erase every memory
turn over every frame
burn every kindling of hope
and put an end to the game

we build houses
and force them to be homes
such a deliberate dream
for the shoulders of benign brick
for no brick ever built a home

in the midst
of endless aridity
i had planted
a tamarind tree

it's a loot
and you run
just for what you want
a ribbon-wrapped box
with a pitiful broken heart

a grasp she had such
that you'd only feel her warmth
a grasp that perceived real ties
long before reality saw them form

who knows
what another's heart
looks like from the inside
where do you find the love lost within
and where does their grief reside
which way do you take to reach
the one who smiled right into your eyes
and which turn was it that led you
to this place that you just can't recognize

ask the one
who opened the door
if this would suffice
or she'd want some more

i lie
handpicked yet stale
within the book
you've turned many pages over

bereft

turn away
do I not see
you turn away
and soon, it's just me

lest

we forget

infinite means differently

think time, think love

or think distance

life does not go
the libran way
they never balance
the things you weigh
no word for my words
no shared dreams to delight
no garden stories for us
and no reassuring sunlight
instead, an omnipresent penalty
for seeking to play fair
the dissonance, the distance
and the sense of living unshared

in the mirror
where i should be
is it an amusement
that you see

in the days
that i seek to fill
your mindless devouring
my senses don't hold still

in the story
that i seek to weave
the themes run empty
and the characters leave

in the mirror
where I should be
there's just an amusement
that you're eyes wish to see

an abyss
it's no longer a gap
not even a distance

in her eyes
a question masked
do you remember
it pretends to ask
the wind that night
the steps to the sea
and the starry delight
as you veered towards me

a mellow yellow
shade of loneliness
to cover the grey patches
of being with and yet, without

the small change
of intentionality
in the bargain of joy
as we buy things
that were not offered
and sell those
we could never again afford
everything depreciates
like the shine on the new coin
of intention or the value of
that prized first ownership
of homes, hearts and dreams

after having roleplayed
our definite scripts of happiness
we struggled and tussled with reality
that illimitable untamed reality

would a sunflower
stuck into my hair
or the lilt of a song
or a smile more bare
color me a little less wrong?

a lack without a name
an unfulfillment
yet no ascribed blame
what can the earth
say about the moon
its own void its contentment
perhaps its too soon
but days melt to months
they form many years many tears
a full moon comes once in a month
yet it's blocked by black fears
a fatal continuity its existence
the earth doesn't rise, yet it sets
it grieves its disowned essence 
and loses more than it begets

how often
I used to see
the sun shine
through that face
the starry eyes
or absolute delight
in nothing but the days

through the prism
of sad reality
an illusory delight
glows in the company
of the bygone

every joy
and every hope
buried under the
weight of the wait

each day a new story
each day a bridge to mend
each day the same bridge falls
each day the same voice calls
each day it asks for an end
each day the same bridge to mend

normalcy is a conspiracy
like in each symbolic beginning
lies a perpetual end
both seen yet unseen
relentless yet ignored
meaningless yet sought

i may not be a sinner
but i am no saint
if fulfillment had a color
i'd have loved to paint
but color, paper and strokes
is that all it takes for fulfillment
then why do I find myself again

seeking another's testament

futility always find a home
but dreams
in search of a heart, they roam
only to be found
like old books, left behind
in  futility's rush, it had a home to find

the owner of my waking thought

is so deeply sought 

so deeply sought

some years

cannot be reduced to words

like the sun

they explode into

our realm of existence 

and become all we ever lived

life is a perpetual morning after
the shine in the eyes is gone
the warmth in the hands is missing
and the heady smell of the midnight air is distant

an easy word is estranged
three mere vowels
with consonants neatly arranged

drops of you
like drops of rain
fall unto me
and take away the pain

when did the water

turn this cold

that no inspiration existed

in your heart of gold

that no light brought day

to this endless night

that our daring dreams

have now lost sight

between all the light
and all the sound
something has just
burnt down to the ground
but how could you see
in so much light
how could you hear
the time was never right

Ultimately, no if, why and when really matters. Ifs don't happen, whys don't really have a reason and when is just a sad marker of the time when things were better. What does matter is who you are, what inspires you, where you're seeing yourself go, and sometimes, who really is listening to you.  

a dirge
always at play
as i dream away my day
a dirge, for the night
that is here to forever stay

if not strong
then one must be weak
because surely, nobody
can lie in between
these two words
created
just created
to glance over
the vitality of the small things
that can have their own god
but still receive no humanly affection
or even a pitiful bit of interest

there sits someone so quietly

deep inside my mind

yet to raise his dark heavy head

but i know his eyes are really kind

he feels so right and homely

made of good memories that we mined

that i'm sure he couldn't be untrue

and i know his eyes are really kind

we wait so willingly for the day 

when i believe that i will find

that he would rise to show me that

his eyes are really that kind

but where lies the day i ask him

when we leave the past behind

and something in him tells me

that he hardly seems inclined

time stops one day so suddenly

as though seeking to leave me in a bind

and i realize as i gaze up at him

that his eyes were never really kind

you died
long before i could save you
in many ways
and long before my days

that color of delight

a moon, even on a moonless night

was that even a color

in her cream diary

i find a yellowed wedding card

with decades of age

and yet, she found it hard to discard           

an indistinct one it was

a few lines in black and red

a sheet of paper, a judgment

tied in auspicious yellow thread

the card once read over and over

slowly moved to its restful place

few months and it was forgotten

in favor of a life waiting for embrace

but life, it never tried to charm her

instead it gave her reasons and grace

and she rose like single green sapling

with wild weeds and creepers to race

with little rain, little sunshine

and still a long way to go

she wilts sometimes and she whispers

that there is nothing for her to show

someone tells her that a slight shore

will soon guard her from waters rough

and hopes that she will someday see

that she has always been a reason enough

stunted branches

once grown to kiss

free from the prison now

begin to miss

the feel of dim light

the enclosed bliss

they grow away and ignore

their familiar abyss

if i may ask

isn't beauty grey

can't we keep a little black

and give some white away?

a single hand

with a single mind

the best of art

the rest can't find

for creation is an act

of a solitary kind

that none can touch

like a spell that only

a single hand can bind

between the crests
he rests
after a tussle
with the waves
when that star gives in
and they are alone in the dark
without the shine
that many think divine
but what light they say what star
what road takes you that far
that a night falls short of dark
and love isn't a lark

cushions on jute

in warm colors

and gold trimmings

that nobody promised

would bring such joy

have already come to rest

in my mind and beneath my chest

like a packet of dreams

tucked away in my closet

what lies

between your sighs

and turns 

when your gaze runs

and flits

when we are away

and cries

when we part ways  

time
it always travels
on its toes
but we don't see it
till it hits the shores
but the waves
they always know within
that the endless shores
will someday give in

on this day
give me a gift
look away from the present
and glance at what has been

look through my eyes
at the man i always see
at the struggles overcome
and the storms yet to recede

and tell me don't you see
what a lesson you've been
to show the world digging gold
what silver can mean

happy birthday, baby! :* 

if today
light were to say to me
why the dark
chased it all the way
i wouldn't
defend the light aflame
for always
i've seen light slut its way in
while the dark
hadn't even tried to begin

why plant
and not water
why entice
and not share
why seek
and not build
why dream
and not dare

right under the inky sky
i try but cannot deny
that this is the color
that my life has taken
yes maybe i have mistaken
a single sunrise
for a season of warmth
a single victory
for a fabulous story

not too early
and not too late
sometimes we even
forget the date
but so glad am i
of that whimsical day
when my made-up mind
began to sway
toward a face
that has come to be
the real dream
i never had to seek

the shelter and shade
of this deep green tree
is it really meant for me
walking this endless way
the trees have now begun to sway
i know they will come down, for
time has come with a saw in hand
and i see indifference, even in the land

like a pebble
of momentary worth
you pick me up
after a cursory glance
to throw me back
into the wild waves
thinking it is your imprint
that the sea really craves

the circle

there is this complete silence
and that's all there truly is
no sun, no shoots of defiance
no signs of this being my place

please
release me
from the trials
and the many denials
that render no meaning
and chisel away all feeling

each dream
like an old letter
tugs at your swollen heart
like a friend about to depart

life
is not
in the skies
or even in your eyes
it is just
a set of lies

so much noise
so little rhythm
so much around
so little within

a second stint
or my first instinct
why is it so wrong
to look a little beyond

did anyone watch him
take that unusual walk
after making stale promises
to the mirror faces
he knew so clear
that held him so dear
just like the brush
all fresh with paint
and some sludge of the river
that never did return him
despite the promise of the giver

you slipped
so suddenly away
that even now
every night and day
stands barred by the
words and things
i cannot do for they
would remind me of you

because i write
in words away from your own
do not destine me
to be woebegone
for you may have seen
the world a bit gay
but I have also
found a place to stay
whether in my drudgery
or my elusive dreams
or in the life
of the greens and streams

a question slight
or an eclipsed delight
on my way to the moon
a little too soon

He shifted his weight from one foot to another as he rang the bell. He questioned himself as to why he was standing in front of this door again. Yet again. While waiting for the door to be opened, he surveyed his clothes. Yes, the tear in his t-shirt was hardly visible. Yes, the ink he'd dropped on his trousers was now dulled by the dirt and grime. Yes, how old his shoes were could very well be passed off with a whine about the dust on the city's roads. Yes, he said to himself as he wiped his eyes just in time. She opened the door.

As he walked in, he handed her a fresh set of white flowers he'd picked off a plant on his way. They spoke of the weather outside but not a word was uttered about the weather inside his mind. Was a storm brewing? Had the rain stopped? Would the sun ever shine like it used to? He shook off the questions lest she saw. Yet she saw that his eyes were full of questions, that his t-shirt had a tear for it was the only thing he had to wear, that his shoes resembled a mouth open, and that his trousers had not been cleaned barring the sudden afternoon showers.

Small talk has an expiry period as though it were a medicine. Soon it was time to leave. He wished he could stay longer. "Not that hungry" he said in the hopes that she might insist to cook him something warm, maybe an egg, maybe coffee in a keg. But life has its ways, people have their days, and his days were probably over. He left saying his son had been repeatedly asking him to join in their friday dinner.

As he walked down the steps, the flat numbers began to stare back at him. Where would he go next? He collected his bag from the security and made another friendly call but cellphones can shut the world out and then, who was he in the world to anyone? A worthless son? A repenting husband? An unwanted father? A guilty man? A nobody? An outsider? Open the door to accept an outsider, would you?

as you went

if you had only lent

to the one left behind

a fraction of your strength

the many whys
of my livid life
are all over the skies
and welling in my own eyes

that tidy little roll of gauze
is like my dreams of dawn
here, but not here
unattainable, yet so clear

no prayers
no worship
no seekers
and no search
just a step
a single change
not the sea
but a raindrop

my ideals
are not like gifted lies
or mirrors so thin
that i'm lost within

my ideals
are not like azure skies
or roads so long
that i'm all wrong

my ideals
are not like happy sighs
or an alley so blind
that i've a captive mind

my ideals
yes, they are all mine

a drop of your own
a ray that had shone

among all the toys
amidst all the noise
bare of all the bright
is a message of light
the light says to me
that i must let it be
for i'm an inky stranger
better outside the manger

It's been eleven days since I stood by your side and watched the light in your eyes dissolve into your release and my captive tears.

It's been eleven days since I covered you in your cream towel and kissed your forehead, while it was still warm.

It's been eleven days since I let you go from being my honey bunny baby boy to the deceased pet whose CUPA number was 1551.

It's been eleven days since I came back home without having you standing at the landing or barking at me from downstairs.

It's been eleven days since I came home to find your blue medicine bowl and steel meal bowl empty and dry.

It's been eleven days since I put away all your medicines into a big red packet that you were sniffing at madly just a week ago.

It's been eleven days since I put your chains, collar, bedding, and your red brush into a big box you would have loved to chew.

It's been eleven days since I started sleeping with a big gap around my knees that you, and only you, could fill that snugly.

It's been eleven days since I have come home to hear no complaints about all your misdeeds from the day.

It's been eleven days since I have seen anyone at home have their routine biscuits with their tea.

It's been eleven very long days. I hope you're good, lazing with Rustom thinking of your next meal, while the current one is still awaiting digestion. Maybe you will bump into Jimmy or Stupi. Maybe you will all sit and woof away about us. Maybe once I'm there, too, we can play chase, eat Marie biscuits, and nap chest-to-chest at eleven in the morning. Maybe :)

the best dressed lie
of all our lives
is the endless sea
where loneliness thrives

an unhappy chase
under lights so limp
is bound to hurt, to
throw a little dirt

when ready to leave
you must believe
that i was in queue
just behind you

when ready to rise
you must realise
that along your side
is where i reside

when ready to deny
you must try
to dye my red eyes
for denial never cries

an ajar door
is only half true
which one is me
and which one is you?

on this dimly lit night
i hardly have any sight
i feel somebody here rakes
into piles, my many mistakes
my fallacies, my lying errors
my slowly glowing terrors
of lives coming too close
of much heavier a dose
of my ideals spurned
of my fingers burned

the brown of the eyes
that i so deeply believe
are clocking a curse
and i cannot but grieve

words
fly like kites
trifle too light
to fill the expanse
of my blue mind

i was once the sea
raring to go
with every wave
seeking life
in the darkest cave
but i'd rather be
the land so still
let the waves come
but leave me to my will

your life is but an empty jar
that lonelines tilted much too far
crumbs in its fingers
defeat in its dark eyes
it drops the jar, it still defies
but the jar breaks into a million more lies

truth was heaving over me
but i stood still
i did not give in
to his wretched will

take me back
to my mother's stories
of Sirfira topiwala's feast
not cds of beauty and the beast

take me back
to my quaint tiffin box
with two cream biscuits of joy
not tupperwares and foils

take me back
to the excitement of new books
brown paper covers and labels so clean
not words in copies or blurred onscreen

take me back
to games of my own imagination
some cloth, some grain and solitude
not eric berne and colours crude

PS: Sirfira Topiwala is a character from a story my Mom made up from real places and events in a town I used to visit every other month till four years of age. It talked of how this lazy topi-seller uses his brains and makes a lot of money at a village fair and goes home happy - with food, clothes and goodies in the climax and so, the feast. I believed it to be true then and I still wish it was.

when it dies
it takes away
the zeal
the drive
the will for the way

when it dies
it leaves behind
a gap
a grief
taking up all your mind

when it dies
it gives to graves
your words
your moves
dust fills up the caves

when it died
three quarters into memory
the might
the measure
were unknown to all, to every

in my mind
are your old lines
about the crabs that are
tweaking away my delicate designs

amidst other sounds
your old words now crown
memories in my mind merge
but your prediction stands out loud

You were once a stranger. Amidst all the green, you had eyes just for what you liked in me - the sights, the sounds and the small feet wrapped in socks. Years have gone by and your eyes and your life have grown to accommodate my madness, my moods and my mistakes. Sometimes I think (but mostly I overdo it or sometimes I just go by random impulses) and I wonder how confusing it must be for you. Sometimes I decide to set something right and it turns itself over thrice. Sometimes, sometimes, sometimes. After yet another such sometime, I want you to know that as mad, nervous and incomprehensible as I may be and I am, I deeply appreciate how your eyes, despite knowing all of me, still choose to focus on what you first liked.

Love you.

do not play
the angles so steep
a doomed triangle takes
an eternity to reap

do not paint
in colours so gay
these eyes are not blind
and you are only grey

do not glide
on your words of paper
i can smell the rains
i can see you vapour

the shoots so green
and the yellow bamboo cluster
like that tamarind so lean
begin to whisper to me that
by my side, agaze and alean
lies my life - in bloom and gleam.

two years have gone by
as i've watched the dark
catching you on the sly
but you only smile wry
and walk the remaining
of your maddening mile

those pots of roses
into which dida
added used leaves of tea
sometimes the summer
returns to me

those rays running breaking
my night's snuggled sleep
lost in dark hours now
sometimes the summer
returns to me

those empty straight roads
leading to quarters in cream
with charming green mangoes
or eleven trees of neem
sometimes the summer
returns to me

those stolen fish fries
in bowls too hot for my hand
or rasna and maggi-lined smiles
lost now in mealtimes so bland
sometimes the summer
returns to me

strand by strand
through your warm hand
runs a bunch of my hair
and the dreams I live to dare

listen to me

words come in millions
welding into chains of thought
that grow tighter around
a boxful of wishes
that were never to be found

a seeker of silence
once tiptoed into the noise
she had only thrice betrayed
her mind's scrubbed voice
that sounds accost sanity
that one trips over light
she learned on her way back
by the shadows of a calling night

watching your back
time tussled with your ties
to your listed priorities
then it bade heavy goodbyes

I was there all the while.

come build a fence
come rouse a rage
the home can wait
the regrets so late

there are no shores
just islands few

…and in those dreams
the inhabitants of limbo
touched the wisps of thought
as they formed and dissolved

the sounds of children merged
with raging sirens
as tokens of life
or reminders of impending ends

…now beyond those dreams
a voice calls back to reality
for the inhabitants of limbo
to be awakened now

dust may collect on daring dreams

and doors may hang heavy under dead locks

but you are the life that flows in shiny streams

beyond dear days and timely clocks