Lotus Thoughts

And Love stood there, unflinching -
By the rickety door that night
When I - perfumed in your repose
Smiled, bathing in your light
She said you've bloomed into a Rose.

Just as the spiraling winds - and men- that
Slowed down, and some lost their way
Turning to behold the sight of you,
I recoiled, told Her a Rose, pretty as it may -
My lover is a Lotus, that is who.

Love gathered her silks, silently-
And looked at the moonlight stitch
A tapestry through the window on the wall.
Cleared her throat, "That simile, quite rich -
Do you know that roses are in my thrall?"

I looked at you once again, more sure
This time I did declare in a loud voice-
Have you seen my lover? Have you seen
The layers, the disenchantment, the purest choice?
And to call her a Rose, you're still keen?

Love sat this time, outside - not in-
On the floor, with her posture intact.
And in the moonlight, she shone
Isn't the Rose more disenchanted, in fact,
She asked, with the thorns, in a raspy tone.

Unable to have these little wins, unable to
Break your wall, I vowed not to speak
To Love at all. I turned my face around-
Love smiled again, this time almost meek,
"I concede," she said and frowned.

And from my reverie, I woke, fingers numb
And I saw you again, teaching me how
To make smoke rings, as I barely held
The cigarette, and your fragrance with a tinge -
Of nicotine, I found myself asking-
Am I that ethereal too?
Am I a lotus too?

And a tiny ounce of regret
Refused to evaporate.
You arose.

Verisimilitude

On days like this, when little sips of unsavory tea
And a few drops of Scotland's best --
Fornicate with Barsan Laagi,
On days when I cannot even make friends with sleep
And like trespassers I let night
Tiptoe through my windows - with her, little fireflies
And forty other trespassers, silent raindrops.
They leave behind the boundaries of vowels and consonants,
and the warmth of verses and metaphors
and poetry.

Light beckons, hark, the unwanted Stranger!
Night runs, its aides asunder, leaving shadows and afterthoughts
And a little glass shoe.

I see myself, dark and fragile
I inhale desires, bright and robust,
I dream of us, looking at the rains, enveloped
In the garb of succinct conversations
And limp biscuits, lost in the depths, devoid of character
Not quite unlike clouds-- that we pledge to watch together,
Not now, darling, someday.

Sometimes, after all is gone
The windows and the nights,
The fireflies and the ragas
What remains is a silent impulse;
Verisimilitude.
To make meaning of empty things and broken words that are
But incomplete for me, without the letters to your name
Such words, like love and peace and home .

So,
Sometimes, I let night walk into my home through windows,
To float around me like a bridge to the country of dreams
While I fold your thoughts and keep them safe,
On your side of the bed,
Where no one sleeps.

Not Green

The tree is dead, today.
Spread across the limitless horizons
With its infinite wisdom, and charred branches
It stands, several ants escape
Their lifeless abode, lest the tempest
Of silent sap and flamboyant pollen -
Blows them away into nothingness.

You were there, the quiet whisperer -
Climbing its stony boughs, sprigs cradling you
You were touched, weren't you?
The fire lit its insides, but left you
With tears ablaze, and a strange leafy musk
That you will reek of, whenever you lie -
Or lie next to me, possibly medicinal smelling.

They will come in hordes and swarms
It will rain a million tears.

I have the axe here, see, saw too -
Dead trees must lay forgotten.
But what do I do with the stump
With roots clawing far beneath, holding on
And here in my clinic heart, the storms
Rage on, creating new dunes of sand.
Yellow and brown, not green.

Alas

It was the picture of a broken bottle -

Jagged, a victim of asinine actions

And acrid smoke, lilting by the dark drapes. 

Or maybe it was you, with napalm poetry

Burning red, green, white; who knows? 

Let's wail tonight. The picture, you, I - 

The darkness of the eyes needs washing.

In yours, under mine, and the picture? 

It is but sanguine, you say. My eyes hurt. 

Let's sleep with each other tonight.

I, you, the picture - no, it must remain away

Fetid little thing, not apposite in our havens, 

Of fragrances and musk, and entangled arms

And Alhaiya Bilaval 

You are gone. Or is it I? Dark grey skies,

You cannot see the moon. It burns red. 

I burn red. 

You burn red. 

The picture burns red.

Alas.

Spring is Here

The moon was a little restless last night-
He tried, several times, to peek through
My window, where I sat resurrecting
Dying symphonies - Running antiquated
Needles of joy through dark unseen sheets
Bloodied patchworks, clammy with sweat,

Dusty with neglect, with no outlines, no boundaries-

Much like our silhouettes that we found
Intertwined as we lay writhing in newfound throes
Of lust, passion and fruition.

The moon was green last night, I saw-
A little peek, when you stood on your tiptoes
To kiss me a last goodbye. It fumed, ran leaves

And strong winds on my path home -
Its acerbic rays could only massage my skin
As I danced, on music you filled inside me.
The stony burrows of silences, the frigid caves of gloom

That I had all known so well, stood all bathed in green- 

Sprouts of little conversations dotted their walls

As I vowed to nurture them, forevermore.

And as nights rolled into days, and my red eyes
Matched the discarded scripts my begrimed pen wrote-
The moon told of its jealousy to the sun,
"Why must I roam the night skies alone?"

The scorn brought clouds, and the sun powerless-
Only shone in glimpses, as the wind took over
And gloomy rains enveloped my world.
I however sat, in my room, thinking of our moments
Cocooned in safety and wonder- and music-
And wrote but three words, "Spring is here."

For the Once 14-Year Old Girl

You have grown up now.
One glance, a fleeting one at that
Upon, perchance, a wintry tree
Wilted frosted flowers in a November garden.
Ignorant are the fools who crush, who do not see
Looming minds, lamenting souls
Looking, ululating, lulled.

And I see you, standing aghast, is that hope too?
Lights rushing past your gleaming eyes
Witnessing- and is it all that the heart could bear?
A stellar sky falls prey to the silent smoke.
You see it engulfed, the world moves not.
Stationary it is perhaps, as aghast as you.

Blooms are for kids, you realise-
Everything is dark, lonely and cold.
My hand is warm, and you can hold it.
You have grown, but you are still the same
Vertrauen Sie mich- unconditionally, beyond.

... Even though I know your secret.

My Friend Left

Things are different now-
Perched upon my own fingers,
Lest I write and regret
I heard my greatest friend tonight.

And Darkness spoke of loss-
Of little flickers that make her run,
Of the majesty of her reign
All in one swift breathless whisper.

"Are you tired?", she asked.
"Of course," I murmured.
"Grayer skies, bloodier wounds-"
"-and jest, " she completed.

"Jest? Jesters tired of jest?", I inquired.
Darkness looked away, perhaps.
Or maybe I did. I looked elsewhere -yes.
"Is that why you live with me?"

She smiled, a tiny nudge on my nape
"Truths are joy, truth be told."
I looked aghast, as my greatest friend
Abandoned me too - I heard footsteps-

I crawled, with closed eyes
And Light embraced me, tight.
They all laughed at my disfigurements
And I couldn't find my friend again.

My shrieks filled the chamber-

For a 14 year Old Girl

Violently, he draws every door to a shut.

Today is a sultry dawn, he sees-
He holds up the light against the grey walls
Ignites the tip of his last cigarette
Singeing his eyes, his insides.

Insipid, life dangles on the hour hand of the ticking clock
Saying nothing, sometimes saying the most.

For tomorrow might bring another little memory-
Of a silent house that screams in high-pitched horror
Rueful, he cries- the tears dwell in possibility.

You, of those pretty eyes that belie the tumult they see
Of my love, I can promise you-
Unconditionally, beyond.

Don't Lie to Me, Kalyani

"You haven't smoked a day in your life, Kalyani."
He said with his piercing gaze fixed upon my hand.
I looked at the cigarette, its face red and aglow like mine.
I told him, "No. I used to, then I quit." I took another drag.
He looked at me. He smiled. "No."

Later that night, I lay under his weight,
He kissing my neck with amorous passion-
And said, "You have done this before, Kalyani"
I froze, tried to find his face in the darkness-
And his eyes-
He penetrated me that night.

"I must go", I whispered. I think I saw sadness-
Fall on his five o clock shadow, but before I could tell
"Don't lie to me, Kalyani"
He said in his gruff voice.

I waited till he was gone, and then slowly dialed another number.
I ran and sat in the car, kissed the driver's mouth, and-
Lightly said, "I am Kalyani. Please don't smoke. I don't like it."

The Mentalist's Secret

And among those meaningless kisses-
And the silent stares that they gave each other
She suddenly asked one day,
"You read minds, don't you?"

The mentalist looked at her, almost aglow
And then, gruffly replied, "Yes."
"Then why did you lie to me?"

And as cold snakes, greased to shine-
Uncoil in the light, for the moment
When the charmer opens his long-closed basket-
He squirmed. He looked at her.

"I know you," she said.
"You needn't be afraid," she said.
And she touched his chest.

And the hard rock, just as brittle-
Broke on impact of a cold hard floor.
One ego, now a thousand, all small
Yet bigger still. He looked angry.

"You know me," she cried.
"Why is it so difficult for you to share?"
"Why didn't you tell me all this while?"

And tomorrow when they'll see her
Dangling with a coil around her neck
The question in her eyes, like a forked tongue
Unlike her- alive and flicking still.

A Story

He was always quiet. He never talked more than he was supposed too, sometimes not even that much. But his eyes, his eyes had a different story to tell. I remember lying on his bare chest, his arm around me, telling him once about Doctor Who, and how everything in the world is made of stories. Suddenly, I felt a tug at my neck, and I saw him tighten. I turned around to look at his face. But he looked away, high above, onto the ceiling. His eyes shone, throwing patterned impressions onto the orthogonal plaster-of-paris adornments. I pulled the sheets close to me, slid closer with my back on the bed, and my arms around my chest, and ran my fingers through his curly hair. He lay motionless, and I lay in the shadows of the luminescence of his eyes.

"Do you not think we all have stories inside of us? That our soul is nothing but stories?"

He still looked away. I played with his hair some more. I picked up curly strands and wound them around my fingers, and saw them come undone again. I grazed my hands through his hair, and felt his scalp brush against my fingertips amidst his curls.

"We're made of atoms," he said in a gruff voice, as if his vocal chords were rusting because of being so unused.

I looked in surprise. He had moved, just an inch away, but he still kept looking at the ceiling, piercing it with his glare possibly, to look into the stars above, to see the lights that were his family, that he was a part of. On most days, he felt like an orb of light, quiet, warming, and conspicuous only by his absence. I turned to my side and faced him, and I felt his hand on my back. I raised my head, and he carefully ensured it rested against his arm, and I was again propped up on his chest, he holding me ever so tenderly, but tightly at the same time. There was something about how he held me, something that quite like him, was wordless, but loving all the same.

I stayed quiet, and watched his chest rise and descend for some time. He had ample chest hair, the kind that gave his heavy chest a different shape. He was very conscious about it, I could tell even though he had never told me. Like so many other things. I kept my hand on his chest, and felt his life beat periodically against his taut body. He felt different, like no other man. I dreamed of a life with him always near me, my own special orb of light. My fingers tightened around his skin, and I slowly shifted to hide my face in the sheets, and feel his warmth.

"Nita," he said, and his grip around me tightened. He turned towards me and we kissed, so slowly, so mildly, and I felt all my problems melting away in his warmth, dying away in his glow.

"Stories die out. They fade from memory. Atoms are forever."

I look at him, wanting to correct him, but I stay silent. He closes his eyes, and leans in to kiss me again. He misses his aim, and ends up kissing my nose instead. I smile. Wordlessly, my fears have gone.

The next morning, I wake up to his shiny eyes, while his dark face dreamily looks at me, and his lips twisted in a wry smile. I ended up falling asleep on his arm, and he, like he always was, let me sleep, while he writhed in discomfort through the night. I hurriedly get up, pull the sheets close to me, and apologise profusely, repeatedly till the sound of my morning voice ricochets all across the room, back to my ears. He smiles, nurses his arm, and pats it for blood supply, looks back at me, and tugs at the sheets.

I cradle my bare breasts in my arms, while I see him dress in the hand-me-down from Ram Singh. He slowly comes back, once he finishes dressing, and wraps the sheets around me, flinches whenever he touches my bare skin, and out of habit, each time, he then proceeds to put the end of the sheet around my head, like a veil. Then shocked at his own incapacity to learn, he clicks his tongue, and runs downstairs to wash the car to pick my husband up from the airport.

I watch him leave. And then, I write a story.

I'll Be a Friend, Tomorrow

Maybe when banging doors and loud voices
Would not drain the colour in me,
I'll be a friend, tomorrow.
I'll tell you that it hurts, when you
Talk to me, behind me, about me-
And that, I drag my thumbnail across
My fingers when I'm nervous.

Maybe when you ask for me to celebrate
And paint the town red, I would nod.
I'll be a friend, tomorrow.
I'll tell you that I spend nights under
Dark grey skies, counting absent stars
And that, the salty brine that sweep about
My face aren't just sweat from the dancing.

Maybe if you hold my hand and smile
And return my colours to me,
I'll be a friend, tomorrow.
I'll tell you stories of your greatness that
I proclaim to others, about dreams-
Of us, hair blowing in pleasant breezes
And my face, prouder to just be there.

And in this fog of emboldened words and-
Premature actions, I'll still tell you,
I'll look up as you stand atop conquered hills
You mount corpses of men and animals alike-
I'll be a friend, tomorrow. 

Etcetra

There, now hold the black crayon
And draw a hackneyed gun, next to that boy
Good. And once you're done, little one
Pass it on to little Saira, she needs it
To cover her woman with the burqaah etcetra.

Oh, do not mind, do not mind.
It is just school, haha. I am the teacher.
We teach our students excellent things.
Only last month, one of our students
Finished the red chalk on the board,
Squeaking till the last bit, till he turned and
He said, "Finished." It was a good picture.
He made blood and acid etcetra.

We teach Maths also. Haha, not to girls.
Girls, we teach embroidery, womanly things.
Not Math, numbers are manly. They can't
Wrap their head around that, it doesn't help serve
Their husbands, and if they have to learn hisaab.
Their husbands teach, to sit at the shops etcetra.

Oh yes. We take care of your children. Sex. No no.
We do not talk of bad things. We talk of marriage.
Rape? No no. That is marriage only. No? Oh.
It is alright. You will be happy to know we teach
The girls dressing. We teach them to plead.
On the knees. That helps in rape. But we do not
Teach bad words such as sex.
Against tehzeeb etcetra.

So welcome to the school? Branch? So many. Haha.
India also. Pakistan also. Etcetra.

I PROMISE I WILL FINISH THE NOVEL THIS YEAR. AT LEAST THE INITIAL DRAFT. SO MANY IDEAS BUT MUST WRITE ON PAPER. Rant over. Kthxbye.

This is for You.

You, of the auburn hair
And the sordid brain-
And that little emboldened self
That hid behind so many masks
Of beauty and desire-
Of love and lies-
Of femininity and feminism.

Tell me- just this much-
Do our rum-soaked evenings
Full of laughter laced with ululating
Lullabies ever come to you
Lulling you in the selfsame labourless sleep?
And when sitting at the curb of the river
Of unhappiness, do you still feel a gentle pull
A tug, away from the despair?

And when he did whatever he did with
The conative phallus destroying your cognition
Does it also penetrate your interiors, upsetting
The ambience within? Still?
Won't there be a little space for me in those
Devastated nooks, where I can sit and echo
Into your insides, the azaan that you liked so well.

Or is it that, I also recall in the sunrise-
Or the sunset, is it, only a golden dash of yourself?
When all the murk, that flows down your body,
Bending upon your groin, only seems to scintillate to me?
And when I try to remember your name,  have I lost it
Somewhere, between a thought, and a memory?

Free Falling - Tom Petty (Cover by John Mayer)

One song that I always go to. Speaks to me, this song. I really wish I could say more.

Link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=20Ov0cDPZy8

She's a good girl, loves her mama
Loves Jesus and America too
She's a good girl, crazy 'bout Elvis
She loves horses and her boyfriend too, yeah yeah

And it's a long day livin' in Reseda
There's a freeway runnin' through the yard
I'm a bad boy 'cause I don't even miss her
I'm a bad boy for breakin' her heart

And I'm free, free fallin', fallin
And I'm free, free fallin', fallin

All the vampires walkin' through the valley
They move west down Ventura Boulevard
And all the bad boys are standing in the shadows
And the good girls are home with broken hearts

And Im free, free fallin', fallin
Now Im free, free fallin', fallin

Free fallin', now I'm free fallin
Now I'm free fallin, now I'm free fallin
Now I'm free fallin, now I'm free fallin
Now I'm free fallin, now I'm free fallin

I wanna glide down over Mulholland
I wanna write her, her name in the sky
I'm wanna free fall out into nothin'
Oh, Im gonna leave this, this world for a while

Now Im free, free fallin', fallin
Now Im free, free fallin', fallin
Now Im free, free fallin', fallin
Now Im free, free fallin', fallin

Free fallin, fallin
Free fallin, fallin
Free fallin, fallin

Still

The charred pieces lay amidst the grey-black ash,
As the darkness engulfs even the smallest of embers
And as I dust my piano, closed for a year,
The yellowed ivory feels foreign to my skin.

Foreign, as your touch on the small of my back
When we made frigid love in cold environs
And I sit in front of my piano, telling myself
That I can play, as the music escapes me.

Little by little, I feel the warm embalming of tears
Leave my eyes, and heal the diseased keys.
I close my piano then, only for the vision of a new sun
That'll leave, as the day is gone, and I'll set another
Page of my written symphonies to fire.

Night after night.
I'll remember you, still.

Strive to Hide

In the faint glow of the moonlight

That entered through the cracked panes

Of her KJ Marg abode, she saw a golden

Square sachet open that night- and she

Cried in agony as the bed squeaked under

Both of their weight. And when the phallus

Had retreated into its leathery loneliness-

She quietly looked at the chipped ceiling

While hearing his deep snores by her side.

In the faint glow of the moonlight 

That entered through the cracked panes

Of her KJ Marg abode, he was glad that

That her screams muffled his inner voices

The bed squeaked, after he directed the 

Condom packet away from himself, lest

Anybody saw the tear tracks down his face.

And once, a little too soon, he was done, 

In his dreams, he silently met his dead bride.

In the faint glow of the moonlight 

That entered through the cracked panes

Of her KJ Marg abode, she saw the two 

Writhing in deep sombre lust- And she saw the 

Golden glow of the sachet on the wall, smiled

And counted the cash again as she walked away 

To scuffle to another room, another person

Until someone rang a bell, and the Vulture

Swooped with a smile, the entire night.

In the faint glow of the moonlight

That entered through the cracked panes

Of her KJ Marg abode, alas, a lot was dark still.

And in the darkness, and the golden hues

Off packs of condoms and in the dizzying fog

Of cigarettes, alcohol and misunderstanding, 

People walked past, heads buried with shame

Deep wrinkles of disgust and desire,

Everything that they strive to hide.

The Letter Among the Leaves

Tomorrow, maybe when I
Bend down and look under these
Crunchy brown leaves, that have witnessed
Autumns too many- maybe, tomorrow
I won't find that letter, yellowed with age
That was traced by your hand- that the wind
Blew one night away as I sat on my sill-
And read it for the umpteenth time
Saw how your d's started from the top and
Ended at the little round- which was incidentally
Never round. I would stretch my hand out to reach
And you would tell me how stupid I was to hold on
To something so material, so superficial, and I-
Just like the little grey clouds floating by on a cold
November morning, would disintegrate and cry.
And you would- that night- make relentless love to me
All would be forgotten in the spring of ecstacy-
Until we pant back and roll away from each other in the heat.
I would softly turn my head towards you and watch you drift away-
While I would sit in anticipation of another autumn-
And the monsoons would be ruthless.
The letter among the leaves must have gotten wet.

Another year. 

Sheen of that steel spoon

That dry taste- the orange through

The brown and yellow- swallow

And bile rises again.

To another year.