An Ode to Writing

i

have

been

told

that

this

is

wrong

.

(to all those, who could not.)

"And in short.."

Should I stand in a corner

Fold my hands and wait

Or,

Should I plunge into this life

Whatever this life maybe

This life that made me walk
on maddened, nomadic roads

Roads that lead from one city,

a City of Joy to another, a city

That looks like a dark green bowl

where all, in sixes and sevens

just pour in, hoping

to embrace one another.

These nomadic roads

They lead somewhere - of course they do

but I do not want to know where they end.

Who is to say what

I am

I am not lost

I am not found.

I once saw a sunrise

and a sunset, standing

On the terrace of the

Nandan Cinema Hall.

The night came, and

with it brought something

else. Truth is, I never found out

What it was. I once saw

A sunrise and a sunset, only

This time it was from a

French window in a

posh restaurant in Connought Place.

Do sunrises and sunsets change ?

Do skies change ? Did the air

I breathe change ? Yes, they did.

They all changed.

The scenes, the sights,

The roads, the smiles,

The tears, the villages,

Their sounds, he dreams

The vows. They all, all

changed.

"Change is the only constant"

Some madman had once said

I dont think he knew

He was speaking the Eternal Truth.

If you are confused, then so am I

Come, let us hold hands and

Walk these nomadic roads

I do not want to know

Where they lead, or end-

I like their mystery.

August 6, '11

4.40 a.m. in a

Yellow coffee cup

Slumber flirts with

Their brown and black eyes

Something must have been said

Something had to be said

Fingers make love

Noses rub

Lovers, humans, they might be

And yet a green silence hangs

Over their souls and peace

Eludes them

And Marley sings

No woman no cry

Through tears in his eyes

And a hole in his heart.

too early

in the day

too many people.

8.45 a.m., new hair

look around, its the world

a red scarf, you say

"dont buy me things"

poetry is not something

i am good at.

you want to go to lunch with him

i want to hold your hand

and smell yellowed, moth-eaten books

in old curiosity shops

9 a.m., your hair looks nice.

you are like the night's sky...

imagery is overrated

may i tell you that i

perhaps am in love with you

do i dare to ?

for every step i take towards you

you remain standing, motionless

you do not come any closer

winter becomes more cruel

warming hands at a roadside fire

is not the same as warming hands

inside your skin.

you dont have everything that you want

but then i dont have you

so life trails on peeking into

the by-lanes of a this city.

10 a.m., you move closer to me

because you are cold

i move closer you to you

because it is you

my heart slips down my sleeve.

little girls in pretty boxes

their skirts in the air

their hearts on the floor .

90 earrings

white blouse

pretty her mouth

'care for some love, sir?'

asked the hookah woman

her fingers drawing
his loyalty off his

neck . .