Komorebi

 My curtains have tree branches all over them. Must've bought them some time last year, you know how these sales happen and sometimes, just sometimes, you find a piece of your dream on sale? I found mine.  In the mornings, the sun rays filter through them. Soft tendrils of rays, curling around the window bars, making patterns on my floor, patterns of bare branches, gently swaying, like reflections on water.. It's getting cold in the mornings here. Winter will perhaps be cold this time. A festive smell hangs in the air. The air is heavy with the smell. The air settles like reminiscence on me. Birds seem chirpy these days. Some mornings I don't want to leave home. A distant ache reverberates through me. I don't know where it begins. I found a bunch of pink paper-tip flowers on my desk. It stands out among the dusty pile of books, one aged ink-pen and a few paint brushes. These brushes haven't been touched by colour in ages. The soft, wet strokes that leave their mark upon drying. Strokes that the sunlight makes on my worn out, red cement floor. These don't remain. Nor do the fallen leaves in the petite alley just outside my walls. Sometimes, they crunch beneath my steps. The gentle crunching noise makes me dream, but the crumbled pieces break my heart. When I return, those pieces are gone. I want them to remain, piles of soft yellow, curled brown, crisp red, overlapping, strewn. I want them to remain until a sudden gust of winter wind blows them away. Until the ache within reaches a crescendo and then, suddenly is there no more. 

Eliot?

Eliot,

Will you pass me that bottle?
Yes, the one on the dresser
curved like a swan
at the neck
half-filled with a
nocturnal blue liquid,
that one?


The night spreads like a
bruise, seeping through
clouds, one after another,
And drips on to
the pavement, like tar
or congealed blood,
left over.


The square piece of sky
stuck in my window
crumbles like a
burnt love letter.
red-rimed at the edges
glowing, like a photograph
It stays.

A crumpled autumn clings
to the tire swing
in the park
on a single string
yellow-tipped grasses
swaying, wild flowers
lilac, white.


The park, the park, it haunts
my nightmares, dreams
have fallen asleep
Wind rustling leaves
whisper whisper whisper
Memory treads on
stolen secrets.

Shards of a piercing scream
gush through my veins
like a madman lost
trying to find his way
in a maze which
only has a way in
none out.


I have not slept in
a fortnight, Eliot.
The leaves that fall
linger awhile before,
before falling, but I ?
I don't, never, never.
Just fall.

So, hand me the bottle
will you, Eliot?
I'll pour you a glass
pour myself one
But only one of us
will swallow.
Shall we?

Wanderlust

It all started off
with the letter
you dropped.
I lunged over deserts
plunged into seas
to reach.
Your words became
purple blots
bleeding into
breathing blues
gently swaying
night lilies.
That night I
slipped on
moonlight and
fell into
a twirling
chaos of
wanderlust.
And I never
closed my
mail box
ever again.
All of you
was all
that was
not left
behind.

Fault

A Safe Place

Remember how we
promised to remember?
All?
How can we
forget the person
we love?
But we were
mistaken.
Very.
Our memories are
Not our own.
Never.
Moisture eats away
At our photographs.
Your shirt camoflages
with week-old dirties
In my laundry basket.

I have misplaced you.
I'm shifting house.

I stowed you away.
To a dungeon inside.
The ravines of memory.
A Safe Place.
But how was I
to know that
It caves in?

Your death becomes
a bunch of wilted flowers
on my window sill. 

Island

My balcony is an island
floating above city lights.
I see people floating by,
wheezing past my window,
traffic groaning into the night.

None of it touches
my balcony island.

I drown in my bathtub.
Press the sky.
Over my eyes.

And sleep.

My balcony-isle floats
the length of cityscape. 

I wade through the noise.
Weave myself a wreath.
Count lamp-posts till I meet
my Lancelot.

The city lights await,
his silhouette. 

My balcony-isle
collides and stops
at the bus-stop.

A Seasonal Lament

My David, don't you worry, 

this cold world is not for you. 

If there's one thing that everyone will remember you by, then that will be the ghost of a smile that always lingered in the corner of your mouth. Last night, the memory of that smile haunted my sleep. It kept fleeting past my eyes, hazy, grainy, but ever so palpable. We weren't close, some might say I'm overreacting, I cannot explain my own behaviour, but, you are terribly missed. You were always nice, one of the very few people who was nice to me. But you were nice to everyone. Not a person, never a person who will not remember you by your ghost of a smile.

            I remember you offering me your coat, the winter of turmoil, only because I was feeling cold in the campus, even though I had not asked for it. When I said I liked it, you said I could keep it for as long as I wanted, wear it, make it my own.  You were that nice. But last night, nothing prevented me from shivering, not even that coat of yours. You left behind a bad cold for me. And, heartbreak for so many of us!

             I don't know what your demons were, I don't know how ugly your demons were, I don't know how much they tormented you. But I hope, wherever you are, your demons have been put to rest. I hope, they can't take your freedom anymore. 

             We all loved you.. We will remember you for a long time, some of us till we grow old. July will never be the same again. I hope you are  better off now. 

Take care. 

-a grieved friend from the world which your demons inhabited. 

P.S: Some losses are irreparable. 

Linger

 I.

You linger in me

Like the persistence

Of letters sent

But never received. 

II.

I wash our tea cups.

Wipe them dry. 

Hook them up. 

No tea warmed their insides. 

III.

I lay the plates. 

A dinner, for two. 

The steam rising in spirals. 

It grows cold. 

Uneaten, soggy, forgotten. 

IV. 

I inch towards the bedroom. 

Just one pillow, 

instead of two. 

I look for the other. 

V. 

But it sleeps, 

with all your

other things in the loft. 

Only Your absence lingers on. 

Rest In Peace

Of poets

Happenstance

Into the Night

There is something about old poems, the rawness, the imperfections and the silly little things. I found one such lost poem today. Therefore, I raise my glass to the younger me, to whom the world was simpler and hopeful. Cheers!

I love walking with night.

Bokeh and splotches of light,

pockets of shadow,

dew wetted  park rails.

They make me feel alone no more.

Every door I walked out of,

have added shades to me.

They don't fade.

With time I get deeper.

I look back without a twinge

Of pain or regret.

The layers of night

peel before my eyes

It leads me on and on.

This path is endless

All I want is to walk

I inhale the chilly night

and I don't breathe out-

capturing moments within me,

in my lungs and skin.

And when I die I shall send

bit and pieces into the wind.

My moments will stay,

while I become dust

and get blown away!

Maria

It was half-past moon when 

I heard the sobbing.

Echoing through walls,

 raining upon my window.

I could hear your quivering lips

 on the other side!

Were you shy Maria? 

Were of afraid of coming to me?

Did you think I’d sprinkle your tears

on the wounds you gave me?

I can hear your smell through the door-

I put my hand on the knob,

and feel the heat of your skin.

I’ve been standing where you left me Maria!

Survived through all those men 

making love to you!

I saw your broken shadow 

twitching under the bedspread.

Every time I wanted to dip 

my fingers in your chest,

and pluck the black-hole 

from your heart!

But now that you’re at the door Maria

I’d kiss your voice clean of all the sobs.

Pluck stars from the nest of night

to plant them in your hair.

And every time the wind kisses your neck,

a song will be born in the

black-hole of your heart.

P.S: Falling in love with women, especially older women is a risky affair!

Constellation

I packed my bag

and left home.
To find a constellation.
Cramped roads,

opening to dingy alleys

where you collided

into me.
I walked past and

turned back.
In those eyes of yours,

charcoals burned.
I took a handful of coins.
Tossed them into air.
All your sorrows

jingled and fell.
I put you to sleep
inside my bag and
got lost in the crowd.
Traipsed on tire-marks
This way I travelled
all along the world.
Then standing on

the cliff,
emptied my backpack.
You drifted through

the night air,

Out of sight’s reach.

I saw a constellation.

Free. Burning. Bright. 

Moons & Clocks

I wait for the moon

to show up,

but I fall asleep.

The clock on my wall

falls too.

It breaks into pieces,

splinters and shards. 

The hour-hand dislodges

heavy, like

my ageing mother. 

The minute-hand still

ticks, like

I  for you,

when we met. 

A jagged central crack-

deep in shadows

like a burial site. 

I lost my clock. 

So I wait for the moon. 

It does not show up. 

Or may be,

it does! 

I never find out. 

I keep falling asleep. 

Blue

I had coffee-length conversations
With you.
Being strangers in chat rooms
Smoky cafes.
And the colour blue.


Words left our mouths.
Words did not leave trails.


The clink of metal against
china
Snowy sugar spilled between
cups.
No shaky priors.
No dreamy posts.
Just the colour blue.


Legs tucked away under tables
Close,
but not touching.
Painfully folded,
but safe.
Being strangers in chat rooms
and smoky cafes.
In the colour blue.

Only the veins standing out
Near my wrist and yours
and in them both
The colour blue.

That Boy

I found you on the sidewalk
leaning on the rusty rails
drumming your fingernails
on them.

I think you were thinking
of long-lost kites,
few dramatic lies
that untethered them.

I was just a fleeting face
in a passing car,
or a crowded bar,
where you had been.

I've seen you everywhere-
time and again,
making bargains,
for things that weren't yours!

Funny thing is that
I've done the same
played the never-ending game
over and over again.

Sometimes I wonder
what would have
happened if you too
had noticed me?




P.S: Recycling an old poem I wrote quite some time ago. Chanced upon the song that inspired me to write this, so gave in to nostalgia. Haven't changed the bits I don't like anymore, because imperfection is the charm of reminiscence. 

Post Script

Towards the end of our days with each other, a fervor to make good memories overtook us. So much were we aware of the impending end that we embarked upon a furious attempt to make as many moments memorable as we could. We took pictures of everything we did together, we went on regular dinner dates, he sang to me every night before I fell asleep, I woke him up with a kiss every morning, we shared all our meals, read books that were each other's favourites- our efforts were tiring us. We lost ourselves in making memories.The very little time we had at our disposal was wilting away,unnoticed by us. We were obsessed, thinking of spending the rest of our lives with the memories we made during these last days. But we were completely oblivious that the best of the memories were the ones that caused the worst kind of pain. We were hurtling towards a landslide which was to bury us in the coming days. 

God is a Ritual

Dear God

When I first knocked
on your door
I was child.
My mother's hand
holding my palm
I, tottering behind.

The second time I
remember visiting you
was when I
wasn't allowed to
cross your threshold.
I was bleeding.

The third time Your
men came to
me. I had
fallen in love
with the wrong
boy, they said.

Dear God

Is that blood on your hands I see?
No, wait. That's ritual flowers they put
around your neck
at your feet
in the basket
of your devotees.

Dear God

Don't you see?
The things they do
because You,
have to be?

Dear God

I am tired,
I rest my case.
I forgot how powerful
You are, in my haste.

Hot Air Balloon

Dreamed of a highway last night
I, on the road standing by
saw a hot air balloon
drift  high up and away.
From it, were people waving
their arms at me.
Calling out, saying things,
only, I couldn't hear.
They were floating
up, up and away
becoming a speck
until I could see no more.
I kept standing
standing and staring
people I loved
going out of reach.
I, in a daze
or a dream
stranded.
I will never know death.
It becomes
A hot air balloon
and flies away.

Snip!

Dying sun light streamed in through the half-open window. Her face was in semi darkness: forehead and eyes aglow in the amber rays, mouth plunged in the shadows. Her honey brown hair was held high in a bun with a flimsy contraption. Uncouth, some of them escaped the bind, encroaching the nape of her neck, her temples, her forehead. A light breeze blew outside. Some of the stray strands of her honey brown hair, caught in its flow, danced in disobedience. The light, caught in the dance resembled a quivering halo around her head. She looked at the mirror sitting in front of her. Her eyes were moist, her stare firm. She reached out towards the pair of scissors lying on the dresser with one hand. The steel was cold against her warm skin. With the other, she unclasped her hair. It unfurled itself all over her shoulders, golden where the sunlight caught it. She closed her eyes shut and reached for her hair...

Snip!

A curl fell to the spotless floor, concealed by the darkness. 

Snip!

Now there were more. 

Snip!

Snip!

Snip!

Snip!

It fell. It fell in abundance. It crowded the floor. She kept at it until her fingers ached, until the mark of steel was red against her thumb, until there was no more of it left. 

It was the beginning of her fairy tale.