Monthly Archives: April 2013

Please?

Every day we
waste in anger
is a day wasted, my love.

Everyday we waste
in quarreling
is a day thrown away.

We already met
so late in life.
So many summers un-shared for us.
So many full moon nights gone.

Let’s  not waste a minute.

I love you.
Which part of that
don’t you get?

I adore you.
Which part of it
don’t you understand?

There is no concert
In my heart.

You play second
fiddle to none.

There is only
one music,
that of my breath
mingling with
your breath
and becoming
one.

Come listen to it
and kiss me.

Advertisements

There are days

There are days
when I don’t feel
like writing anything.

Days when
your hurt makes
you doubt my love
for you, the ink dries
up in my heart.

Days when we don’t
meet and kiss and
love each other.

Days when the distance
between us turns
into doubt in the
summer heat and
our hearts bleed,
cut up by the cacti of
absence.

Days when
a day is too short
to divide between
your life, my life and
our life.

There are days when
I don’t feel like writing.

All I feel is  poor then, my riches.
All I feel is poor.


The evening run

Aging alcoholics huffing
and puffing in
atonement for
sins of last evening.

The ancient and
the forgotten
looking at the sun,
glassy eyed.

The pert bottomed young
in tight track and tees
watching
how many
are watching.

Office romance with
roasted ground nuts and
laptop bags.

A kid who hasn’t
eaten in three days.

A jilted lover sobbing
on her phone.
Lovers making up.
Making out.

A bunch of teenagers
stoned out of their skulls
giggling helplessly.

A couple quarreling
as they walk.

A toddler chasing God.

The sky, a flaming Dali.

How many stories fit
into just
five kilometers?


– People I know –

There is a coffin maker
whose shop I pass everyday
as I cycle through the
by-lanes of Bandra.

The owner is a man
older than time.

With face made kind
by seeing too many
untimely deaths.

He waves at me as
I go past his shop.
I wave back.

Sometimes I stop.

He gives me water
cool as heaven from
an earthen jar he keeps
next to him.

We chat.

“How’s business, uncle?”

“Super” He laughs
“People are dying like
there’s no tomorrow.

I laugh at this
and pedal away.

The lights come on
in high rises
as darkness falls over
the city that doesn’t sleep.

This city
that does everything
like there is no tomorrow.


Seven

Seven –

Today is the
seventh anniversary of
‘us’.

Seven years
ago, today, welded
together by fire and love
and vows we lost
our identities.

We lost our ‘I’s.

God must love the ego-less.
He threw into our arms
a prompt, plump reward
for letting go.

We are whole now.
You, my infinitely better half.
I, your lesser
and eternally grateful half.

Thank you for
completing me.


You know how much?

I miss you now.

Now, in this moment,
when I am breathing and
alive and without you.

Now, in this moment,
when the earth spins
and people kiss
but not us.

Now is this place that’s
not nice because
it’s not next to you.

Now  is this voice I can
barely hear because it’s
not yours.

Now is the keen edge of a
need that refuses to blunt.

Now is me going
quietly mad
in your want
as I ask people politely
if they’ll have milk
with their teas.

Now.

This endless  moment
of your absence.


Six

Six years ago,
on the twenty third of April,
William Shakespeare’s birth anniversary,
me and my wife got the
sweetest answer to
the timeless question
posed by the great bard,

‘To be or not to be.’

Today our reason to be
turns six.