The third ...

The Third

is like an elf,

cute and coiled

with a snail face

and a needle nose,

always existing in marriage.

A child or adultery,

tea cup and cigarette,

television or silence,

there is always a third 

with its shadow looming tall on a wall

that does not depart with the Sun;

Also, those worry lines on your forehead

that has nothing to do with age.

It’s a snail, withdrawing the tip of its head

into the stone shell

at times, poking its head out

winking,

moving inside its hard robust covering

even when not seen. The third is

a rotten fish smell that reaches you much before

you go to the market place.

You, her, I and the third – we all eat and thrive on betrayal. 

living ...

 Parsley, spinach, celery or lettuce;

get those green leafy ones;

they are good for health.

If you can’t buy, just pluck them

 from here and there.

Soak for a while in hot water

drain and dry

and you would be able to smell the

apple-green freshness.

Tear off the part that disturbs.

Sit gingerly,

 segregate the good and the rotten ones

with deft fingers dancing in a mysterious grace.

Snip off the blackened part

Split the spoilt edge

Slash away the bitter stem

And slit the thickened chunk.

Just a dash of salt n pepper

and sprinkling of sauce n oil;

Celebrate the union

and it’s magnetism in a bowl.

Eat them with rice or bread

Or even raw if you fancy.

Or else, feed them to a cow;
it will bring a li'l change
in the whisper of a breath,
in the echo of a smile
take a chance and just see.

Find a place in the soil and plant your destiny.

Water it with your own hands and

let a creeper of hope grow.

Pluck and fold the dreams neatly

clean it

clear it

and keep them fresh.

Find the corner under its shade and

 scream if the pain does not heal, and then

dump the rotten part

drown the noisy drum

straighten the uneasy bend

smoothen the roughened bounce.

Remember to eat well your leafy green vegetables.

My predestined lover ...

 I could only see the jaded green frame of the window.

Dust has settled along the pane.

Once upon a time, there used to be a face of a beautiful woman

whose eyes were hungry with hopes of tomorrow.

But now

There is a strange eerie silence in the darkness behind.

And then, suddenly, on that day as I looked up,

hoping to see the same uncanny blackness,

 I saw Death; his shadow

perched on the windowsill.

Death had dropped in for a chat, on that day.

He wore the same rugged look and

 was dangerously handsome with his locks

 that were as tangled as my existence.

When I told him that he is Emily’s lover and

it would be a sin for me to come close to him

He laughed in his usual baritone voice

 that was irresistible and

 I found a thrill in this adultery!

He wanted to know, why I keep resisting him.

Why I fight the battle that eventually would be lost?

He smiled, and I knew at that moment

he would come to meet me now and then

till I surrender. And eventually we would be together

and it is going to be an insane love affair.

Death, my predestined lover,

I knew at that instant

 I would throw away morality and caution like shabby old clothes

 to live those dizzying moments with you.

Clasping concern with one hand

gagging conscience with the other

I will come to your arms with a readiness of a rain drop

that rushes to kiss the Earth.

But

Till then let me breathe the splendour of an airborne acrobat.

Till then let me kiss the roasted golden Sun. 

Let me whirl and pirouette in a tango

with my brittle thoughts and unborn hope.

Let me be the lover of rain and bear him a child.

Till then let me try remaking life

with swatches of stolen memories.

 

a cup of coffee for you...

I want to make a cup of coffee for you

at dusk

when the sky will be fuchsia pink.

While hearing the tip-tapping rain in the wind 

and the thud thudding heartbeat of the soil

I will let the liquid dreams and

fragrant desires to blend and simmer.

I will wonder, as I whip gently the

pearl white of the milky cream,

how the coffee tastes against your

lips, your teeth, your tongue.

I will stir the sugar and allow the magic
of the steaming cloud hang heavy and

I will test the ready ness of the cup 

imagining

will it sting or will it be just right!

The vapors from the storming cup

like rust golden beads on my forehead

and I will pour that anticipated light brown

into your cup,

a shade that fits between the tamarind of my skin

and the golden desert sand of yours,

almost the colour of my possible child.

that obstinate headstrong life-force ...

 I wonder how I

constantly tread this hyphenated zone!

If I turn off the light the moths will die

and so will the bats if I turn it on.

Should I spend life searching for an anchor

or shouldn't I just tear off the sails

and let it be?

How good is living

on a handful of yesterday,

an existence

neither real, nor fantasy,

like the alluring horizon

between the Earth and the Sky,

at an arm’s length away,

but ever distant?

Why do I fill my book of poems

with haphazard listless things?

A mail box with drafts, remotes, phones,

a crossword page of an old newspaper,

five odd books, a gift that you had refused to take,

some songs that I listen to endlessly,

a few old snapshots;

all flung heedlessly, uncaring,

here and there;

Just about anything to fill the void

that once has been your side of the story.

YET

even now,

 between the breaths

lurks a stubborn dream

defying all other doubts;

A dream that often morphs into a bird

and take colourful wings

preparing itself for an ambitious flight

to soar higher and paint the sky.

And I throw away my existential despair

like a pair of old, worn out shoes

and I remember to plant a seed, all over again,

and wait for the moss green sapling

to raise its obstinate head!

a poem, incomplete ...

Once, into his ears I had whispered

the story of those glowing fireflies.

And since then,

 during many mysterious nights,

under the magenta blue sky

my whispers deepened

and the story became a dream;

a dream of a tomorrow, pregnant with today,

a dream of an unknown joy

with strange pains, hidden,

a dream of a horizon

towards which I had turned my back long ago.

The dream was soaked with the moisture

gathered from the monsoon rain. And then

he became my rain. Now,

He keeps drizzling in my brain and

 I carry him within

Like the fragrance of the hasnuhana.

But I know,

Soon, a silence will grow heavy
burrowing roots in the corners of the house,

and  the rainy season will change,
leaving behind
memories of a rainbow sky,
that I alone shall have to carry

into a warm winter fire,
struggling  to decipher
the mysterious monsoon,
recalling
of having once been soaked
in the rains;

wondering occasionally,

if it still rains where he lives

and if he still thinks of the paper boat

that we together tried to make!

Answers to which I will never know.

And till then, each time he will say he loves me

I would be surprised why there’s a lump in my throat

that refuses to dissolve into tears!

untitled ...

What if I become a snail struggling to hide my body into a stony silence?

What if I become a porcupine and you can’t make love to me anymore?

What if I become a comma and fill those empty pauses?

What if I am a riverine nymph and swishing my fishy tail escape into the ocean?

 

What if Hitler’s mother had Jew connection and Osama bin Laden’s Hindu?

What if my mood stops changing like the monsoon sky?

What if I become You and I peep into your soul?

What if someday you get the strength to let me go?

 

What if I become my eyes and close it against the world?

What if the blue black night becomes me and you watch but can not see?

 

And

thoughts are a museum; pictures on a wall ...

you leave it but it never leaves you!