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

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