Things You Said to Me When Drunk The sky is falling down, will you help me catch it? No, I don't want to drink from a glass (Before carefully pouring out a glass for yourself) I can see the future And you look a little like... you in it Hey, I told you the sky is falling down And it's bringing those... like things with it What are those white cotton balls in the sky called? Something from k Will you go out for a cup of coffee with me? My stomach hurts Are you okay? Why are you smiling? I haven't seen you smile in a long time. Did I do something wrong? CLOUDS (screaming at the top of your voice) Yes, that's what they're called Will you catch clouds with me and save the world? Or else, the world will turn into this whole... whole... mess of white thingy things Damn it, I forgot what they're called again Hey, can I hold your hand? Ye! (exclaiming) I love you
That's what those pretty things in the sky are called Gentle and pure and love.
We Hate Patterns We wake up to the perfect sunrise everyday Next to the perfect person Have a perfect breakfast And go on to jobs we love We hate patterns But, maybe we're just lucky.
Even if we wake up to A tornado building in the air All alone Eat rotten bananas for breakfast And work in soul sucking places
We're all lucky To just be able to wake up To be following patterns No matter how our days begin No matter how our days end
Maybe it'll happen on a day like this A day that follows pattern A normal day When it'll be the last time we wake up To hell with luck. Can I just pass on my luck To someone who wants it?
An Empty Room The room is a small empty space There are two people sitting Two people searching their insides For a speck of presence So that the room is not hollow anymore
The wall is a graffiti of time And our faces turned towards the corners We're looking for the broken hand Of the clock that stopped ticking The room echoes with sounds Coming from our figures in the Graffiti There is laughter, a lot of it But there is too much distance between us The echoes get lost And we remain standing in the corner Looking for the broken hand Which does not tick anymore
Far Away "Day 183" I begin to write in my journal 183 days since I returned to an empty house I remember little of my drive back from the airport Some glimpse and pieces of a puzzle With a lot of missing parts There was a moon, but was it beautiful? Full, half, or crescent? Wind, cold. But why was I wearing not wearing a sweater? The cab smelt like something. Music was loud, but I didn't turn it off. Strange. I looked at my phone, time: 8pm. A minute later, 9pm And I was standing at my doorstep Fumbling with the keys I saved a coin from our first date, hanging on the keyring Inside, a table with puzzle pieces scattered all across A butterfly almost made, but not quite We were halfway when it was time to leave Leaving the unsolved behind I grabbed a bottle of water Half empty. I sat down to complete the puzzle But some things look better when left undone So I let it be. I fell asleep on the couch The sun rose at 5am, flickered in through the blue curtains You were wearing blue trousers last night And suddenly it was day 1 of living life as a jigsaw piece Lonely, unsolved, undone Far away from the whole
Two Storeyed Homes Every evening at 6 I sit on the edge of my terrace Staring out into the stretch of two storeyed homes Somewhere in a kitchen, a thirteen-year-old is experimenting with cooking Burning their hand on the stove While the little sibling laughs out loud They're preparing a special dinner for their parents' anniversary The only love they've ever known
Somewhere else in the garden, a toddler is eating soil His mom rushing to pick him up While he squabbles, soil tastes better than peas The grandmother knows some old ways She mixes in some red chilli powder in the ground "This will definitely make him stop" As she goes inside to light the evening diyas
An old couple sip tea sitting on the porch He's diabetic, and he secretly looks over To the jar of sugar on the table The woman is talking about her sister who will come to visit next week And how the neighborhood children keep stealing her orchid flowers Then picks up the jar of sugar And puts it back in the kitchen After fifty-one years of living together She knows him too well
In alleys between houses Are two teenagers promising each other forevers Hiding from the occasional bike passing by Their hands brush past each other As she gives him a small gift They don't speak much When they go back home, run to their balconies Barely able to look at each other They cling on to the railing and smile
From where I stand The stretch of buildings Pink, yellow, green, white All of it merges into one The world looks like one big big home With moms and dads, grandparents and siblings There's love and laughter, a lot of it But there's also an abandoned building in midst of all these colours Faded paint, broken windows At some point, it was a home A part of this huge family Now, a deceased family member Stands unspoken unbothered invisible Looming over them like a ghost Of things they never say
Does Death Come with Warnings? “Death came to him suddenly”
To all things wrong with the human mind
The statement seems funny
I am everything that is wrong
When I look into a mirror
When I look into the mirror
I see Van Gogh's starry night
I see a mental asylum
Painted inside my silhouette
I see places where I don't belong
I am the view from a window
I see Van Gogh's dying soul
Of an asylum in France
I see a clock ticking too fast
I am a countdown to 13 months
I see a fog in tints of blue
13 months before Gogh dies
I see me.
I am a night sky Painted by an artist who was dying
“Death came to him suddenly” I can’t help but laugh
I look in the mirror
Looking at the mirror
And my body is in shades of blue
And at Starry Night
Blue is a beautiful colour
We all know
But blue is also a synonym
Death comes with a warning.
Old Folks do not have The Answer We look at old people Like they are mirrors The life they've lived Reflecting through every wrinkle Every white hair Through their Alzheimer's Arthritis, dementia Through shaky bones and Shaky memories We look at old people Like they are the answer To the question “How to live� Like they grew old To impart sage old advices Old people are 75 years old 64, 68, 83, sometimes even 92 If we're lucky enough, 100, 102 years old The earth is 4.5 billion years old What makes us think That old Tom who cannot walk Without his stick Or grandma Mary who Can't see even with specs on Can give us answers and advices That they have seen so much of the world That they are mirrors?
Shape of the Planet Some say the world is round Almost like an orange There is no other end Just a loop of foot steps
Some say the world is flat Like paper or a plate You can walk off the edge And fall out forever
I say world is a line Long queue of those in wait For their turn at help desk Where no one sits all day
Bioluminescence Three thousand two hundred eighty feet under the ocean The world is different from ours Terrestrials will never know What deafening silence is There, the sun is slaughtered Yet, there's light. The marine life does not die They float around with flashlights in their bodies Bioluminescence, the scientists say. These creatures under the sea don't need The star which makes life possible. They are born with their own Little worlds inside them These creatures under the sea Have a thing or two to teach us.
Linear Timelines The earth revolves and rotates Crossing the same coordinates in space Every day every year But our timeline is linear I saw spring yesterday I saw flowers raining from the ground Falling on our hands Into us like ripples on a silent lake Yesterday was spring And I see winter today There are no flowers here Only carcasses of trees and lakes So witness this burial Of flowers that once fell into us And turned grey through seasons Only to wait for death
This timeline is linear So spring will not return Neither will any flower
Sometime, maybe Someday When you and I Are both parts of a plant Two separate leaves You will have a flower growing beside you And I Will have turned yellow I hope the air still has breeze That the yellow leaf falls off But does not reach the ground I hope you, with a flower growing beside you Catch the falling leaf And you let it rest there Comfortably.
Goons of Poetry When Plato wrote 'Republic'
they wanted to tame
he pushed us out of his utopia
words that lived in alleys, lanes
poets and dramatists, he thought
words that had no shame, no name
feed poisonous passions into the world
stuff them in a frame
and the world shall rot
created lords and ladies out of words
we're removed from actuality,
they demanded order hiding behind
was he scared?
their fears
that our separate reality
of goons of words taking over
our dystopic worlds were better?
Then came Wordsworth, Coleridge, Shelley with their rustic words and rustic hearts
But Aristotle welcomed us with open arms
they turned over all the cards
but were his arms really open?
Aristotle turned in his grave
his pointers on what must and what must not
breaking all the rules they knew
be a tragedy - characters, unity, plot
but words were still stuck in his zoo
like he had peeked into all
they made up some more
our lives and like he
rules to win the law
knew our hearts, he dictated protocols
imagination and passion
these classicists wanted us
over reality and reason
to recreate reality
mocked over tradition
but if only reality were worth recreation
they thought that they understood it all but who made them
Dryden and pope
the spokespersons
during the enlightenment, they chanted
for thugs of the underworld
reason over passion
and how dare they declare
purity, balance, restraint
that poetry belongs only to the heart
like poems lived in mansions
not the brain
So the world started reading poetry measuring scales rhythm rhyme meter Eliot, Leavis, Richards I call them cheaters stealing poetry from the world that could have grazed the soul if they hadn't bothered reserving seats on tolls on the highway of literature demeaning dismissing discrediting poetry without mirrors poetry without feet and meters calling poets sinners against tradition and talent
They've built poetry on rules Aristotle, Dryden, Wordsworth, Eliot these fools forgot to come up with the number one rule the only muse, the only tool is to dive in the whirlpool of a lawless literature
Fall I have never fallen down a sky-high building Neither have I fallen down a cliff I have never known what It is to fall down from the sky On the ground The jolt to the body by the wind And the final thud which wakes me Up from the dream
If I don't know what it feels to fall How do I know that what I'm dreaming Is of falling?
Of Meadows and Heatwaves If winter comes, can spring be far behind? Yes, Shelley. You see, our world is different than yours We don't sit in the meadows, waiting For an inspiration to hit us like revelation For the meadows don't exist anymore. Spring does not exist anymore After winter The cold dead of winter Comes summer Not like the pleasant sunny days of your times We only have heatwaves that kill Or maybe, heat waves that kill Work as well as an inspiration In the meadows
Not Mine My mother makes ginger tea every morning She puts the cup on the table And calls me out I silently pick up my cup And come back in my room Sit by the window and sip All I can see outside the window Is a forest made of concrete Buildings shooting across the sky And a sky that has no place This is the city I live in Where I sip my tea alone My parents in the other room But this city is not mine Stepping out of the house I don't know where to take my feet I need to escape But there's no place to hide in I kick the pebbles on the street as I walk Knocking into each other, even they say "Not yours." The dogs outside bark at me Even they know, I don't belong here Home is not where you live It is where your people live And this city is not home Because I have no people I can call mine
Of Leaves: Dead and Green On some days I see the world in shades of grey It's always either dust over my diaries Or the autumn wallpapers in my phone On those days I crush dried leaves with my feet into ashes But ashes are only born out of fire So I wonder if on those days I saw the world a little differently Like the clean white pages of my journal Or the golden green leaves on trees Would I still want to live?
The Neighbour’s Fire
I wish I grew up in a house without windows Without the consciousness of A universe that exists Without the knowledge Of a world that feels Pain sadness anxiety regret Love happiness awe hope A house that did not look on the outside A house with mirrors Wherever a window is supposed to be Then maybe, I would pause and look once in a while And vindicate my feelings Without having to look outside To check if the fire inside my house Is as big as my neighbour's
Good Days and Bad Days
When we could barely spell how old we were Every day was a good day
We had a little swing in our backyard And we had friends to push us to the sky We had warm breakfast every morning And we had our grandmothers for good night tales We had mango trees on the porch And we always had branches to climb up to We had bathtubs that we made our little oceans And we had rubber ducks and paper boats We had our safety blanket tucked in And we had our eight hours of sleep
Good days were our normal How did they take a u turn so quick That a good day is just a good day And our normal is a bad day.
If I was a Believer
In a parallel world
So that every time they kneel down in prayer
I am a believer
They can have a look at themselves
Sometimes in the middle of the day
Before their eyes close
I close my eyes to wish for things
To observe how yesterday,
So far, I have asked for divine intervention
The skin on their body was a little tighter
For a few things
The colour of their face
Some of which, are as following
Was a little brighter Their nails, a little less dirty
Number one.
Their children, a little less hungry
Dear God
If not a mirror
I wish for human beings
Some fire and some bread would do
To act like the most intelligent creatures That they proclaim themselves to be
Number three.
If they can't
Dear God
At least can they stop using the word
I wish to be blind
Collateral damage?
For at least an hour a day
Or maybe,
I won't be able to see leaves
Start measuring casualties in names,
Water, table, tree, books, soil
Not numbers
But I will touch them, and feel I will not doubt their presence
Number two.
So, when I finally open my eyes
Dear God
I will not be drenched in pity for myself
I wish for a mirror in every household
For being a believer.
Words by a Dead Rose
I don't know what I'm doing here anymore She picked me up from a bouquet that was not hers And put me in a glass bottle Dirty dry deep deformed And then she forgot That death comes to us all I've shed my colours And now I'm just crumpled petals With only a memory for my fragrance And my head heavy towards hell My skin has withered down Like the insides of her heart And yet, she lets me be Right where she first kept me Untouched.
Of People Leaving and Staying I've shown the exit to way too many people And some have chosen to run down the fire escape So when on some nights I find my back door open I am not surprised anymore I hope that the night breeze brings home the scent of those who I sent away Of jasmines growing in the school playground in seventh grade A crowd that no more exists BFFs scribbled over a picture in my room Some of whom took the flight too soon Of nights I spent wasted in my tears Because I was reading out the same story over and over again Hoping it changes, but it never does But I've let go so many times That the story doesn't need to change And the pyramid of people I've fallen down from Has been the one to rise me here Where there may be jasmines that remind me of disintegration But they also remind me of a world that was A place in my memory to run away to To hide and come back stronger Because if I can let go people who said loved me but hurt me I can hold on to people who say they love me and they do
A Poem in 4 Haikus You are like me but Not as restless as I am As human beings are
I write when broken To you, for tranquillity To be as human
I am like you but Not as placid as you are As humans oft are
When serene, you reach Me. To shake up calm of soul To be as human
Birthmark
“Best time to visit: October to April�
"Bad choice"
Travel websites tell us
Because I was born with
That this is the time to visit
The weight of the world under my feet
Almost half the world
Because every time I take a step I blur the mole further into oblivion
April is here
As if it never existed
But trains across the world
Only when I look at it
Look like roads on summer Sunday morning
I remember I am what I am walking with
And there are dead under the vehicles
The weight of the world
That don't run anymore
Summed in a birthmark
The silence we have been craving for
Is it why the universe is breaking down
Is finally here, and it goosebumps our skin
Like a house of cards
Every time there's an ambulance passing by
Because I crush the world
It's as if the dead in my head
Everyday under my feet
Is showing a mirror to the world All of this is too familiar
April is here
A world, barely getting through
But the world is a house of cards
My mind, barely able to function
That I kicked with my left foot
I have a tiny mole under my left foot
God made a bad choice
It means I will get to travel a lot, they say
Now all travel websites
And if I believed in any god
Have a COVID Advisory Section
I would say to her
Cassette Players
If only, we were built
Again and again
Like cassette players
Every time we forgot
With buttons for pause, rewind, forward
That once upon a time
Every moment in life
The sea and the sky
Recorded in tapes
Were witnesses.
There would be no fear Of forgetting.
We could forward For hope
We could rewind
That the sea breeze shall
To remember
Come to us
The first kiss under an open sky
Again.
With sea breeze whispering Poetry in our ears
If only, we were built
And pause
Like cassette players
For long enough, to etch
We could pause, rewind, forward
The image
Every time we forgot
Like permanent tattoos on our eyes.
That nothing stops the sea breeze And the sky isn't going anywhere.
We would rewind, and pause
State of Existence
Humans have three state of existence 1. Alive Bound by principles of science We can only take our steps Forward or backward. 2. Dead And when we cease to live The steps taken do not matter For there cannot be anymore. 3. Dream But when we close our eyes to dream We can walk towards the sky The limbo is where magic happens.
Life and death Are too real to be our reality Existence happens, not in life But in limbo When the dream state Hangs us in uncertainty Between breathing and ceasing.
Triage Tagging In a situation of mass casualty Doctors begin triage tagging Red, yellow, green, white, black The venue of disaster Is coloured by half dead people Medics decide who goes first In the operation theatre: The reds And who goes last: The greens And who doesn't go at all: The blacks (What good is it To waste time and resources On people whose bodies have Decided to not breathe further)
In an emergency Medics choose who to let live But some people wish to breathe Even when they're tagged black And some people want to let go Even when tagged red
Life Skill
My dad does not say
But she goes anyway
"I love you" to my mum
Because she knows that the journey
They're too old for romance, they say
Will pass away in no time
But he carries in a bottle of water Every night before they go to sleep
I hate cooking
My mum wakes up at least thrice
But my parents have pushed
And grabs a bottle of water
Me inside our kitchen way too many times
That stands on the floor
It's an important life skill, they say
On her side of the bed
They have held my hands To teach me all kinds of recipes
My mum does not say
All kinds of life skills
"I love you" to my dad
But my favourite recipe is
They're too old for romance, they say
The one they didn't know they taught me
But my mum rides shotgun with dad
The recipe of love
Every time he has to drive a long distance
Which also happens to be
Dad gets sleepy when driving alone
The most important life skill
And mum hates sitting in the car for so long
Unlearning Language
If I could ask for one wish
It is too much pain
It would be to unlearn languages
To not know the exact words To say to someone who needs them
It is too much pain
Running out of words
To be Pavlov's dog
To comfort a friend
Triggering all kinds of emotions On stimuli produced by language
It is too much pain
Words are enough
To hear the sandstorm of feelings
To send me spiralling down
Being summed down into
A never-ending gyre
Just a few syllables Language does not do justice
It is too much pain
To the range of human emotions
To feel and not know The words to say
I would unlearn language
When someone asks how are you feeling
To escape the pain that words cause
And answering "not good" just doesn't seem enough
Sometimes they're too much But most times, just not enough.
The City without Street Lights My city does not have city lights Most streets remain dark after sunset The street lights are mostly broken bulbs My city has few tall buildings And some pretty houses At night, when all the colours from the sky vanish The city does not look any different With dark alleys And broken street lights But I'm not scared To walk down the road alone Because, the city is mine And I know that in seventeen steps There's an open drainage that I have to skip
And in three more steps, I have to turn to the right My city has no lights And no one ever asks for some Because my city has a memory Like a map in my head So, no matter how dark the corner of the alley gets I'm not scared to venture into it Because I know that in the corner, there's a left turn Which leads to a beautiful garden And every other dark street Leads up to a beautiful place My city has no city lights Because even after the city gets dark The map in my head is always lit up
Obituary Every newspaper Has a section reserved Every day, you turn the paper To page 8 And in the lower left corner of the page There are three little obituaries On some days, five Even six.
"Mr. John Doe passed away To his heavenly abode Peacefully His life and deeds continue to inspire us"
I have never seen that tiny section Not announce a death Every day, people lose people Every day, people say their goodbyes
In school they teach us The correct format for everything Formal letters, notices, advertisements But not obituaries. Apparently, Saying goodbye is something You cannot teach on a blackboard