Autophony

Nature also makes chameleons that contrast with her butterflies.

When nature's angry she makes storms, when she's bashful she makes butterflies.

When nature needs a canvas to paint, her instincts lead to butterflies.

When flowers need to say, "I love you" they send each other butterflies.

A butterfly - a postman for flowers, a canvas for light to paint irridiscent patterns, a trigger for a storm in Beijing, food for a lurking lizard.

I stare at a candle in the dark, for hours in a trance, fascinated from the soul - the flame's slender fingers singe part of me, and seduce another.

Change saps my walls with ice and fire to drag me out of status quo.

Change is a strange urge that makes me break my cocoon while lizards lurk by.

Change is cold water, making inner fires smoulder impotently.

Change is a frustrated male violating me - to claim as his own.

What murderer lurks within, I know not, but through ink I shed his blood.

Scorn but a wise man, for he who claims to see all, doth hide behind masks.

Scorn not an actor, for he who wears masks knows well to see right through them.

Neither water nor fire touch now, of my shell what is left to hurt?

...a late morning, a tumbler of degree coffee, a birthday greeting to a friend (thank God for Facebook), another tumbler of coffee... ...a hot water bath, catching up on weekly politics, rice and bitter-gourd curry with jeera rasam and pickle, a long unhad siesta... one murukku made from old rice, ground by hand and made in coconut oil, one piece of jangri - not too sweet - washed down with hot degree coffee... a walk with the dog drongo-spotting in the garden, and old family stories with mother under the jamun tree... ...a little poem, a bit of light reading, and an interesting online chat on the Dhammapada... ...and finally an ascent to heaven with curd rice and vadu-mangay, before the fall to the netherworld of Monday.

When it is not spring why do people put on shrouds, and call themselves sane?

Spring exists because even the high priests of sense must know what life is.

مرکز حرم سے تو نفرت ہی کی جا سکتی ھے وہاں پے ارمانوں کی کفن جو سلی جاتی ھے

Spring exists so that sober propriety is not allowed to kill joy.

Spring exists because the world needs something that can counter sanity.

Spring exists because every year everyone must, atleast once, go mad.

Traffic jam: one crore's Mercedes or two-rupee bus ticket - we wait.

Can the archangels of heaven match the pull of old books and coffee?

Bless thee the poet who to buy a book of verse forgoes his dinner.

Air-conditioning works its magic, bliss descends, poems go to sleep.

Encased in concrete, with a dying orange above, and the silver turning grey below, the waves crash futilely against the Bandra fortress -I suppose one might, on careful listening, hear steel versus steel again; Boats bob by those decayed ramparts, signs of of an eternal poverty dependent on the wealth of the sea; On open sea a marvel of modern engineering rises - a some triumphant half-finished proclamation of victory over nature; above the clouds thicken, but loosen not as in impudent demonstration of whose writ truly runs; In the shanties of Bandra, in the towers of Worli, and in the middle-classness of Mahim, lights come on one by one - a dying day, a sleepless city.

I'm sorry, Ghatkopar. I'm sorry you don't have the red sunsets and cool breeze and palm fronds and soft, babbling waves somebody else has. I'm sorry, Ghatkopar. I'm sorry that the British did not find you Queen material, and didn't build their Grade III Heritage bungalows, outside which teenage girls faint after slitting wrists wanting Dev Anand, Amitabh, Shahrukh, Salman to marry them. I'm sorry, Ghatkopar. I'm sorry that all you have is Somaiya Book Depot, Bharti Jewellers and Ratanshi Khimji Patel, good people in their own right, but no Gucci, Swarovski or even Subway. I'm sorry, Ghatkopar. I'm sorry that all you get is navratri dandiya and kitschy Ganesh pandals, instead of self-styled poets slamming about you. I'm sorry, Ghatkopar.

Saw you as a glimpse, life's train seized, stuttered, stopped dead, waiting for one more.

My memories have erased you but these eyes still see no one but you.

The river of thoughts undammed by inhibition will wash me away.

I refuse to swim with the current - does that make me an alien?

When your head's always in the clouds, you learn to live with bottomlessness.

Thoughts nag the mind, some become stillborn poems, others immortal groans.

Drops that make the ocean - one from from the tears of a woman betrayed, one from dew on a fresh-blossomed petal, one from the blood of a fallen tyrant, one from the drool of a child beholding sweets, one from the labour of an unknown ryot, one from the wrath of a vengeful storm.

In a drop one can see a rainbow, can one do that with the ocean?

Sister calls me 'You Monster!'. Don't know why. All I do is pull her hair and yank her dolls' heads off. And sometimes spill ink on her homework while playing with her pen. Then I go running to mother and press my face into her sari. 'Babloo' she calls me, and wipes my tears, and gives sister a scolding. I point my tongue at sister but mother doesn't notice. Father is not like that. He is nasty and unfair. He likes sister more than me. He makes me stand in the corner for spilling ink and pulling hair. And he calls me by my school name. I don't like Daddy. Hey auntie has come. Get out of corner and run screaming "Auntie, Auntie, Auntie". She picks me up in her arms and says "Babloo baba, cho chweet!". She is not nice when she pinches my cheeks and makes me recite 'Baa baa black sheep'. But she is nice when she gives me a big chocolate which I eat in front of my sister, and don't give her anything. Nasty sister. Rohit is a n...

நீ அழுதால் முத்தார் ஓடும் நீ சிரித்தால் கல்யாணி ராகம். உன் மௌன முகம் உரு சொல் இல்லாதப் பாட்டு, உன் புன்னகையால் வசந்தம் இனிக்கும். நீ எது செய்தாலும், அதில் நான் ஒரு காவியம் படைப்பேன்.

Limited inbox: I must choose between rare poems and rarer praise.

Once, to entrap me she needed grace sketched in ink upon lavender-scented paper. Six sheets folded neatly in a card paper envelope affixd with a pretty postage-stamp. Or electromagnetic waves which when decoded became the voice of an amorous koel jewelled with honeyed, enslaving words. Now she does not need fetters of a hundred and forty characters; a colon and closing bracket will do.

Poems fight the night, keeping the dam open while eyes are shutting shop.

Smileys on the screen, this heart enchants itself with your imagined smile.

My memories have erased you but these eyes still see no one but you.

Saw you as a glimpse, life's train seized, stuttered, stopped dead, waiting for one more.

मैं सागर का मछवारा, तेरे सदा पर आऊँगा तू मादर मेरी, तेरी हवाओं के गीत गाऊँगा तुझी से हर बरकत है, और तुझ ही में ख़ात्मा तेरे लहरों का बच्चा हूँ, इन्हीं में घुल जाऊँगा میں ساگر کا مچھوارا ، تیرے سدہ پر آؤنگا تو مادر میری ، تیرے ہواؤں کے گیت گاؤنگا تجھی سے ہر برکت ، اور تجھ ہی میں ہے خآتمہ تیرے لہروں کا بچّہ ھوں ، ینہیں میں گھل جاؤنگآ

ஒரு பூவை நட்டுவைத்தால் பல கனவுகள் மலரும்

आप मुस्कुराकर मेरी साँसों को मत रोकियेगा धड़कन तेज़ हो जाती है, इस तरफ़ मत देखियेगा आपकी रौनक़ देखकर, यह चश्म कुछ और ना देख पाएँगे पर मेरी ख़ुदग़र्ज़ी मानकर, परदा मत कीजियेगा آپ مسکراکر میری سانسوں کو مت روکیےگا دھڈڑکن تیز ھو جاتی ہے ، اس طرف مت دیخیےگا آپکی رونق دیکھکر ، یہ چشم کچھ اور نا دیکھ پایےنگے پر میری خود غرضی مانکر ، پردہ مت کیجیےگآ

Fifteen rupee rose for a girl's bewitching smile. Not a bad bargain. Published in  Writing Love an Anthology of Indian - English Poetry , ed. Ashmi Ahluwalia; Rupa Publications 2010. ISBN 978-81-29116-66-6. OR Fifteen rupee rose. She gets a half-hour's pleasure. I get a poem.

Winter ends. Flowers wake up. Birds twitter. Financial year ends. Insurers wake up. Hoardings glitter.

Playful innocence set loose amongst lost causes: Once more, I'm a child.

चमन के कोने में एक फूल मुर्झाई, न तुमने जाना न मैंने| बनकर रह गयी महज़ एक परछाई, न तुमने जाना न मैंने|| उसकी ख़ुशबू जो मदहोश करती थी, क़तरा ब क़तरा सूखने लगी| जलती तपती धूप में वह छटपटाई, न तुमने जाना न मैंने|| उसके रंग जिनसे महल सजते थे, फीके बेजान होने लगे हैं| आँखों के दीदार के लिए तरसाई, न तुमने जाना न मैंने|| उसकी ताज़गी जिससे हर थकान मिट जाती थी, अब बिखरने लगी| अब ख़ामोश है वह जो कभी इतराई, न तुमने जाना न मैंने|| वह जो किसी गुलदस्ते की शान बन सकती थी, गुमनाम बनी रही| उसका तक़दीर - बस मुसलसल तन्हाई, न तुमने जाना न मैंने|| कोई ख़ानाबदोश उसे तोड़कर ज़मीन पर फैंककर चला गया मालिन मलबे में डालकर चली आई, न तुमने जाना न मैंने چمن کے کونے میں ایک پھول مرجھائ ، نا تمنے جانا نا مینے بنکر رہ گیی محض ایک پرچھائ ، نا تمنے جانا نا مینے اسکی خوشبو جو مدہوش کرتی تھی قطرہ بہ قطرہ سوکھنے لگی جلتی تپتی دھوپ میں وہ چھٹپتائ ، نا تمنے جانا نا مینے اسکے رنگ جنسے محل سجتے تھے ، پھکے بےجان ھہنے لگے ہیں آنکھوں کے دیدار کے لیے ترسائ ، نا تمنے جانا نا مینے اسکی تازگی جس سے ہر تھکان مٹ جاتی تھی ، اب بیکھرنے لگی اب خ...

There was once a singer tall Specialised in Greek technique Who sang in Sydney Opera Hall Called Jean-Pierre Dominique! He sang tenor, he sang bass, He rose to falsetto. But not one note in its place Oh no no no no no! The audience was sorely tried And they threw tomatoes But his zeal did not subside When faced with potatoes. Once upon an ANZAC Day Gathered on Taylor Square The orchestra began to play Advance Australia Fair! Now our Maestro Dominique Who was then passing by Saw fit to use his Greek technique And took the tune on high! “Australians all let us rejoice, For we are young and free; With golden soil and wealth for toil, Our home is girt by sea…” He thought it fit to raise his pitch To mezzo-soprano! He thought it was the method which Was right for piano! The audience was knocked-out flat - “A storm of gale-force ten!” The veterans feared they’d landed at Gallipoli again! They stopped his song, they dragged him down, They beat him blac...

There was an Old Woman of Chembur Who had migrated there from Singur. With her aggressive tongue Many Marxists were stung - That shrewish Old Woman of Chembur.

There was a Young Lady of Mankhurd Who subsisted on yoghurt and curd. She preferred it mixed up With blood that she'd sucked up - That anopheline Young Lady of Mankhurd.

There was a Gentleman of Vashi Whose tatses were ludicrously flashy. He had teeth like tusks And fed upon rusks - That boarsih Gentleman of Vashi.

There was an Old Man of Sanpada Who set out to learn the lambada. But he was not nimble And did rather rumble - Tha bubaline man of Sanpada.

There was a Man of Tilak Nagar Who was employed as a truck-tugger. On his hump he'd carry A thirty-tonne lorry - That camelid Man of Tilak Nagar.

دو دن منتظر ، اسکی چلبلی ہسی گونجیگی پھر سے दो दिन मुन्तज़िर उसकी चुलबुली हँसी गूँजेगी फिर से

Bénissez les yeux, ils voient tout avec silence, en disant rien. Comment burlesque la bouche, qui dit plusiers et plus en voyant rien.

who knows for sure what's truly weird and what is normal when I follow my heart they call me weird, when I follow my head and come up with wild schemes they call me weird but when i follow the herd dressed like it eating like it talking like it and refuse to listen to my heart or my head as it stampedes to its doom they call me normal

लोग कहते हैं तुम्हारा इश्क़, इश्क़ नहीं फ़रेब था| हम नहीं मानते ‍ तुम्हारे फ़रेब को भी हम इश्क़ ही समझेंगे|

Neon signs on busy road, bamboo flute vendor plays the Airtel tune.

Who prefers to have flies in his bedchamber? Or for that matter, all manner of insects? How romantic to consider the prospects Of a cricket's chirps that rob one of slumber? Yes, the stars are bright and the grass is tender, Arcadian dreams are gay in many respects; Yet lying in Elysian fields one suspects That adders do not make for sweet surrender. It is much to the credit of Tennyson And other fools of the English Lake District To pen rhymes for - a cloud, a lark, a peasant By the fireside in their stately mansions But who asks the cottar before they depict A fancied idyll that only sounds pleasant?

बज़ोर ए शमशीर क्या पाओगे - खोखले मकानों की रियासत, ख़ौफ़ के दम पे खड़ी सलतनत, खोखले ईमानों की सियासत? ख़ुदा का पैग़ाम तो मोहब्बत है, उसे तुम दर-दर सुनाओ, तुम दिल-दिल में छोड़ जाओगे, अपने वज्द-ए-अज़्ल की विरासत بزور ی شمشیر کیا پائوگے - کھوکھلے مکانوں کی ریاست خوف کہ دم پے کھڈی سلطنت ، کھوکھلے ایمانوں کی سیاست خدا کا پیغام تہ محبّت ہے ، اسے تم در-در سنائو تم دل-دل میں چھوڈ جآئوگے ، اپنے وجد-ی-ازل کی وراژت