Autophony

When the last recalcitrant Delhiite has choked on his firecrackers and blamed the farmers of Punjab; When the abused cow has looked on bemusedly at the Vasu Baras worshippers; When the Made-in-China lights have either electrocuted the middle child or died altogether; When the brothers are back home after hearing subtle dowry demands from their brothers-in-law; When the tacky gold jewelry of dubious caratage bought under Akshaya Tritiya has induced buyer's regret; When the unopened boxes of soan papdi have turned rancid and been given to sundry watchmen, postmen, maids and drivers; When the holy librandus have argued themselves sore over the environment; When the bizarre-most of kandeels have caused nervous desensitization; When the same kitschy fiber "gifting" has made its final round and cracked unusably; When the vegan has gotten off their high horse to sneak "just one" kaju katli; When the toes of both feet have joined the fingers of both hands in being burne...

  This question called why அனைத்திலும் மிகவும் எரிச்சலூட்டும் கேள்வி. Why is this happening to me? நான் ஏன் தவறு செய்தாலும் என் மீது தவறு இல்லை? Why could it not happen any other way? இந்த வலி, இந்த பதட்டம், இந்த முடிவில்லா துக்கத் தொடர் One never, truly never, has an answer that satisfies. அதைச் சரிசெய்கிறேன் - வேறொருவருக்கு திருப்தி இருக்கலாம். எனக்கு இல்லை. Even Buddha, I think, did not have an answer. அந்த முப்பீடகங்களில் என்ன எழுதப்பட்டிருந்தாலும். I am tempted to be jealous of those that believe in God. Or Karma. Or Kismet. அவர்கள் அவ்வளவு எளிதாக அதுதான் காரணம் என்று கூறுகிறார்கள். Does that actually answer their questions? அல்லது தன்னைத்தானே திருப்திப்படுத்திக் கொள்வது ஒரு சமரசமா? ஏன்? Why is this question alone, never answerable? இந்த அமைதியற்ற மனதிடம் சொல்ல வேண்டும். Do not look for an answer for there is none that is true. ஒருவேளை அதுதான் புத்தர் கண்டுபிடித்த ஷூன்யமாக இருக்கலாமோ? I don't know. தெரிய வேண்டாம்.

Round up all the men because women have the right to walk freely without fear of rape. Round up all the Muslims because Hindus have the right to walk freely without fear of terrorism. Round up all the politicians because voters have the right to walk freely without fear of nonsense. Round up all the mosquitoes because people have the right to walk freely without fear of malaria. Round up all the religion-men because atheists have the right to walk freely without fear of preaching. Round up all the clouds because I have the right to walk freely without fear of getting wet. Round up all the men because women have the right to walk freely without fear of rape. Round up all the pedestrians because drivers have the right to drive freely without fear of jaywalking. Round up all the Bosnians because Serbs have the right to walk freely without fear of ... whatever Bosnians do. Round up all the Serbs because Bosnians have the right to walk freely without fear of ... whatever Serbs do. Round up ...

C'est dans la douleur, dit-on, que naît toute la poésie Je ne suis pas d'accord, car cela vient du cœur —et le cœur est un imbécile sans pareil il ne connaît pas la douleur jusqu'à ce qu'il la ressente au-delà de la peau, des muscles, des côtes quand c'est trop tard Il saigne alors en mots, dansant une tarentelle et on pense que c'est la beauté—c'est juste sa bêtise comme celle d'Hélène de Ronsard à son fuseau. Nous sommes tous les farces de Molière avec nos maladies et vanités imaginaires tu es Tartuffe, il est Argan, elle est Philaminte Et moi, je suis (qui d'autre?) le bourgeois gentilhomme lui-même Qui ne sait pas que le monde se moque de lui qui se lèche et est fier de lui-même— le même chose stupide dans ses côtes, qui, un jour, amènera-le s'allonger sur les neiges de la Bérézina son sang se glace alors qu'il suinte Ou peut-être qu'il échappera à une mort lente ce cœur stupide—sa tête dans un panier alors que ce même sang chaud et f...

There was a young man from Haryana Who moved his home to Telangana He learned Hiragana And then Katakana For he thought he was in Japan-a

 What we are is a jigsaw pieces that come together searching for edges that match some we know will never sit: a sideways glance, a crush, a lifelong regret; some we think will last, but no we stick around a while and then we know we are meant for other things, other people, other places but mostly just being othered some of us are corner pieces who know where we are and who will come to find us eventually I can only wish I was that and some of us are that piece that doesn't fit neither color nor shape nor corner we force it sometimes, set it aside for some later unfulfillable hope until it is too late to realise we were left over from another puzzle, with only the longing to fit, to belong, to be included Published in GloMag, October 2023

Very often the sun rises in warm, golden rays on opening buds, birdsong and dewdrops, and the stench of stale death. Very often the sun rises Upon mutilated men - blood drying over their eyes and gore-caked machetes rusting in their abdomens. Very often the sun rises over hyaenas fretting over the carrion going waste - they can eat no more, nor can the vultures. Very often the sun rises on a day already defeated - shrieking, screeching, screaming, demanding that it go back for there was peace in the night. Published in Tranquil Muse 2018.

جو اِن جھُلَستی اُمّیدوں پَر آب خَلاس بَنکَر بَرسینگے کِسی دِن تو فَلَک ظُلم پَر وَہ اَبر اِنقلاب چھاءیں گے جو ظالِموں کے اِن کاذِب میناروں کو بَہا لے جاءییں گے کِسی دِن تو وہ اشک مُلازِم ایک عظیم سیلاب بانیں گے جو بیکَس سونیپَن کو بِکھراکَر صبَح کی ضوء لے آءییں گے کیسی دِن تہ اُمّیدیں خاک سے اُٹھکَر آسماں کو چھوءییں گے جو اِس دِیار خوار کو دولۃ و خَیر سے پھِر آباد کاریں گے کِسی دِن تہ خُشِیوں کے وہ بیحِساب اوقات لَوٹ آءییں گے جو مَحکوُموں کے سَپنوں کو جَمحوُریَۃ کا نام دِلاءییں گے کِسی دِن تہ خانہ بَدوش رجاء کے نجم ٹِمٹِماءییں گے Jo in jhulasti ummeedon par aab-e-khalaas bankar barsenge Kisi din to falak-e-zulm par woh abr-e-inqilab chhaenge Jo zaalimon ke in kaazib meenaron ko baha le jayenge Kisi din to woh ashk-e-mulazim ek azeem sailaab banenge Jo bekas soonepan ko bikhraakar subah ki zau le ayenge Kisi din to woh ummeeden khaak se uthkar aasmaan ko chhooenge Jo is diyaar-e-khwaar ko daulat-o-khair se phir aabaad karenge Kisi din t...

It is an interesting number one short of the one that is held as a gold standard for measures of success and failure, the number that judges everything from someone's sincerity to the contamination in a bar of iron. It is a hungry number, besmirched by an accusation of incompleteness though it is so perfect in form, its twin members so beautifully illustrating its two divisors the first one less, the second one more than that other fabulous number which multiplied by itself yields that magic figure all men yearn for. Perfect and yet always incomplete. Ever hungry, ninety nine. (Exactly 99 words) Published in Amaravati Poetic Prism 2018

Black tea, a new day dawns. Trees dice the sunlight turning blinding white into playful delight. The soft tinkles of the anklets on your feet: is silver's beauty still in its cold shine? The heart amuses itself in teaching what it never understood. Stained-glass window shadows on the floor paint a fresco: nature also makes chameleons that contrast with her butterflies. Smileys on the screen, this heart enchants itself with your imagined smile. They're sodium chloride, but by what chemistry do tears wash away sorrow? What am I - a body and brain, products of carbon concatenation chemistry hurtling into nothingness. I live on coffee and black depression, neither water nor fire touch now, of my shell what is left to hurt? Few thing delight one as fried maida and petty triumph; my memories have erased you. Published in GloMag April 2019

Yont   brattlin  clood an seelent glen Tweetlin a-lood the ingine skirls this noisome train wi lanely men hame-comin whaur thair lassies birls whit lends thay awe, an whit dets thirls whit ailin mam, whit seekly bairn thair dreams forby the train-smeuk swirls bi new gless tour or auncient cairn thay ken nae sang, thaur herts made airn thair mynds full o the twalmonth tack regairdless o loch, pen or tairn thay anely think o whit thay lack ay but thinkna muckle o it ye an a, we're an aw in it Published in Amaravati Poetic Prism 2017 ed. Padmaja Iyengar, Cultural Centre of Vijayawada & Amaravati

You were the only one to stay by my side when all others Had left me to travel that final stretch homeward alone And while I had to throw you away after two days Because of the stench that made me put the bag in the wash And earn mother's censure onto which she piled older grievances You did help relive some happy memories of the sea breeze And the boatmen's chatter and the old bronze cannons’ roar And cope with those whose IQ is less than yours And taught me that I was mortal in that ride across the creek And that like you I too shall one day be stripped of my essence And confined to the dustbin of humanity I miss you, orange peel Published in Lakdi Ka Pul - II The Poetry Bridge 2017 — an international anthology by Twin City Poetry Club

जेव्हा शेतकऱ्यांनी तुला शोधताना आत्महत्येचे विचार केले तेव्हा का नाही आलास? बालकृष्णाचे हाण्डी फोडणारे गोविन्दा चढले पडले हात पाय तुटले तेव्हा का नाही आलास? गणपती बाप्पा येउन गेले सागरात प्लास्टरचे तुकडे झाले तेव्हा का नाही आलास? अाता तुझ्याविना जगणे शिकले पाउस हा शब्दच विसरले मित्रा अाता कशाला आलास? Published in Amaravati Poetic Prism 2016 ed. Padmaja Iyengar, Cultural Centre of Vijayawada & Amaravati

你好! 我很高兴认识你。 我叫蒋捷连。你叫什么名字？ 我是中国人民大学的学生。 我妈妈叫丁子霖,她很漂亮。 我爸爸叫蔣培坤,他很明智。 她们是老师,在北京大学工作。 我爱中国和我喜欢吃中国菜。 我喜欢看好莱坞电影。 我想去长城,西藏和台湾。 今天六月四日,一九八九年。 昨天 我的生日,我今年十七岁了。 我和我的朋友，我们都在木樨地。 是凌晨一点十分。 有在我的脑海子弹了。再见! Published in Amaravati Poetic Prism 2016 ed. Padmaja Iyengar, Cultural Centre of Vijayawada & Amaravati

ಎಲ್ಲಿ ಪೋಯಿತ್ ನಾಡ ಕಣ್ಣುಡ ಆರಯು ಬಾರ ಮಳೆ Published in Amaravati Poetic Prism 2016 ed. Padmaja Iyengar, Cultural Centre of Vijayawada & Amaravati

ಕೋಳಿ ಸುಟ್ಟು ರಸ್ತೆ — ಒಂದು ಹೆಸರಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಎಷ್ಟು ರಹಸ್ಯಗಳು ರಾಗಿ ಮುದ್ದೆ — ಹೊರನಾಡಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಮಣ್ಣು ವಾಸನೆ ಕೋಗಿಲೆ ಹಾಡು — ಹಾಲುಗಾರರಿನ ಸೈಕಲ್ ಗಂಟೆ ಬೆಂಗಳೂರಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಹೊರಗಿನವರು — ಬೆಳ್ಳಂದೂರು ನೊರೆ ಗಾಜಿನ ಕಟ್ಟಡಗಳು — ಒಂದು ಟಂಬ್ಲರ್ ಮಜ್ಜಿಗೆ ಎಲ್ಲಿ ಸಿಕ್ಕತೆ ಕೊಳಲುಗಾರ — ಎಂ ಜಿ ರಸ್ತೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ಏರ್ಟೆಲ್ ರಾಗ Published in Amaravati Poetic Prism 2016 ed. Padmaja Iyengar, Cultural Centre of Vijayawada & Amaravati

நீ வருவாய், நீ வருவாய், உனை நினைத்து ஏங்கும் கண்கள் கடற்க்கரை நாடும் அலைகளைப்போல் உனைத் தேடும் கண்கள் மணத்தில் மயங்கி, மலரைத் தேடிக்கொண்டு இங்கும் அங்கும் அலையும் ஒவ்வொரு பட்டாம்பூச்சிப்போல் உனைத் தேடும் கண்கள் மலை இறங்கி, நிலம் தாண்டீ, கரை எங்கே கரை எங்கே கடலைத் தேடீக்கொண்டு ஓடும் ஆறுபோல் உனைத் தேடும் கண்கள் கடலிருந்து காற்றை வ்ழி கேட்டு, வானை வழி கேட்டு, புவியை தேடி வரும் கார்முகில்போல் உனைத் தேடும் கண்கள் ஆயிரம் ஆண்டு ஒரே வேட்கையில் தனை எரித்துக்கொண்டு ஆதவனைச் சுற்றி வரும் வால்மீன்போல், உனைத் தேடும் கண்கள் உனை புகழ சொல் இல்லாமல் இருக்கிரான் 'வழிப்போக்கன்', கண்ண்னைத் நாடி பாடிய மீராப்போல், உனைத் தேடும் கண்கள் Published in Amaravati Poetic Prism 2016 ed. Padmaja Iyengar, Cultural Centre of Vijayawada & Amaravati

The subtle play of light on the tamhan blossoms: violet turns pink turns lavender; on a pre-monsoon June morning, a crow contemplates its nest overlooking white mounds of salt by the pans and the raptor –  perhaps a fishing eagle – a black speck starring the day sky. And then there are the gulmohar and amaltas with pods like ugly brown penises, their spring crowns thinking and last the welcome canopy of the rain-tree. I sigh. It could have been an idyll, a pastorale even, but for the  electricity pylons, the rows of false ashoka and the dour grey of a building under construction. I'm in a belching taxi, late to work again. (Published in Setu Bilingual Journal , August 2017 )

कभी पराये की पीड़ा भी अपनी हुआ करती थी। आज जो मिट गया है दर्द, अपने भी पराये हो गए।।

I come at last to a wanderer's grave, My sexton is the vulture's jaw; He'll bury me by the wanderer's law In open field or cloistered cave. The buzzing flies will make up my shroud, As the wind howls my death lament. While I convulse through my last torment, They chant my rites clear and loud. The vagrant at last shall come to stay, In the maggot's fattening zest. May I think I've found eternal rest As my tissues ferment away? But for peace I shall pray in vain, For my bones roll on upon the plain. (Published in GloMag, December 2015 p72)