My Dog.

Yesterday
I came to know
My dog died.

My dog was __ yrs old.
He wasn't really my dog.
He was a stray. The last
Of the two left
From a littler of five

For the last couple of days
I couldnt see him.
I'd whistle
But he wouldnt come bounding up.
I suspected
He had died.

Yesterday
I came to know
My dog died.

He liked meat bones.
He wouldn't eat anything else.
Maybe a little milk.
But nothing else.

Yesterday
I came to know
My dog died

and

The garbage truck carried him away. 

what is there to be happy about ?
you ask.
i dont have a list
but,         i suppose
you.  and your fingers inside
me.  
mother, father         and
she, who is far away.
happiness is not everywhere
but it is
there. 

sometimes love may look like this

i had seen you after a long time

you in your dirty, unwashed jeans
and kurti,
you with your satchel like bag,
you with your hair let lose
that hung like black clouds
at your waist,
you and your doe like eyes.

every intake of breath was
like an icicle crashing
on its tip from a frozen ceiling-
breathless beauty.

we walked to the curb and sat
on the broken graveyard stones.
playing with your toe-ring, you said,
"mora saiyaan gaan ta te, all that
i want to do is the tatkaar to its beats."
i didn't know what a tatkaar is and that
did not bother me.  but funny, that you
should say to me "mora saiyaan
moh se bolena." it rarely that i hear
your voice.
i didnt know what i tatkar is and so
i stared at my feet.

times we never have anything to do with each other.

i will listen to songs by unknown people singing songs

about unknown places, in love with unknown people
while you'd be making movies in studios, and

watching art films, and talking about existentialist cinema.

my poetry will have words that are mono, bi syllabic--

four maybe, if gets too deep.

your poetry will about breaking tea cups, and

sunlit hungover mornings after; and anger. 

my poetry will have words that are mono, bi syllabic--

four maybe, if gets too deep.

on most sundays, i will wake up in my bed hungover
bruised from hitting against the various pieces 

of furniture in the room-- which is an awful feeling actually.

you will turn to your beautiful wife, lying next to you

kiss her ever so nicely, look out the french window
and sigh at the beauty you there.
i will sit in a room in some godforsaken town, 
where the phone lines betray me all the time,

and think of all the places i haven't been.

you, will be on your way to the airport

to board a flight to that country, 

where i should have been born.
you will call me when you are drunk and

say that you miss me, and that you wish

oh! if only i'd been there, with you, the rum

the moon-less night screaming with drunken joy.

easy come and easy go, next evening i call you

you will say that you will call me back

disconnect the line and forget about that phone call

because the music's really good in the pub.

i could say more and point out the ways in which

our lives have become so different. but i wont

because i am tired. in ways you dont know.

but mostly, mostly because now we no longer

have anything to do with each other.

times we never have anything to do with each other.

i will listen to songs by unknown people singing songs

about unknown places, in love with unknown people
while you'd be making movies in studios, and

watching art films, and talking about existentialist cinema.

my poetry will have words that are mono, bi syllabic--

four maybe, if gets too deep.

your poetry will about breaking tea cups, and

sunlit hungover mornings after; and anger. 

my poetry will have words that are mono, bi syllabic--

four maybe, if gets too deep.

on most sundays, i will wake up in my bed hungover
bruised from hitting against the various pieces 

of furniture in the room-- which is an awful feeling actually.

you will turn to your beautiful wife, lying next to you

kiss her ever so nicely, look out the french window
and sigh at the beauty you there.
i will sit in a room in some godforsaken town, 
where the phone lines betray me all the time,

and think of all the places i haven't been.

you, will be on your way to the airport

to board a flight to that country, 

where i should have been born.
you will call me when you are drunk and

say that you miss me, and that you wish

oh! if only i'd been there, with you, the rum

the moon-less night screaming with drunken joy.

easy come and easy go, next evening i call you

you will say that you will call me back

disconnect the line and forget about that phone call

because the music's really good in the pub.

i could say more and point out the ways in which

our lives have become so different. but i wont

because i am tired. in ways you dont know.

but mostly, mostly because now we no longer

have anything to do with each other.

lines written in a village that god doesn't know about.

but then, if you were to ask me
who i am
i would only stare at the blankness
behind you.
questions have left their answers
hanging in mid air
and so, i am here
and i am there.