6:30 am, Ommallur, 25th November

Trees sway and dance to the first ray of sun soaking the dirt of the night in hope this sleepy town immersed in the hallelujah chorus for various gods stands on its feet, birds chirp joyous songs and float in the thin air, untouched and immaculate. Mother's prayers reach the skies and hit my ears, it's been an alarm clock since I was ten. My mind wanders to the time when we woke to the sounds of the radio, when the weight of the school bag bent our shoulders. With the arrival of youth, the burden of that memory sometimes puts a smile on my face when we wanted to grow up we should have known school bags and skirts were life's precious gifts that could never be as good as a pricey designer handbag.

Hope

This year might remain

a thorn in our flesh

in our memories a nightmare

that shook us up

in the middle of the night.

A circled year on the calendar

that put plans on hold

weddings, holidays, dates

every crumb of life that 

kept our plates full

we'll  treat with contempt

this year like a rodent that we are trying to

remove from our homes

a comma we are trying to erase

from the sentence of our lives  

that has split the meaning.

Yet in the midst of a lost poem

called life, I try to wake up to the angry alarm clock, eat the breakfast

without making complaints, 

as I struggle to find the lost rhythms  

hope is the name I think of

that inspires me to sing along

with a choir that is keeping

the music alive in a mass

that can only be seen, not tasted.  

Silence

This pandemic tells us a story
of how we may need to wait
before we join the dots
of our life. The image is blurred.

Sleep is a ritual just like
the Sunday mass. I love to do it
but why I want to. I can't say.
Nothing can make it happen.
Not even the perishing blue light
of the television shutting itself down.
I think I'm evading fear by staying awake.

Thanking for the food is gratitude best done when hunger games are being played
destruction looms large so does uncertainty
learning to live in a room blinking with lights and smelling of disinfectants is a lesson
live the day until the mind can close its door.

Nights aren't tired they draw pictures on a blank slate, shapes that define existence
as I search for the brightest star in the sky, I smile at the thought of the person who taught me to memorise my name
I call him faith. He calls me silence.

March 31st 2020

Anxiety is a painful rot
in the hollow of my skull
looking for signs for a pandemic
that's spreading smoothly
as butter on bread.
Fear is a smokescreen
dulled by the brightness of TV
that fill the gaps in the room.
He should have been here
did he forget to call?

In a pilgrimage that travelled
faster than light, losses are counted
Faith was the biggest price
followed by sleep that is a violent moon chase, almost every night.
In a room reeking of disinfectants
protection is an assurance, of not having caught by the fever.
Circled dates are a holy ritual
prayer a promise
one day battles would be won
when future would be a tomorrow
feeding on the seeds of resurrection
that will wake up the dead bones
a leap of faith won't cost
many lives. It'll find it's way.
Through the lying, cheating flock
of bastardised men. 

Original Sin

The wind sweeps past me
as I sit inside the tinted windows
of a neat and swanky car.
Sundays are an affair to remember
especially the bland Sunday breakfast
in the terrace dining coloured by
the yellow sun
and these cab drives with people who speak strange languages.
Stuck in a city that I wanted to
build my home in, I want to now
Hail Mary my out of it. Our Father, deliver us from the evil one.

This day gave me a moment of realisation
when truth woke me up in the
morning, and whispered "love is a lie"
I let it sink in, and wash it away
with the bubbling  toothpaste foam. I bit hard to
chew and digest this truth with every morsel of food. It sank down my throat.

Cab drives to the church are a joyride for my song play list.  As the next song plays out  lust is the word that sings,
sweetly like the choir singer at the church.
It's defined the cycle of procreation. In clear concise words.
They named it love. And fooled us with it.
We chose to believe in it.
So that our body won't hurt
when it would camouflage itself
and feast on our flesh.
It is the truth. That the church forgot to teach us. Every Sunday we gulp it down with the host. And smile ear to ear.
Bearing the weight of the original sin.

30th December 2019

The aroma of freshly roasted peanuts,brightly lit malls, happy people seeking solace in year end festivities, the cackling sounds of overjoyed children, coloured billboard shining in the dark like a polestar.
The sounds of a language that talks to you, names of streets that you recognise like a math formula, the nip in the air that cuts through your tired bones.
A winter movie that will keep playing
in my mind as I go back to a city
that doesn't know my name.
Delhi is home. The final destination.
Every other place is a milestone that I can count on, before I reach home.
To usher in another new year.