bandaid

Me and band aid

band aid and me

We have a long standing partnership,

perpetually stuck together.....

i use it because i run,

and its runs because i use it....

two a toe,

one a knee, apiece, the elbow

Sometimes the stairs join our company and make it all the more easier.

everything works in harmony,

If nothing else, the steady floor is just about enough.

my foot and a half !!!

turns out i overestimated my existence after all
the four years romantic bullshit,
it doesnt even fill the goddamn two by three box!!!
shucks!!!
ahh, i humour myself.......

four years in a half filled carton, my whole world...
and all that crap....
time for a reality check,
and an update for the bullshit detector.

kneedled knotty knee

squishy squashy sloppery
kneedled knotty weak knee
goose bumpy me

sometimes, sounds can express more than vocabular words,
sometimes, im in such a squeeezy hoppety blippety mishleezy mood
nothing seems to be good enough to express it,
except probably the most abridged expression in the world
a hug.....

after a point u get sick of holding on
change is inevitable,
forced or invited,
eitherways.

Cartons that make your head flat

How in the hell do you pack four years of existence?
and walk away,
from corridors ringing with laughter and juvenile name calling,
from the nights of fights and loving embrace

How in the hell do you decide what to keep and what to discard?
and walk away,
from tattered friendships, and new born ones,
from an eternity of togetherness and solitary thoughts?

How in the hell do you pack four years of existence
in a two by three carton?

the unwound watch on your table

besides the unwound watch on your table,
there is nothing of mine that you keep,
there is nothing that in a cool winters night,
remembers me while going to sleep.

All you who sleep tonight
Far from the ones you love,
No hand to left or right
And emptiness above -

Know that you aren't alone
The whole world shares your tears,
Some for two nights or one,
And some for all their years.

- Vikram Seth

the orange t shirt, the backpack et al

I'm walking,
i see you, my spirits lift up,
the orange t shirt, the backpack et al,
i call out,
you cant hear me i think,
i tell someone to call you,
i notice the change in your speed, i notice you've paced up,
i notice that the corner in nearing,
you turn back, wave, and turn away,
you've fulfilled your obligation,
I'm calling for you to wait,
you keep walking,
i know you can hear me.
you have turned the corner and disappeared out of sight.
i can almost hear you sigh with relief
the others are asking what i did to you,
i dont know, tears sprout, i also long to turn the corner, to disappear, to evaporate.
i message you,
i don't think i can ever understand you.
'happy go lucky', i've heard them call you.

to sleep is to escape
to escape is to sleep
mind if i just lie down for a bit???

will coffee help??

i open the door
i find you home,
all my fatigue, dissolves in a cup of
freshly made coffee..
i lean on you, and sob,
talk, your muffles of whispers turn my sobs,
into giggles in no time,
its a pity you're stuffed with cotton,
hysterical helpless giggles,
find even cotton, too intimidating
to cry real tears.
its a pity you are lifeless,
its a pity you are sown together by my dreams,
and stuffed with real hand picked cotton,
cotton of the softest kind,
the softest cotton, too hard to talk to.

how do i know you?
how do i know that i know you?
when im oblivious to most functionings of my head.
how do i claim to know you?
when i dont know who i am?
there is this inconsistency, a certain unsoundness that is inpalpable
i think i know you as much as myself.
but that again is not much.
how do i trust you?
if i dont trust myself?

the moon

every evening as the sun leaves,
it takes along some of me,
leaving the bitter taking the better,
moon, oh how much i yearn for it,

theres a moon on my table,
and one with me all the time,
theres one which causes lunacy
and another hopeless romance

theres the one that loves me dearly
its the one that causes doubt.

lonesome moonings,
brisk walks,
loathsome ruminations
and a crisp NO
pleading requests,
happy questions,
honest expectations
and a crisp NO

the room

its the room that slowly,
unleashes darkness within me
the room where my mother doesnt clutter,
the room where my father doesnt watch the news

its the room that flows through,
and leaves in me unheld waters
the room where my sister doesnt twit about busily
the room where she doesnt sleep with her face in her book.

its the room that with silent melancholy
reminisces all the nights i spent within its walls
shut away from the rest of the world
shut away from myself.

its the room that protected my dignity when
with much desolation,
i muffled my pain, in my quilt.
the room that has seen it all. known it all,
and yet remained bitterly cold.

to fate.

somethings are better left unsaid.
or so you think.
not always favour favours you.
not always does luck run out either.
somethings are better expressed.
or so you think.
not always does the world revolve around you.
not always are you invisible either.
somethings are better left....
to fate.

Leave,

Leave, for what you may see,
may not necessarily be pretty;
before all the fragments of your lingering dream,
crumple and fall under your feet.

Leave, for what you know,
may not be the whole truth;
before the fabric of your everyday,
falls victim and succumbs to the pressures of practicality.

Leave, for this dream that you hold,
may not come alive or breathe ever at all;
before the halo of the moon that you see,
gets completely covered with midnight clouds.

Ever tried asking?

Ever tried asking? scared you might just find out?
Ever tried speaking? scared you might just blurt out?
Ever tried dreaming? scared you might just scream out?
Ever tried living?
Scared you might just burn out?

A Dream of Trees

There is a thing in me that dreamed of trees,
A quiet house, some green and modest acres
A little way from every troubling town,
A little way from factories, schools, laments.
I would have time, I thought, and time to spare,
With only streams and birds for company.
To build out of my life a few wild stanzas.
And then it came to me, that so was death,
A little way away from everywhere.

There is a thing in me still dreams of trees,
But let it go. Homesick for moderation,
Half the world’s artists shrink or fall away.
If any find solution, let him tell it.
Meanwhile I bend my heart toward lamentation
Where, as the times implore our true involvement,
The blades of every crisis point the way.

I would it were not so, but so it is.
Who ever made music of a mild day?

- Mary Oliver

im not in high spirits,

afraid ill pull urs down

blue ochre doors

Bewitching blue ochre doors,

beg to be spoken to,

alluring wooden doors,

laugh and gleam in the sunlight,

echoes of log past laughter held within,

reverberating with cherished childhood memories,

and bickering slammings,

rattling with the want to share its once glorious past,

thirsting for a knock,

adorned by some unfaithful scum.

Dazzling golden locks.

how is it that abstinence remains?

how is it that there is nothing to write?
is it that silences extend a warmer welcome?
how is it that there are a hundred thoughts for a single greeting word ?
is it that words find too much resistance
how is it that there is nothing to tell?
or is it that i find myself too tired of the effort
is it that my verse has dried up,
or is it that my parched ears taste seldom a sound?
how is it that i seek much more from these delusions?
how is it that abstinence remains?
how is it that dreams falter?
is it that figment that was never meant to be?
how is it that, this figment homes in me?

a hundred years

a hundred years of moondust,
a hundred years of doubt
a hundred years of hope,
a hundred years without
each moment like a year,
stretching, frozen, like moondust falling on a winter night,
yet moving, each year like a moment
whizzing by, with moments of memories,
each moment like a year.
a hundred ramblings, and not a word said,
not a word said, and million things understood,
hundred years gone by, of me and you
a hundred years in waiting, of a hundred more thing to do.
a hundred more things to do with you,
a hundred more memories, of things gone by,
a hundred more reminders of futures that die
even if i try, to be with you.
even if if i try to be without.
a hundred years of moondust,
a hundred years of doubt

every other second

I never realised what a persistent person i was
i guess it takes certain situations to highlight certain characteristics in you, but the surprising part is, i used to think exactly the opposite, being that i give up too easily.
One gives up on things, which he doesn't mind living without,
and persistence comes not from the realisation of the fact that you cannot live without it,
cause there isn't any such thing u cant live without, Darwin proved that, you always find a way to survive, to live, to thrive, we are after all the most developed of natures forms,
but from the knowledge of the fact that you just don't want a point in your life without the thing in question. As simple as that.
And thats when you can put everything you have in that.
Just for that one moment of perfection, to live on for the rest of your life.
What fun, if that one moment stretches onto to the rest of your life.
Where every second if worth living for, and every other second is really worth dying for.

A love song

Let me sing u a song,
of perpetuity and evanescence
of persistence that is nurturing,
and of stubbornness that emerges out of lack of hope
let me whirl into this song,
break my heels.
Whirl i will,
still,
even if on my knees.

An itch, a Scratch, a scribble, a dash,
sometimes to relieve, sometimes to enjoy,
sometimes for the joy of beauty,
sometimes for the darkness of the morbid,
for the innocent joy of creation.

Underneath the delusion

Maintaining appearances is now more of a hassle than ever before, now that, selfishness or convictions have begun to take over botheration. Its almost as if, every time, instant visions in the act, flood, with ariel view of fakeocity.
Sacrilegious, self defence, the instant smile, the moment,
an uncomfortable thought punctures
the otherwise unerring mind.
The smile plasters itself, smothering with laughter.
Choking, uncontrollable giggles, shrill, repulsive giggles,
and the saddest part is,
no one can ever see though.
Beyond the ringing
behind the tinkles of laughter,
Underneath the delusion,
ensconced within.

empty, noisy, void

"you know what, sana...
there might never be the perfection that we all look for."
the words, hit seep in sinking to the bottom, dispelling wot was ther before.
hope.
but this thicksinned, peevish character, refuses to give up.
but only sometimes, it fades, only for a break, to let the air through,
the air of reality, or depression, whatever you may call it,
but the truth is,
without our hopes and dreams, wishes and ambitions,
we will remain, nothing but empty vessals,
empty, noisy, voids.
because it is only our dreams that let us do things,
we can not in real life,
things that we want so despeately and yet...
because, it is only our dreams that stop us
from actually going through the real experience
of those very things.
because it is only our dreams, that have been and always will be our realities.

rooting from, flowing to

this and all that,
festive, newness, solitary, emerging
from the darkness,
rooting from, flowing to.
flowing to, but nonetheless, rooted there.
harsh, thick stubborn roots.

i do not love you

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way
than this:
where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
-Pablo Neruda

tomorrow and yesterday

some questions have no answers,
sadly they happen to be the ones our whole existence is based on,
there was theorems, hypotheses, but never a solid result or conclusion.
like the buzz of the most annoying mosquito,
pestering, haunting.
the more you try to get rid of them , the more they irritate.
is it better to let them sit, and suck the blood, leave once and for all?
some questions have no answers.
and in the desperation of solutions, we assume
assumption, the biggest enemy of reality.
more reliable though, and so much more easy,
so much more alluring.
and we always do look for the easy way dont we,
unless we are ready to take whatever comes in the way of finding those solutions out for ourselves,
even if the way is laden with boulders,
hurt, reaching steady.
dont know where,
if we knew, what would be the difference between tomorrow,
and yesterday.

एक मुर्दा सितारा

स्याही, सहमी, दिन की आहट
वो मुर्दा सितारे
जो अपने ही खौफ में जिए
कब गुज़रे कौन जाने
न कभी किसीने कोशिश की
न कोई जान पाया
किस मुकाम पे अब रुकेगी हवा
किस आसमान, कौन से सितारों पे
एक खफा, खोया सा सितारा
मेरा एक मुर्दा सितारा.

if & when

if and when i learn to pray
let wishes come swiftly
if only i wish for that day,
let me make this secret hopeful surmise
construct it with love, with my own hands
and the wet mud in the making,
of hope
may just
speak out my wish,
and grant it in waiting,
if only i do
in honesty, make it to that day.

packaged dew drops

packaged dew drops,
a single plucked ray of golden sun,
how i wish i could show
this that i wish to keep,
and give sown into the fabric
of one affectionate affliction.
just to remember me by.

the quicker the better.

Its eight o clock, she has been trying to get up since an hour now,
but the damn quilt is wreaking havoc...
She muffles her face one last time the soft velvety ebony brown, beast of a quilt. She cant postpone this any longer, hopping on the cold marble floor she reaches for her slippers. Its too late now, the slippers are on, no turning back, next is the shower, the shower runs, one finger in, one hand, one arm, aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa the head.
The clock chimes nine. Shes late again.
Shivering she picks up the first thing she can think of, that doesnt need ironing, a matching stole is a must, in a rush, she catches a glimpse of herself in the wardrobe mirror, its too obvious to miss, she puts some rousche, desperately pats on some caked concealer on her face, throws a lump of her hair on her face, in the hope of it being disguised as a style. Her hair is the only thing she knows can never give her a hard day. She loves it for that. Just out of the door and she remembers, she hasnt fed her only friend, she rushed in , hopping on one foot while trying to put the other shoe properly; fills a jug of freezing water, puts in the microwave, just a tad luke,
and feeds it to the little plant she befriended a fortnight back, it seems to be saying thank you for the warm water. She puts it in, the house is warm. Waking from the reverie, she realises she is beyond late. She rushes to her office, sets her hair outside the door, tries to sneak in unnoticed, but ...
The moment she rushes in everyone starts staring, she looks down to see if she forgot to wear pants, just like her recurring dream.... but they are right where they are supposed to be, even the zip is up.....
Then what is the matter, why is everyone so amused?
Suddenly every one breaks into a song, and she realises its her farewell.
"zindagi ek safar hai suhana... yahan kal kya ho kisne jaana..."
Its dificult to hold back the tears, she cant believe she has to leave, this city, these people,
even though she never became friends with anyone, she didnt want to,
its too difficult to let go then, but unfortunately she finds herself in the same spot, which she had been trying to avoid since the time she joined, this is her third job in two years.
she wants to stay, but long ago she promised herself, never to let anyone or anyplace become familiar, never to let them grow on her. this had to be done,
she didnt want this party,
she wanted it quick, peel it off, itll hurt once and then itll be fine,
the quicker the better.

fingers

touch your hand
build this wall,
while i pound mine
trying to smash it.
break the putrid, ugly, facade
touch your hand and rebuild it
yet again
carve you initials,
and a cross on it
so that no another,
may dare to dream
to reach out
to love.