we lost our dream somewhere
in being busy building it

blank.
the first word to describe
an unquiet mind.
the opposite
of the current state
of chaos
unbridled.

cold feet
disturb the balance
of a body warm in a static position.
your native intelligence
wards off the
cold feet

cold feet
get
cold feet

we were never
natives of this land

alive people talk of people
now dead
in chat messages, sans smileys.

one truncated message
talks of the end
of one life, in one line.

five hours later in time
one tear is held back
perhaps conscious of the lack
of a context

the place
the moment
the sight.

far away from the crackling pyre
distance dries that lone tear.
it will violently gush out
perhaps years later
on a dry unassuming summer late afternoon
without warning,
like death that struck today

who knows, who will kill, that day.

an old letter
that wasn’t to be discovered

an old photo
that wasn’t to be ever seen

a hasty scribble
that didn’t otherwise mean anything

The morning’s remainder
A pre-dawn questioning punctuation
Hung and hooked on the right angle
Of the grid-like orange shadow of the window grill
Made bright by the sodium vapour street-lamp
On my white wall, fades slowly to 6AM
And the sun beckons the patrolling policeman
Sleep now.

unfinished letters more
than those that ever reached.
the story of my life.
the heat of mumbai summer
burns the sleep in me
dampens my dreams
forces visits to my dark secrets
catalyses my impulses.
my phone rings no more.
life desperately trying to teach
failing even drastically.
i shut my eyes tight
every time i see my reality
and walk in darkness
bumping into incidents i lived
wishing i had not.
nothing remains mine
not my memories, my sketches
my poems even belong to them.
so much colour in this world
i don’t even have a shade of grey.
anger unchannelled grows
so big i cannot stomach it.
nothing wants to be mine
i want to belong.

saturday 07 june 1997

imagine
a sole generation
that vies with a few

and then

imagine
a generation
that rallies with them
almost salivating
for borrowed endings
in hopeless mirrorings
of wanting to be
yet, never wanting to know
what they are
or can be

In response to: One

So easy to fall prey
The bitter comfortable cuddles
Of feeling mistaken
Of apologies
Of folded hands

So difficult the standing
The sweet misery of the weight
Of the self
On its own two feet

With a sleepy voice
If it was
In the dark, groping for the phone
Would you
Pick up the phone?

And knowing it all,
Would I?

the long weekend has spilled
over to the balconies
in the building opposite. i see a bit
through the glass window and its
flimsy curtain, and sense a lot through
the laughter that could
have been a little more sincere if
it wasn’t so loud – it is indeed
difficult for some to relax on a holiday.

after spiralling and drilling a little
less than a thousand times in my bed
the only hole is in my head through
which all my thoughts are leaking
profusely. the duvet has become
a lump of softness, becoming
often the bed and often the cover.