A crucifix I carry I call it home!

A crucifix 

sometimes has a roof and walls

windows with latches

doors with holdfasts

it is a monster

changing forms

like a leech

fangs deep into the skin

it demands and demands

cleaning,chopping,dusting

boiling,grating,cooking

locks,keys,bulbs,soaps

candles and matches

it is hungry

it is angry

sucks hope from the marrows

you dump and dump

exhaustion and hurt

till your heart stinks

ready to burst

the aches and pains

the monster's love bites

all over body and soul

always wanting

more, more,more

I looked for synonyms

to make it sound better

residence, abode, household

A crucifix I carry

I call it home!

Her love was a migratory bird

She a still lake

in the middle of nowhere

He a Red Knot

flying 16,000 kilometres 

twice a year

from his "home"

called Siberia

no maps, no compass

- only soul 

his geomagnetic field

- only love

sun during the day

stars by night

leading him to her

he built a nest

in her 

and then  

she set him free

back to the sky

where he was meant to be

as she held his image

in her still womb

her love was

a migratory bird !

Namelessness of the one with a thousand names

“Few tasks are more like the torture of Sisyphus than housework, with its endless repetition: the clean becomes soiled, the soiled is made clean, over and over, day after day.”

― Simone de Beauvoir

I wash everything

I scrub it clean

along with the vessels

the vegetables

my consciousness

of any sense of me

I peel the skin

delicately

potatoes can also

look like hearts

to mad women

like me

Time looks like

a fine stainless steel grater

I grate my ego

fine, finer

so that all

my questions die

your love sharp

like a shining knife

I chop, chop,chop

my self in to

smaller pieces

so that of my "I"

remains no sign

Now I knead

mix it, dissolve it

add more water

that will bind it fast

to make a stiff dough

of tradition

against which I punch

my knuckles

till they hurt,never bleed

the oil heats like

my simmering soul

In the wok of your

grand celebration

I deep fry

the remains of 

my hard work, pride

self-worth and name

The festive feast 

for your Devi

Venerate, celebrate her

who isn't nameless like me but  

who has a thousand names* !

* Durga- the Hindu deity is believed to have a thousand names

Mosul Soul

Kufic : Google Images

Long before ceasefire

from all ends

this soul

is a worn torn city

Rubble and ruins

of homes

and dreams

heartbeat is sometimes

akin to gunfight

The Mosul walls

and the Kufic love

 Tigris of time

full of  corpses

lonely burials in the snow

in Baramulla

and Kabul

choosing tombstones

by scores

once a soul

becomes its own coffin

only then

 the war is no more.

Presence/Absence

Healing and healers

dreaming and dreamers

and the in betweens

the could have beens

the never beens

the journeys

of bodies and souls

and the dreams

deep in the

Australian outback

a cave painting

or in a forsaken monastery

like a mummified monk

memories

homes, solaces

and tombs

all transitory

like a bird

on a wire

only the shaking

much after

knows its presence.

War and Pieces

Image : Google Images

The victor's loot

and the vanquished's shame

the woman in every war

without a name

the destroyed homes

as the shadows of 

kids' tombstones increases

the collateral damages

the unsaid tale of moms

daughters and wives

in war and pieces !

Q - Qabbani Nizar (Inspirational writers) #AtoZChallenge

“The female doesn’t want a rich man or a handsome man or even a poet, she wants a man who understands her eyes if she gets sad, and points to his chest and say : 'Here is your home country.” 

― Nizar Qabbani

Image courtesy : Google Images


Hearts are

the worst

disputed territories

the war

never ends.

#OrhanPamuk (Inspirational Writers) #AtoZChallenge

"Happiness is holding someone in your arms and knowing you hold the whole world." 

— Orhan Pamuk (Snow)

Image Courtesy: Google Images

Home is a memory

Istranbul, Lhasa, Rawalpindi

a river called

terrorism, partition, war

pins it on a map

like a dead butterfly

and calls it 

just a city.

In a city winter looking for a home

A dead pigeon
on the sidewalk
bare feet children
begging at the signal
destitution written large
on faces and souls

life's pathways
as complicated as
the routes of the metro

what ifs hanging
like half-constructed pillars
why? why not?
changing like traffic lights

Christmas lights, blinking at wealth
emptiness, deep, dark
and hope faint, cold

a shiver runs down the spine of
the silhouettes of tired trees

its cold
very cold,
winter is a state of mind

all knowing is frozen
love runs down
as a warm, salty liquid
from the eyes

the security guard looks
straight into the fire

we are all looking for home.


 

HOMES

Beyond the organised
rows of bungalows
clusters of beehive flats
mazes of 'working class areas'
known as slums
flyovers and underpasses,
skeletons of  future
concrete monsters,
shiny colourful tarpaulins
shelters in cities come
in a variety of shapes and sizes

sharing the luxury
of the only blanket
or delaying the dinner
for the yet to come
in all nests alike
this human warmth
makes them homes.

BITTER CHOCOLATE

He was always
a known face
in school,at home
a library or a park

whether it was a bruise
a forced kiss
or a gashing scar

she never slept
to dream a dream
the shroud of shame
the conspiracy of silence
never let her scream

this is the last
to herself she would lie
but that it was
always a lie

his smell would never
leave the room
the chocolate
he left was always bitter.

She had noticed
long back that
that there it sat
in a dictionary
-'trust' the pseudo word
interceded between
'truth' and 'tragedy.'


(This is inspired by Pinky Virani's book by the same title about child abuse.We celebrate children's day,its time we celebrate childhood only when we are ready as individuals,families and societies to speak up against our children being exploited and abused.)

Memories....across cities

PIND DADAN KHAN

Many decades ago in the bylanes of a small town , the tricycle meant a lot to him and his two elder brothers.They were almost the same age and size,born only a year apart from each other,and hence no one played the big brother but they were more of friends.The colourful tricycle was a gift from their maternal uncle who lived in Rawalpindi -the big city where big people went to work.

SHIMLA
A few decades later,when he was a dad, at the peak of his career,he did try to find time to choose toys for his daughter,but the hilly terrain of his home prevented him from buying her a cycle.Time went on,she grew up...

CHANDIGARH

Several decades later as he buys a sophisticated looking baby-scooter(that's what they are called now) from a swanky mall for his toddler granddaughter,he is reminded of a lot.A home lost decades back ,whose memories are now dull but dear,brothers/friends who grew up and apart and are now dead.He relives the joy of sharing a toy and his seven-decades old heart reminisces fondly....

This is a true story about me,dad and sonee....