Tuesday, May 29, 2012

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?

Thursday, May 24, 2012


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.

Wednesday, May 23, 2012

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.

Tuesday, May 22, 2012

Two Lives

I slept for fifteen minutes
And dreamt a pretty sight.
Now I feel sick.
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.


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.

Monday, May 21, 2012

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.


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.
No cough havocking his throat,
No sneeze fulfilling its urges.
I swallowed
real hard.
The itch, and the cough, vanished.