Skip to main content



When I was young, maybe 10 or so, I remember jumping from the attic box-room to the floor below. In my mind, I was a superman, and this could be achieved. The excruciating pain that followed reminded me that Superman also experienced pain when trying to achieve extraordinary feats! It was only yesterday that I lifted you off your feets and swung you around, your hair forming a circle in my little room. I love the shreik of surprise that you let out, and the tantrums you throw when I don't put you down. I would love to do this with you all my life. That hint of a sprain in my lower back tells me that the Superman is still alive in me, it's just that you, probably, you should hit the gym more often.

Dead People

It was probably the moustache That attracted the fly This was probably the last time He would be buzzed And the first time That he would not know. There was a lot of white The drapes, the sarees, the cotton With which his toes and the thumbs Were tied. When you are dead I guess these things don't matter The color, the flies and the incense That invades the nostrils Until you feel heady With his death. When you are dead I guess you are Probably just dead And it's different From just not being alive.


I can snuff you out Like a cigarette butt But the smoke that gets into my eyes And the nicotine that stains my heart Will eventually Kill me.


There is a certain Red Let me describe it for you. It is a shade darker Than your blood Spilt When I broke your toe nail And a shade lighter Than the dark cotton robe The Dalai Lama wears When he snoots a finger At the Chinese With no sense Of geography And a lot of money. That Red Talks to me. Published in Lakdi Ka Pul-II


It has been raining for three straight days. Even the trunks of trees are soggy with water. Lichens growing on the driveway have grown an inch thick. The drains on the terraces are blocked with fallen leaves. Its been a while since anyone has visited this place. The termites living in the window frames have grown courageous with neglect. This sprawling mansion of hers slowly dies of our neglect. Neglect. I look at the place where we had cremated her. There were one thousand people to see her off, eight hundred had stayed back for the feast, and a feast it was. The last and the biggest feast in her matrilineal line. Such was her extended family's love for her. Agricultural workers from her era, carpenters, laborers, temple representatives, community representatives, and many of young ones, some as young as three. The parents wanted to seed the memories of their kids with this event. Decades later, when the then old ones spoke of the great Gauri, the young ones were expected to say,

The Dark of the Night

You would not have walked with me Had the nights been not so scary And your nightmares All so real for you. I would not have held your hands Had the hands that I wished to hold Not left me out in the cold. Let us together, you and I Celebrate our togetherness Even as in our silences We cherish our separateness. Mar 7, 2015 First published in Indian Sahitya, Feb 2017 Issue on Contemporary Indian Poetry

A Strand of You

I was on the table When a strand of your hair came calling. I could see you in the kitchen, Your face at once a storm and a breeze. I curled the single strand of loving you into imagined shapes And spoke to it of fascinating tales. And as it played on my fingers, Twirling, and curling I could hear the music from its silent songs. I had half the heart to carry it with me home And hide it in a book marked you. It smelt like July Flowers. It smelt so much of you. First published in Indian Sahitya, Feb 2017 Issue on Contemporary Indian Poetry