10/30

A third of my life lives far away

A third of my mind only happens in dreams

Another third is scattered 'tween oceans and lands,

Less than half but always there,

Like a third of the poems that April demands.

Word puzzles

If moat is a scrabble word 

why can't we make dal moat?

Especially since mixture is allowed?

And when chips can be played, why not alu?

On a tangent, if hiraeth is Welsh 

for a deep yearning for something

lost or absent, what's Tamizh for 

missing paati when you touch a well worn 

cotton sari?

Ends of months

It’s the last day of

Daily Riyaaz

But it won’t be for me

I say.

 

I missed

days of writing

and have catching up

through May!

 

Gardening

How do the stems of the roses make leaves

at just the right places, perfectly spaced

and angled and shaped so the plant achieves

a geometry where no light goes to waste?

The peonies have buds on every stem

Ten on Guardian of the Monastery

seven on Spring Carnival. Good for them

but Island Minister has thirty three!

Everything grows fast when the days are long

I dig out the weeds and transplant the pots

but mostly I wonder at all that goes on

The garden in spring takes over my thoughts

travel

Of the many joys of travel

perhaps the most modest

but lovely 

is having someone 

who will water your plants

while you are gone

so that once you have tired

of all the new and wonderful things

home is waiting for you

just as you left it.

Balm

 Between L4 and L5

A poem is stuck,

Softly cushioning against

vertebrae of calcified memories.

Let them not touch

like rusted swords thirsty for

honour blood.

My lips, are still pink

with a smile

between occasional flashes

of electrical pain,

Because between L4 and L5,

A poem is still breathing.

Philosophy is wonder in the face of the world

Merleau-Ponty said 

because we are the beings who stand

we can understand

and because we have opposable thumbs

we can manipulate

because we have speech

we have thoughts, 

not the other way round

and because we have thoughts

we have thoughts about ourselves

if we can touch 

we are touchable

and from wherever we can see

we can be seen

what we see is not actuality

we see possibility

the cup, there for the hand

to cup it, raise it to our lips

drink

in the inexhaustible world

Indhu

The sky is streaked pink

in readiness for the sun.
Egrets glide by 
and oddly some painted storks.
How are they still here
and you are not?
A morning ordinary like another 
but it is not. 

Nothing mortal of you remains 
but what endures in the sky, 
the sun, the wild birds.
What is your breath is rising
right now as breeze from the sea. 

quayside

Nearing midnight

in the shadow of the city

a woman turns her face to the river

her feet bare 

on the still warm concrete

her hair undone and filling

with the scent of water. 

At your own risk

I’ve hidden my real feelings in this poem
as sunsets, concrete pillars, feathers flying
feathers fallen, broken crockery with pink
flowers peering and a wooden bench under
the sun but shaded by trees. If you find any
of these speaking to you, take the conversation
forward at your own risk as I don’t claim to know
if they mean well or where they come from.

Souvenir du Docteur Jamain

 Wanting more roses, is that as bad

as wanting more money, more land

more power? Wanting to possess

this failsafe means of turning less

beauty into more, a hole in the dirt

which the clever rose converts 

into silk and velvet and sweet perfume

I covet the dark red blooms

that Vita Sackville West

rescued and loved the best

pain

Some days

your feet will ache 

just from standing.

Other days

your head will fill 

with a dull ache

because your glasses

sat oddly against it.

This is not to say 

that your hurt is not valid

or that you should not 

bathe your feet 

in warm water

or roll the pads of your 

fingers against your

aching skull.

But that pain is so often

unspectacular.

The hand that tends to it

both dispassionate

and soft.

 

Untouched

When we were not in touch
I lost my job
I cut my hair
I found a new passion
I learnt to breathe deep
I started walking in the park
I stopped counting my steps
I kept a gratitude journal
I met our common friends
I laughed for my heart's health
I thought of you few times but
I missed you every day.

Paradox

The arrow can't fly through the air

the fast runner will never catch up

All Cretans, they tell us, are liars

the barber will only shave that chap

who doesn't shave his own hairy chin

and that unnameable thing has been

named, 'unnameable'. And if the stars

are infinite, why is it so dark?

Once these are perused,

who isn't confused?

Not the bones

Not the bones,

the joints between them

give way

 

for a clean pulling apart.

 

A cleaver to the heart.

It used to be simple

“I catched it”

said a little boy

inhaling the aroma of

his plate of food.

 

Gleeful of a new

sensation, triumphant

for having a word for it.

 

Thenga thogayal

Roast dry red chillies
I prefer byadige – the
shrivelled ones that are
less spicy – and roast
the udad dal and if
you are the kind that
goes rogue on tradition
add some chana dal and
roast with lots of heeng
and a flake or two or of
tamarind – all of which
goes into the mixie jar - soon
to be joined with grated
coconut (here, I personally
prefer the moist and milky kind)
and – blitz-blitz pause
blitz-blitz-blitz it together
no, no, no – not a drop of
water, no – that will make
your thogayal stray towards
a whole different identity
no, this one has to grind in its
own juices and the salt – oh
I didn’t mention the salt – that
will bring some ease to the mixie
blade, valiantly trying to decimate
the contents into a new whole
that will be much more than
the sum of its parts – a red
coarse, fiery looking but finely
balanced (remember byadige?)
half podi, half thogayal
that will remind you of women
from your childhood who
ground life’s challenges into chutney
for the whole family to relish. 

Rainy days

Endless days

futile, cold

smoky grey

cigarette

scorched fingers

smell lingers

worn cliches

death foretold

we forget

easy come

easy go

hold on tight

one more night

For Indhu

4 days to your birthday
12 days to your first death anniversary

I go through our whatsapp chat and see that
we met at Ranga Shankara on 24^th Aug 2023
Both of us didn’t know that would be the last.
We managed to get a picture together.

Reading our messages to each other
I remember so much of what we talked about
that evening – how we celebrated some things
mourned some things, ranted about other things.

I remember how, at another meeting, we realised
the exact same moment – while browsing
a textile exhibition at the National Gallery of Modern Art
that we both love kolams and kalamkari!
The way our eyes connected and we smiled
with pure delight! I think back of the long
long, long chat we had that day till someone
working there came and took a picture of us.
Maybe we had looked like we’d grow roots?

I think back now of the song you had asked for
that evening at Ranga Shankara that I forgot to send.
It is too late now, no?

I go back to our whatsapp chat.

We chatted once each in October and November 2023.
In January and February and March of 2024 we spoke
of meeting when our schedules would permit.
What do schedules know or care of disease and death?
I wish we’d not heeded them.

On 25^th March, 2024, we spoke of nirvana – after I’d returned
from my first (and maybe last?) spiritual retreat.
“Nirvana seems very lofty,” you said, hastily adding
“not that one should not aspire for nirvana.”
We spoke of Daily Riyaaz – our yearly sojourn
of writing poetry with our favourite community of poets.
We soon wrote and read and commented on poems on the blog.

On 22^nd April, you called off our meeting in the last minute
speaking of a “scratchy throat.” On 29^th April you had got your
diagnosis and did not reply to my birthday wishes.

While you were in Ghana in March 2024, I was getting
ready to go to Auroville, remember? This year, again
in Auroville around the same time, I saw the steps we had
all sat on together in 2016 – where we’d gotten a picture
with a famous poet. Those steps will always speak to me
of you, Indhu, as will kolams and kalamkari.

Even after the way death has slapped the skin off my face
I sweat the small things, Indhu.
I miss ranting about and celebrating life with you.

Wisdom 2

I used to think we were evolving

going forward, getting better,

reaching some higher ground

from where we'd look at where 

we'd been like parents look

at children

Now I know we're in a place

of no directions

We move, because that's what beings do

not because we know the way

go forward only because there is no way back

and better is relative - who has ever made 

anything better than Bach?

We only find out where we are

on the path we make by walking

Imagine - a Ghazal

Peace on earth would be the way, imagine
Shades of green overgrowing grey, imagine

Children – laughing and singing under the sun
climbing trees, learning through play, imagine

People using their hands to make things
baking bread and kneading clay, imagine

As many people as seek to find their god
so many entwined paths to pray, imagine

Charu khepi is mad - don’t listen to her
but if all this happens one day, imagine


Note: Seeking solace from violence and cruelty, a group of dreamers I sing with every morning, explored the song 'Imagine,' co-written by John Lenon and Yoko Ono. This ghazal stems from the simmering of that song within, and from the experience of singing it with people who still dare to dream, hope and work for a better world. 

Kashmir

Blood sindhoor flows

Rivers have been red

forever…

Sleep tries to wear

a bulletproof vest.

Amputated hopes ache

in search of limbs.

Bullets pierce names…

 

It curdles everywhere,

fermenting in veins,

spilling on tulips.

Faces drained pale,

Earth dyed red.

This canvas is painted

all wrong…

 

Heaven weeps.

It has waited so long

to descend.

Earth weeps.

It has waited so long

for heaven.

 

No heart is ready.

Birds have changed their songs.

Beaks of sparrows foam

With the venom of battle cries.

 

Everything hurts.

Rose

 Rose oh pure contradiction! Voluptuousness of not being 

the owner of anyone, under so many gazes

                                                                        Rilke

No rose that in a garden ever grew

in Homer's or in Omar's or in mine

is ever not intoxicating, fine

of form whether old garden rose or new

hybrid bred to be chartreuse or blue

The classic reds and pinks will still outshine

other flowers, with fragrance, almost divine

the sweetest distillation of earth and dew

Reine de Violette, Dainty Bess, Ghislaine

de Feligonde, I'm their willing slave

as long as they bestow, once in a while

blooms that satiate the eye and I'll smile

when pricked by thorns, if in this world of strife

my path is strewn with petals all my life

(The first two lines stolen from Edna St Vincent Millay, who went off on a tangent in her sonnet)

Hope

(after Ogden Nash and Supurna) 

To scrub at a stain in the cloth

is not to know that it will fade

but to rub it between your fingers 

again and again 

as you were taught by someone

who was taught by someone

who once made a soiled thing clean again.

This Haiku is an Island: To ADG

This Haiku is an Island: To ADG

Far beyond all that

there'll be an island to chat

Where all tempests pause.

Translation from Ogden Nash

খবর পেয়েই যাই 

​

আজকাল খবর পড়ার খবর জানার 

উৎসাহটা আর নেই। 

ঠিক যখন মনে হয় যে এতই অবস্থা অন্ধকার 

যে আর হতেই পারে না, আরেক পরত কালি লেগে যায়। 

​আর সেই জন্যই খবর ভালো লাগে না আর, কারণ 

আজ অবধি এমন যুগ তো দেখিনি যখন 

সব কিছু এতো ঠিকঠাক চলে শুধুমাত্র ভুলভাল মানুষদের জন্য।

love to hate or hate to love

nothing pretty
about hate
it makes your
eyes narrow
heart shrink
breath shallow
voice splinter
blood thicken
limbs shake

it makes you
lose balance
lose perspective
crumble, drift far
from the pulsating
luminous
dots forming
a heart in the
centre of your being

hides you from yourself
till you’re lost
and ready to shoot
shatter all chances
of just being
yours and others
yes, we love to hate
or hate to love and
how we hate the haters. 

Wisdom

That forest where the tree falls with no one

to see or hear or jump out of its way

Is it the same place where some person 

is dancing with no one to watch? Or may-

be the one hand clapping is for that dance?

Also that cat that Schrodinger said

is in the box, but you can't take the chance

in case the act of checking makes it dead

And Achilles too, covering the ground

incrementally, Despite his renown

behind the tortoise. Here those stairs are found

of Escher's, that you go up to go down

When I meditate on any of these

I'm reminded that I'm no Socrates

Cup of coffee, Cup of tea

Waking up before 

the sun does – 

cup of coffee

Bone tired, sunk into 

a chair, reviving 

cup of tea.

Drowsy from lunch 

a cup of coffee 

to stay awake.

Too wound up from 

the coffee, end of the day 

a cup of tea. 

propagation

Anyone can tell you 

that it is not in the blooms. 

Those, like fruit, 

are meant for the outside world.

Gifts, you could call them

or missives. 

The leaves, too,

are disposable.

Falling often and quickly

only to be replaced by 

younger contenders. 

No, it is some deeper place

some invisible point 

beyond which 

there is not enough body 

to resurrect.

Standing before a houseplant

one hand on a sharp instrument 

the other on a stem 

you must draw

from some buried instinct

to decipher where 

the life of a thing resides.

Earth Stories - 5

Kneeling down under a neem tree
in low light (dawn has barely arrived)
I hold, in my palm, a ball of red earth.
Tears roll down my face as I smile at
the soil in my palm, now marked.

Waking up, I know I was awake while
seen to be asleep and have seen my
future and past rolled up together 
in my palm – a ball of red earth. 

Earth Stories - 4

If you want mangoes in winter
you should get yourself another
planet, she said, but did we listen?
And now that we are harvesting the
abundance of wrong-doing we sowed
in her soil, will we get to feast on our
folly or will the end be so lightning fast that 
in a trice there’ll be not a trace of the past? 

Earth Stories - 3

When once, almost shattered fully
I started floating away from my centre
a million tiny, shiny pieces never to find
each other again, she cast a net so fine, so
wide, and collected all of me unto herself
kneaded me with fresh soil, pressed flowers
into new skin she had me wrapped in and set
me out under a large tree to take in the world
anew, to grow new roots, new wings, new feet
new hair, new eyes – that would take me across
skies I had never seen before and this, in short
is how she saved my life when once, almost
shattered fully, I started floating away from
my centre – a million tiny, shiny pieces. 

Sparrows of no Providence

In a world of little

forgiveness
and historical wrongs
 
what if one day you
wake up and forget to
take a good look at yourself
in the mirror and remind
yourself of your place in the world?
 
What if without meaning to,
pursuing some abstraction of the heart,
you slip indefensibly.
 
What’s next
in this world of
little forgiveness and
and historical wrongs?
 
Even after you come to see
what you did was wrong.

Cursive

The pen, the ink, the paper, white, unlined

no footprints on the field of snow, until

some beast leaves its tracks, or some other sign

feathers, drops of blood, old skin. Sometimes it's still

silent, moves no muscle, I'm not sure

am I hunter or hunted? The words obscure. 

Calisthenics

My sister teaches herself 

to do handstands.

Throwing her body up 

against the living room wall. 

Feet go above knees 

above head above hands.

Her limbs learning new arrangements

new ways of togetherness. 

This is no time to think 

of falling 

to hope for the world to be 

righted and for you 

to return to it unscathed. 

Now only certainty 

only faith. 

My sister throws her legs

into the air. 

The body does

what it is trusted to.

Earth Stories - 2

Are you a mountain person
or a sea person
I asked my beloved
and she, gently wrapping
her arms around me, said
I am the mountain
I am the sea, my dearest heart. 

ROAD TRIPPING WITH QB

Long drives they used to call them there. Road trips are what they call them here.

What once was and what now is -- both are home. Music is a trusted bridge 

between the two worlds. The car moves through summer's irrepressible verdure, 

through Tilsonburg, Thorndale, Stratford, past cardboard signs selling strawberries 

and fresh eggs, honey and fat peaches. So much to see and yet the ear yearns to hear. 

Start your playlist. Tibetan flute at first -- Nawang Khechog's aural notes that both 

awaken and still, opening the folds of your mind. An unfolded mind seeks some 

mischief, so switch to gypsy guitar music. Make your senses trip the light fantastic 

while looking at yet more green -- swaying fields of corn and soy, rows and rows 

of cabbage and cauliflower. Yours is a caffeinated head now and there can't be 

any looking back. Play Qurratulain Balouch on a loop. Swing to the bounce 

and husk of her voice, notice the car picking up speed, zipping through the 

highway as you drive towards her live concert. Listen to her sing of humsafars, 

fellow travellers who shared the road but couldn’t sync their minds, of a 

lover’s deceiving heart, of shedding suffocated tears like salt does in dough. 

On the long drive back home late in the night, bite into the ice cream cone you 

bought at the concert venue, and rewind. Stay ensnared in the dark clouds 

of QB's hair, her domineering presence -- on the stage or off it, her 

electric performance. See how the there and here, then and now all melt into 

a circuitous jigsaw. 

In poetry

It takes a while
to be truthful
 
about what hurts.
 
Calling attention to
wounds. Being not
invincible.
 
Not being the woman
you were raised to be.

 

Address Proof

They ask for proof of address

for where you belong permanently.

 

Pinned on a corkboard

outside the old

kindergarten classroom.

 

Hidden on the dusty floor

under the kitchen table.

 

Crouched behind curtains.

 

Bent over books in libraries.

 

Waiting at the

bus stand, the train station,

the airport.

 

In houses of friends.

 

In rented homes

with no permanent address.

Henpecked

They know a farm boy when they see one.

The roosters eyed him from their perches while

Their womenfolk stepped daintily out from

Among the birches, planting each three-toed

Foot delicately before the other, and one

After another slantwise bestowed our man

Suggestive glances. Meanwhile a designated

Veteran advances. It isn’t obvious at first but she’s

Clearly taking no chances. Murder most fowl

Is on her mind. The city bred wife is not

Of their kind. It’s time she goes. She comes

For my toes. Her malicious eye fixes

On my feet. She’s not giving up till I’m in

Full-blown retreat. And you know what,

Ladies? It’s fine if you want to fight

For your men. But my advice, if you’re caught

In this Shakespearean scenario: remember

The most famous stage direction of that

Impresario: Exit pursued by hen.

love poem

It has been three summers

and as many seasons 

of writing of you. 

With each I have watched my love change. 

From grief to longing 

to an uncertain pastness.

Perhaps this year will be the last.

A quiet ending

for a quiet love. 

I cannot promise this 

any more than I can tell you

how many poems you must write

before there is nothing left to say.

Aubade

Dawn comes earlier every day

earth now tilting sunward

by 23.3 degrees. Each ray

formed at our star's core a hundred

thousand years ago, ricochets

to the surface, light-speeds through

space to earth, to fill this holy day

with old light, sky that ancient blue

Titian used just for Mary's robe

lapis ground to dust. After that long night

at dawn they found the empty tomb

He said 'I have come into the world as light.

BATS AND BUTTERFLIES

I was friendless for a long time.

Holed up in an empty house.

Head down over a discoloured plastic-cased PC monitor.

Phone calls ceased. Songs lammed my jammed throat.

You could label no-decibel, a quiet life.

Except, that quietude had no peace in it.

Only a zillion pieces of decaying sadness.

I was in hiding. From the world. From myself.

Friendship was a possession for happy people.

The ones who celebrated inebriated.

The ones who danced even after the music stopped.

The ones who got hitched and got others hitched.

Notice how they say all is fair in love and war?

Because nothing's fair in heartbreak and defeat.

Only bats and plaster-peeling terrace walls stay with you.

Your echo. Your location. Fixed. Unchanging.

In my middle age, the hesitant river of my youth

coursed back into its bouncy childhood.

I found friends like a tree does new birds. 

The bats became butterflies.

My feet found their springs, rusty yet working.

Still flexing. Still releasing.

Across terrace maps, laughter rolled into echoes without decibel limits.

I was friendless once.

Now I'm gloriously friendful.