Works of RK

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

I know what it is I have lived through this before. It starts with a simple ping A rather unnoticed query Reaching out to the heart admin. As I fight to forget you You quickly upgrade yourself From a PUP to a malware And then to a virus that destroys Any semblance of control That I thought I had on my thoughts. What shall I do with you When every time I run away from you You crash my OS with your thoughts. Come hack me forever my dear And turn me into a zombie Forever playing programs That entertains you.

Come Fill my pen And flow through my little life Adding colors And forever staining What were white empty pages In waiting Endlessly For this fluid verse. Let's make love With these moments. Punctuate me So that I never run out of breath. Complete me So that there be meanings Stringed together Out of ordinary letters That etch a forever tale.

As special as every single snowflake Before it falls on to the other And becomes ice. As special as the first born After years of thankless Tyranny of time. As special As the memory Of our first kiss. As special As first love As the first rains The first house The first pay The first dance The lost ones The loved ones The dear Lord And This life With you in it.

There was a turn up ahead on the road. A turn that I did not want to take. There are times when you don't want any further changes in your life at the moment. It was one such moment in my life in time. However, the concept of having a choice is rather overrated. If I had a choice, I would have become a deodar tree in the middle of Indian rain forests and lived quietly for a million years. Such choices are never available. There was a turn up ahead on the road. The turn required of me to move along its contours. The turn wished of me to succumb to it's long curves and stay away from its guarded rails. Missing the turn would have meant a dive into the setting sun. I can imagine how it would have felt, a white car trying to land on the setting sun. As the sun's saffron hue set the horizons on fire, I once again found myself on a road that leads to you.