Our Picture.

I will write about us 
When this unearthly hour 
Gives way to the picture 
Of You and I dangling our feet 
From a sunlit bower. 


I will write about how 
You would read my sullied toes 
And etch a sorry smile 
On your timid brow. 


I will write about my 
Hauled up skirt brushing against 
Your flaccid fingers 
As we watched the free sky. 


But most of all 
I will write about the way 
You render your love 
That makes this picture 
Me,survive the daily gall.

Another train of thought derailed,

Another page torn to motes of white,

On the floor and now in my head,

As I shut my eyes and seek the light.

Fuck,I can't write. It's a disease.

Our November.

A thousand tree tops,
Undulated in the crisp,
November wind.
Like old,
flaccid paintbrushes,
They briskly painted,
The crimson sky,
To a beautiful blue.


You sat across from me,
Twitching your lips,
Wiping your brow,
Cringing your eyes,
Gulping your words.
Like an infant waiting,
To be fed with words,
For a cue.


I smiled,
Ruffled your hair,
Patted your jowls,
And drew patterns,
Of sundry sweet-nothings,
On the clear sky.

Firefly.

I am the hot firefly,
From the summer long gone,
That you had once caught,
And have now bottled up,
In your stinking ‘Old monk’


 I light up the gloomy attic,
That houses your lost ecstasy,
From the heart that raced,
But is reduced to a kernel,
So passive and lonely.


 I crouch over my dim bottom,
To feel the waning strength,
Of my light, and the room,
In which you languish, pallid,
Insipid yet mulling.

...


 You move to the window,
And see the likes of me,
Gliding over a narrow stream,
Under the willow.
Glimmering grains of light.


 You return and shatter,
The dim bottle.
Stare at the shards and stutter.
I let out my burning light,
Once and for all.

Lone traveler.

I am a lone traveler.

I travel and grovel,

to people who tackle,

the ways of the world.

I am a lone traveler.

I walk and talk,

to mothers that rock,

the cradle and their work.

I am a lone traveler.

I stop and look,

at the sparkling brook,

that moves the lone reed.

(Gives it life,indeed.)

I am a lone traveler.

I stop and stoop,

to learn my sullied foot,

that gives up,sometimes.

I am a lone traveler.

I laugh and sing,

a traveller's song,

that is a rebel on its own.

I am a lone traveler.

I do not paint or write,

about the day or night,

to give them,mates,my sight.

I am a lone traveler.

Well,a lone traveler alright.

Reality Check.

When she wipes the sweat off her temples with the free end of her saree,she smudges vermillion,smearing it all over her forehead,tinges the tip of her nose and smirks.Her eyes are bloodshot and her mouth feels sluggish and dull due to dearth of sleep resulting in mild thuds in head and heart.She finds her belongings between the creases of her dampened bedsheet like remembering dampened relationships in the fragmented conduit of her life.She retires to her bed again in deep reverie.She lies on the soft,supple baby rose petals strewn on the bed,feeling the softness of the languid features of her body.


This was one of her many attempts to reckon the sublime moments of a woman's life as against hers.Sublime,still.She slowly retires to an early evening nap,drooling on her pillow like an infant.She suddenly wakes to the sound of violent thuds on the door,and jolts back to reality.She hurriedly stashes the crumbled notes away in an empty hajmola bottle,runs to the door with her saree hitched up to her knees.Opens the door with panache and says to the strange face,to her estranged soul,"Esho!"    

Everyday.

The sherry tastes acrid,

immersed in its own volume,

savory lost in age,insipid,

like the dingy,dreary room.

She drinks there,everyday.

The blighted bottle,moist,

from the heat and now her grip,

dodders with her,before hoist.

She drinks to dissolve the heart-rip.

And lives there,everyday.

Her shouts reverberate,reiterate,

in the dungeon,like sherry,glide,

the walls of its bottle,drown.Fate,

chides her,her sorrows never abate.

She waits and cries there,everyday.

She clouts the bottle,the ruddy liquid,

wets the dungeon,and her wait.

And so she lies,in the blush,blotted.

Her sanguine liquid lost with her elate.

So she dies there,everyday.

Not anymore.