Icy cold and endless,
Raindrops on the highway.
Puddles of puzzles,
Screaming and dancing on my way.
Hits me hard and hits me cold-
Cracked up heavens and bittersweet tears;
Memories of another rainy day.
Bottled emotions and restless fears,
bared in a thunderous display.
Howling winds and scathing drops;
Frostbites on my soul.
Rains within and rains on the windowsill;
Reflections each – of the other.
Earth and heaven, you and me; still
Locked and bound, to suffer.
Paper boats and umbrellas on the road;
neither mine, nor yours to own.
But fragile hopes and sheltered dreams;
refuse to leave; they refuse to leave.
Dark fumes in the air,
Engulfing morning’s souvenirs:
The doze of freshness,
The promises of innocence.
Putrid burnt wood,
Filling every corner and nook;
Banishing thoughts bright,
With skeletons of dread and spite.
A piece of paper, charred:
Burnt out stories of eggs and ham,
cindered letters of love, perhaps;
flirting skies it otherwise couldn’t have.
Earnest flames of burning hues,
Devouring life and death, and all within:
The concocted niceties and blunt miseries,
Broken corpses and sentiments therein.
A glorious destruction! The circle of life!
From ashes to tender twigs,
From the singularity to the world as is.
In death, the omen of life,
In destruction, auguries of existence.
Slipping into night’s embrace,
I hug the moonlight tight.
A little of it slips away,
With pains of another day.
Canopies of leaves above,
Crack open at every sigh.
They let in a thousand eyes
That reflect on mine.
I hold myself closer,
And let me be;
Soon I find,there is no other.
It is only me.
What you invest in the day,
Dies west – everyday.
The night is for the soul;
To cleanse and to be whole.
Tomorrow, I may struggle again.
My woe may not yet abdicate.
But tonight,I will be whole again.
Though,tears and dew- I couldn’t separate.
I met reason in the morn;
He was perched on my windowsill, cold.
Precarious and unsure, a newborn;
Shed of all shrouds of hope.
I watched him long.
I watched, distraught.
Until the dew died in every leaf;
And his cries, I couldn’t brush off.
I let him in, with the sunlight.
Cold and anguished floors of the night,
Soon shivered with patches of life.
So did I as I left my tear behind.
All day long, a tussle-
Dread and reason – the yin and a yang.
All day long, a bustle –
Of creaking logic and a loud pang.
As light recedes to lonely stars,
And the night fondles the seen.
Anguish settles in my eyes,
As the dew on the leaf.
My lie is stranded on the windowsill,
I live my truth, here and now.
Tomorrow, I will let you in.
Tomorrow, we will dupe them all.
Peace floats on a rocky boat-
Miles into the sea.
A stubborn flame in a blackened world;
Fighting to break free.
The night is long as the day was true.
The storms and the clouds aren’t that new.
Many a mile was given to solitude.
Anguish and screams, stolen by fortitude.
Moments of serenity, few and far between.
Monstrous tides, otherwise within.
Questions splash on the water and drown;
Answers lie in irrelevant shores.
But peace died that stormy night.
What is left is a lookalike-
An imposter of a different kind.
A useful one alright!
This voyage is mine and mine alone.
There is hope in the wind and wind in my hope.
But for now – we will dwell in emptiness.
Life! We will set sail in the stillness.
I let you go in parts.
First your heart,
Then your eyes.
Your heart set my tempo
And your eyes scorched my path;
So I let them go – one at a time.
Your hand I had held –
Timidly – I let it go too.
I am secure now – in myself.
But against the hollow in my heart,
your voice rings – still.
Just as how memories carve a niche
In the crooked passage of time.
I am so used to hope-
I could carve one out,
of the densest rock.
I am so used to peace-
I could set to its tune,
throbbing waters of the seas.
I am so used to love-
I cannot leave it’s high throne,
for shallow depths of the other.
I have not found a single grief-
I could not wash away-
with ounces of time
and drops of neglect, studied.
I cannot live the night,
bound to the dark!
I delight in the sweet conquests
of smatterings of distant lights.
I cannot be undone-
by a mere travesty.
I do not trade,
a lifetime for a penny.
There are gods on my shelf,
Ashen-faced and blue.
Smiling and solemn,
With spears and a flute.
Gods of time and lovers divine,
Sharing space with bears and wine-
Trinkets of a love that passed by;
Promises of a solace, forever nearby.
They sit and ponder and argue,
With their wives and retinue.
The dice are then cast.
A tear here and a smile there,
On the roll of a dice!
A few battles, thus we win.
A few, we forget.
The ones we never waged;
Those we regret.
But when was it ever, as simple as that?
Our god’s are blue and ashen-faced.
Unrequited love is always a choice.
The maiden he left behind,
for us to deify.
With the cows and the flute, the love we glorify.
It is true-
Some battles, god’s never wage.
Our god’s are blue and ashen-faced.
What then – of men?
Their trinkets, we glorify.
There is that idea I subscribe to –
every once in a while.
That which defines me now-
more so, than ever before.
An idea, they say –
abstract and evolving,
inclusive and ambiguous –
Brilliant, encompassing all.
But never mind the wordplay!
It only matters to those-
Those who are unlike me.
I am the right kind of Indian you see.
I am fair while some are not –
I speak a tongue which they do not.
My eyes are wide, but blind.
I stereotype and I mock.
And then I, of the weaker will,
I hurt them all – them of the fairer sex,
them of religions and castes, unlike mine.
I am entitled, more than all.
I cannot fathom who I need to be;
I was defined by men greater than me.
I draw my boundaries
and gloat within – the kind of Indian I am –
Is the only one that could be.
My yardstick is small, my mind shallow.
Relativity I apply, abundantly.
Parameters I vary, suitably.
I am the frog in the well,
you have heard of.
I refuse to recognize my fallacy.
I will hurt you, until I am bereft of –
my own humanity –
all because – you are unlike me.
Be glad, you are unlike me!