h a n d s.

brown, holding an orange flower
between two fingers
and the other, holding
an incense stick that gave the
shillong air, a touch of the south.
your hands, when i touched for the
first time that day, reminded me
of an old bent willow tree that
i'd seen in bodh gaya.
lines- coarse, hard, etched deep
into your skin almost as if
every year that you had lived
your hands had been the only
witness of them.  witness to,
some eight decades of hills, and
streams that run down to cup at
your hands.
and some lesser years, of ganja
seven children, a dead lover,
wrinkled memories, wrinkled clothes
and wrinkled skin.    
these hands, i know
have caressed several of us
who have stopped at your inn
for a night and sat by you-
a bottle of rum, a smouldering fire
and your stories. to me, you told a story
of a time when a man from across the
seas came for a week and said
he would hold your hand to take
you away, to a far far land.  you
of course knew, that fairytales were
just that, fairytales. and so these hands
some fifty years later were not holding
a strong, white hand but were tying
the hair on the head of a nineteen year old
girl who left you with promises of
coming back to you by the fire with
a glass of rum.  you, of course knew
that fairytales...
now, some years later sitting in place
that would laugh at stories of
hills and hands, i wonder
where are you ?
those brown hands that could
lovingly
sweep across hills, rivers and
a million dreams-
do they still breathe ? do they
at night light up a joint, and
talk to strangers as if they were
born to tell stories ?
your hands, when i first saw them
reminded me of an old willow in
bodh gaya.

Sohor Kolikata

charlam ghar bichana

charlam songsar o' bhalobasha

sudhu parlam na ekhono

charte tomar haath-ta

amar sohor kolikata

jano tomar saathe

nadi-r taan,

jano tumi-i amar maa

sitting by the ganga at princep ghat, watching the sun disappear beyond the horizon as if intimidated by the sound of ships leaving and entering port, was a weekly ritual. sunday evenings were spent like that- melancholic, alone, by the river. i would go back home as the traffic began to quiet down on the streets and find baba at the table reading raag darbari, and ma working on a her college journal. i would sit at the table for a few minutes, during which no one had spoken, i would quietly get up and tiptoe into my room. why i'd tiptoe, i never knew. it always seemed as though someone was sleeping inside the room.. the room smelt of sleep. i'd go into the balcony, gaze out at the skyline and eventually, find my cheeks wet. sunday was always the day to cry. to cry, and beg Cal to hold me close to her bosom and never let me go.

it has been many sundays since then. and now sundays are spent in ways that are rather.. delhi-ish. sundays are no longer spent drinking 8, 10 cups of tea, smoking cigarettes and talking to the river. there is no house to go back to, no, balcony, no invisible person sleeping in a room that smelt of slumber.

there is no longer a ghat, no longer a girl sitting by that ghat.

it is almost as if a shadow has left the place, without a sound and the city doesn't know of it yet. when it does, it will rain.

In this one you are a memory

In this one you

are a distant memory

in a green t-shirt and worn chappals.

A memory that is the color

of the setting sun

over the howrah bridge.

A memory that is the sound

of public buses and trams

on a busy thursday evening.

A memory that has seen

the two sides of Cal--

one, destitute, poor, hungry

the other, Victorius.

A memory that smells of fumes

wet earth, and a smell

that I cant quite describe.

A memory that has just

turned three years old

in a city that has nothing

to do with this memory.

Just as I, no longer have

anything to do with you.

It was an evening not,

out of the ordinary,

for the rest of the city--

For me, it was an

evening, when you

had licked salt off the air

in the City of Water

and travelled

to me,

to give me a taste of it.

The place?

I knew you'd ask.

The terrace on the 13th floor

of the 19th block.

The jagged cemented ground

beneath our soles scraped

off skin,

off our feet--

like it was trying to

scrape memories off

our minds.

Succumbing, was not in

our nature.

Or so we thought.

Ultimately, the

jagged cemented ground

won.

Shadows of

white picketed fence houses

in the midst of paddy fields,

wooden doors and latches

and a Jack,

danced out of the window

mocking me,

out of the reach of

my extended hand--

and you floated to some

place,

that was not for me.

But what does it matter.

It's a memory that

hangs,

on a grease stained wall,

that will be broken down

when she builds her home

around yours.

And I will walk on

sweeping aside the

fragments of my soul,

as though a mirror had

crashed, and someone

with a kind heart,

had fetched a broom

and swept the pieces

off the floor.

being fat

being fat is a strange thing.

for me, it beings 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.

You my love, fuck with my head.

an atheist--

a gospel songs

brings tears to my eyes

she has the words

i have the thoughts --

neither of us have the poetry.