Skip to main content

From here to there

These ageing wheels creak
But unlike my bones
They can be greased

I am on a slow train Home
And when the coal runs out
And the pilot call it quits
These tracks would hold no meaning anymore

It is this slow movement
Through the ups and downs
Of an undulating terrain
That I thought is what we call life

The blind beggar woman
Who would just not fold up and die
The achingly bright cities
And the abjectly poor
With their unholy cries

The covid infected watchman
Who coughs for a week
Before the government calls him
And asks him for a good date to die

The little migrant girl child
Who saunters in the sweltering summer Sun
And will never know KFC

To the son I never had
Little rascal of mine
This place won't miss you
And to my little Princess
My dearest
This isn't a place you would miss

I hear the rickety wheels changing tracks
Soon, it will be a slow beat to a stop
And it will be my turn to alight.

Light a lamp my dear ones
Let there be some light.


Popular posts from this blog


You don't have to tell me. I just know. Its that little sniffle that comes through The unexplained pauses The slow responses I know when you call Just because you needed to cry.

Long Winter Chill

If I could do a Neruda, You would have smelt of summer roses And Autumn pine. There would have been sheer love Of the kind that causes our hearts to ache And loneliness bordering the divine. You would have had so many secrets Welling up as in a girly giggle And so few friends who would hear them all. I am no Neruda I can't paint you a Summer breeze Amidst this long winter chill.

That Fluttering of Broken Wings

If you were to cross the road and hurt your toe, I know that I will never know. As we go on to take different roads and move on across different shores, there is something that happens to our relationships. Something that estranges, disconnects, disintegrates. I know that you still think of me. I know this because I find myself thinking about you. And thoughts rarely get seeded on their own. It comes from you to I and from I to you until one of us is alive. Old relationships rarely die. Like broken winged moths, they hang around dark alleys of forgotten memory lanes. Ever so often, I can hear one of them flutter its wings. Not too close but never too far.