welcome home

airplanes fly
in and out of my sight
I turn to follow
their trails
as they disappear into
the sun

home bound
or not
carrying with them
little blots
of inky memories
which chase
each other
as sleep comes
knocking, crashing

I remember the Alps
and the lovely, comfortable
ache down the tendons
of my neck
that came
with globetrotting
and wanderlusting

irises reflecting
midnight rain
on cobblestoned streets
smells of memories
telling stories
of that last night
in Rome

you invariably live
in transcendence
in ships and planes
roads and pubs
where you left
parts of you
behind
daring to come and be one
when you raise your eyes
to face the blue of the sun
and the flight of birds
and you spot an airplane
flying in and out
of your sight
and you turn to follow its trail
as it disappears.

the ghosts that haunt

irises

busy in the wait

to one night

wake up to the northern lights

the purple

and the green

reflected in

eyelashes -

eyelashes that have 

seen the lights

lights which shone

inside you

finger tips

touch memories

of your skin

the scars

from windows 

and forgotten 

rough handling

finger tips

that want to

be in Provence

among the lavender

the landscapes

and the sheer

surreality of it all

and the crazed

smear of a heart

which remembers 

hazes

blots

showers

gear boxes

choco shots

and little children

selling balloons

from 1958

a midnight conversation
with an old
long-lost friend

no inkling
where i am
or about the
whereabouts
of my heart

days were spent
roads traveled
deadlines met
cities made
homes of
and then bid
goodbyes to

the only constant
was this one love
one written in
poetry and old
hindi songs
the ones
which make you
tune into
on chilly rainy nights
when the yellow
of the cab
is reflected in
that happy yellow
place
of your heart

there's no tomorrow.
there's now
and you.
the only two dimensions
which matter.

kerouac and travel

I have eternally been hunting for a sort of exaltation that can only come with travel. With wine and cheese, French windows and hearing a homeless man play the accordian on some forgotten cobble-stoned street of Montmartre. Or chancing upon a dainty little thing sitting by the Sienne looking up at Notre Dame and sketching away on her small notepad, which could not even dream of doing justice to what her eyes saw and the way her fingers went. Walking through Parisian streets, with a craned neck - looking up at arches and little potted plants which more than outdid themselves by making this old city the prettiest ever. Through lit nights, and stirring dawns.

Or hauling luggage down thirty streets and between a change of trains, only to be greeted by a rather lazy sunset in a sleepy town in the Alps. As the blue of the evening sky melted into an inky sprawl, my heart could not help but return to those nights after nights spent alone, and the past year which had brought with it so much harm and bitterness. The ache in my shoulders may not let me sleep tonight - but it fills me with a sense of satisfaction that is mine, and mine alone. To be known by nobody else.

They must've fastened these wanderlusting wings at my ankles right at birth. They make me restless, always thirsting for more.
Knowing more.
Seeing more.
Being more.

still more immense

a street child

walked up to our car

and knocked

"you'll get married.

..real soon."

i laugh

as youth laughs

i turn around

look at him -

his laugh lines

approach the crinkle

of his eyes

i ask the child

"are you sure?"

she nods.

i tell him to give her 

paper money

no coins business

woh boli

shaadi hoga!

i tell him

he had

missed the obvious

that used to be

my love story

as simple

and uncomplicated

as that

Books written for girls - II

thirteen days before
that evening

I wrote some lines
some winter melancholy
that leaked out
on the pages
of my journal

three christmases later
we have stretched ourselves
into the longest
winter
of our lives

one that's beaten
the warmth
I have faint
recollections of

sometimes
when we don't
remain us
and memories
of sounds and smells
become associated with
freckles and frowns
roads and restaurants
serving as reminders
of little milestones
down the road
you took

that's when it
all hits you

now I think separation is okay
you're no star to guide me anyway
you only wanted me to play a fool
play by your rule

london, you beauty

There will be some cities you live in which won't feel like home. Until it's time to say goodbye. You'll probably return, but only as a visitor. Someone with return tickets reserved, someone who has things to do and people to meet- all in a few days. Never again will you languish in the enormity of time that the city has to offer to you.

Perhaps you moved here with big dreams and a broken heart. Maybe you left your family and friends behind, your dog behind. Only to sleep on a single bed which is too springy for you, and a carpeted floor which doesn't have the usual sight of your dog sleeping on it. The first few months will obviously be spent grappling with the whirlwind of nervous excitement mingled with homesickness. You'll approach everything cautiously, trying to find your way around, learning names of roads, making mental notes of landmarks. You'll buy yourself a potted plant and name it Sally, only to make your apartment that you share with four other grown people - probably a decade older than you - feel more like home. (Don't be surprised if you find yourself talking to Sally on a particularly grey Tuesday afternoon, asking her if you made the right decision to move halfway across the world.)

You'll miss your food, your tongue, your cotton shirts - and your shoulders will protest loudly at the switch you made from your colourful tropical country to this one right by the Atlantic. You'll miss your television and your cinema, all of which was so inane that it all makes sense right now. You'll realize just how valuable the walls of your house were. They represented something that seems overwhelming - the solidity your father stands for, the certainty only your mother knows how. And the years they've spent in making sure you know you're loved.

But this story is not about them. It isn't about home. It's about that little place inside of you which has grown up that tiny bit - the part of you which has learnt how to console itself every time you miss the warmth of familiarity. It's the same one which brought you here in the first place, which stood by you as you battled the weeks where you cried yourself to sleep. But when you finally accepted the distance and found your place in the labyrinth of this chaos, it was the one which came out of you, assumed a life of its own and started to exist outside of you. And that's the one that's saying to you: you don't have the slightest clue just how much you're going to miss all of this hard work and loneliness.

trans-atlanticism

music in a quiet room
too loud
too much for the
fuzziness
in your head
to catch

water under the bridge
is never coming back

what remains though
and fast in place
are the scars
you receive
in love
and battles

they attempt to
fade into and
become one
with your skin
your skin.
rough and smooth
cool on a summer's afternoon
enveloping
on a noisy rainy night

across borders
and horizons
under our skies
and different ones

it's a bitter sweet
symphony
elaborate and how
varied, meandering
the empty lines
of my verse filled
with some musings
of his own

Uppercase

I heard a friend
complain
complain about work
and the pitfalls
of too much exercise

And I think
how running too much
and then stopping
to catch your breath
can be anything
other than a cause for poetry
juxtaposed with
a pink sky
which is soon going to transcend
into an inky one
one where fireflies
call out
to one another
hoping far across the globe
and the atlantic
a mate would hear
their longing

This planet is spinning
too fast for us
to be on our feet
and stand too
and human emotions
caught in time's hair
to be free
free from fear
and explode out
like his voice
when he laughs

Laughter
that is becoming
a little too intermittent
and laugh lines
a little too faded
against rain and sun

Here,
all I see
are clouds.

no.

is it always going to be a story
where i keep chancing upon
me wanting life to look more like
an airline timetable

we will have to think of catering
and more on-board entertainment

whatever it is
planning an escape
has never really required
the new season
of new girl

only
a
plan.

filmon wala pyaar

trials, tribulations

re-discovery, tussles

all that have 

made 2009

(that year!

rather, that year end)

all that it has

come to be

mean and represent

great love stories

start young

young enough

to believe in 

traditions

and annual rituals

and maintain

small shoe boxes

of movie stubs

that serve as 

memory

of the immensity 

that just happened

and then

oceans decide

to change course

and come between

more movie stubs

going into

the hush puppies box

till this moment

when life itself

becomes a moment

in transit

where two suitcases

sit permanently

beneath my bed

as i sleep

hoping someday

they will see

all the clothes

that they saw

on the one day

in september

when deep pools of brown

became only

a vacation thing

a thing to

say goodbye to

again and again

but we're 

getting there

almost there

in this time

and space

meandering oceans

and double

sunrises

are not defeats

for you and me