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.  

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. 

History Lesson

She is sitting with her husband  on a narrow bench
perhaps, they borrowed it from a school
dressed in starched cotton like the mothers
in those days, her eyes stretched wide open
as butterfly wings before a flight
her right shoulder gingerly grazing his.
Her children hover above her
as chicks around their mother
battling for food,
standing straight
with no bend in the body
hair immersed in coconut oil
neatly parted to the right, or in the middle.

The two girls have worn frocks
that rest below the knees
with black socks pulled up
to camouflage the legs.
Boys dressed in shorts and shirts
have been buttoned up
till their Adam’s apple hurts.

All of them smile in unison
as if the person behind
the camera tempted
them with sweets.
Black and white portrait of a family
that came into being, forty years ago
one of the boys is missing
so is the father, the mother still wears
stiff clothes, her eyes flicker
like an old tube light
Second from the right, was my mother
who now looks like the
woman in the photograph.

Last Supper

In the name of the Father, Son and of the Holy Spirit
the Red Sea parted and enemies counted their footfalls
on the graves of our forefathers.
Since then, milk and honey haven't flowed
only bombs have made music
as we walk on egg shells.
We preserve the locks of hair our daughters left,
and remember our sons by their pictures
we waited for their burial, drunk by the unholy passion of pain
their tiny bodies we held, close to our chest, all night
to not let the maggots feed on them,
their graves do not know their names
as the apricot trees that gave them shade, have wilted
at the enemy's commands,
for a few pieces of silver, they have plotted against
our husbands, who will be nailed
to their crosses soon.


The full moon bleaches the blood
on the battlefields
as their cup runs over,
they dip their pens in it, everyday
and write deadlier decrees of death
while we fatten ourselves, innocent lambs,
to fall prey to a landmine or a bomb
Please do not betray us with a kiss of peace
that was promised to us at birth,
the sheep of our flock have been scattered
as our shepherd won't come to lead us
Death is our final Resurrection.

27th September 2017, Marine Drive,Mumbai

This city never changes colors
unlike humans and chameleons,
the queen watches the sky pour ashes on her head
as the prostitutes teething pain behind their painted lips
offer themselves to the heat of hunger.
Dancing to the garish tunes of this concrete jungle
mountains rise from molehills
as I look for you like a helpless child
who's lost her way back home.

This morning I had my breakfast at Theobroma
as the cold coffee cut through my parched throat
I saw the smiles you lent me 
melt on the brown velvet cake
chewing vegetables sandwiched between frail breads
I ate fear
fear of a rendezvous someday over an English breakfast
my eyes riveting in circles
trying to thaw cold feet stuck in my shoes
circling dates on a calendar
skinning nail biting moments from dead carcasses of air.

It's a long lustrous night before the day spills gold
on the feet of trees
Here in my room coiled under a blanket
I wish you would blow gently over the clouds
that embower your city, sending rain to me
I've always loved walking in the rain.
Tomorrow these messengers of yours will wake me up
their winter melting on my palms
Don't know if this is how it would feel?
Your first touch.

Daughter not in Law

In this month
and in December
five years ago,
I had to be stranded
in the land of Pambayar
the land of three rivers
that clings to paddy plantations
in a winding wisteria
My grandpas' land.

Daughters are sent
to an alien burial ground here
tied to a man
with a golden garland
like cattle roped on
positioned poles.

Grandma came from another country
where the earth was petrified of coughing clouds
my eldest cousin went to a land
where trees touch the sobbing sky
another went to a place
where the mollified mud
crashed and churned houses
youngest went to a state
with slanting roofs
that sleeps by eighteen hours
for heat retention,
my elder one would go to a city
melting with economic elegies
Ma came to the heart of India
Aunt went to the hills
where rubber is as precious as milk
every time I visit grandma's grave
the wind blows towards the west
as if she is asking me
with advisory authority
When will it be time for me to go?

The Weight of a Memory

1) everyone loves the arrival of 

new things. Like the sun hides

to let the stars appear, the moon

rests in the deep annals of the sky

a lone object. Scarred, colourless

but bright. 

2) winters melted on the palm of the earth, until it started to burn.

flowers sprouted from new born buds

but sooner, it will be a funeral pyre

that will burn petals of life,

everything will turn to dust.

3) stuck on the soles of my shoes

are the moments I counted back,

when I waited upon him, while he never came I stumbled,
evening walks lay stretched on a straight path. 

4) I thrust my pills into my mouth

I need one more to live through the night. It swallows pain, like the last hiccup that I gulped,

I look at the things I don't need

everything that is garishly coloured is a memory. 

A few weeks later I know what happened to me as I discarded the garbage bag

An episode of partial amnesia. that ate my headaches. 

14th February 2016, Aurora hall, Calgary

From the winter window

melting with human heat

in a strange city brimming with nameless life

I watch two people ensconced wearing each other's bodies

 like warm cardigans, twining their fingers like knitting needles

It's the festival of love, as love can be seen

plastered on walls of restaurants,

malls and the community hall in pink

 sealing the deal in sales

 or doled as discounts.

While in this part of my weary world,

 these two speak to a civilization

Torn by bombs, fractured by barbed wires

My lonely eyes capture the postcard greeting they give to the world

On a moonless night lit by silent street lamps.

Sipping slowly from my favourite mug with a happy picture

He gave on one such Valentine's day

I wonder,

Why do photos save moments

that will be forgotten?

As tears trickle down my face

I realize that I now prefer my coffee salted

 as my tongue gets used to the taste of

 wet memories.

In Your Voice

The earth under my feet moves

and the sky wears her favourite shade of pink

blushes like a bride waiting to

meet her groom.

This ride in a car, or the walk

down the glossy floors of the mall
is a reminder.

May, the summer month washes

the face of the city in a heat wave
Summer is nostalgia.
Summer is the city you live in.

Makeup

My mother doesn't trust women 
who wear it. She says, longer hair
is a better bet as Paul, the apostle said
they are a woman's jewels.

Why are they playing "hide and seek"?
seeking someone who is another person
because the one in the mirror
decided to wear a mask.

Why do they paint their face
black and blue, 
when the sun scorched brown
brings them back to life.

Advice to the Young Woman Poet

Do not imprison yourself in a cage of rules
they will bend and break your bones
let the twinge in your heart
instruct you like an experienced school teacher.
Write a poem because you wish to breath
Experience. Not for the vain glory you get 
showered with.
Read your work 
let it not let you down
instead rise from the ashes
everytime your emotions burn
as ferociously as a forest fire.

Mask(s)

Young fresh faces with not a fine line
frown at you 
at the entrance
sashaying in neatly pressed uniforms 
hats that are perfectly balanced on a head
standing straight, smiles sacrificed 
in call for duty, talk with a wild posture of hands
learning directions that will set us free,
painted lips curve to not hurt the jaws
serving coffee and food on a 6 am flight
minds still imprisoned in beds that shook them off
money is their honey, a comatose mind luxury
their choice is a will
to buy objects that demand a price
as misogyny's mistresses, a size zero figure 
tip-toes on pencil heels 
slapping the floor rudely
disguises  dissapear every time
a passenger presses a button
flying freely to places 
with strange names, the only perk
for wearing this camouflage of colours.

Apology

To the man trespassing her body in a hive of huddled humans
buses, metros or the local trains, where female body is a mosquito
that can be trampled by mustached machismo
to the guy in the lab who walked on her, with an unapologetic wince
walking into her way is his right, he thinks
to the teacher who doesn't bother to listen to her questions
mathematics is an equation, hers was never right
the science of home making they say is her call
to the salesman at the mall, because the dress doesn't sit on her
her tiny frame gives rush if hormones
to the brash neighbours who harass her with impunity
her lonely wars fall on their deaf ears
to the boss who thinks a promotion is not her cup of tea
making tea is what he thinks she's good for
to the mother-in-law who considers her opinion as bad manners
and her sneeze an ugly omen
to the husband who thinks she isn't allowed to fall ill.

Everyday a woman says sorry and chews her words
like her favourite bar of chocolate
or sweetens them with apologies, for secrets that wane inside her bones
for it is not lady-like to raise a voice or use her brain
while she carefully cuts the tags from her new clothes
she thinks of the labels women wear everyday,
for daring to open their mouth, or asking questions
or claiming for a raise at work
while for some like her, apology tags along
for being the pale shadow of a man.

Death

Death is the beggar
pleading to you for mercy
found at the street corner
embalmed in stink
staring helplessly at
his begging bowl.

Death is the master
punishing you for your sins
striking with a million lashes
for mortal cowardice.

Death is the latest suitor
who has bought your sanity
for a million unanswered questions
whose absence strikes like lightening
and melts in the babel of birds
singing an elegy, dumping you
to perish in the litter of leaves.

Death is the black box
gilded in gold
cut to carry your bones
the most comfortable home
that doesn't deny
for the riches you don't possess.

Death is the iceberg
the tip of which we all
will touch one day
to perish, and resurrect
under a golden sun
shedding our shrouds
the last skin we'll wear
as our loved ones pluck the
'forget-me-nots' rooted
around our grave.

Death is the only promise
life ever gave, naked we came
bare-footed will we go
with clenched fists
that opened at our birth.

Learning English

English is a funny language
grammar not playing to advantage
some words have silent sounds
as the confusion pounds
stacking up like layers of cabbage.

Wrist and write chew on first word
these funny rules do seem weird
a set of tooth are teeth
many booths are never beeth
funnily if logic was spared.

While sweetbread is a piece of meat
and sweetmeat is a sweet one can eat
noses run and feet smell
laws made are hard to tell
Which is why English is no mean feat.

Meeting a stranger for an Arranged Marriage date

I’ve felt like an anorexic model
reed thin, yellow, listless

while sashaying down the restaurant floor
Restaurant is their favourite place. 
They may meet you in these places
restaurants, book stores, malls or coffee shops
wrapped in crisp, neatly ironed clothing
buttoned up, their protruding Adam’s apple peeping out
most remind me of young boys dancing
their way to school. 
Others look like businessmen
waiting to seal a deal with a signature.
Some look like rag pickers
who hate to bathe or clean, stinking like 
piles of garbage piling
in the corner of your colony
attracting diseases.

They appear confident
when they hit on a conversation
gulping down glasses of water
Their eyes fixated on the legs of the chair
you are propped on like a kitten, coiling in her fur.
They sell their degrees
and blow trumpets about the money they bring home
flexing their muscles.
While they mouth sweet nothings to you, 
Their eyes twinkle like a love struck teenager.
Inside their dirty heads muddled with selfish misgivings
they will be giving you points, on a scale of one to ten
You will be judged on the light that your face can emit,
to the stupid talk that barfs from your mouth, 
being thrashed for intelligent opinions you may dare to have. 

Some may want you to be a donkey, carrying your own burden 
and that of theirs. Some may think of you as baby makers,
considering your body as a machine that plops out babies 
when their semen gets lost in your womb, much like your mind.
Some may want you to be a guinea pig
with whom they can practice the various “Kama sutra” poses
or may think of you as an ATM machine
your money will buy their happiness.
It’s a million dollar industry, this arranged marriage market
where daughters every year are trained to be mute mannequins
or trophy wives that men can show around to a society
that loves to poke its nose in other’s business
blinded by the big fat log in their eye.

Christmas Gift 24/12/2015

The delivery guy rang the bell
and handed me a black box
one that had kept me on my toes for many days
it's arrival devoured on my sleep
like a pregnant woman I stood guard.
My impatient fingers tore open the tape
sealing the objects of affection you had sent across
on an overcast winter evening,
socks to warm cold feet
eyewear to let my eyes build castles in air
diary with a message on the last page
scrawled illegibly with a pencil
thermometer to measure inner rage during a fever
postcard addressed to places that will look 
for me and you,inside a crowd of tourists
Christmas message that would someday be born
on a nameless street across Marine Drive.

In Her Tenth Year

Picture Credit: http://www.mum.org/armemcc.htm

Her inner iron melts
as she is being leeched
scraping the rust
on her soul
her smell of blood changes colors
Twenty five days of being human
and five of being an injured cow
that is being milked, drop by drop.
Every month this river
trespasses her land like a robber
much like the July rain
that the crops need for tilling.
‘Be careful lest it gets stained’
‘Do not touch the pickle, else you’ll spoil it’
she stays back at home else she may
dirty a building by entering it
her body doesn’t listen to her
as her earth erodes.

On those days she collects her stains
from her scars
silencing the shrieks of the planet
by stuffing its mouth
with menstrual waste.
In another world, women still use rags, dirty cloth
and husk to soak their rivers of rage,
as she crumples like a foetus
to contain her cramps
a ten year old child, ignorant and ill
of a bleeding that is virginal,
chocolates and tears are her allies
she stamps her foot to complain
to mother nature
‘Why this bad blood?’
while another woman
is happy that her husband
won’t  touch her for the next five days
until then her body will reclaim
it’s unholy celibacy.