It is Spring

It is Spring
I don't want
To go home.

It is Spring
I don't want
To stay in place.

It is Spring
I want
To make mistakes.

It is Spring
I want
To fall off a cliff,

And scream
The fierceness
In my heart
In my love.
To prove
I'm enough.

It is Spring
I don't know
What I want
I know
I just do. 

Whiskey

I want to strip
The taste
Of whiskey
From your mouth
More so now –
That it’s forbidden
On my lips
Like your lips were
A lifetime ago.
And every time
I hold you down
Between my knees
I hold the world.
Once, you loved
My long, dark hair
Covering all our
Transgressions
Now you love
The cracked, jagged
Beautiful edges,
I let remain
Because you can promise
The world
To my neck.
Beneath my
Wicked, wicked ways
My collection of strays
My smiles, my guiles
My fixation with erstwhiles
I’m always on my knees
Ripping my heart
To shreds for you
Always.
I’m always trespassing
Encroaching
Conquering
Stripping every sin
From you iniquitous mouth
Always.
I’m always crossing
Lines, flying miles
Beyond taboo
But I begin
And end
With you
Always.

So Where Does Delhi Live?

So where does Delhi live?

Where does the heart of Delhi,

The real heart, the true heart of Dilli

Begin to beat.

Where does Delhi live?

At 18, with all the brashness

Of someone who had lived in a bubble

Of neatly drawn lines

I thought Delhi, ‘my’ Delhi

Lived in the meanderings of Hauz Khas.

I said,

No. I proclaimed,

That Delhi lived in pockets of North Campus

And of course, Delhi Cantt

And the great circle of CP

At Janpath and maybe the odd mall in Noida

And in some malls down South

And in the opulence of GK markets –

They have really good kathi rolls,

Go try them out.  

At 18, I was desperate to belong securely

To a place. I never had.

So I made Delhi belong to me.

At least, I tried.

Every moment since

I have fiercely declared

My belonging.

At 22, I am secure in belonging

But insecure in the breadth of Delhi.

At 22, I see Delhi inching out, opening up, engulfing in.

It lives in Gurgaon now.

And a little bit in Paschim Vihar.

It lives in the cacophony of Kashmere Gate

And in the merciless sun outside Tihar.

It lives magnificently at the India Gate Hexagon

And it lives in Gali No 10, Prem Nagar –

I can find it now.

It lives on the blue line to Vaishali

And a little bit on the Green line

(I am still unsure where it goes)

At 18, I remember dancing in the deer garden

To Delhi Drum Circles

And thinking,

Surely this is where Delhi lives.

I see now,

That Delhi does live beyond Delhi Haat and that market

Opposite IIT.

But just like at 18,

At 22 I can still not tell you

Exactly where Delhi lives.

I can tell you however,

Where Delhi began.

It began when -

An 18 year old,

Fresh to Delhi,

Turned to her friends

And said,

‘It’s 7 pm and my first day here.

 I should go home’.

And they turned to her

With matching grins

And said,

‘Stay out a little longer’.  

Furiously in Love

I have been
Too long
Too furiously
In love.
I know all
Too intimately
About the
Intricate furies
Of throats
Rubbed raw
From screaming
Furious love.
I know
Too well
The shatters
Of crockery
Flung every which where,
With furious love.
I know all about
Picking up the shards
And thrusting them
In vulnerabilities
With furious love.
I have been party
To a furious love affair
For one and twenty years
With a compelling woman.
I called her mother
And said
'I hate you, I hate you,
I hate you.
But I love you more.
I miss who you were
And I'll miss you are
But always,
Constantly
I have furiously loved you.'
So the fire of love
Isn't a novelty
To me anymore.
The complexity
Of twinned emotions
Is my inheritance
From this love affair.
So when I fall
In 'love'.
The falling
On your knees
Kind of love,
I hope
It happens
Gently, softly, quietly.
I hope
I fall in love,
Absentmindedly.
Like we were
Looking the other way
And love crept up
On us,
Like winter.
I hope for love
Like a quiet meditation.
A barely there
Almost invisible,
At the periphery,
Quiet love.
Because I have been
Too long
Too furiously
 Been in love
And you can
Only love like that
Once.
Thank God.
 

Songs

If I had to pick

And I do so hate to choose,

What defines us more –

Songs or Cars,

I’d have to say songs.

Though cars hold

A whole heap

Of memories too.

Remember when…?

Yeah, I thought as much.

Yesterday you said

My life was riddled with clichés

Or words to that effect.

I could hear the laughter in your voice

As always,

I had to agree.

So this is rather a clichéd poem and all.

But be grateful you are getting one

(I am rather broke, so this will have to do)

Songs are how I knew you first

No, not music

Though I know that is more accurate.

But you are always, forever going to be

A mosaic –a fucked up, taunting, irritating mosaic

Of all the songs you made me listen to.

Long ago

When I didn’t recognize the chick in the mirror

I see these days

Those songs painted a picture of her.

Yes,

Even that messed up Bon Jovi number.

And it is rather unfortunate

That a large part of my library

Is built by all the songs you threw at me.

It means I have shit taste in music

And need to be spoon fed good songs.

And yes, you are right once more.

So I would have liked to says cars –

Innumerable journeys in cars

Even going so very fast

On that highway

So I would cheer up

Even that

Can’t define us

As much songs do.

Because all those times

I sat and fiddled with music system

And played the most clichéd songs

(Like that sad, sad number by Muse,
God, was I a sad teenager)

As we drove through a city

That I learnt to love

(Well, a little bit)

It was the songs

That made the car journeys.

And it was you

That made all those songs.

Yesterday you were in a silly mood

And sent me the creepiest song lyrics

Ever.

Suckers, you big baby.
I am counting that creepy song

As part of your mosaic too.
What, you have a problem?
You told me I always get what I want.
(See that is a clever insertion of a song lyric,-

I wanted to clarify for your Engineering brain)

So it is with songs

That I always think of you.

Yes, including Soft Kitty.

And Sherlock themes

And that really depressing

Bollywood song.

You know the one.

It’s bloody lucky

There are so many

Songs out there,

Or else,

How would I remember you?

I am Looking for a Girl

I am looking for a girl

On a train.

There isn’t anything special about her

There isn’t anything I can tell you about her

Except that

Well,

She smiles an awful lot.

She should be on this train.

She should be sitting on the window seat

And staring at fields of glimmering darkness

And she should be smiling

An awful lot.

I know her very well

You could say,

We grew up together.

I know her of old.

I am looking for a girl

On a train.

She could be sitting at the doors

She could have smiled them open

She could be sitting at open doors

And feeling the heavy wet wind on her face

She could be smiling at the glimmering darkness

And thinking about jumping out

To see if she could fly

I am looking for a girl

On a train.

She’ll be listening to music

Turned up all the way

And she might ignore you

Smiling all the while.

She’ll care less than I do

But will love more than I can

She’ll laugh less than I do

But will dance more than I can

She’ll have seen less than me

But will fly further than I can

She’ll have done less than me

But will do more than I can

And you’ll know her from me

Because she smiles more than me

An awful lot more.

I am looking for a girl

On a train.  

Spring Adventures

I wish I could
Pinpoint
The day
Spring came
But the Scottish Spring
Is capricious like that.
I don't know
If it came
In the sudden
Bloom of
Yellow flowers
Or the glory
Of pink trees.
Or the sharp rain
That tasted better
When shared
On your
Laughing lips.
Spring has always
Been rather dangerous.
It calls for
Backpacks,
Cheeky grins
And adventures.
Spring springs
Deeply into
Discontent
And I am
Always
Forever
Running away
Towards
The sweet, sibilant
Sounds of spring.
This spring
I didn't run.
I stayed.
Oh boy, I stayed.
And let adventure
Kiss me
On my doorstep.
Spring laughed
At my springing heart
And bluffed
Sunshine my way.
I didn't run.
I stayed.
This spring, I stayed
And let
Spring Adventures come my way.

Cliche

Cliches are so,
For a reason .
And really, babe
When the light
Catches you right
You shine
Are sublime
Like a,
What shall we call it?
Like a,
Supernova.
So that's a cliche
Yes or no?
Castle tops
Are cliches too.
Let's do it anyway
Or maybe
Because of it
Rain is cliche
But this was
A mere drizzle.
Tree list
A bit much
To the left
Lean up
Against them,
Just so.
That's cliche
Too.
But it's
The kind
I'm awfully
Partial too.
Cliches come
Riding down
In hordes
And one cliche
That's all about
How we crash and burn.
Let's shred that one
To tiny bits
And kiss
On the remains.
In a very
Cliched
Sort of a way.

Moon over Scotland(Sentinel Remix)- NaPoWriMo8

It's gotten late,
Very late.
The bus emptied
The further North
We got.
We left some idiots
In Newcastle
(It was pretty
In itself, though).
We left the idiots
And grabbed
The front seats.
So now,
It's gotten late,
Very late.
You are sleeping
Curled in on yourself,
Across the aisle
From me.
She is asleep
Curled in, on my shoulder.
We crossed into
The Scottish border
A moment past
The board said,
Welcome to Scotland
And it felt like,
Homecoming.
Suddenly,
The grit of the night
Has been rubbed off
By the light
Of the moon over Scotland.
This a late night
Sentinel watch. 
And for once
My heart is
Tender enough
To want to protect
You both
From everything.
This is a Sentinel watch
Just me
And the moon over Scotland.
That is company enough
Sitting at the front of this bus
Tonight,
My heart is
Tender enough
To promise
Anything, Everything
On this Sentinel watch.
Just two sleepers
A watcher
And the moon over Scotland. 

Dreaming Spires-NaPoWriMo7

Oxford, at a glance.


I have dreamed
About the city
Of dreaming spires
For a terribly
Long time indeed
So the actuality
Of it was,
Underwhelming.
The thing is,
This city is
All about subtleties
And terribly reserved.
So this will not be
A flaming love affair.
This needs to be
A learned love,
A slow love,
A thoughtful love.
I don't know
What the spires
Dream about
But they have seen
The foolish youth
Of so many
Who went on
To mean so much
To an anonymous little girl,
Somewhere,
Sometime.
I hope they get
To see mine.
So, I dream incessantly
Of this reserved city
Of dreaming spires. 

Sheesha-NaPoWriMo6

We call it
Hookah
Back home
(Wherever that is).
Sometimes I think
My wild, wild youth
Is tied up in stories
Of the hookah
In my room.
Smoke makes
My eyes sore
And my head hurt
But Sheesha smoke
Curls seductively
Down my veins
With a sweetish tang.
And the pain
Is worth
The payoff.
Sheesha thrums
In gentle hums
Around my head.
And watercolours
The world
In shades
Of BLOODY AWESOME.
I swear I could fly!
Let's get chinese!
Hey Emma, you ok?!
Woah, standing sober
Is challenging!
Yes, I think Chinese
Sounds great about now.
Yes, Sheesha
Recalls my
Wild youth
If youth
Is walking down London streeets
Wanting to fly.
It is.

Taste - NaPoWriMo5

Camden Market is torture on an empty stomach and empties pockets.



I'm starving
To taste
This city.
You can always
Smell a city
Before
You see it.
And this one
Smells divine.
Today I saw how
Sushi was made
With deceptive ease.
This is a sizzle
In the air
That whispers 'Kebabs'
Vision of succulent
Juicy heaven.
Nurdan says
I ought to try
Jerk chicken
But my attention
Is caught
By a fry up
Of noodles
And schezuan chicken.
I think there
Are burgers
Sitting fat
And content
At the corner
Of my eye.
Chips too,
But those
Are better
Up North.
This city
Is shameless
In its excesses-
I approve.
I'm starving
To taste
Each one.

Dreary- NaPoWriMo-4

Written for the longest bus ride ever taken.



This is how it goes-
In a bus,
Half asleeep
An age on the road
An age to go.
This is how it goes-
Darkish skies,
Layered clouds,
Dreary towns
Leading to
Nothing, nothing.
This is how it goes-
A distant land
A dreary day
Why is dreariness
So damn universal?
This is how it goes-
Aching legs
Soreish eyes
Reluctant smiles
London town
Is far, far, far.
This is how it goes-
Pass the time,
Pass the smile,
Unconsciously, 
This is always how it goes.

Inkpot Monkey - NaPoWriMo 3

I had a rather unfortunate incident at Starbucks. :D



Legends tell
The dread tale
Of a monkey
Living inside
Inkpots.
They rather fancy
The taste of ink.
I don't own
An inkpot
(Why ever not?)
But I suspect
The Inkpot Monkey
Of sucking dry
My pens.
Ink on my skin
Ink on my face
Ink of my scarf
Ink on the poor man
Who sat beside me
In Starbucks today
A pen run dry
And no paper to blame.
Nothing to write,
Nothing to say,
Just a pen run dry
And no paper to blame.
Only an inkpot monkey
Up to his antics again.

Green - NaPoWriMo 2

Directly inspired by my eternal muse- she's been slacking off on the job lately.


I never think about
The color Green
All that much.
I'm more of a
Blues, Blacks, Reds
Kind of person.
But often,
Unobtrusive as you please,
Green sinuously
Seeps,
Bleeds,
Into my vision;
And I remember
Verdant trees
Lush with leaves,
Green.
Nurdan's scarf,
A deepish warmth
Home and love and,
Green.
Comfort and coffee
Stories and Starbucks,
Green.
Rosie's trousers,
Unsual, bright, calming,
Green.
For secrets
And whispers
Spring and Summer,
Green.
Connemara Hills,
Scottish Lochs,
Green.
Your eyes,
Brightly, acidly, joyfully,
Green. 

Country Roads - NaPoWriMo 1

We are hurtling
In a tin can
A tin, tin can
Down a country road.
It's a dark, dark road
And if you slid
Your eyes half mast
We could pretend
We were flying.
If we hit something
On these country roads
It wouldn't end well
And death lingers on corners
That darkly press closer.
But we are alive,
More than ever.
Country roads
Are winding
Dark distances
To infinity.
Your loosely clasped hand
In mine,
I'm flying
On these
Country roads.
I'm praying
For never ending 
Country roads
And I'm flying
With your hand in mine.

Winter Edges

This winter
Has been a rather
Drugged affair,
Honey slow
Molasses thick
And snagging edges,
Catching and cutting.
This winter
I learnt
To flick Kohl
To create wing tips
Honed to razor edges.
This winter
I learnt
About the armories 
Of sharp eyebrows
And the defiant shield
Of jutting Kohl.
This winter
I broke myself
But left my heart in tact.
This winter
I picked up pieces
Of a girl
With hairline cracks
 She denied
All her life
And I broke her
To prove a point.
Then I remade her
With the perenniality
Of sardonic smiles
And perfect Kohl flicks
And recklessness.
This winter
I learnt
To love the winter
In more than just
A blurry, watercoloured way
I loved the winter
In harshness, bitterness
And cruel ice edges.
This winter,
I said, 'Devil may fucking care'
And I meant it.  

Acts of Creation

At first,
There was nothing.
And then came,
Light.
Not unlike
A blank page
Bruised by ink.
We all build worlds
But we all don't live them.
We are too
Authored into being
By the big Author
In the sky.
The one, the only
The Supreme.
This is a whirling dervish
Of existence
And doubts trail
Lives, worlds, universes.
I recreate images
Of the Author.
The one, the only.
I create,
Therefore, I am.
So I am become
An author
With a small 'a'.
Of a small universe
Worshiped, Loved, Adored.
Saved?
Authors need saving too.
Careful preservation
Between the wrinkles
Of a crumbling multiverse
The Author,
Imagined us out of comets
And starshine
So I am exploding
At the pull
Of a blackhole.
I am authoring
Safety valves
To catch my pieces.
Wait a while
To witness the final act.
In the end
(The Beginning?)

It comes down to
Creation
Salvation
Shanti.

Postcards

Tomorrow,
Tomorrow is Sunday.
Glorious, glorious
Sunny Sunday
(Probably).
I think I shall
Get up in time
To see the sun
(Whatever little there is).
I think I shall
Go find a cafe
On a busy street
And hope my coffee
Is a starburst
Of perfect bitterness;
Tarty pleasure-pain.
I shall pull out
A sheaf of Postcards
And I shall write
Dear----
I have been missing you
Edinburgh is beautiful today.
I wish I could show you
How are things over there?
I'll address one to my
Father- tell him
'I thought of you
at Westminster
I cried at the grave
Of the unknown soldier.'
I thought of you.
One will go to a girl,
Who cares so much
One will go to a boy,
Who makes me cry
One to a girl who,
Keeps my heart
One to a boy,
Unexplainably loved.
One to a woman,
Who taught me myself
One to a boy,
Who makes me laugh
Another to a boy
Who makes me think - too much.
There are dirty dishes
Spread across the kitchen
There is hoovering
That needs be done.
I forgot to take the
Trash out- again.
My room is alight
With chaos- like my life.
Plans to be made-
Stretching to infinity
But I think
Tomorrow,
I shall go out
And write a few,
Postcards.

 

No One Writes About Not Being Home for Diwali

No one writes about not being home for Diwali.

They’ll write songs and stories and poems

So full of pathos

For the tragedy

Of not being home

In festive December.

But November

Keeps getting shortchanged.

November, lonely November

When darkness falls

A little too early-

November could use some cheer.

Some lights, as it were.

Some fireworks, some diyas,

Some fairy lights, perhaps?

There’s never too much

Tradition or pomp in Diwali

Back home.

But there are fairy lights

And diya designs to be made

Brightening the house

So the goddess Lakshmi doesn’t miss it

(And I can afford to rip my father off

For the rest of the year).

There is good food, good cheer

And good company

(As good as family gets).

I haven’t burst crackers

Since I turned 13

And turned righteous.

But it was nice to climb the roof

Stand with my sister

Have some coke

And watch the streets

Grow molten

With light and life.

It was good to remember

The joy of an anaar flaring

To the skies

The sparkle of a phooljhadi

Aloo bombs making

Screaming, giggling children

Run back

Charkhis painting the road

There is always

The taste of ash and chemicals

That mingles with fresh oxygen

And means, home.

There is a cowering dog

To be comforted

And laughed at

(Just a bit).

There is my mother

Stuffing me with food

Till I collapse

My father waving around

Boxes of barfis and ladoos

Insisting I have them all

Teasing my mother-

Bargaining with her on how many she’s allowed.

Gossiping about our crazy family

With my sister

Pretending we are the normal ones

(We aren’t).

Perhaps I’d please my daadi

And roll my eyes

And wear something ‘traditional’

Muttering about how stupid it all was

(Secretly, it looked so lovely).

Lights drip down the ivory and onyx

Exterior of my house

And wrap around bushes

(My dad and I were being artistic).

If I sniff hard enough,

There is jasmine in the air

Wet earth

From earlier

When I helped the maali water the garden.

There is so much joy

And exhilaration-

Unabashed laughter

I feed on it

And can’t help but smile

Indulgently

At the children

Yelling themselves

Sore; In the streets

While thinking

I am above these youthful shenanigans

(I am not).

There are gifts to be given

In shiny wrapping paper

And so much to be

Brattily demanded

And boxes of dry fruits

To be opened

And all the kish mish to be stolen.

There is so much

That happens

In just a few hours

That I could never

Run of out words

To describe it.

There is so much to miss

And so much to crave.

So much light, love, happiness.

So much thanks to be given

(Perhaps a quick word to someone up above?)

So much to write about

And yet.

No one writes about not being home

For Diwali.