For Avani who lead me back to DR

To push a pal to pick up the pen
Is to help him return to a place again
A place where the shells of our feelings
Were cracked and scrambled over toasts
After a dose 
Of Elliott or Ismat, Donne or Saadat
Drunken nights and shameless tears
A lifetime of comfort from our reckless years

April

The end of Act 1 of the year
Tucked between a disciplined motion,
The 'march'
And a permission to be, 
The 'may'
Begins with the celebration of fools
And ends early like November and June
"Time is a construct" some would say
But to read beauty in the form of these designs 
Is a celebration of the consensual function of meridien lines
An acknowledgement of the fact that it behoves us to know
If it's worry or just the summer that caused the sweat on your brow

The Return of Ben Adhem [A sequel to Leigh Hunt's Poem Abou Ben Adhem (1834)]

Abou Ben Adhem got sick of the heavenly feels
So he returned to Earth and found a teenager scrolling reels
As he began writing, after finding a place to sit 
The teenager noticed him, but didn't seem to give a shit
Holding up his cheer even if a little shook
"Are you not curious about my book?"

Abou said
The teen raised its head

"Pretty cool what's it made of?"

Abou cleared his throat with an artificial cough
"Don't you want to know what I'm writing?"
"Sure" said the teen, Abou didn't need more inviting

"It's the names of those who love the Lord" in a gentle tone
The teen gave a nod and returned to his phone
"Alrighty then,

Shall I write you as one who loves your fellowmen?"

"The ones on instagram yes, the ones on LinkedIn not so much.
And James from school but we're not in touch..."
Abou's peace had left him and he looked in pain
Feeling a little guilty the teen tried to explain

"I'm seeing too much of everyone now and loving them all is a little weird"
The teen could go on but Abou disappeared
The next night Abou returned with an announcement and a smile
"God wants you to run his instagram profile"

Gorkhabasti, 79 Tilla, Vip Road, Secretariat, Agartala-799010

There's a restaurant called 'Food Delight'

That goes easy on the masala

It has four seater tables on the right

It's in Gorkhabasti at Agartala

All momos come with soup

Both steamed and fried

On the left, the tables seat two

Both sit on the same side

The tables face the counter

And give a view of the kitchen inside

The prices could've been way amount-er

And guests would take it in their stride

Your mouth waters as you wait

The food takes a few moons

No 'friend', no 'date' you're with a bench mate

Students ready for your 'lehsuns'

You won't get to stare into her eyes

But you can share a bowl 

The meal is about literal 'spice'

And a shared desire to nourish the soul

So bring a gang and sit on the right 

For the left, come alone with an appetite

And if at all you have someone to bring

Only get those who make you look forward to things

 

Falling Asleep While Reading

Woke up marvelled but a little displeased

3 pages engulfed 6 hours of a dream

Now that tyrant lies harmlessly but creased

After directing the flow of my unconscious stream

The rustle of pages, a lover's snore in my bed

Books are like people except they're all well read. 

Scrapbook Poetry

Bob Dylan said "I think a poet is anybody who wouldn't call himself a poet"

He might be right.

But I also believe a poem is anything that someone calls a poem.

Aaj Apun Likhega

On some days you need the pen to punch the page

You write with the irreverence of the gunda of the ilaaka

Who shoves words around so they have an impact

Who grabs a statement by the collar and shakes the metaphor out of it

Who ignores sentences passed by the law because he can

And it's not just force but something deeper at play

That allows for a thug-ish poetry day

Or a real mawali to hold his ground

It's the silent consent of everyone around.

Castles

When they say 'No,

don't build them in the air'

You must reply 

'Then where...

will I go,

to hold court in the sky?'

A Poem With More Numbers Than Words

10

9

8

7

6

5

4

3

2

Stop

No 1

Should

Be Left Alone

In Anticipation.

The Yous

Whenever I read a poem which mentions a 'you'

I read it twice

Once for the poet, to hear them out

The second to build a picture of the you

In my head

A 'you' I'm only seeing through a pair of ink-filled eyes

A 'you' that's crafted by just an emotion or at most two 

A 'you' that's deliberately stripped of details

A 'you' draped in the most exquisite fabric of anonymity

A 'you' that may not be bothered by the pressure of existence

A 'you' that's probably just me

Bad News

A string of messages without a 'hi'

No 'context setting' before I reply

I was told before some others

Someone else heard before me

Sad news needs a pecking order

To channel the sympathy

We all mean well, without a doubt

But the deeper the well the more weary the pulley

Some of us haven't reached out

While others pour their buckets out fully

The group chat like a placid lake

The memers their duties shirk

From sharing reels they'll take a break

To stay afloat through the waterworks

Till those affected would like to get in touch

We'll emulate the sandy clam

You hold up the river when you can't do much

That's why they call it 'giving a dam'

Returning to Riyaaz

A link that takes two attempts to find,
Names on tags that purposefully remind.

I haven't blown feelings into balloons in a while
I've only puffed the dust off desks...

But I guess that's okay, this is a gasp not a song,
You won't breathe easy after holding your breath for so long.