BOUGAINVILLEA

Life fleets by
Slowly and morose
And a little incomplete
Without tracing
The secretive lanes
Of Ganesh Ganj.
I wait like a pained patient,
At the scene
Of some tragic accident,
Who must bear the pain
For another span
Until the remedy is met
By the capable hand.

Some separation
I must admit,
I do feel when there is
No scope for a visit.
Then, I feel the pain
And recall the blank space of
Where there's silence today.
Where pools of Bougainvillea await,
To unite with
The scent of Marijuana,
And commentaries of carrom-
And tartaric acid of grapes-
At the room on the roof.
In our shrine of slumber;
My beloved Ganesh Ganj.

ROOM FOR TWO

I don't want to ring you, on silent
I don't want to drop texts to you
Meeting you and switching off
Sounds like the better thing to do

May be I've lost my vinyl sheath
And have outlived my fancy gloss
We could still take a walk sometime
By the skyscrapers, biting candyfloss

Sometime, when I could find time
Across the networks and the Wi-Fi's
For you to scatter-search and find
What's beyond heavy metal and Sci-fi

In me there is more than you know
A well furnished nook remains for you
With no crazy posters or bookshelves
Just some fire and room for two

HEAVIER THE BAG, SWEETER THE TREAT

All at once, in a festive market
I met the good boy my mother raised,
At the annual ceremony of Holi shopping,
Keeping tracks of our purchase.

I, the treasurer, 
At the helm of the shopper;
Mum, the inspector,
The expert bulldozer.

Lured into the chore, I knew
Crowded markets can be a rue.
Yet each year I would walk through 
And gladly so, my bit to do.

And every year at the end of our trip
My mother, her age-old promise keeps,
“The heavier the bag, the sweeter the treat
At the time of our homewards retreat”.

(To my mother, this Holi)
March 13, 17'

VINES

Rising from risen trees
Winding, bending silently.
Among the myriad; solitary,
Thriving on ephemeral belief.

Vines that grow awkwardly,
In orchards, gardens and cities.
One's that never set you free,
One's that do not find relief.

Vines around the telephone wire
Vines also, that fade is fire.
Vines which trees don't require,
Like vague extensions of a liar.

Where leaves glow; brilliant green,
The vines mostly go unseen.
Where branches droop of festivity,
Vines, eclipsed by seasonal treats.

Neither dewbeds of prosperous trees,
Nor dingy walls of clustered dreams.
But, where flowers bloom, wild and free,
You will find a vine like me.

TOAST

I toasted myself with sound sleep
All night in simmering dreams
On Sunday morning, I stood in kitchen
Making breakfast, toasting bread

The bread lay browning on a pan
Heating towards a crunchy maturity
Like I lay last night in bed
Dreaming without responsibility

Now I'll prepare a suitable filling
To paste between two pieces of bread
And make a sandwich to start my day
But alas, by now my hunger's dead

No different– this sandwich life
Half-eaten, refrigerated and stale
Stored, saved for later consumption
But never microwaved again 

The last stop is a pile of dump
Where half eaten food becomes trash
Where former efforts become waste
Where lies a guilt that I can't face

FIRST EXIT

No amount of words can undo
Or stand along the way
Of this seemingly endless affair
That you and I
Are foster parenting now.
Yes, foster and not real I say
Because the two people
Between whom this affair
Stirred first- are long gone.
Leaving behind just two-
More grown bodies
That matured gradually along
The thumping cadences of time
And became just a bigger size.

The woman involved, looks just
Like you, but from a former day
Perhaps a little more happy,
And more prone to belief.
And the man,
This stupid, simple man whom I
Will envy for a lifetime,
Glorifying his life and times
At bored, sullen gatherings now.

There, under either of these roofs
We will meet again
With our households by our sides
Beside a masqueraded pain.
We could meet from a distance,
If that is what you'd like
Exchange pleasantries and then divide
To secure a sad little corner,
Berating the other person's absence
And watching which ever one
Of us, has the first exit. 

TOO SOUR

Speak to me of coy classrooms
Where memory fails to recall,
Or remember an awkward incident 
That did no good at all

Before life and death converge
Into the steady horizon afar
Tell me of a joy you know
That too soon went too sour 

There's a language in the wail
Of every infant's song
An appeasement in the tears
Of every human born 

Children past childhood, behold
Look closer at life's mirror streets
Where several reflections wander
Searching for experiences to meet

Let's meet them sometime at ease
And be an experience, good or bad
Lonely is just a state of mind,
A phase that we've all shared

NEVER BEEN

Stand not by my grave to weep
I'm not there; have never been
For my dying days, don't save dismay 
A bit of death is crouching each day

Spend a share of your time with me
For that is all that I will ever need
Let our plans be not all we make
Plainly in sync with the worldly parade

To give, I have this day for you
Tomorrow we'll be what we didn't know
And even though there's a silver cloud
But skies look better thundering aloud

Hence, as honestly as men can be
I pray to you most solemnly
Stand not by my grave to weep
I'm not there; have never been

SIMPLIFY

If I said your name
And meant another face
Would you still look back
Hoping for a mistake

Or would you bury the hope
On the spot, with your pride
And wait till you sob alone 
Thinking of me at night

Remembrance is a memory due
That broken hearts must owe
Grey and black on outer walls
Unfettered down below

So when a family you begin
With a man and an offspring
Would your boy share my name
And would you let him sing?

HOLD ON

What if I were the man
And you were the wife
What if we found it all
In our little theory of life

Would you still look
As clueless as you do
When I'm ranting through? 

What if you had one day
For our dreams to come true
Will you then try to live
Like you never wanted me to

Would you still take
Each moment as it came,
Bend the rules of your dainty brain?

What if all I had was a guitar,
Two white shirts and a faded jeans
Will you figure out my gibberish
To really know what I mean

Would you still want
To listen to my songs,
The antiques to which I hold on?