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...

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...

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

On the way to saying it, I find that the snake eats pineapple and that the tiger eats bread, the butterfly writes a book and your horse eats salt and that I have a pink plate, the last one quite unexpected. I’m so far não entendo but eu trabalho , I am still working on it. Desculpe, desculpe , I know I will get there They’ve got me to perdemo você and oh how would they even know I miss you, how would they? On the way we get to eu quero você - of course I want you - and then they let me say it: for now and forever - eu amo você Published in  GloMag February 2017 , ed. Glory Sasikala; Cyberwit.net, Allahabad, 2017. ISBN: 978-93-85945-78-6.

Yes, war is necessary. But let my wife not be widowed, Nor my children orphaned. Nor let my mother and father Spend life’s last lap looking At the photograph of me Saluting at my passing out parade Trying desperately to stifle a tear. War, however, is necessary. But my career is also necessary. That US visa, that VP designation And that Thailand… Well, whatever happens in Thailand. And that 5-crore sea facing flat. It’s necessary, war is necessary. I am aware that the men in uniform Fighting the blizzards of Siachen Or sudden fire on the Line of Control Or fearlessly facing militants Martyr themselves for the Nation, But I fulfill my responsibilities too And have never failed to offer Koti koti shraddhanjali On Facebook and Twitter. War, however, is necessary. But it is not in my fate that I, Clutching a mug of cold tea at 3 AM, Fight a jihad against sleep; nor, Wearing body armour (If I get any) Depart for a crusade against The searing heat of the ...

Pets are prone to it. As are grandchildren. And the little birdies and kittens You bring in from the cold. All you can do is rage - in impotent disbelief, And sorrow, and anger, and desire, and hope, And go through what they call the four Stages of grief, but what man was so heartless To coolly count while a woman smashed Her bangles on her wrists, fresh-widowed? But it’s a tendency we cannot avoid, And while we may clamour, in foolish lust For the hanging or shooting or electrocution Of someone we have been taught to fear; Our own papa or hubby or Sox or Puppy We were never taught. Oh yes, there it is In the Vedas and Quran and the Confucian texts And maybe we could use it for our own time, But for papa or hubby or Sox or Puppy We never could learn, never could be taught. All you get is vague notions that are inadequate, So inadequate, to fill that rising emptiness Called life hereafter. And yet we fill it and ‘move on’ till someone else expresses, unwantedly, T...

Rays erupt on a winter morning. As buds erupt on shankhapushpam Flowers, the clouds thunder among Silent birds. As lightning in search of earthing, His feet praying for nirvana, the wanderer thirsts. Much of what he’s Learned, must now be unlearnt anew, Alone in a noisy train with lonely men He rumbles wordless into the night mist. (Published in Whispers as part of the " Captivating Titles " activity, July 2016)

These young people today, I tell you, Always on Facebook and Twitter and YouTube. Everyday they are changing their picture One time, two times three times. Why? They have only one face, no? They are also not saying anything properly Nowadays everything is 140 characters as if all life is lived in telegrams. And what is this putting # in front of Everything? Making for bad reading only. And no grammar: no comma, no full stop. Arre baba, they are sending message on WhatsApp and I am understanding :-) But what is :-8? and what is <3? Less than 3 is 2 or 1. But what is I<3U? And there is this thing called Instagram Where they are putting photos of what they ate. Arre, if your mummy finds out that you ate Costly, costly pizza instead of home-made Chapati-bhaji what she will say? Neighbour's boy - engineeering graduate, Good job, good home -showed me to use YouTube on phone. Very good thing YouTube. Have you seen the video of cat playing piano? Or the ca...

This... is a hungry poem. It is    not meant to be a hungry poem. It is meant to be a contented satisfied poem that does not embarrass its government. But it has nothing to feed on so it's hungry. This... is an angry poem. It is angry about potholes and poverty and the crowded buses and the rickety trains and the baby-eating rats in the hospitals and the cop-killing rich kids driving their dads' cars and the police who lock up youths in the cells and beat them to death and the miners cutting down the forests and the army's atrocities on the Northeast and the Naxals' butchering of hapless tribals and the costs of onions and tomatoes and ever rising petrol and diesel prices and and and and and and and and and and and and... This is a des..perate poem. It wants to talk to someone who'll listen and tell it not to commit suicide and tell it to hope and love and be friends and see the roses and the rivers and the koels and the moonlight and hea...

I'll stick to reading children's books. I've made forays into adulthood: all it seem to have is the acrid smell of burning dreams. ...there are no fairies in the world of adults, though plenty of witches; no redemption, merely a grave; love is so full of conditions it doesn't seem like happily ever after. Puppies grow up you know, And teddy bears wear out. The books have no pictures - or they do: terrible word-pictures of the fallacy of human existence. I'll stick to children's books. Published in Whispers, July 2015

Somewhere between the truth, And our world of comforting lies, Is the world we seek to live in, Half earth, half fantasy; Happiness is what we call it, Though a stagnating lack Of worry would do as well, Maybe it's a race we're running Against our own aging selves Chasing a childhood memory Always a step ahead of us: A visible phantasm, a mirage Concocted from our own imagined pasts With guilt conveniently buried In the shroud of forgetfulness And yet - there's always a yet - There is a listlessness, ennui, That we never got what we wanted And the regret, unmessianic, Of not knowing what that was Till the commas of life stop abruptly. Published in Whispers, April 2016 as Commas

I like darknesses. Darknesses reduce shapes to shadows. The let the mind wander. I can paint trees any colour, give flowers any scent. I can put faces on clouds, draw shapes among the stars. There are no boundaries, none greater, none smaller, all are equal in the dark. I love the silence of the dark, its sense of ending, and a beginning to come. In the dark, I am free. Published in  Poetic Prism 2015 Multilingual Anthology of Poetry , ed. E Sivanagi Reddy & Padmaja Iyengar; The Cultural Centre of Vijayawada, Vijayawada, 2015.