Out of a rickshaw on a rainy day

A mangy dog dips his tongue
into a dark puddle
The trees above shake their shadows and
their leaves scatter upon the
asphalt, a splashing.

A man perches on a red mottled LPG cylinder,
a fluorescent yellow hard hat on his head,
Sipping a glass of Chai
as the Chaiwala stirs tea
he accepts the change.

A truck full of youths in white
with saffron tags
cheer for the coming of Ganesha
as they grab onto the rope harness
as the driver brakes.

Flowers arranged on
the florist's bench
peer out of their plastic covers
leering and sniggering
as kids struggle with their many bags and one raincoat.

I speak in a foreign tongue for an hour or two
yet as I walk back,
I can feel the distant light descend in
on the wet city but
traffic lights make up
new decorations.
The street looks like a snake
and that Diwali comes rolling in from all the
streets into an intersection of
prismatic charms and a hundred and one
patterned umbrellas.

An old poem

My hair tangles and forms an
unspoken link
between us.

Our hands intertwined,
much passes between us.
Cheek on cheek, we communicate
more than anyone allowed us.

Our parted lips connected,
for less than a minute
A memory formed forever in our hearts
too pure a feeling for the
animal, minimal form.

A clear glint of happiness in your irises
pale from the passing light.
Hold me up high,
a new melody teach me
I ache for this feeling,
to feel renewed.



(note: this poem was written 2 years ago, just didn't post it here.)

Burnt Butterfly

I love you so but I pretend.
It's easier to burn the butterfly
then let it soar to the dark grey sky.

A dark grey city leaves me tearless.

Upon the drops of rain,
I look through the windshield and wonder
if it could be let in?
The patter of feet on the long hallway
answered my heartbeats.


And and she said I had nothing to worry about.How could I not?
How could I look into your face and say
what I want?

Better to just burn the butterfly and
in its turbulent beauty let the
ashes out into the wind.
Sealed lips,
are lips bulging with unsaid thought.
I long to drink something
to swallow down the urge to fight myself and just speak out.

I would drink you down in a long,
breathless shot.
You would.....sip on the tea.

"Sorry," is the last words you said to me as you turned away.

Am I not losing myself a little more everyday?

I can try and try to shake it off,
but the sight of this wooden cross
you hacked out of my bones
is a stake thro the heart.

Like purging me of plain desire
None the less wiser
I will lie in another's arms.

With the drink in my nose,
a scented candle lit by the window.

Reflections in time- I

My breath is stuck in my chest.

A distant African drum beat my breath in,
Stuck,
frozen;
A piece of ice stuck in my hot throat
that's going dry.

When y0u feel the rug being pulled
from under your feet
in quakes of the solid ground,
you flail your arms
in hope to hold onto
something stationary.

A cry leaves your throat,
and you can't swallow
though you want to
and everything else dies down to a
hollow bump
till you can think of how to save yourself.

Anger from a loud person isn't surprising;
like silence from a quiet one
it's already lost its charm. An active volcano,
a steaming bowl of soup.
Anger from a quite person is something to be afraid of.
Over the hell fires rises a demon,
like Raganrok, Armagadon,
the dark of the night
has poached the sunlight.

In its captive nest, the light rots
to a beast with claws and stings.

I fear not the pain a slap might bring,
for it is a symbol of discipline.
But the same hand has the capacity to love
is the one that scares and causes wonder.

A child plays with a red balloon,
tossing it lightly above him
the air carrying it up and then letting it
descend into small grappling arms.
A grip too tight, Burst!
A grip too loose and it slips away.

The child knows no rules,
and it flings its innocence into
knowledge's way.
A bulldozer of authority and education
pulverized the spirit, if not
the happiness.

A web of lies can weave you a cloak that
glitters with gems of teary dew.
Each an Araneae , chewing and spitting
a bunch of thought.
Waiting upon a silly little fly to step into their intricate plans
and thus become
Food.

In the bleak twilight, It's inviting grace
asks you to parade into the dying light.

If all our sins were laid out for us alone to see
would we forgive ourselves?
Will the distant horizon
rise with a distant call of freedom?
Who can free us from our fate?

The somber bugle of the last moment,
the note linger like an after-taste.
Medicine. Cocaine.

Fate tied a red ribbon on your neck as she watched you sleep.
And as it comes undone,
the last little wisp of you life remains,
hanging onto a tendril of your hair,
as the world depends on this moment.

My Daughter

I'm sure I had a daughter in my past.

I can feel her presence, sometimes.
When I think of baby things, I know it's her things I think of.
When people talk about the joys of having a daughter- I know,
because I had you.

I can't help but think of your beautiful long hair,
each strand perfect,
and your cheeks soft and chubby.
Sleeping in my arms, you had candy dreams.

And I remember your first brave smile as you smiled up at me,
as you stepped into school alone.
I remember that sweet touch that handed me a share of candy.
I remember a sweet little girl, twirling around in her long, thick, golden embroidered skirt, trying to look grown up.

I was just mesmerized the way you put on your make-up as you got ready to go out with your friends.
You waved me goodbye as I watched you drive out.

And I remember the wet napkin as I wiped away your tears and your cold.

And tea.
I feel we have a bond like no other.

The way your eyes would plead me for an extra book, an extra hair-clip, an extra sticker sheet.

I remember your wedding day.
You were marring the man of your dreams,
I couldn't believe my daughter was going to be someone's wife.
And I was hoping for her own baby girl.
Those beautiful gold and diamond necklaces your wore,
the lace and embroidery on your bridal-ware...
It was fascinating.

Dear,
if I meet you in the street now,
I know I will recognize you.
Will you remember me?

A Daughter of Mother Earth

I was born a daughter of mother earth.
In a city, crowded by a million people;
I cried as I took my first breath of the stained and impure air in the hospital;
in the arms of my parents I lay sleeping.

As I clutched the dry, red mud and
tasted the dry red earth in my mouth,
far from the cleanest,
I wonder what I was thinking.
It tasted like Mud, they'd said.
Mud.
It tasted heavenly.

I drank my first drop of the rain.
It made me thirsty for a thousand years.

The city whined to me,
her fatigue I could feel.
Lodged in the corner of the heaving bus, I stole a moment of peace as a hundred, sweat-drenched bodies poked fun at the indolent sun.

My feet crunched dirt,
my red eyes watered as I prepared a meal
and the sky looked dry as the desert.
I was praying for a little rain.

I was 15 and a half when I left the place I'd known for the last 15 and a half years;
scared to the last fiber of my being;
happy thro every single one.

The mud across the 7 seas was particularly the same.
I tasted the rain again.
Like a toddler, I babbled.
I smiled and did my homework like a good girl.

I was born to mother earth.
She had me in her stomach as long as my mother did.
Even longer.

Longer

I'd talk the night away.

In your eyes,
I can see the universe
as it floats in your conscience.

To the time that we were together;
I long to hold you close
tonight.

In your deepest dreams,
I want to be the flower in your hair, the shining sun.
To the coldest evenings,
the fire.
Of marshmallows that melt into gooey goodness,
I burnt my tongue a few times
on the toasting fork;
But the sweet soothed the pain away.

You glance at my hands as they lay in my lap,
folded.
They are quite useless when you want to express the truest feelings.
A picture speaking a thousand words is worthless
if it cannot speak
your mind.
Lingering on the lengthy twilight,
its tail brushes past my cheek as it settles for the night.

The food in my plate is only to be served once,
eaten once;
The taste lingers
long after I swallow.

Like a faint dab of perfume through your sparkling strands of wet,
dark hair.

Closed eyes,
open senses.
I can see you still.

A song I know too well,
yet if I were to sing it;
I can't.

I won't either.

The parting words will be
remembered forever.
Say it carefully;
hold your breath
and let it go in our arms.

As you move away slightly,
I feel you going.

I said not a word of what
I'd written for you;
hoping you'd find that memoir
written in hiding,
left openly hidden in your hands.

You'd see a different me.
You'll see a different me now too.

I never said a word more, a word less.
I said enough to fill you with hope;
But now....
I'll talk the night away,
only to keep you here
a little longer.