Monday, February 20, 2012


Now I know why she still neatly stores the
flesh less, vein less, bloodless skeleton of a past relationship.
For she has seen the fullness of her body tamed by practice and will
And those men, sleek like drones, hovering, casting shadows,
with mouth like a dark cavern, gleaming uneven teeth,
 hands swaying like a hooded snake;
also that child around her
with bright dreamy eyes,  jumping like a young goat,
the unseen umbilical cord palpable.
So, she watchfully draws a perfect vermillion circle
 in between her eyebrows
and goes about in cleaning the carcass of an old forgotten love.
She often would powder those ashen love words
 and put some naphthalene balls
and synthetic fragrance to keep away the stench.
To survive
she clings to a love
that no longer has a soul, or a body
but a few lifeless rotting cadavers.

" a perfect vermillion circle in between her eyebrows" -- a symbol of marriage for most Indian women.

Thursday, February 16, 2012

the strange things about love ...

Whatever it was it wasn't love!
It was about getting even.
I hurt you because you hurt me
I lied to you as you lied to me
I deceived for you cheated too;
and both wondered -
why couldnt you love as I do! ...
And this skin communicated thing,
whatever it was, it wasn't love.

and now after so many years ...
when I have held you in my poems
and your smiling face and twinkling eyes 
 come alive from the pages with words not spoken,
 I feel happy that you are here for me.
Now you are always there, waiting,
in the alleyways of my poetry,
a little silent perhaps
and may be a bit foggy
but letting me feel that
I am not alone,
not entirely, that is!