shining down

have you ever felt like
sending music

to an absolute stranger?

like nobody you know
would understand
the bass of this song
that has you
silent, and wondering
in the middle of the night
in the star light

that's the thing
about music and poetry
and love
they pull you in
shifting your dimensions
until you and infinity

you're one
and endless

on loop

trusting luhrmann on the sunscreen

dance

dance a little darling, won't you?

you don't need the shiny disco lights

or the high tan boots

or even six tequila shots

sometimes you could be dancing

in tandem with the twinkling skyscrapers

and the lights on the sea link

above you

they light up your face

and leave your eyes lit

intermittently

you don't need someone's hand

or another's waist

to dance

just dance

even if it's on your own rug

because the floor is too cold

and your socks are too thin

this time and space

and any other dimensions

you may think of 

are momentary

you might be looking back 

on them in nostalgia

and figure that dusting off

the layers of time and memory

won't paint it in the inky blue

and the hues of red

that you'd want them to look like

so dance a little darling

and make it about yourself

this one time

dance for you

and for your eyes alone

ascending

there's probably nothing I wouldn't do
if I was wearing an oversize shirt

3am, boots and the bottom
of a vodka bottle
see me dance on beds
write poetry and declare my love
for you and the world
off rooftops
dawn isn't far -
they always say
but do they know that
in that moment
3.17 or 3.71am
I have never felt
alive-r
happier
and shinier
in my spot in the sun's moonlight

the cicadas and my parlance
with the stars
is a story woven
in the sleepy undertones of my eyes

take everything

you were yellow
I, a pale lilac

on some nights
you'd paint the town red
leaving me wondering
if I, stuck in this
mezzanine space
would ever
be brushed by
what your heart bled

and then
I mixed palettes
to create a
symphony of waves
that came
crashing you by

the clockwork
of sunrises and sunsets
lunar cycles and moons
and each season of
purple wild flowers
saw your breath
on mine
and an ever increasing
stack of your old
worn out t-shirts

t-shirts
that now see me through
cold nights
spring cleaning
and adventurous days
of spicy chicken dishes
that I fashion

with the 2121 kms
that separate you
from me
it's the lilac
that you are now
and the yellow
that I'll always be
and the red-violet
between us
that will crash us by
today
tomorrow
and after that

light, dust, a little rust

you would think
that the best thing
about globetrotting
would be a worn out,
achy suitcase
stamps on your passport
in different ink
and a slightly
hazed and crazed
mosaic of experiences
collected and forgotten

but the best thing
about travel
is not even a new horizon
or a violently
free sunset

I wish I could take
your hand
and make you stand
where I stood
and show you

the dewy purple
of the milky way
the vast ocean
of the galaxies
that you won't even know
the fairy dust
and the faint lust
of the star dust
a sky celebrating
the light in your
soul
and the dreams
in your eyes
and the violent urge
in every fibre
of your being
to be, to just be
then
there
right there
and gaze.
gaze at the magnificence
of what is being written
before you -
before you feel
a little bit of you
leave you
and join the body
of the star spangled sky
and become one.

it is that moment
when you are
and you believe it more than ever
except you don't

this reality could
not be unparalleled
on the surface
of some violet coloured star
somewhere in this expanse,
where at this moment
a bit of me
must be leaving
to join the body of the
star spangled sky.

drake, iron and wine

send yourself out in the rain
mark crooked windows
them blue window panes
send out ships from your chest
send them out in the rain

the rain which was deep
deeper than the indigo
yesterday
is escaping from the vastness
of the universe
tipping stars over
and finding its way
into your cup of tea today
spread open your finger tips
and invite it in

the late evenings
were full of ghost cars
finding their homes
only to send themselves
out in the rain again
as the earth spun
spun itself silly
the cub's nose remained
as the 'x' in algebra
there
there
ever there

it's after 2 am...well, almost

try to pen verse.

then prose.

and then backspace

on the digital spaces

that thoughts

poetry

dreams

all the noise

that this life 

is, will be -

have come to 

become

numbly

but blaring

voices of truth

try dispensing

what they think

is life-altering

advice, or maybe

it's just nostalgia.

maybe

the five-lettered name

that I call myself

has now come 

to stand on

the outside.

maybe his fingers

can trace

fogged bathroom mirrors

or windshields

without remembering

the bends of those syllables.

come on.

it's just a couple of them

anyway.

and here you are -

beating yourself

with your demons

and cheap liquor

at least sit

with seasoned wine

and have a glass

seated across

the devil.

it's only done.

I hunt around

for inspiration

in words that 

are being penned

every now and then

across the Atlantic.

speaking of the Atlantic

do you ever think 

of stories

that could have been?

of hands that

were too close

and then too far away

all at once.

cry freedom

cry freedom

he would say

with the corner 

of his lips

and his fingertips

when silences around

you both

would strain to engulf 

the otherwise merry songs

bursting forth in your

hearts.

oh how I long

to tell those crooked

eyebrows

that I miss the stupid gaze

underneath

and the way those eyes

would crinkle

everytime I made them

laugh.

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.

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

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.

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. 

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

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.

moonlit are the nights

gushing

and a lot of it

like the first

awkward moment

between you

and the one

you couldn't stop

thinking about

the night after

your first dance

you really did throw

your heels off

and dance like

a mad person

she tells you

how he still

gushes over

that one night

and inside

that eighteen-something-ness

takes over

you don't know

whether you wanna

turn old and grey

or stay right here

longing

and being longed for

summer songs

winter nights

monsoon rains

autumn leaves

and the colours

they bring

how many adventures

are you to bring

the smiles

and the tears

to continue

just don't

run out on me

not my playlist

a sunlit morning

i'm alone

but i'm not lonely

bring the sunshine

back to my eyes

wait for me

i'm not ready

to string words together

without music

to face cities

without you

as i turn page

over page

the thought

and smell

of my city

return

there's a different design

and purpose

behind that skyline

your fingers streak

sunsets there

as your breath

clouds my thoughts

i can only ink -

you can paint

life size

words

that I only hear

but I'm sure

they talk of love

a love

separated by distance

and circumstances

a love

separated by geography

and constraints

a love

separated by human nature

and a habit

to continue habits

suffocation

sudden and tearing

glass doors open

to the sky

where two

young

and battered

each more than

the other

come together

even if only in spirit

what.

is.

not.

if at all.

questions

dozens of them

and an ever-growing pile

of work

and worries

in the usual humdrum

lost

with the usual humdrum.

The spirit of cities

I write this on one of my loneliest nights. I've been meaning to pen down a lot of stuff for a long time now, but right now the beats, the voices, the rhythm, the climax - is all pushing me off the edge.

Not to mention the clapping thereafter.

Rajasthan.

It's a lonely land.

It's a defeated land.

Every face I see, every kid who looks upon me with longing in his eyes, tells the same tale of poverty.

But then I chance upon the flight of a bunch of pigeons into the blue sky at the Mehrangarh fort of Jodhpur.

The tie and dye at the various shops which pride themselves on selling their products at five times the original cost.

The star spangled night sky when I first arrived at Jaisalmer. I had never seen so many stars in my life.

The dusty bare feet of Pimu, the six-year-old who guided our camel into the sun-kissed sand dunes of the Thar.

Or the lost glory of Rajput rulers, clearly etched in the wrinkled face of the old man playing 'Kesariya balam' at the Golden fort of Jaisalmer, the echo of which can be heard reverberating within the walls of the fort.

All this

Yet incomplete

Eyes welling up

Just at the thought.

I began by saying this is one of the loneliest nights of my life.