Friday, April 9, 2021

Waking Murmurs

Birds chirping, pigeons cooing and
colliding with window panes; sharp
rasping barks, the incessant chatter
of guards and cleaners wafting  
upwards, disabling that first soft hour
as the alarm sings me awake.
 
Ignoring this odd symphony, I loll.
But cars honk as they tread the tarmac.
Doorbells chime. A baby cries.
Its mother yells at the maid
 
and that rare moment is lost
when I wanted to snuggle the curves,
caressing the idea I slept with last night.

 
Published: Bengalaru Review, Spring Issue 2021

Monday, December 16, 2013

Perceptions

Wind swept aside
lies beneath
the voluminous shalwar
She has bowed legs



Published in Lakeview International Journal of Arts and Literature, August 2013 [pg 15]
http://issuu.com/lijla/docs/lijlaaugust2013

Shame

No escaping my shadow.
Sharper the light, more
intensely she appears. In
darkness, stalks unseen.


Published Lakeview International Journal of Arts and Literature [Pg 15]
http://issuu.com/lijla/docs/lijlaaugust2013


 
 

Regret

When the light-sensitive.
have departed and the wind 
storms at wooded trunk
no-one speaks of the turbulence
 
 
Published in the August issue of Lakeview International Journal of Arts and Literature [Pg 15]
 

Tuesday, September 11, 2012

Being Untidy

Usually, I tidy up before going to bed.
A ritual of putting things in their place.
Even thoughts are filed.  I never sleep
without removing my made-up face. 

Last night, nestling against the crumpled heap
of discarded clothes; a strange comfort I felt
hiding myself in the chaotic folds.

 
Too tired to pick up the mess
living had created. I pressed the remote
and saw a movie
of someone else’s life instead


Published: Brown Critique e-journal
August 2012
http://thebrowncritique.blogspot.in/

 

Inadvertant Voyeur

My fountain pen needed a new nib. In search of the pen-wala
on the pavement outside Regal Cinema, I trudged from Gurgaon
to Connaught Place. Pen repaired, I walked back to my car, parked
near Hanuman Mandir from behind Allahabad bank, passing
the newly built Cervantes Cultural Institute, down the adjacent
alley where an unusual scene unfolded. I couldn’t stop to savour
its sights and sounds, as the smell of garbage was offensive. But
did notice the lone man who tended it all; sorting glass from metal
and bio-degradable, stacking them in green municipality containers,
neatly lined by the side of the street, labelled in English. He wore a
 
blood-red coat over khaki pants and a pointing to the sky, dirty beige,
knitted topi and sat on a rickety chair, soaking in the fading afternoon
sun, smoking a bidi. Dogs of every mongrel shape and variegated hue
were his companions, snuggling in the warmth of garbage dumped.
Especially drawn to the toekadi’s[i] that lined the lane, brimming
with fabric remnants, probably from a nearby garment manufacturing
unit, in each I spied a tightly curled up pup, its head lost in the heap;
a little mound of fur among the rags. The melodious strains of Umaro
Jaan’s “dil cheez kya hai, aap meri jaan leejiye, bus ek baar mera
kahan, maan leejiye”[ii],filled the air. I wanted to stop and stare,
 
photograph each eccentric  nuance in visual memory, but my heels
refused to pause their clicking stride and the odour killed my curiosity.
It isn’t a scene oft encountered and was enchanted not for the way of
life it afforded, but in realization this too is one, albeit far removed
from mine and yet not; for right there in the middle of elegant steel
and glass towers of corporate might, alongside Delhi’s churi-wala
bazaar[iii] and famed Hanuman Mandir, I was reminded by this topi-
coat-wala[iv] of my own frustrated struggle through unkempt minds,
of living amongst those who haven’t yet learned to clean up
 
for themselves. I wanted to ask about his family, where he was from,
where he lived and how he had come to take on this job; if he hated it
or not. Iwondered why the labels were in English, how literate he was
and what language he spoke and wanted to know how he coped with
the smell: ploughing through dirt for his trade. I thought of the dogs
wrapped in cut ends and wondered what they’d say, if I gave them  
a lush blanket in a wicker basket bought from a luxury pet store.
Instead, strutting in my high heels, tight jeans, manicured hands
and fragile nostrils, I ran as fast as I could, for I knew what a life
could be where the stench was too much to bear.
 


[i] Locally made bamboo baskets
[ii] From the Hindi film ‘Umrao Jaan’– “oh what is my heart worth, take my life instead, but just once oblige me by doing what I may ask of you.”
[iii] Bangle[glass] market
[iv] Hat and coat man
 
Published: Brown Critique e-journal
August 2012
 
 

Unstill

I took a step forward to descend the stairs
when she called out – careful!
Alerted, I shifted my gaze, looking
for her face in the crowd below
when I saw your nervous fingers
running through a premature grey, that
once was a dark and rebellious mane.

 
Clinking glasses, kissing the air, speaking
with an engagement I didn’t feel,
the evening seemed so unreal. Yearning
to touch, to talk: you were just
a breath’s reach away, but not a word
was said and neither stole or shared
a glance nor looked away.

 
As strangers, we came together
in this cocktail hour of pretence.

 
Published: Brown Critique e-Journal
August 2012
http://thebrowncritique.blogspot.in/