6 August

the dead are statistics
there is no count of
the walking dead

without a warning
life leaps out
- connection interrupted

and that
lizard like memory
with glass eyes
Goosebumps

no calendars, no hours
no appointments
no deadlines
just a vast cavity of
being
to fill

the clumsiness
of words
the inadequacy
of translations

many decades ago
today
the worst bombs
had dropped

you will never know
when I died
I will never know
if you really cared.
 

THE I

Where is my core from which
spills love, anger, nothing
like a never ending lava
not necessarily in the same order
sometimes one ,sometimes the other
most times all

Voices and voices
all clamouring for attention
for being missed,heard
understood,misunderstood
bottom line -loved

I am yours
is never true
The I always remains
leaving no room for
anyone else

The I is the one sad,happy
angry,submissive
disgruntled
the prize and the prison.

I wish instead....just a rant

• I wish during my early years in Shimla instead of pouring all my attention on books I had explored the fun outdoors more.
• I wish when single I had travelled more instead of worrying about a career.
• I wish when young instead of valuing people for their achievements I had valued them for their essence.
• I wish instead of being just an armchair activist I am able to do something to make a difference to a girl child's life other than my daughter in this lifetime.
• I wish instead of the boundary walled apartment complex and the hostile-to-women city I lived somewhere I had a beach for a safe evening walk.
• I wish instead of following the Indian style of parenting including "protect the child" I had travelled and gone out more with P.
• I wish instead of this list I had written something better.

:p

PRISONER

The incessant clamor
of words seeking meanings
has died down

the blank noise
of life's long pause
is deafening

the salt-peeper
blank screen
of the mind
blinks with
every tick of the clock

no memories
cause any ripples
in the soul pool

so this is it then
I am finally dead

only the air
passing through the lungs
life-like

and then the pangs return
memories rip open wounds
buried moments
back for daily rounds

I am still
a prisoner !

GIFTS FROM ANOTHER YEAR GONE BY

Each passing moment

is only once

on life's timeline

the now,never was

never will be

each year 

it passes on 

its mysterious bounty

and blindfolded

I fumble through

its goodies

Time the benefactor

of memories

can also sometimes

leave you so empty

a new cup of tea

a new year to be.

Memory with Tea

The crunch of life

I used to buy for two rupees

has been long lost with

the familiar poodiwalaah* 

the glittering signages

of multinational chains

selling international cuisines

have gobbled up

the old woman who sold

boiled eggs with rock salt

on winter eves

the benches thankfully

are still here

but vacant

the plague of social networking

has killed the time

that permitted

sitting there doing nothing

gossip,chat,observe

and soak the sun

the state library

and the church

mostly visited by 

only tourists now

have air fresheners

killing the

fragrance of nostalgia

in each of these

I have lost

the ideal of something

SHIMLA was

I delete

all the new pictures

and munch on memory

with a hot cup of tea.

* the man who sold paper cones filled with a homemade spicy mixture of nuts.

BARTENDER

Go make me a drink
as bitter as memory
as pungent as hurt
as smooth as fantasy
and as intoxicating as love !

Only you have one
for every taste -
Bartender life ,
find it an exotic name
fill it in a modest glass
but please,
Go make me a drink !

A girl called Pooja

Its yellowing pages
still being held
by the dog-eared binding

the dreams
of a teenage soul
poems,quotes,
even birthday reminders
and mindless scribbles

there it was buried
under the pile of
scholarly mumbo-jumbo
just like the innocence
left long behind

the dreams of a teenage soul
the aspirations
the real pink words of love
the joys and the frustrations
all real,tangible

no copypasted updates
no morsels of thoughts
or mundane chunks of life
to throw out of a facebook window

I don't know why I cried
when I found out
Once upon a time
much before internet
lived a girl called - Pooja .