An Unfinished Tale

My skin like the bed of a parched river.
My cracked heels like the tilled earth.
A black thread round my waist.
And, I don’t have anything else.

One day, I took refuse in water
That sparkling waves were my mother’s doleful eyes
Those brown waves were my father’s strong shoulders
Which helped me to stand straight.

Those were the tales of some other lives,
I was a bunch of mustard flowers
And she, who fuelled my life,
She grew on my body like a green leaf...

Voyages

I cannot rest from travel; I will drink
Life to the lees. All times I have enjoy’d
Greatly, have suffer’d greatly
— Tennyson

And, I do not have my destination.
The end of this journey.
But travel I must,
Cannot stop.

Why fear then? Hop onto a train
Its iron embrace will feed you with speed
And go away wherever you like.

That city near the seashore,
You’ll count the surf, and pass through them.
For a moment you will notice the
succulent bosoms of a young virgin
You cannot touch her. That hutment
in the middle of the field
Is not for you.
Not for you are the yellow of those mustard flowers.
That crooked hole on the shisham tree.
Not for you are the sleep of a static night.
Warmth of someone’s hair.
Friends contagious laughter
Not for you are those that are static

I travel on, through time
And through everything else
For which I wanted to stop.
I travel on.

Night

Something’s wrong with the moon tonight
How it’s running around inside my eyeholes
Like a drunkard returning home late at night
His wife wouldn’t open the door
But before I could shut my eyelids
It was inside my eyes
And what a hullabaloo!
As if it wouldn’t leave me till I cry
Till I die.

What’s wrong with you, my desolate moon?
What do you search?
Those flowers of hope wouldn’t bloom again
No more are monsoons of tears
Those grasses of dream are now dry

What do you want my desolate moon?
What do you search?
Shall I give you my endless nights
Unfinished lines of my palm?

Something’s wrong with the moon tonight.

Writing

For whom will I write my verse
I an idiot poet
Write lines alone
Spoil pristine papers and sky blue ink
I an idiot poet

I dream of building abode of dream
I don’t know dreams have their own awakening
They wouldn’t listen to me
Nobody listens to me

The road I walk on
Runs away at my arrival
Clouds disappear
Winds shiver
Fishes under water laugh

I want to build houses for fishes
I want to decorate the wind
with the scent of wild jasmine
I want to sing lullabies to the cloud

I don’t know they have their own awakening
They wouldn't listen to me

I an idiot poet.

Addiction

For the creeper
The Tree is an addiction
Without which no orchids would
show their faces in springtime

And for the tree
The creeper is his love
For whom he must die
Soon

Being...

Finally, nothing remains.
Desert winds in the city,
Marks of a lone tiger’s claws in his lonely cage,
A plate of spicy chicken in a shady restaurant,
Those expensive shoes bought after a fight with father,
That blue kite stolen from a friend,
The upset feeling of missing a picnic with friends,
Finally, nothing remains.

One day, I thought I would die without her,
Or kill her on her wedding night.
The taste of inebriation on that night,
I don’t remember.
She killed herself.
I didn’t have the time to mourn
Posed before the camera with my wife,
Claimed I was happy.
Perhaps I was
I don’t remember.

Finally, nothing remains.
Curiosity of the honeymoon night,
Scent of black tea in the morning,
Someone else’s taste on your body,
Strain of semen on the bedspread.

Finally, nothing remains.
Don’t know where gathers the skins
that ebb away from my bathroom floor.
Don't know how disappears in a smoke
pieces of my hopes and dreams.
Don’t know if God ever hears
my prayers every evening.

Finally, nothing remains.
The desire to know Tendulkar’s score
Plans to impress the boss,
Calculations to make wife happy,
Finally, nothing remains.

One day, I would be dead.
That’s not an issue
The question is
I have to live
Till I die.

Dream

Dream

A dream has its own existence.
Has its own immaculate body.
Like the blue hill faraway
Exotic, like a floating feather...

But for that old man
In his hut on the hill
It’s neither blue nor exotic.
It’s a morsel of food.
A drop of clear water.

Dreams inhabit a different world.
Beyond us and surrounding us,
We live in glass jars, made of dreams.

Life

I die the day I love someone, and
To offer her, I have nothing.
Empty is my pocket’s desire,
To keep a photograph too
I don’t own a wallet.

Love is
When you have given away everything you have
and still want to give more.