22 kms

Only 22 kms of a straight road separates us
Longer than the thousand miles of yore
Our proximity lulls us
We are dulled by a sense of being close.

Once, the longer distance worked
It kept us close because we denied it
Attacked it with vigour, and overcame
To be together.

Now, the distance tricks us, taunts us
And we mockingly deny it even today
Yet, what we didn’t lose to 2200 kms
We surrendered to a mere 22 kms.

My Eunuch Enemy

By virtue of us being enemies
We are to hate each other.

And your invisible bejewelled dagger
pierces my heart, curves, and tears my flesh.

And I wilfully allow that.

Am I blind in love so much that
I do not know my intent?


Forgive me
Oh my eunuch enemy
For I am the hero
and villain myself.

I am addicted to the stage.

I dread the day
My knees week and broken
Unable on stage; my death
Will be when I become audience.

Manipulating Manipulation

Your fun is in manipulating me
Mine is in being manipulated.

You think you’re winning
I enjoy allowing you to.

You have something to gain
So do I.

You seek to extract a material value
I seek emotional.

In the end, you will win
But I will not lose.

You will be rich by what you accumulate
I will be rich with what I cherish.

We are both fools
One of us, however, is wiser, in the end.

In the Small, The Big

In between the small of what could and what should
my big life.

In between the small of what you said and what I said
our big silence.

In between the small of your speech and your silence
my big fears.

In between the small of your reality and my reality
my big truth.



Being Man

I am shame
when I hear them.
I am proud
When I know me

I am Man.

Thought Bazaar

In the marketplace of my mind
I wander with empty bags
Window-shopping, at every store
My empty purse vehemently nags.

And, the Poet Went Away

The poems have stopped, a reverse crescendo
because the poet is no more.
The poet never was a poet, truly
except when he wanted to be.

No more, the scanty robes of the poet
because the stiff starched surplice was suffocating.
Better, the man thought, to write poems
than be a poet.

Devoid of form, structure, meter, and rhyme
because all you really need is a license.
One that no one, with an authority gives, and
no one with rightful indignation demands.


He comes back to the place that he once was
because the yellowing plants are gasping for water.
Pours water to save the green from being hay
yet the future fodder feels no freedom.

And, the pale green of today, asks of tomorrow
because their nature is one with the human languor.
Will you be back tomorrow, they ask of him
just like the man, for them, today means so much less.