Tuesday, February 13, 2018

Not a poem ...

Living Alone
is knowing things as they are.

Living alone
is believing
the one who brought me here
will someday call me back.

Living alone is
realising that
things need not have an ulterior motive.

Living alone
is gliding through rooms after rooms
looking at the black shadow on the wall
where once the painting had been.

Living Alone
is breathing free
after years of subletting.

Sunday, September 24, 2017

Words and only Words

Those broken-winged words are crying again!
I can’t tolerate these nagging sobbing sounds. I plan to shut them out.
those hissing serpentine vibrations get muffled as I close my door.
But I can still hear them outside. They all have gathered below the staircase.
I can’t even get angry with them, for I understand their plight.
These words, they tell me their stories. The other day, one of them
 was hurled against the wall along with the coffee mug
whose stain is still like a modern art against the whitewash.
These words, they have fearful stories to narrate.
Some are terrified of the angry lover who abuses his beloved.
Another escapes when the drunk husband throttles his wife.
Sometimes they are thrown carelessly on the doorstep
 by a son who is fed up with his old mother’s illness.
Those from the little lad who hasn't been comfortable with the neighbor-uncle's groping hand,
yet no one pays heed, sob the strongest.
The words that have come from the strangers are still consolable,
as they understand that one can’t expect too much from unknown people.
These words, they come to me in the middle of the night and cry.
They don’t understand that I need sleep
 to get up tomorrow, to go to work, to smile meaninglessly.
I creak open the door to see if they are gone, and
they all climb up to my feet                                                
Words after Words
Some like a woolen ball
Some like a wrap,
One after the other,
all those talk
and conversations,
Piles of them, hoards of them. They all come to me.

Sunday, April 9, 2017

A few lines for/of Hyderabad


We went out to see tiger, deer and peacock in the forest.
You had waited for a long time for this day.
Among the abundance of nature and the swinging car ride
and the sparkling excitement of your young eyes,
Hyderabad is an enigma with its rocky exuberance.
Even the orange colored trees lined up to go to the
water that fell into the dam. We were happy.

He kept complaining about
his office
about India
about the traffic.
We learnt:
His office is bad
Life is bad
Traffic is bad.
I kept nodding affirmative, you fell silent.

The sun became rude and the ride bumpy!
We came back
and he complained about
not seeing tiger, deer and peacock
and we learnt: forests are bad.

Later you and I discussed the deer in our chests
It makes noise
And lying on bed we heard it clearly!

City and I ...

Dearest City, you and I
had been busy with other things
involved in the urgency of our work, but
now, away from your touch
my eyes long to see the Imli tree
under which I had buried a fistful of my
loneliness and a slice of my secret joy.
Dearest City, you hold the word ‘home’ for me,
the home that I carry like a liquid in my eyes.
So, would you accept my desperation
to put my memory in your time?

Words about you ...

What if the paper flies away from under the words?

Words that dance in your roads, lanes and by-lanes
and sit and watch the flip-flop of the water of Hussain Sagar, and
the Buddha standing tall in the centre, already captured in my tattoo;
words that sleep and play among the folds of history, tucking the zari bordered sarees of the queens from across
the light and sound of Golconda Fort,
and words who often tend to hide behind the layers of the rusty Charminar !

Fearing if someday the paper decides to escape from under these words,
I have put a heavy paper-weight on its chest, in the centre.
Now the paper can’t escape. It can’t move. Because
It doesn’t breathe anymore.


City, you are I, and I am you.
My forehead is your courtyard where the pigeons
eat the scattered grains every morning.
Your summer and your winter
are my ear rings.
My pierced earlobes are the
nails on your walls that developed a crack
because of the hammering.
My varicose-vein legs are
your trees that fell in the storm and
lay like unclaimed dead bodies.
Both of us contain mud, clay and
throbbing life in our bodies.
City, you are I, and I am you.


Friday, March 17, 2017


They shut me up in chores
My butterfly-mind fluttered
I felt a war in my head
Only to realize that the wide open window
is just a painting on the wall!