My Nose Is Deaf

My ears can smell

the vetiver in her curls,

as misty as the swirls of dew

atop Shiva’s abode.

My eyes can touch

the sparkling sands of memories

and that flimsy sieve of time

they pass through every moment.

My nose can see

the familiar scent

of sweat and detergent,

and the nape of a certain neck

My skin can hear

the sweet sounds

of a kiss, of a union

of a gurgling stream of love

Then, sometimes, I wonder

what if love can’t be touched?

Can’t be smelt?

Can’t be heard?

Can’t be seen?

What if, after all this time,

I wake up one day

to realize that

My nose,

my stubby nose,

is deaf?

Struck

In the midst of glib chatter

loneliness struck;

a sharp arrow

travelling from your eye

to my heart.

In the midst of making love,

fear struck;

a poke, a nudge

threatening to tear apart

my existence.

In the midst of balloons and confetti,

joy struck;

the colours, the mirth,

the sheer gaiety,

I could not resist.

In the midst of antiseptic and blood,

many a scream struck;

the only vent

to the pain
and my impatience.

In the midst of sirens and debris,

love struck;

the memory of tomorrow,

as scary, lonely

and joyful,
as I.

Eye of the Needle

This needle of time
makes a patchwork
of colourful days -
each bit, different
in colour, size and texture.
Sewn together,
you and I,
in this tapestry of life.
Rich in detail -
a portrait of lone threads.
In its pursuit of progress,
this elegant thorn
may poke my fingers
once in a while.
A harmless,
bloodless conquest.

Today, through its eye
I notice a dark red mark
on the nape of your damp neck,
that the loose white button
on your crisp white shirt
was desperately trying to hide.
From me.

Two Lives

I slept for fifteen minutes
And dreamt a pretty sight.
Now I feel sick.
Tired.
I lived two lives
in fifteen minutes –
One that pretended to sleep,
One that pretended to be awake.
And when I woke up,
all that pretension
bloomed an eternal romance,
built a pretty cottage,
gave birth to two angelic children,
carved out a decent career,
and blew a tiny bubble of hope
that perched itself on my head –
the weight of which,
even two whole lives,
found too heavy to carry.

LOVE

Let me run out of life
before the cascade of love
in your lush heart
runs out of force,
runs out of water,
runs out of sheer mirth.
I cannot float
pretty paperboats
in a pool of sweat,
or on a dry trail of tears.
They long for the waves,
the currents,
the rhythms of a surging life -
like the one flowing in my veins,
waiting to be stopped
dead in its tracks
by the glinting edge
of a fruit knife.

Trapped. Again.

Those kohl-lined eyes

guard a fortress of secrets –

unheard, unsaid and

ignored, mostly.

a gleam of faint familiarity

that sparkles in the black,

like fireflies in the night,

or a pin-prick of sunlight

in the closed coffin of life.

I am free,

and yet,

every time I look at her,

I feel trapped

in my own reflection.

Fish Fingers

I can never forget the way

my fingers looked that day

when I wrote you a letter

and left it on your desk.

I can never forget the way

my fingers looked that day

when I turned the doorknob

and saw her watching you sleep.

I can never forget the way

my fingers looked that day

when I took the ring off my finger

and flung it across the room.

I can never forget the way

my fingers looked that day

as they examined the cracked mirror

and touched so many lives.

I can never forget the way

my fingers looked that day

when I caressed your body

till you clenched in ecstasy.

I can never forget the way

my fingers looked that day

when I wrapped them around your neck

and breathed my last.

Jigsaw

I cut myself up

Into tiny pieces

Looking for that

Square inch

Of myself

That made you

Fall out of love

With me.

I am now

A jigsaw puzzle

the corner piece

of which

you forgot

at her place.

The Castaway

A crumpled ball of paper,

wrinkled and forlorn,

hiding in the corner of the room

is a testimony to the rush of time.

In its younger days,

It probably was a grocery bill;

a jejune love note

written by you,

or, for you;

a pamphlet,

announcing the inauguration

of Star Restaurant in the vicinity,

ignored by you;

a train ticket,

used and forgotten.

Or, perhaps, it’s a plain sheet of paper,

which was waiting to be written on,

but the pen you held so tight,

so many years ago,

refused to touch the paper with its nib,

so it lay crumpled and unused.

unsaid words clung to water.

As they do – even now.

But if you could smoothen

your own creases,

and if your hand could reach

that corner of the room,

where lies the castaway,

you could unwrinkle that

crumpled treasure map

and continue to read where you left off;

resume your voyage,

or begin to write what you never wrote.

The Cough

A bout of cough-

full of phlegm

and sickness-

itched my throat

last night.

I wanted to let it out and

fill the still air

with a sickly ruckus

and a putrid stench,

and clear my throat

of the malice within.

I turned to my right

And saw him sleeping.

Peacefully;

No cough havocking his throat,

No sneeze fulfilling its urges.

I swallowed

real hard.

The itch, and the cough, vanished.