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Showing posts from April, 2015

That time in life

That time in life When in the heat of smoldering summer Wild blush of spring roses Bloom on your dimple cheeks, When dead daisies from last season Flower fragrant in your breeze. It is that time in life When life  itself Swings to fluttering rhythms Of a beautiful butterfly wing. When wild flowers burst forth A parched desert dune And hope that lay dormant From long years of arid ennui Springs and bursts forth Shoots of living green. Live on, I say For these are not moments that you lose To thoughts of yesterday Or hopes of a tomorrow That may never come.

O How I Hate

How I hate the silly perfumed wind As it rushes to breeze you in. That stupid oyster grain As it delicately dangles Between those secret place I believe Are oh so mine! That hint of a bindi blazing fire consuming All my worlds all the time.

That glow on the setting sun

The setting sun down west Put up such a splendid show in red I had to hurry down to you my love In case You had for a change Given away too much of your blush!

The letters you wrote to me once

Cobblestone pavements Naughty Kites that once flew into the horizons The faint aroma of a robusta, rightly brewed The smell of Jasmines buds, recently sprinkled The big temple bells' chime An old Morris minor, polished chrome gleaming My English teacher's lipstick Grandma reciting grand tales from the Mahabharata A long competing hooting bout with a Cuckoo A short rare one with a crow pheasant. Thoma on his ancient cycle, selling fish Eliamma's six felines courting Thoma all the time. Green from the paddy fields of yore Red from the fiery musandas Yellow from the April showers White from my grandmas starched mundu   Love from your letters Reached out and colored All of my remembered universe Until I safely stored them For another lifetime. Come away The cities have invaded our kind countrysides Grandma is no more And the kids of today Don't bother with real kites. We will meet again And rebuild our little lives One cobblestone at

Good Byes

The silences that fall over oceans Once the Ships that set sail Reach their shores. The darkness that fall over walls And curtains of a theatre Once the play is done. The feeling of that full stop Which placed right at the end foretells The End.

Crazy Poets

Who is your best friend? I What do you mean I? Indu? No. Just I . Don't be crazy. Everyone has a best friend. Someone with whom you can share all your secrets, all your pains. Someone with whom you would love to walk into the sunset. Someone with whom you can share a giggle, be yourself. I do all that with myself. I have no secrets, I write.

Secret places

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

Forever Mine

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.

What I told the Sun today

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?

You remind me of lilies

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.

Old Things

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

Picking your hairs from a white marble floor

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

Butterfly Heart

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.

Death in hue motion

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.