Works of RK

Hold on to the lean fingers Of your old young mother's hand And stop trying to make sense Of the justice in this all When the school bells ring Find a little pebble to break Go help your father Climb a hundred stairs Look down the cavity in the walls But don't fall, don't fall May your never experience hunger Let there be junk from the day before Served with the kindness Of strangers who offer The big lord, gold Cry little child cry Let the concrete in the Sethu ' s* site Never run dry. You cry. You cry. * A rich man.

I read that there was a fire in Andover, near Boston. I pinged her and saw the double tick An hour later, a message, I am safe, don't worry. The heart beats in such distant places. People die long before they are dead.

Can I borrow you From a Feynman’s Future And hide you in my memory corridors Forever locked In blocks of eternal presentness? Can I be with you Without actually having to be For that would require of me To consume time Grow old and die I don’t want to fight Entropy I just want to be In space outside of time Just you and me

You live in those places in me From where memory is first born Where thoughts unfettered by fate And untouched by destiny Takes birth on its own free will And lives on with a single desire The desire to be one With you. Nothing else that matters Matter.

In the little moments of conscious clarity, between muddled minds, huddled bodies and cluttered spaces of my everyday living, I keep going back to the time we met last and said our last goodbyes. If I knew that you would move into the mist and be one with the fog and the darkening caves; If I knew that the somersaults of your mind would exile me into the realms of the unknown, and that you would take my place, my face and my being in you and consume it to an ancient memory … Maybe I would have held you back a little closer. Hugged you a little tighter, smelt you a little longer, allowed your entangled hairs to ease out of my fingers, a little slower. Maybe, just maybe, I would have gone for that one last kiss...

Why does it rain in little drizzles And not just pour it's heart out All at once and for all time, into all places Into the roads the canals and the drains Why does it not rain, like rain? Why not just roar And with a thunderous wail Cause a cloudburst Break a Dam Deluge a city Annihilate Why does it not rain like rain? If only I could think of you, Just once Instead of having to think In drizzles and drops and sobs And in between shadows And all this chaos If I could think of you For the last time, Like a cloudburst And then In one brilliant tragic flood Be washed away and be gone Forever, With all this slush And all this mud.   Listen to this poems here

The dawn was breaking across the horizon. I could see crimson orange streaks of sunlight getting scattered in the morning mist. This was the time she generally got up and walked to the kitchen. The time when, with ruffled hairs and a wrinkled nighty, all dark and broody, she would look out of the balcony and breathe in another day. A day that would be broody or cranky or happy, depending on what mood she woke up with. The Sunlight that streaks across the clouds of an oncoming monsoon would also be shining down her windowpane just now. Just now, she would also be looking up at the sky. Just now, she would also be alive in some other part of the world, thinking about everything but me. I watched the sun hang in there for a moment, as if asking of me to move ahead and stop thinking about her. And then I stopped thinking about her, and the day moved on.