Monthly Archives: July 2012

Waiting it out

Sometimes it
comes easy.

Sometimes it takes

Sometimes you have to
just wait patiently,
staring at the horizon.
Waiting for it to drizzle.
Waiting for it to pour.

You have to wait out
the drought.

You have to ration
the supply of hope.

And just when
despair begins
gnaw in your belly
a fat drop of a word
lands on your nose
and you look up and

Time to till
the pages.


And so on

The breeze sings
a culling song to all the
dying things in the forest
so that they can sleep
the dreamless sleep.

The deer too tired of fleeing.
The tiger too tired of stalking
The bird too tired of singing.

The moon silvers the
last mist of their breaths.

Tomorrow is just a few hours away
when a  hungry cub will blink,
blinded by the sharp sun,
suckling on a tigress who’s
sniffing the air for a tiger
who’s left for the land
of the moon.

The forest will hum again
with bird songs and
thundering hooves.

Madras Musings


The dark beauty of
a thousand veils
of the deep south.

Where real men wear
moustaches and
real women
don’t wear make-up.

Nothing is
as it seems here.

Contradiction run
deeper than the
murky Adyar river.

Where a people who
sang love songs
a thousand
years before Christ,
frown upon romance.

The men, gentle
in starched
white wraparounds,
make friends
and enemies for life.

The women, fierce dusky
beauties passionate in
their loving, once
you get past their
studied aloofness.

Here both friendship
and love
are offered after
much scrutiny.

The coffee is not
the only thing
filtered here.

Of this I am certain

Bliss-ness is when you are
allowed to be yourself.

To be understood
without speaking.

To be answered
without asking.

To be lost in the moment
and yet be present
more than ever.

To vegetate yet
be blindingly alive.

To be spent and
yet raring to go.

There are only
two places
I feel this nice.

One is Goa.

The other is in
your arms.


The auto rickshaw is a
cockroach with yellow goggles
crawling over the landfill
that is Mumbai
and buried
deep in its belly
bouncing around
in the back seat,
locked in a desperate embrace,
drunk on beer and on
each other,
lost in a kiss,
illuminated briefly
by headlights of passing cars,
as the little pest
seeps through
every crack,
rushes through every gap,
in traffic and terrain,
like an indestructible
shape- shifting thing
like our

House Rules

Don’t be blue, my gambling

Don’t be sad that life’s
dealt you this hand.

Play this hand as well
as you can.

Enjoy the poker faces
fool you again.
Enjoy getting fooled.
Lose laughing.
Win without gloating.

If you are losing, stay.
If you are winning, quit.

There will be other tables.
There will be other hands.

You win some.
You lose some.

But remember this.

No one leaves this house
with a penny while
He is dealing
the cards.

Don’t get him wrong

To make an old flirt
fear rejection
you have to be

You have to be star dust
and lightening
and lava all rolled
into a breathing entity
in a little black thing
on a bar stool.

Who better than a
counterfeit artist to know
a masterpiece?

Who better than a liar
to the know truth?

To tie up his silken tongue
to still his roving eyes
to make him forget the game
you have to be something.

he won’t walk up to you
ask you your name
tell you a funny joke
send you a drink.

You are something.

He doesn’t want to fuck
with that.

That much man
he still is.