Yellow Light
Tears roll down the glass, even as a lingering sun bids adieu in the background. The red of the wine is a luminous, nostalgic red as if to say that all my love was trapped in that traveling bottle of wine.
I look at the cracks on the ancient stone, gleaming in the melancholic yellow light that has now come on.
Yellow light,
on unpolished wood.
On the parched pages of my book,
edges blunted by the vagaries of time.
The stars are up
in the night sky.
Hanging,
like wet clothes in the balcony,
on a windless day.
You are distant, like the farthest star.
Throbbing away in your own story.
I can see your glimmer.
But can you see me?
Can you see me
writing in this halo
of yellow light?
Like an insignificant blip
on an obscure planet.
The bread is warm now. It has taken on a strange colour, taking me to our yellow lit dinners. Meals of song and conversation. I break into a smile even as your laughter echoes, in the empty rooms of my heart.
I let the tears meet the ocean of red in the glass, and take a gentle sip.
An Unusual Generosity
Littered over cafes,
in unkempt gardens,
and in clandestine corners
of cinema halls,
is an unsual generosity.
A willingness to ziplock
one world and move
curiously, into the other.
A kind of generosity
that can heal the world,
if we so choose.
A keeping behind of
our lives, albeit,
for a while
to peep into the world
of the other.
A day, when the right,
camps at the left's
liberal, open fields,
distant from the grime.
And the left,
stays over at the right's
insular but happy homes.
To be able,
to converse
with as much ease
with a truck driver
at a forlorn dhaba,
as you would
with a vice-president
at a shancy fivestar.
To walk with
men of
soil and sweat
as with
men of wine and
fine articulation.
Learn from these young,
forgiving lovers.
There may just be room,
for an unusual generosity.
Khaali Jagah
There is an occasional space.
An empty quiet.
Between you,
and the world.
The real, breathing world.
Of family, friends, work
and locomotives.
You may be a person of people.
Or an awkward recluse.
But you will feel this haunting gap.
In the middle of a conversation,
when the humour gets distasteful.
When someone compromises that
which you hold absolutely fundamental.
This space exists.
All the time.
It is your distance from an unequal world.
And that uncomfortable silence,
is your question.
Fill it with
your love,
your art,
your work,
your warmth,
your understanding.
Travel tirelessly.
Until that day,
when your questions,
merge into your answers.
The Last Nomad
I am an effortless wanderer.
A consumer of the world.
My mind is rich with opinion.
And my stories, pulled out
from distant corners of the planet.
I have friends,
brimming with wisdom
and the humour of a
hundred stand-ups lined up together.
Over the years,
my travel has made me less discerning.
I 'like' almost everything now.
A sign of dwindling taste? - No.
Only my generosity, I guess.
My favoured form of travel,
is black and white.
Sometimes, moving images too.
A daily meditation of sorts.
I need not my two feet,
no airplane, bus, train.
All that, is old school.
Me.
They call me The Last Nomad.
Thud.
Thud.
She enters.
A smile, a dress, and gorgeous hair in tow.
Also, the foul Bombay air.
The windows roll up quickly.
Folders change.
Favourite song.
Sound-proof.
Check.
I loosen my seat belt,
to accomodate an awkward hug,
and a peck on the cheek.
Our little home-on-the-move.
Moves.
She plays with her hair,
secretly correcting it from the side-view.
Talks about her day.
Her enthusiasm, hands, and words
articulately choreographed.
We are distant.
From the smoke, the asking hands,
the perspiration.
Our air-cooled bubble in Bombay.
Time stops, in traffic jams.
Lives don't.
They stare into our world.
with their nose punched against the window.
Their only identity.
A little drag mark on glass.
On the other side,
a neighbour is talking on the phone.
Complaining about the traffic.
Making plans -
Bombay's favourite passtime.
Drops of water pound the windscreen.
And in no time, the vapour forms a
gorgeous curtain.
Our home, even more intimate.
We increase the temperature,
rub each other's hands.
The stooping orange lights,
the sound of hungry horns
and the quiet of empty lanes
take us to your destination.
The hug is more comfortable now.
A sense of parting
makes us stretch in unseeming ways.
You smile, assuringly.
And tell me that you will call.
There is a sense of impending quiet.
So, I ramp up the volume.
And see you smile through the window.
Before my home is empty again,
with the now familiar sound of the
closing door.
Thud.
Mozzarella
I have noticed.
Ever so often,
you get distracted
by the mirage of
the Mozzarella.
I understand that
the prestige
lies in that
fine layer on top.
But know this, my love.
The Pizza is more
than its mozzarella.
Just like in his cartoons.
Guide To Being Artsy
Learn a few exotic words.
Intruiguing, magical, cerebral, intricate, layered, surreal, avant-garde.
Then a few more.
Consult yours truly for a vocabulary course.
Throw them around in conversation.
Especially avant-garde.
Not too often, but every now and then.
Learn the correct pronunciation.
Pause at the end of every thought,
and reference it to a popular philosophy.
Wiki Marxism, Neo-capitalism and Egalitarianism,
for starters.
Go watch theatre wearing organic cotton.
Incessantly critique Bollywood.
And do not watch Hollywood blockbusters.
It can get suffocating, yes.
But keep at it.
You might want to embellish your appearence too.
Kurtas, spectacles, kohl-eyes.
They still fly.
Be careful, not to go the hippy route, though.
Quote poets.
Smoke [up] if you can.
Overdo but do not downplay.
Worry not.
The world survives on stereotypes.
And first impressions.
You know it.
So play it.
It will take a while.
You don't have the edge yet.
You dress like no one.
And everyone.
You speak the common tongue.
Lost in the crowd, always.
We are an unattractive people.
Our lot.
So, stand out.
Be Artsy.
Creating art is a lot easier.
Word's Worth
I chose not to take the umbrella. It was a murky, monsoon evening. The kinds when mothers call every twenty minutes to warn of impending thunderstorm.
Fifteen minutes earlier, I handpicked my favourite Words and tossed them into my shirt pocket. I had to walk with my Words today. An evening stroll, say.
As I walked out, there was the familiar sound of automobile. Hawkers were performing. Urban middle class littered the street, desperate to find empty rickshaws.
The rain had arrived. Foreplaying with a drizzle for four minutes. Only.
I walked into a smaller, unkempt lane full of crumbling apartments and clandestine love.
No sooner did I hit an uneven patch of tar than, Truth almost fell off. I readjusted my footing and placed Truth back into the pocket constantly aware of her fragile manufacture.
I walked carefully but caution can do little against a sadistic fate. Humour, the lazy bastard, was sleeping away until I slipped on a patch of moss. And fell hard on my butt. He laughed hard and long. I was quite disappointed with his taste, frankly. I waited a while and then started walking again.
The clouds were delirious, the water trying ever so hard to erode my film of polluted skin.
In such a tempest, Courage drowned herself, almost. She was right at the bottom, below Gratitude. I pulled her out and placed her right on top. Just where she belongs. She was beaming with pride.
Gratitude, on the other hand, was insecure in such august company. She was gravitating towards a corner, constantly thanking me for including her in the list. I reminded her to not be strategic, but honest. And so, I pushed her towards Truth.
I was now walking through a rare and rather remarkable portion of the city. Massive banyan trees were drooping in to make conversation. They were old, wise and humble. Humility paid his respect by bowing to their majesty.
My pocket garnered a lot of attention from the passers-by. It was filled to the brim with heavy-weights.
I quickly ran through the back road, even as the words bumbled about with Happiness. Happiness, meanwhile, was simply being happy.
It was pouring now and the mother was calling every twenty seconds. There was never a more potent alarm.
I was drenched by the time I got home. Rushed hurriedly into the room and placed my friends back into their respective homes.
Wow. I felt lighter.
Even as Emptiness lay there on the side, smiling.
Post-It Notes
Each time I buy a pack,
shrink-wrapped and delicious,
they come home with the promise
of changing my world.
I am inspired.
I quickly pull out an old, parched marker.
Sometimes, even buy a new one, specially.
To scribble a reckless future on yellow, flaky paper
that dangles precariously on cracked walls.
Like the tomorrow of consummate lovers.
The world is my oyster.
The goals carefully marked out, in capital,
stare at me, every day.
I throw my life aspiration into the arms of the universe.
Just as certain books ask me to.
Time passes.
I wear silly, green slippers and run sloppily in drizzling rain.
Glint in the eye, beaming smile.
Say kem cho to the friendly stationery shop uncle,
and spurt out my favourite line.
"Uncle, ek Post-It Notes nu packet aap jo ne"
Hope is a motherfucker.
Best Friends
Two best friends were drinking at the bar.
One was called Destiny.
The other, Free-Will.
Destiny called for two beers.
The bartender threw in one for free.
So, he ended up with three instead.
He looked towards Free-Will,
and winked.
Free-Will called for two beers too.
He got two, as ordered.
Looked at Destiny,
and winked.
They drank their bit.
Philosophizing every now and then.
"Humans", they sighed,
"Are such complicated fucks."
"And we make their lives no better".
"Hahahahaha".
The Everyday Poet
Will you spare me a minute or two?
That is all I will take.
You do not have more to give either.
Worry not.
I will not talk about the intricate beauty of the last dandelion.
Or bring to you the gurgling wisdom of the mountain rivers.
No stories of rustling leaves, no walk in the woods either.
That is not us.
They are the strip joints of the modern world.
We titillate ourselves in air-cooled tents by the lakeside.
Buy weekend packages from off-beat travel companies.
Eat Punjabi food, in rural Maharashtra.
That. Is us.
We are women of malls.
Men of pubs.
The monarchs of Saturday Nights.
We devour our Twitter timeline.
And some still survive on the spam called Newsfeed.
Most of us Whatsapp.
A miserable few, BBM, still.
We all want to start our own things.
Have more followers.
Learn to play the guitar.
And get in shape.
I love us.
Meet me.
I am all of you.
Your Everyday Poet.
Ants
So, these two ants were hangin' out one day.
By the pond, they started talking.
"In my previous life, I was a devout, religious lady. I spent a lifetime dedicated to the cause of the Lord. I read from the Holy Book everyday, spent nine hours in the temple, observed fasts, did not sin, nothing."
The other ant replied in astonishment.
"You ought to be kidding. My life was the same gig. Everyday spent reading His texts, attending kirtans, passionately seeking His abode. You know, let me tell you this, .. ."
It seemed like a heart-aching monologue was in the making, when suddenly, the two of them got trampled by a human shoe.
On its way to the temple.
Ma
No, not Mumma.
This is a Japanese word.
It roughly translates into interval.
The silence between a heartbeat.
That.
Empty spaces fascinate me.
They always have a story to tell.
Between the time he got angry,
and rioted.
Was a story. He told himself.
Ma.
The potter's pot,
with that big, protruding belly -
makes for a fine chap.
But in the vastness of its hollow,
dances its soul.
Homes, decked up in grandeur,
allow no room for creation.
They are always celebrating.
I like spartan, minimal homes,
that allow us to be, to breathe.
To take in the space.
Own it.
Ma.
Like the Mother.
May be the answer to all of life's questions.
Ticketless Traveller
I peer into them.
Like a child looks into a well.
Move the strand of hair,
that plays security check.
I come a little closer,
so that I can travel
more intimately.
And then, like a baffling magic trick,
I disappear.
First, to a quaint, green village you call home,
where the scarecrow basks under an uncultured mid-day sun.
You are visiting your favourite.
I see you run by ancient trees, bumbling cottages, and crooked brooks.
And then, effortlessly,
you trip on an ant hill.
Yet again.
The scarecrow grins.
You get up and laugh loudly at your own bufoonery.
Clown.
I jet-set next,
to that obscure flat in a crowded suburb,
where you spend hours with an old, forlorn grandmother,
drinking up her life.
She relives it in ways a Timeline cannot ever duplicate.
And finally,
you take me quickly,
to meet your trees.
Your wise friends of many years.
I eavesdrop on your conversation.
You, like you often do,
are asking them to loosen up,
and sway a little.
They seem reluctant.
Stuck up, losers.
I return to the quiet, empty room.
There is the tungsten bulb for company.
And one of our many fans.
I move my eyes away yours,
smiling as I create distance.
I rest against the yellow wall.
And exhale gently.
Travelling was never this easy.
And cheap.
Ha.
Happy Independence Day
It is night sky.
The sun is far away. Lighting up the other side.
Moonlight is clumsy, as always.
Trying to make sense in the company of old, grey clouds.
But there are travellers.
Young, passionate, courageous.
Lost in the mystique of the dark.
In search of bright.
Let them not fall in love with the night.
For darkness is beautiful. And dangerous.
On this August 15th.
You and I.
We may not light up the night sky.
But.
Let's be fireflies.
At least.
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