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!

Saturday, January 21, 2017

This too is about pain

Coleridge, you fever bird
You sang out last night!

As I lay closing the day like a book
 groping for a bookmark named sleep,
you sang your grief.

 Why do you cry like one possessed?
It makes weird sounds against my window panes.
A moist breeze blows
I wiggle my toes,
rearrange my sheets for warmth,
my insomniac eyes long to watch your dream.
Every now and then, I tap my veins
to eavesdrop and hear the throbbing of my blood-flow
checking for a rift
through which a giant tree can grow
building a nest for your Albatross.
Your opium eyes sprout wings, beat on my breasts
 and I become a giant tree
building house for those lost dreams ,
comforting them to creep and climb my body.

Saturday, May 28, 2016

Gray Poetry

I don not want to go home

I don't want to belong

I don't need to be rooted

I don't like to own.

I wish to go there

where there's no plumbing or fixing the bulb

I need not worry about the peeling off

It's not mine.

I can let the vine tree grow and 

creep out from the crevices

I need not cement it up

The gray painted walls will not echo any familiar story

The ceiling can't tempt for death 

The mysterious cobweb below the staircase 

can stay with the bluish spider 

The pale ugly square mark on the wall

of that old painting may keep murmuring old history

I can keep making love signs with my finger

on the dust layer of the writing table

Nothing needs to be familiar

No one needs be known

I don't want to go home

I don't want to belong.

There's an uncanny freedom, a 'Mukti' 




being unsettled.