Works of RK

I love to get lost And then be found again In places that I never knew existed Until I was lost And I thought I will never be discovered. I love your secret places You don't look for me there And I love it Just that way.

Every time I am with her, I am reminded of a Neruda: "I loved her, and sometimes, she loved me too." Every now and then, from the random chaos of everyday living rises a warped relationship that is funny and entropic. I love her, and sometimes, she loves me too. Every time I hold her close to me, she melts into herself, rarely have I felt her melt into me. Those proud threaded brows, with their perfumed winged lashes flutter in random anticipation of a kiss, but those eyes don't talk to my eyes, they seem to be in deep conversation, with themselves. I know her favorite dress, I know her special days, I know her fears, her dreams, most of her desires. She knows where I live, she knows what I do, not sure if she knows my middle name. She knows I have a niece, not sure if she knows about the nephew. Many years ago when I was frantically searching for a copy of Dr. Zhivago, I remember what our librarian Thomas sir told me, R, where these books go and hide, is a mystery. When

That shreak of surprise And delight When I first lifted you off the ground And swung you around. Your open hair fragrant Spreading a heady note Into an otherwise empty room. At that moment At that very moment in time As I looked into your doe like eyes And you looked into mine, Together We transcended time.

If you found the dawn a tad lazy today And the deep orange hues play around you For a longer while than it usually does, Remember my dear This was especially for you. For, as I watched the chariot rise I called out to the Sun for some respite. Down here lies my princess asleep Would you care to slow down For a while?

There are these places In me unknown to me. Mysterious places Rarely visited or remembered by me. That evening When you walked in with your red dress Smelling of lilies From colonel Mishra's garden And smiling like you knew me From some other lifetime, I was remembered Of a night from my teenage When I had jumped a fence To kiss a girl Who could sing like Streisand And looked like Helen. She was not for me And with time those lilies, They smelt like roses like jasmines And like other flowers, whatever you will; Until the night you walked in And I remembered how lilies smell. Much like in dreams, They smell so much like you.

Raj? Yes Princess? This rice cooker is not working! I know baby. Will repair it this weekend. How much do you earn Raj? Baby, I don't like where this conversation is going. Why have you not bought a new one? It's always the same, the burner of this ancient stove, the rice cooker, that ramshackle apology of a washing machine that you have... Why? Why don't you just get some new ones? Baby, we have discussed this before. You know I won't. Shall I gift them for you? No Princess, these don't leave my house. I can't accept new ones. Will you always always be so difficult? Yes baby, always. Why? Cause that rice cooker has been with me for 12 years. So? So I can't just chuck it. What does that mean? It means that as long as it is amenable to repairs, I will repair and use it. I will use it even if it costs me twice the cost in repairing it. I won't give up on it, until it gives up one me. Do you know how crazy that sounds? I know baby. And you are OK with it? T

My fingers tremble I am not used to this. I wish I could use my lips To pick them all. Every bit of you Smells so much like you. Even this little lock of hair As it frolics on this floor Smells of your Shampoo And is so full of you. And as I try to hold them A small draught of your wild wilderness catches a wind And they go sliding through my fingers On to the floor, again To be courted and loved and longed Until finally coiled and entwined Off they come with me Into my forever times. Also appeared in Muse India

That slight tremor at a touch And those glazed eyes measuring How much you possibly mean to me And how much of the surreal Is real Those subtle hints of ownership Of someone you believe Can't be owned. That desperation for another hug Before time intervenes And rips us apart. I now live a day at a time And count my days As one with those filled with you The rest My love I do not remember To have ever lived.

On a dark magenta evening I could see bright ochre leaves Falling wearily on to a willing ground Awaiting one final embrace From those Who had once moved up In search of life Outside a lemon yellow shoot That eventually turned A dull dreary brown With all this tired living.

There is a futility in loving you I know that you grow in lonely places in me And will eventually Kill me. There is a futility in loving you Like moss that grows in my village well Beautiful But treacherous, you see. There is futility in loving you Like arsenic Green and lifeless Someday I shall be. There is something about you Around you And in places and things and sounds and stains and smells of you, That softly weighs on my soul. It’s like a background score From a movie Time forgot. There is futility in loving you And as I watch myself softly sink I remember how you smelt Of Victoria's Secret And other crazy things.   First published in Indian Sahitya, Feb 2017 Issue on Contemporary Indian Poetry