meanders

in a monochromatic world

amidst the howling

of the rain

and the winds

that change direction

every few seconds

discussions about 

being ghosts in this city

a city that's not home

yet a city which 

tries

all the time

with an episode of kindness

or a noisy train ride

chance meetings

and a few

unplanned nights

yet it is stories

from ethiopia

and the occupation

in egypt

iran defenses

cross-border loves

that draw me in

make me aware

of my histories

and trajectories

life among a billion

other people

and dents we manage 

to create

on this vast planet

of blue

and among big 

deep drops of blue

background music

Two weeks ago, we completed three years together. What an amazing time it's been, and Shoelaces Undone, right here - has seen it all. Music, the lavender splashed right across my way to school, companionship, anger, jealousy - just about everything - singularity, plurality, Cubby-ness and a world without him.

Those times, generations ago when they were married to one another, was a different world all together. Love was unquestioning, affection was untainted. My arrival at home would be greeted with her hands stroking him to sleep. Or them playing cards. It's only now that I'm realizing how much of me has been shaped by these little events, these twosome games of Rummy.

Cityscapes

There are two ways of discovering a city.

One is by walking through its streets, getting lost even with a map because you don't have your bearings right. But every wrong turn you take, takes you to a new street which is bustling with activity - and as you walk down the street, you switch off your GPS and just, walk. Walk without aim, without reason and without direction. Walk wherever your feet take you, walk across people outside bars and restaurants too expensive on your student-pocket. Across lights that never turn green for cars, cyclists and pedestrians all at once. So you're always ahead, and you're always behind.

The other is by looking at a city from outside. It is only by being an outsider can you see a city in its wholeness. An airplane landing always has people craning to see the city beneath them. London Eye saw me looking at London the way I had never thought possible - with a little bit of fondness that I may have unconsciously developed for it. I also wondered how different life would be here, if I shared it with someone. If there was some familiarity to hold on to. Someone who knew me beyond my nationality, the tongue I speak or the year I was born in. Beyond my interests, my course and my student ID.

There are two ways of discovering life. Two ways of discovering who you're meant to be.

functions of solitude

Clean up after your dog, it says everywhere here. Or there's an eighty buck fine. Which comes to a lot, but I have to keep reminding myself not to convert everything. In the supermarket, or at stores. I also have to keep reminding myself not to think of my very own shedding monstrous furball all the time. The very thought of him makes walks and bus rides a tad bit difficult.

I arrived here at the beginning of fall, and leaves line sidewalks every morning and evening. Roads look different at different times of the day though. Days and evenings look different themselves, days being more bearable and evenings - well, not even close. The beauty of this city - the zigzagging traffic, the millions of boots mapping their way around and so many words of kindness shared daily, with the knowledge that they might get lost in the humdrum of another weekday - would have been a little more wonderful and intriguing, had thoughts of home not been such regular visitors.

They say that you can feel London winter right through your bones. As is the case with London loneliness. And the fact that when you stare at the clock ticking 21.46, thinking to yourself that it's already tomorrow back home is no easy feeling to live with. What dreams I must be missing. Sleep in the last week and a half has been absolutely dreamless. They have been elusive.

Some home cooked food lines your shelves. You don't touch it. Touching it would make home even more real. It would make your childhood and teenage, so much more tangible. 

thirty

sometimes
you only have
fawn coloured fur
for company

on nights
that could easily
pass off as
the loneliest you've
every known

the day passes by
with an array of
missed calls
and calls returned
but never answered

and the nights -
well
they just don't
seem to want to
come to a close
now, do they?

names that can't be pronounced

i believe you need to be in love to write poetry.
you need to be in love to appreciate poetry
and to think about it later on
even if your computer shows new IMs
or your phone new messages

i believe you need your dog to fall asleep
to look at him with your heart full
and a-gush
(i believe you need your dog to fall asleep
to coin words such as a-gush)

i believe distance breaks
as it is breaking right now

i believe age should never come between people
and neither should circumstances
it makes me want to tip the world
upside down
and send the water of rivers
flowing from deltas to
the highest tip of melting glaciers

i believe people need to feel so alone
that they finally feel complete

i believe it is important sometimes
to believe in the power of divinity
external to oneself

i believe late nights
cause melancholy

WC1E 6BT

there will be

letters and alphabets

in my post code

instead of a usual

106

and a dark passion

post 3 pm

no longer a norm

in this moment

all the wanderlust

fairy dust

globe trotting

an attempt to keep things

safe and warm

inside myself

is flashing itself

shot by shot

one reel 

after another

another 80's film

everybody i know

is tucking their

favourite picture

from some forgotten

and very drunk party

and a phone call

doesn't seem enough

there won't be

unending hours

on swings

or digging into

layered mousse

that mousse 

will be found again

by children

who will grow up

and leave too

and the ajc flyover

will once again

lay dusty and unused

we just crossed the threshold

dark bitter chocolate
hazy moments
through hazy eyes

roots
uprooted
and the earth
scattered
into abysses of
transatlantism

conversations
and laughs
emanating like smoke
now lost into
anonymity

when we leave
globetrotting our ways
into life
attempts to backtrack
and trace back home
will get feeble

in a bullet proof vest
with the windows all closed
i'll be doing my best
and i'll see you soon

and then there was silence

words

time

space

torn

into?

permanence

unacceptable.

dictionary?

ipods

pages

dots

transit

flitting

change.

growth

upkeep

inabilities

The last eight weeks

The last time I hugged a building's walls and cried took me fourteen years of childhood and attachment to get there.

This time it's taken me three.

Walls have gone from yellow to blue, uniforms disappeared and laughs become louder.

Hugs are more generous. And you'd find happiness and despair in abundance.

Right now for instance, I dunno what emotion I'm, well, emoting.

A whirlwind in three years, from people to alcohol stories to heartbreak. I've spent three years in the same corridors, with the same people, gone from eighteen to twenty one, yet I'm getting out of this place three years younger. With a hundred less judgements and a million less rigidities.

So for all the friends you've given me, the countless good lunch breaks, the gazillion odd lunches here and there, and the way you've shown me this city - thank you Jabier's. For the passive smoking and the good conversations, kudos to you, Back Gate. I'll forever be indebted to you.

I leave, forever to return to you. Nothing beyond.

Cubby!

Piece of my heart, the whole of my love.

Tickled most adorably, and floppy ears perpetually Cerelac-smelling.

Cubby, a space and time in my life - a life entwined with mine. Here's to many more sleepless nights, rooms smelling of pee, and dancing around his meals.

I love you.

neon lights

it's shadowy and loud

with not a moment of

quiet

or relief

until they turn on

the lights, spot on

it is in the music

and the revelry

that you realize

tum ho meri

main tumhara

chota sa

sansar humara

aage jaane

ram kya hoga

kehta hai jo

kahe zamana

tera mere

pyaar purana

aage jaane

ram kya hoga

fingers cling

with the hope

and the knowledge

paradoxes entwine

themselves

with the waving

mobile lights

and suddenly both

your hands

are held by

the same person

but not one

obsess

fret

cry

scream

fear

run

but come back

to love.