?

now love is all about 
rum and coke, and
wild, sweaty jazz.
not the kind of jazz 
that those white-skinned
pretending bastards play.
no, no ! not that kind.
the hat-wearing, 
cello turning black jazz.
and the sheer sexiness
of wearing a red shirt

Poem

Here, I give my body to you.

but is my body mine?
And to give?

could I have any entitlement
when my body is writ
with the rules of the father;
the blood that runs in your veins
bring power and glory
mine begs to be washed off
with cheap detergent
early in the morning,
lest anyone knows that I bleed
through the openings of life.

if I ask you to not enter my body
could you imagine
a love without violence?

what will you do with my body?
with me?

Poetry

I have become slow

No i havent become old, it is not my age

I have become slow

My body drags like melted wax off an old mirror stand

If i look into the mirror i find that my words escape from eyes ears my skin

And i shudder scream scramble to snatch back my words from the wind

I cannot hold on to my words and i cannot make sentences

How will you understand me if i cannot say what i know is dancing in the front of my eyes

Here, my poetry dies.

FATTIE

People i run into everyday,

Women, and mostly men,

who have been friends and lovers

for moments on sultry dawns,

tell me they cannot recognize me,
as they run into me on streets and corners, 
tell me, i have become very fat. 
baths, mirrors, and clothes and sweat in crevices
and other secret folds of the neck, armpits and belly
remind me that I've become fat. 
Today i have spent the entire day

hearing from every second person,

how i have become fat.
being fat is a strange thing.

for me, it begins with itching

that large piece of skin, that

does not get any air, because

your belly is hanging,

till where it should not.

usually, that part of my body

itches at night.

when the chores are done

the lights put out,

and i'm thinking of all

the things i've done in

the day, that i shouldn't

have,

it begins to itch.

itch, like the things i did

that i ought not have done.

the sweat, the rawness of

skin, the fat and that

itch--

it is almost as if i am

paying for my sins.

Of Men and a Woman

Checking my phone in between writing

Shows ‘no notifications’.

Not getting WhatsApp and Insta messages

Makes me feel forgotten by the men

Who remember me when they are horny.

My life revolves around men

For them I postpone my heartbeats

And adjust the pace of my pulse.

I am trying to learn self restraint-

In this, one cannot give away one's tinder stories.

Like the time a guy climbed off of you

And said “I am done.”

Or the time another one

Looked down your bare back

And said “whoa you are hairy”.

I mistake longing for love

And desperation for love

And loneliness for love

And silent screams, for love.

I am naive and stupid

All their synonyms and everything in between.

I scroll through profiles of strange men on dating apps

And send them clever one-liners

And questions that I think will grab their attention

Because I have reduced myself to an existence

That depends on the might of a man.

I say I am a feminist

All I am is a lonely little bitch.

TRIJITA

(for elisabet velasquez, whose name i faltered with.)

I began when my Dadu named me.
A name of three syllables
That i had forgotten to pronounce
By the time i grew up,
Because i had heard so many variations--
Srijita?
Trijeeta?
Trajita?
Trijata?

Men, when they have heard my name
Would remind me that Trijata was a rakshasni.
I would correct them and say it means
The one who has won the three worlds-
Swarg, marta, patal.
I had to justify my existence to them,
I could not be a demoness.

Men who have made love to me
Have chosen to call me by different names
Because three syllables
is too much to remember
When all your blood
Is flowing to your penis.

My hindi teacher in class V
Reminded me the meaning of my name
And said, "but you havent
been able to win over any of us."--
One of my earliest memories of school.

I have no attachment to my name.
I preferred to be called tatun-
A more mundane name given to me by my parents.
A better name for friends
To shout from their car windows.
A shorter name for men to call out loud
As they come into me.

But here is an act of self defiance,
An act, of self love.
Trijita-- the one who won over herself.

DADU

The name plate on the outer wall of the house says
Dr. N. Mukherjee
B-15/74

Dr. N. Mukherjee is a grandfather and he resides in this house, I tell you
in the photographs on the walls in the drawing room, the tv room, and his bedroom
in front of whichy grandmother, M. Mukherjee
lights an incense stick everyday.

He lives in the medical books now collecting dust on table in his bedroom,
In the cotton and woollen shirts and pants in the almirah,
in the bottles of sorbitrate tablets hidden in various corners like the lining of the sofa, under mattresses, in the fridge, on the dining table
in the event of a sudden heart attack-
he suffered eight heart attacks my mother has told me.

He lives in the broken stethoscopes and other medical instruments on a shelf,
bills stuck for the last ten years, in case he ever needs them, on an iron rod,
his walking sticks, one dismantled, the other resting against the sofa in the tv room.
There are shelves in the kitchen with
empty bottles of Horlicks Lite because he had diabetes.
Tea mugs he drank from, gathering oil and grime- he loved gobhi pakoras in the evening.

In the big closet hangs his sweaters and coats from the loving, dear sisted from America
and batteries, pliars, screwdrivers with which he could fix anything in the house
and playing cards and a plethora of broken, unused things like staples and staplers and paper weights from various pharmaceutical companies on the dressing table and in the drawers.

If you sit in the verandah in the evening
you will sometimes see him walking around the house with his hands behind his back- he is scared to venture out of the house anymore.

Dr. N. Mukherjee lives in this house.

Pleasant Thoughts

 Life begins at loss. 

A word uttered is a word lost
A scream piercing through the squalid air of the still night is a moment lost.
I have everything and i have everything to lose
I have secrets to conceal and i cower from life.
The urge to die is a lot less
The urge to not live, more.
The endless, monotonous clock that life is
Threatens to stike at one and two and three
Endlessly.
There is no need to stand and stare,
That which is there shall always be
Whether or not i touch the morning flower
And sings hymns in a church choir on sundays.
Castigate me if i believe in god
But there is so much lost already.
Where am i going with this
Where is anyone?
There is nothing to be found and no one to be found
and there is no light at the end of the tunnel.
Slashing wrists is pretentious, take my word and a bandaid for it.
All is a moment left behind, lost.

For D.M., Once more.

For D. M., again.

Turn down the street lights

In their shadows, linger

Your smells

-cigarettes, weed, and rum.

Break open

The shelves in the fridge

That hold snickers bars

And Mars bars you

Gave to me and my friends.

For us millenials

It is easy to

get rid of someone-

We just block them.

What do I do with the

Touch of your lips on

Mine and the taste of

Yr tongue in my mouth

Now that you

Don't reply to my texts

And disconnect my calls.

I try not to be a creep

But what do I do with

All this longing that

I have kept away in

A corner for you. I

Cannot get

To that corner

I have lost my way.

Give me back my

Nose pin that I

Lost when yu were kissing me

And our breath

Fogged up my spectacles.

Give me back one hour

And 300 rs I spent

Travelling to you

When halfway there

You said you couldn't

See me and I asked

The autowala to take

A U-turn from the flyover

-I wish going

Back was as easy

And I

Wish I would forget you

The dark circles under yr eyes.

You are a cliche

You are a child

You are a man

You are scared.

Take back your smells and shadows and chocolates that have turned sour, your kisses and promises unmade and broken hearts.

I will find my corner again and live there until someone else comes along and gives me hope again, like you did, only to destroy it all over again.

Mornings

The mornings are bearable.

There's tea and Poonam's voice talking away and asking me what to make for breakfast and

the sound of her reminds me of fresh flowers

which we would steal as children

at the early hours of the day during Durga puja.

Poonam is small and strong and agile

and moves swiftly like the wind

And today she wiped off the tears from my face

And stops me from hitting ma and baba

in fits of anger and desperation.

There is naina walking around the house with her tiny feet

like the world is her playground and she owns the very earth she walks on

And she has everyone's attention all the time.

There is dad at the dining table reading the newspaper

And telling me not to smoke.

There is bhoot sniffing her food and refusing to eat it.

She wants what we eat, roti and chicken and break and eggs and chocolate and apples.

Then there's more tea and an attempt at writing for 20 minutes.

With ma, I have a slice of bread and butter at about 11,

after she has brushed and injected the first dose of insulin.

Then there is reading to be done but I'm bored with Chaucer and restoration comedy and I'd much rather text and surf instagram. 

In between there's more tea and cigarettes

And conversations with ma and mock fights with Poonam.

The morning ends at lunch time

And I think that mornings are quite okay.

Second Date

Sitting in front of PVR Rivoli

Waiting for you,

Tens and twenties pass by-

I keep a look out

 For yr grey and black hair

And your sling bag.

The last time that we met

(which also incidentally was the first time)

You ended up getting a tear in yr shirt.

Today you arrived in green checks.

Walking around Connaught place

Has never felt as personal and painless

As it did today

With you.

Oily chicken and bun keema

tastes better with you looking at me.

This city has corners for us

Which we will find in time.

I want to hold yr hand

And you, mine-

We end up

Talking about love movies.

7 days/ 7 lines

Monday

Farooqui messaged to say that he feels like he can say anything to me without having to think much; and that I have cute nipples.

Tuesday

I texted Neel to say that if I continue to feel this way I will go mad.

Wednesday

I had a drink with Nitin and tugged at his shirt to pull him closer to me but he said he doesn't like PDA, especially when there are too many people watching.

Thursday

I asked Deepak if I can call him without being a burden and that I often feel like I am unnecessary; he was nice enough to say that I shouldn't do that to myself.

Friday

I write things for shock value.

Saturday

If I want to get off I can just masturbate watching porn,  why do I need to sext?

Sunday

Writing is a process of purging thoughts that I cannot share with ma.

One for Each Day of the Week

Monday

Ma said to me, “no one likes kissing an ashtray.”

Tuesday

White rum is all about A and my unwilling vagina repelling his fingers.

Wednesday

Chicken stew with whole vegetables made by bubu pisi, on an escapade from LSR.

Thursday

Beer and wine and singing “25 years down my life and still, trying to get up that great big hill of hope.”

Friday

Sujir payesh at 3 a.m. after Ma kisses and caresses me in my sleep.

Saturday

Last cigarette of the day, and the burn on my tongue from the first cup of tea.

Sunday

Aam papad when poonam isn't watching.

For D.M.

For D.M.

It is 00: 49 a.m.

and we don't turn on

the fan now.

the clock can be heard ticking,

and vehicles on old palam road

driving by, each has

it's own destination

unlike me who listens

to Bob Dylan’s

No direction home going through

the speed breakers of each day

like a rolling Stone.

and get startled by the sound

of crackers on diwali

much like the pigeons on

the window air conditioner

who fly in flocks

but necessarily alone every time

there is a loud sound

only to find their way back

to the balconies and ACs

and window sills, littered

with their feathers.

it is late.

Over the Last Ten Years and Countless

It is amazing how many

Goodbyes I have

Said to you.

In 2009

when we were 10 years apart and

Kolkata and Bombay were once

a year far away from

one another

In 2011, when you got off

the metro at chandni chowk and

I travelled

With you, even though I had to

Go to New Delhi station. You stared

at me in the metro

and texted later on drinking beer with A

“If only I had seen a little more of you.”

Through 2012-2014, blocking

You numerous times,

On Facebook, writing

Drunken texts to you and

Taking your

Inebriated phone calls

In the middle

Of the night.

2016, you looked at me for

one last time

As you drove away from

The airport. And

It will be years

Before the vision of yr eyes looking

At me gets blurred

From mine.

2018

Promise me you will

Let me say

Goodbye again.

I did it thrice last night

The first time at 2: 29 when

I thought it was

Close to 5 a.m. because

I looked out

the window, and it was dark.

But I checked my

Phone and it wasn't yet time

To get out

Of bed and wake up

Poonam.

Then at 3: 23 a.m. when I

immediately reached

out for my phone but

it still wasn't late

enough for the first

smoke and cup of tea.

Then at 6: 00 a.m. but it still

wasn't time to say

“Poonam uth ja,

der ho jayegi.”

At 6: 50, not being able to

be on my own anymore

I called out

to her and said,

“Poonam uth ja,

7 baj gaye.”

She puts her cold hands

around me on

anxious mornings

And there is a little

more warmth than

the last 7 hours.

What can

clonezepam do when

There is worry in every

breath

i take travelling into

my body through

the pores on

my skin.

instagram coversations

I don't recall how our conversation began.

Perhaps it was something about you in a black and white photograph wearing a long overcoat

In a country whose winters are different from mine and colder.

What was the conversation about?

Do you recall?

I recall you made biryani that evening,

With mint and rose petals from your garden

And garnished it with fried onions on top.

I kept waiting for you to taste it and tell me how it was,

And you kept saying, “dum lag rha hai abhi bhi”.

You are my biryani memories.

You like heavy music and heavy women

Me, I like Mumford and Sons -You think they are boring.

I like auto rides and you don't.

You scold me for my silliness in saying I have no coordination in my motor movements

And then send me kisses to make up for it when I sulk.

You like driving and I,

I'd like to sit beside you one day.

We talk of old soaps Cinthols and Lirils and smells

Of winters and autumns.

I tell you I like wooden porches and picket fences,

You say “that is so american.”

If only you could look at the behind my eyes you would know

That picket fences and wooden porches and orange juice and warm breathes in the winter fog and kisses and holding hands

Is really rather Tatun-ish

Cigarettes after sex

Erotica

And subtle innuendos

And my shyness and yr confidence

Mingling and mixing like rain and earth.

Your stare on my body would melt me and I want you but I don't want you

For there are too many fears of losing my head

But you cook and sing and play the bass and have beautiful hands and feet that look like they have just got a pedicure and you tell me “it's fine babe”

And boy I long for touch.

And writing about all of this

All the food and smells and sex requires a lot of effort

Because all I really want is to have a beer and a cigarette with you.