Floating Through Life

The evening light spilling over a liquid earth
I float, beetle like
Through a fragile pool of self-taught meditation
Here, the next moment becomes the most important thing,
The next breath, the next step,
So that, i forget what awaits me at night
When i unlock a dark home,
Enter in, to cook a lonely meal
And get into a fitful sleep
Keeping half-awake for that late-night doorbell.

Bubble of Peace

peace is that fragile bubble,
which you inflate day by painful day
of repeated chores
till it bursts
spilling
hatred, frustrations, dead hope.

Memory of a Past Life

"Tumhara intezar hain"
Hemant Kumar sings
With his nostalgic voice
The old cassette which you pushed
Onto my willing arms
That day...years ago
Had those whistles of the heart
I heard them again and again
for days and days when you went far away
Bonded slave of your mad imaginations
Those sligtly muffled voices
From the past
now, resurfaces like memory of a past life.

Smelling You

I keep smelling you
In that old T-shirt
Which you peeled off
And made me wear
That rain-soaked day.

Logbook of Lovelssness

We each have one
Calculate, add, multiply, enter
How much have I done?
How much have you taken?
We scribble in our minds
Tick each entry with a countercheck
And then, leave it,
Only to take out
And nurse once in a while
From the almirahs of dustfilled relationships.

Conquests of the Mind

We play games of conquest
We conquer minds
For some short while
We need to fill ourselves within others
Or, else we fear,
We do not exist.

The game includes short scraps of accusations and insights
Left carelessly in another’s mind
But, both understand the absolute planning
that goes into that appearance of nonchalance.

We are afraid
Of emptiness
That fills our mailboxes
That fills our mornings
Our sleepless nights
And our generally meaningless existences
We have to fill it desperately
With thoughts, words, our selves…

What do I Want?

I am not so sure
Of anything, anymore
What is the kindness that I reserve
For a stifling, clutching hand?
What is the hatred that I feel
For my own insecure mind?
What is this feeling of power
Over the powerless?
And absolute weakness
In the face of empty power?
Why this silence which spreads over my tongue and self
In front of a loved one’s razor sharp hatred?
Why do I reject?
when what I badly need is to give myself up
And forget my existence?
Why do I clutch desperately and humiliatingly
When I can actually stop my tears
With just a small cut of the tattered bonds.

The clash of histories

The clash of histories
In your deliberate ignoring glances
Where another one has been
Installed with the same gestures
that was reserved for me two days ago
I remain quite, and give up
For, you say that I fear failure.
Well...if one fails, there is no need to fear it anymore
And, I do, precisely that.

yet one more evening

yet one more evening
where i go out with you
into yet another family
where the woman has shrunk herself
where she and i, both smile
like dead japanese dolls
where men drink wine
and talk politics
where she and i
sometimes take a fag
the only remenent
of our tattered independence!

A Household

" A household, in fact, with its meticulous and limitless tasks, permits to woman a sadomasochistic flight from herself..."
Simone De Beauvoir (The Second Sex)