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.