out.
There was no explanation.
And every wasted moment and

weak excuse seemed to only
anger my waiting audience.

I eventually did sing I think.
I don't remember now.
But even if I did, it didn't matter.
Because you were already disappointed.
What I do remember is that

through my window the moon 

was full and wire-meshed
and the night purple.
And I remember thinking that
more than the big failures
it's the little disappoints you cause
that eventually fill you up

and leave you empty. 

Untitled

That night you asked me
to sing to you.
And I knew that if I did

the wind would carry my notes 

without feeling the burden 

of a tuneless voice.

And I knew that if I could
just coax the sound out

you'd like the song I'd sing.

But yet, try as I might I couldn't.
The songs and the tunes and
the notes and the lyric would

just not come to me.

It didn't seem difficult and
my incessant no sounded
ridiculous even to me.
But something held my voice
in a vice like grip and I kept

choking from inside out.
There was no explanation.
And every wasted moment and

weak excuse seemed to only
anger my waiting audience.

I eventually did sing I think.
I don't remember now.
But even if I did, it didn't matter.
Because you were already disappointed.
What I do remember is that

through my window the moon 

was full and wire-meshed
and the night purple.
And I remember thinking that
more than the big failures
it's the little disappoints you cause
that eventually fill you up

and leave you empty. 

Untitled

अधूरी सी उस रात में 
कोयला यूँ जल रहा था 
मानो सूरज का एक टुकड़ा
जमीं पर पिघल रहा था 
पता नहीं क्यूँ उस रात में 
खामोशी यूँ बस गयी थी 
मानो समझ के गले पर
उम्मीदों की डोर कस गयी थी 
अब इस सन्नाटे में
कुछ कहा न जाएगा  
कल बीता था जैसे, 
वैसे आज भी बीत जाएगा 
और जैसे जैसे कोयले की
रौशनी होगी मद्धम 
वैसे वैसे ये कारवां उठ कर 
कहीं और मुड़ जाएगा 

Untitled

अधूरी सी उस रात में 
कोयला यूँ जल रहा था 
मानो सूरज का एक टुकड़ा
जमीं पर पिघल रहा था 
पता नहीं क्यूँ उस रात में 
खामोशी यूँ बस गयी थी 
मानो समझ के गले पर
उम्मीदों की डोर कस गयी थी 
अब इस सन्नाटे में
कुछ कहा न जाएगा  
कल बीता था जैसे, 
वैसे आज भी बीत जाएगा 
और जैसे जैसे कोयले की
रौशनी होगी मद्धम 
वैसे वैसे ये कारवां उठ कर 
कहीं और मुड़ जाएगा 

बेघर

मोहोल्लों के मैदानों में
हम खेला तो करते थे।

आँगन के झूले पर हम
झूला भी करते थे।

पर खेलों में हमारे
शायद एक खामोश सा
खालीपन था।

बड़ा होने की जल्दी में
शायद हमारा वो
बचपन था।

अब उस बात को
कई साल हैं हो चुके।

यादों के भवर भी तो
अब जा कर ही हैं रुके।

शुक्र है, मुझे नहीं पता
अब हम रेहेते हैं कहाँ।

था हमारा वो अधुरा सा मकां जहाँ,
किसी और का घर अब है वहाँ।

बेघर

मोहोल्लों के मैदानों में
हम खेला तो करते थे।

आँगन के झूले पर हम
झूला भी करते थे।

पर खेलों में हमारे
शायद एक खामोश सा
खालीपन था।

बड़ा होने की जल्दी में
शायद हमारा वो
बचपन था।

अब उस बात को
कई साल हैं हो चुके।

यादों के भवर भी तो
अब जा कर ही हैं रुके।

शुक्र है, मुझे नहीं पता
अब हम रेहेते हैं कहाँ।

था हमारा वो अधुरा सा मकां जहाँ,
किसी और का घर अब है वहाँ।

Company

They sat

in the old bar.

Cold bottles, 

with sodden labels 

quietly peeling away

like the daylight outside, 

sat waiting
in front of them.

They smiled and cheered.

The glass clinked,

the bulb blinked 

as the night slinked

upon them . 

They ate the peanuts.

Their hands reaching

out for them with just 

the right rhythm.

Just like their
conversation where

words never collided.

It came from familiarity.

This old leather bar booth
cold bottle salted peanut

new stories old jokes 

reruns of matches comfort.

They always met like this
when they did.
In the old bar.

Cold bottles 

with sodden labels, 

like turgid busy days, 

waiting in front of them.

They drank from them
something mellow,
something quiet.

That let him tell the other 

all that he kept bottled inside.

And let the other pour
tolerant happiness over his
insufferable company.

Company

They sat

in the old bar.

Cold bottles, 

with sodden labels 

quietly peeling away

like the daylight outside, 

sat waiting
in front of them.

They smiled and cheered.

The glass clinked,

the bulb blinked 

as the night slinked

upon them . 

They ate the peanuts.

Their hands reaching

out for them with just 

the right rhythm.

Just like their
conversation where

words never collided.

It came from familiarity.

This old leather bar booth
cold bottle salted peanut

new stories old jokes 

reruns of matches comfort.

They always met like this
when they did.
In the old bar.

Cold bottles 

with sodden labels, 

like turgid busy days, 

waiting in front of them.

They drank from them
something mellow,
something quiet.

That let him tell the other 

all that he kept bottled inside.

And let the other pour
tolerant happiness over his
insufferable company.

Of poets

Memory,
can I feed you to my words
like a corpse to a hearth
till you are no more than
ashes and charred bones?

Memory,
can I write you out?
Not on the pages of a book
but off the pages of my mind.
Can I? 

Of poets

Memory,
can I feed you to my words
like a corpse to a hearth
till you are no more than
ashes and charred bones?

Memory,
can I write you out?
Not on the pages of a book
but off the pages of my mind.
Can I? 

Sparrows in the Sun

I don't go there anymore.
Where sparrows fly to the sun
and then sing their dusk songs
in beautiful pain sharp voices
as on singed wings they soar.
I don't go there anymore.

Sparrows in the Sun

I don't go there anymore.
Where sparrows fly to the sun
and then sing their dusk songs
in beautiful pain sharp voices
as on singed wings they soar.
I don't go there anymore.

No thank you.

No, no thank you. She said.

No disenchanting light of
conversation for me please.
I'd rather have today,

the brazen blinding brightness
of foolish laughter instead. 

Laughter, light and airy and
tinkling like the bottomless

glass of warm wine in my hand.
I crave indifference, she said.
And I crave company that

I couldn't care less for.
People who matter little to me
or to whom I matter little.
Yes, that's what I crave.

You should be glad, she said,
that I haven't chosen to speak
to you but that we've met today
only by the whim of chance.

For that means, perhaps, I think

of you as a friend after all.
Someone who would ask ,

how have you been?,

and in a moment ruin it all.

All semblance, all pretense.
No, no thank you. She said.
And so I did it, I left her alone
and walked away quietly,
wondering whether she was
being wise or utterly foolish.

No thank you.

No, no thank you. She said.

No disenchanting light of
conversation for me please.
I'd rather have today,

the brazen blinding brightness
of foolish laughter instead. 

Laughter, light and airy and
tinkling like the bottomless

glass of warm wine in my hand.
I crave indifference, she said.
And I crave company that

I couldn't care less for.
People who matter little to me
or to whom I matter little.
Yes, that's what I crave.

You should be glad, she said,
that I haven't chosen to speak
to you but that we've met today
only by the whim of chance.

For that means, perhaps, I think

of you as a friend after all.
Someone who would ask ,

how have you been?,

and in a moment ruin it all.

All semblance, all pretense.
No, no thank you. She said.
And so I did it, I left her alone
and walked away quietly,
wondering whether she was
being wise or utterly foolish.

मकां

इन मकानों में लोग

कुछ ऐसे रेहेते हैं,

कि इंसानों से ज़्यादा जां 

वो ईटों, पत्थरों में भरते हैं।

इन मकानों में लोग 

कुछ ऐसे रेहेते हैं।

इन मकानों की खिड़कियाँ 

हमेशा बंद ही हैं रेहेती।

बाहर मौसम तो

कई गुज़रते हैं,

पर इन खिडकियों पर

परदे यादों के, 

बस बे इन्तहां बेहेते हैं। 

इन मकानों में लोग 

कुछ ऐसे रेहेते हैं। 

दिवारों पर शायद उन्हें 

कल के हसीं लम्हें 

आज भी दिखते हैं।

इसलिये शायद, 

खाली कमरों में गूंज रहे 

अपने ही अलफ़ाज़ों को 

बातें वो अब केहेते हैं।  

भूले से उन दिनों के 

इन मकानों में 

लोग कुछ ऐसे रेहेते हैं।

मकां

इन मकानों में लोग

कुछ ऐसे रेहेते हैं,

कि इंसानों से ज़्यादा जां 

वो ईटों, पत्थरों में भरते हैं।

इन मकानों में लोग 

कुछ ऐसे रेहेते हैं।

इन मकानों की खिड़कियाँ 

हमेशा बंद ही हैं रेहेती।

बाहर मौसम तो

कई गुज़रते हैं,

पर इन खिडकियों पर

परदे यादों के, 

बस बे इन्तहां बेहेते हैं। 

इन मकानों में लोग 

कुछ ऐसे रेहेते हैं। 

दिवारों पर शायद उन्हें 

कल के हसीं लम्हें 

आज भी दिखते हैं।

इसलिये शायद, 

खाली कमरों में गूंज रहे 

अपने ही अलफ़ाज़ों को 

बातें वो अब केहेते हैं।  

भूले से उन दिनों के 

इन मकानों में 

लोग कुछ ऐसे रेहेते हैं।

Of poets

In bushels of bramble thorns

lies captured the stench

of scarlet roses. 

Bound with no escape

in sight the heavy 

breath of these scarlet roses.

Of hearts beating their

last beat they speak 

these darkened winds

on a starless night.

They are all choking 

on crashing waves of

submerged oceans and

drowning seas under the sky

of these starless nights.

It's time the poets 

abandoned it.

Banished it, burned it

and scattered its ashes.

Smeared it with ink and

rubbed it off every paper.

It's smudged, stained, tainted. 

It's a dirty word, this love.

Of poets

In bushels of bramble thorns

lies captured the stench

of scarlet roses. 

Bound with no escape

in sight the heavy 

breath of these scarlet roses.

Of hearts beating their

last beat they speak 

these darkened winds

on a starless night.

They are all choking 

on crashing waves of

submerged oceans and

drowning seas under the sky

of these starless nights.

It's time the poets 

abandoned it.

Banished it, burned it

and scattered its ashes.

Smeared it with ink and

rubbed it off every paper.

It's smudged, stained, tainted. 

It's a dirty word, this love.

रंग

रातों में हर तरफ़ बिछा 
कोयले का कारा 

या जलते हुए सूरज सा  
चढ़ता सुर्ख पारा 

इस स्याही का रंग क्या
इस अक्षर का अर्थ क्या 

टूटे इस कलम से लिखी 
कहानी का इस अंत क्या 

रंग

रातों में हर तरफ़ बिछा 
कोयले का कारा 

या जलते हुए सूरज सा  
चढ़ता सुर्ख पारा 

इस स्याही का रंग क्या
इस अक्षर का अर्थ क्या 

टूटे इस कलम से लिखी 
कहानी का इस अंत क्या 

The Drowners

No, you are wrong,
he told me.
People don't always
leave their lives behind
because they are weak
or afraid of a fight.
Don't call them all
cowards.
Unless you want to be
called a fool.
For sometimes they
are just drowning.
Men and women
drowning in pure,
unadulterated sadness.
Sometimes
it's locked away.
This pitch black sea.
Plugged up by some
things or someone
they love.
But those things can
often turn out to be
round pegs
in square holes.
Just not the right fit,
they let the sadness
leak in.
And the someones?
There are lives to
be led, aren't there?
Lives without leaky
sadness faucets?
And so it fills up
the rooms of the mind,
flowing incessantly
through gashes, slashes.
Thrashing
like helpless limbs
without air.
Filling up, up, up.
Like a black sea
on a dreamless, infinite,
poison purple night.

The Drowners

No, you are wrong,
he told me.
People don't always
leave their lives behind
because they are weak
or afraid of a fight.
Don't call them all
cowards.
Unless you want to be
called a fool.
For sometimes they
are just drowning.
Men and women
drowning in pure,
unadulterated sadness.
Sometimes
it's locked away.
This pitch black sea.
Plugged up by some
things or someone
they love.
But those things can
often turn out to be
round pegs
in square holes.
Just not the right fit,
they let the sadness
leak in.
And the someones?
There are lives to
be led, aren't there?
Lives without leaky
sadness faucets?
And so it fills up
the rooms of the mind,
flowing incessantly
through gashes, slashes.
Thrashing
like helpless limbs
without air.
Filling up, up, up.
Like a black sea
on a dreamless, infinite,
poison purple night.