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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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

Obituary of a friendship

With several hundred miles between us

Different landscapes

Different skies

Different sunsets and sunrises

This is the place

Where my road parts, my friend.

I have lost.

Yes, I have lost.

But my life has

A tune and a rhythm

A love to keep me

Warm through

Lonely winter nights.

And dreams

Filling my starry eyes.

I angle myself as to

Be able to see

The rearview mirror

Of my car

Driving on to the mountains

Bumpy roads

And thus this scrawl

On a sunny October morning.

Or maybe it was love

This was meant to be happy.

I swear to god it was meant to be happy.

As was life. Everyday. Happy.

Not darker as I delved deeper. Not brighter as long as I remained on the surface.

I turn to Ritter for comfort. Maybe we have the answers all along, but we just like looking for them. As an excuse for something to do. As an excuse to be human.

Walking between the racks in the library and taking books home - just cause the cover illustration is nice, or the woman on it beautiful - is something I've always done. And enjoyed.

I've loved rain, and cake batter. Wearing the same pair of jeans, creating ripples. Cocoons, a few songs I can hum, and drives around dusk. Fighting for inane reasons and laughing when I didn't want to. At all.

Yes, I've loved. Cause at the end of the day, the purpose of loving is the pounding it takes.

Ritter.

Yesterday, today, tomorrow

It's been grey.

Rainy.

Windy.

Cold.

Cloudy, foggy, driving into the clouds. With raindrops racing off the windscreen.

Part of me hates it.

The other part is head over heels in love with it.

So the story of last night.

Shoes kicked off. Lying in some corner.

And a piece of night sky. Out the dusty window.

And I text.

Then it strikes me.

How many loves do we have in our lives? And till where do we have to walk to seek fulfillment?

Human existence never seemed stranger.

So many cocoons of conversations. Relationships. Loves. But never quite there.

In this mess of meetings and separations, I've arrived.

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.