strangers in the house

maybe it's geography
or the bridges that mark
your topography
that separate

rather than doing
what they're meant
and named for
bridg-ing

maybe it was that
one saturday morning
where he wept,
yearning for my return
while you wept
yearning for me to leave
leave from the
deepest corners in your soul
that I had come to inhabit

and leave I did
as someone fond of
a sea-side apartment
is suddenly made aware
(notarized et al)
that this is their last month
as tenants
of the breeze coming in
from the west

and torridity
replaces the smiles
and blue wagon drives
and the cool blue
of tropical monsoons
parching my heart
leaving it yearning
for those eyes
which I no longer see

which I may never see
even as I cry
cry for freedom
cry freedom

port code

full circle
and / or numbered squares?
will I be punished
for trying to play
tic tac toe
with this great plan
that is life

I sit wondering
what cities and people
skylines
and names of rivers
mean for you and me

it's a bad idea to
return
to read old poetry

You'd think you know a city

... but then one Tuesday morning

you take a particularly rickety bus 

down Calcutta's oldest streets

named after forgotten zamindars

but one which is lined by derelict buildings

and ruins

which still speak of colonial times

in the typical tongue of 

red-brick-yellow-shutter-windows

the yellow of the windows

has long leaked into paths

that found their way into the sea

to be replaced by the wilderness

which has mauled its way into

balconies, crevices, ornate carvings

refusing to be overshadowed by

this world

and its neons and its fluorescents 

your bus struggles for your eyes 

to meet the Grand Oberoi,

peep into the now-empty

lane of New Market

before you chance upon the 

vast expanse of the Indian Museum

it takes the commercial towers

of Chatterjee International

and Tata Steel to lull you

further into mental notes

of the poetry happening within

before the suburbs are hit

and these words are buried under

the noises of everyday

deadlines and subsequent futilities

begonia avenue

this night is lonely
and with you
lonelier still

I fidget with gadgets
which range across
colour and proportion
stained with hues
of years spent battling
against time
and ourselves

try crawling under
the blanket
when cub and home
come calling
and leave me wondering
why homesickness
strikes but surely
even as you lie
right there

home is after all
you
and nothing
at once

it is then
that this crazed thing
my mind
takes me to the cold
pane of the window
that I don't open
for its creak
I wait long enough
marking the unmarked horizon
and for three trucks to pass by
before finding the
will and melancholy
to want to
date stamp this
into foreverness

insignificance

sometimes
on Tuesday evenings that stretch into
forevers
you come to mind

you, whose name I haven't decided
who lives in swirls
of red and hues of it
who is a constant companion
in the loneliness that comes
with this soul
and all the poetry

hazes visit you
your irises
they tell you of the look I had on my face
yesterday
whilst I waited for nothingness
and the tips of my fingers
when they touch the keys
to write what I don't feel

perhaps it is solace
or puppy breath
or rain on that verandah
illuminated by street lights
or maybe almond cookies
that conspire within their hearts
to replace your thoughts

your thoughts that come trotting
wearing gum boots
smiling
waving
promising
and confusing

they leave huge footprints
and in all the wrong places
and when she comes knocking
tomorrow morning
she'll be wondering
who exactly wears gum boots
in the balm that
comes with june

post dated

Little twinkles of
Yellow and red
Illuminate the horizons
Beyond the trains
Which chug into
The station
Following each other
Almost out of habit
And having known
No other parallels

The white shining down
On my eyes
Feels hazy
Blurry
And pale in comparison
With the light
Reflecting off the orb

I feel one
Singular.
After a lifetime

Will the night
Be disrupted
Interrupted
Greeted almost
With demons
Crying out
Uncaged?

The impatience
Is almost palpable
While we wait for
Our train
Our ride
Home. 

backpacking

to be a 

nomad.

have a soul

which has its bags

packed at all times

how many

skylines

has my poetry

twisted into its

own words,

flown along with

the Thames

and Seine

in equal measure

using wilderness

as an excuse for

the lack of

punctuation

and intertwined fingers

as a canvas for

syntax.

the number of 

dreams

lost between sheets

and pillows

of hotels

whose names

I find hard

to remember

the heart used to have a home.

flung across oceans

and distanced

by barbed wires

of warring communities.

wars are no longer

external.

I could use

my fingertips

to count

the words

traced along

my waist

after love felt

sleepy.

and the heart felt

full.

this -

before the vagaries

of time and space

hollowed it out

left it thinking

of better times

and if they were even

real.

50 for 1500

Only if they hung lower in the sky
You
I
And these city lights
Oh baby
We'd be one with the stars