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Catfishes

There are black

Squirming bodies

Trapped inside an icebox;

Catfishes with antennas

Fishmonger with his ax

And catfishes believe

Their antennas are stronger.

Few human cats

Prowl around the white box

Peep to smell fear

And the catfishes are still wet.

Only their whiskers twitch

Besides their wide-open eyes

When their black blood seep

They know they are dying

Should I ask them to calm

Down before death?

Or watch the evening steal

Their hue and sell them to night? 

Reward

All that is beautiful

 

Gets rewarded in this world

 

Flowers get their fragrance

 

Butterflies get their honey

 

Clouds get their rain

 

Lightning get its thunder

 

Nature gets its spring

 

Sex gets its sweat

 

Streams get their ocean

 

Snow gets its ice

 

Books get their words

 

Home gets its windows

 

Pain gets its lessons

 

Time get its future

 

Tunnels get their darkness

 

Night gets its solitude

 

Wind gets its howling

 

Shadows get their form

 

Mountains their peak

 

Birds the sky

 

You, my beautiful,

 

Will get your love.

Tungsten

You wanted me

To save you from all ambiguity

But my tungsten heart

Could only hold so much of light

So little for your pain

You desired to know

Both the future and past

But my tungsten heart

Would guess your tiny breaths

Only to be light-years wrong

You thought maybe

I should burn whole life long

But my tungsten heart

Earned to be within darkness

In my own cold little space

You called me a coward

For who doesn’t need warmth?

But my tungsten heart

Knew it’s getting thinner

And will soon cease to burn.

In November

In November, in Delhi,

I see a mirror when I dream.

The mirror writing

Decodes into a warm body

That my soul needs for the lonely winter

In dreams, we are easily defeated

So I burn my thoughts

To keep me warm but

In November, in Delhi,

The sorrow, the cold,

Always return.

The seconds freeze and expand

As I pass in and out of sleep

Dreadful of the dim morning light

And another day in grey

Knowing

In November, in Delhi,

It is spring for those who love

And winter for those who could not.

It is clear for those who love

And foggy for those who would not

I take few memories

And burn them through the night but

In November, in Delhi,

The sorrow, the cold,

Always return.

Kaveri Maha Pushkaram

The sound of talking drum

Fell with painful thuds

Like the dance of the parched rocks

All along the course of dying Kaveri

The poor kingdom on her riverbed

Came out of their doomed homes

To hear the good news at last

And they heard it like a whimpering dog

Tortured to an extent it forgot what it means to be loved

Rejoice, the talking drum bellowed,

Kaveri is to be released from the dam finally

And the river after a long long time

Will flow like a maiden again

Then the talking drum changed tone and sneered,

But not for you, farmer, her true love,

You who eat your own shit for a chance to meet her

For a chance to feel her running through your fingers

For a chance to make love to her

For a chance to celebrate her

But the ten thousand cubic water released per second,

Capable of irrigating acres of your land,

Capable of erasing all your sorrows,

Capable of bringing a thousand suns to your dim households,

Is for the men who for thousand years dominated you

For a religious custom, you can never participate

For a one hundred and thirty-four year tradition that you will never understand

For sustaining a reason that reduces you to a slave

And you will accept it without a sound

Like you accept so many things

Including your premature death.

Saying thus the talking drum retreated

Back to the dungeons of the wicked,

Yet powerful men.

When I see a lonely bird

When I see a lonely bird

I get sad like its loneliness

 

When I see a lonely bird

I’m afraid the moment will disappear like December fog

 

When I see a lonely bird

I wade in the sea of poetry that washes me ashore

 

When I see a lonely bird

I’m all the discarded yet beautiful things in life

 

When I see a lonely bird

I become the dark storm clouds that cross mainland

 

When I see a lonely bird

I remember that the world is built on stories of the dead

 

When I see a lonely bird

I’m aware of the constant color changing sky

 

When I see a lonely bird

I hear soothing songs from an old transistor

 

When I see a lonely bird

I converse with the evil hovering above me

 

When I see a lonely bird

I realize I will always find a friend in nature

 

When I see a lonely bird

I envision the splendid moon blooming beside me

 

When I see a lonely bird

I count the number of grass I have rested upon

 

When I see a lonely bird

I’m as still as I’m flowing

 

When I see a lonely bird

I’m as anxious as I’m excited

 

When I see a lonely bird

I’m reminded I am human too.

 

Samosas for a Giant

It is said that in a factory in the North

Millions of samosas are made for a single

Foul smelling Giant who eats them all day long

Munching the mixture on its greedy yellow teeth

Stopping only to smack its lip or to let out a burp

Before ordering millions again

The giant is very particular that the samosas

Must be similar in size, all of them, no innovation,

No change in taste or face its uncontrollable fury

And thus the factory continues to run on the fuel of fear

Deceiving itself that it would be rewarded,

Each samosa repaid in the future with developments

And underestimating the appetite of the Giant

 

The truth is that the Giant doesn’t even love somosas very much

 

It just wants to control the potato population

That vegetates underground in different shapes and sizes

And usually, have a rebellious attitude to see above ground

The giant doesn’t like the ones who want to stare at sky and wonder

It wants resources that it can use to build up its own strength

And thus the Giant mush potatoes and stuff them inside a custom wrap

Frying them in hot boiling oil to kill them and eat

Munching the mixture on its greedy yellow teeth

Stopping only to smack its lip or to let out a burp

Before ordering millions again.

 

Keymakers

9818888536

Call this number

To make a key for you

Any key that you require

For any door that you want to unlock

Do not worry about your heart

They will never make a copy unless you want them to

They are glad they could help you

Sharpening their tools they await

For your clandestine approach

They understand what it means to ask

The key that will open a door of your desires

The door beyond which is a free fall that you crave

Selected from the history of men they select the key

That repeats and resembles your want

And tailor it to the strength of your eyes;

When the hot forged metal is pressed on your palm

It dissolves inside you to unload all the pain

That you have been carrying so long alone

And your smile is received as payment

For their service.

Maula Ali

Maula Ali is an empty

Railway station that you may cross

Thugthugthugthugthagaging

Your way to Hyderabad

The station smirks at you

Showing you just glimpses

Of its serenity

Before disappearing into

Your incapacity to stop time

You press your cheeks

On the cold iron grill

And try to follow the station

Bach! It’s long gone,

Along with it the heart

Of a rain fed morning

That you fell in love for seconds.

Oh! The heartbreak!!

The glistening tracks

Listen to you grieve

And they console your tears

By convincing them to go back

Into eyes and rewind the memory

Of

A rain fed morning

A lonely station

Maula Ali

A sky blue bench

Thickets with blooming flowers

You with a coffee mug

Looking like you know the place

And time

You with a smile

Knowing you were once

In a train that hurtled past the station

You, then,

Not knowing the place or time

Or anything

That was happening your life.

Maula Ali an empty railway station

That you may reflect

Thugthugthugthugthagaging

Your way to Hyderabad is now

Distant both from your past and future

Waiting for you

To cross the memory again.