Inspiration!

is the virus dot that walks up from your tummy
to your throat
splitting itself into two and four and eight...
rushing into 
your limbs,
your brain,
all joints,
infecting everything so fiercely
before
uniting all parts of itself
back into the single blob
that goes out of the tummy!

Two Sides

A side of me
sits aside
like a spectator in the stadium
watching the other side
play,
juggling
navigating
figuring,
ways to steer seemingly complex things,

then,
it takes charge
at its turn
to transform worldly spaces
into worthy surrounds for the day.

I switch
between sides
and as I seek my fused
voice
-------calling
----------------thought
in its oneness,
I realize,
I am two with myself!

The Big Fight!

They sat mum for a minute on the cement platform adjoining the compound. He was being reprimanded for his wrong-doings. She kept her gaze, that didnt move from him. And she kept her frown.
"Why?" she asked. That pitch-less tone in the very same cold voice...thats the only thing he hated. Then why didnt he fear that before attempting what he attempted! She had no reason to contain her anger.

They always walked together. And he always told her everything. Sometimes preemptively and at other times immediately after. She trusted him to bits. And she trusted him to answer even now. He looked up at the shimmering rays of the sun that were blindling him. He closed his eyes, but refused to look down. Let the heat outside suck out the heat within! He breathed his longest, loudest breath.

Sweat can be a funny thing. It tickles your skin as it flows downwards, gently. But as new sweat-drops form and slide down, they follow the path of their predecessor. Same trajectories of life! Eventually they stop tickling, they begin to lose their claws, they begin to disappear. He lifted his hand and brushed off the first of the sweat drops from the back of his closed fist. Keep it tightly closed! Its not the right time to reveal the secret!

She couldnt wait though. She held his hand. "Why did you beat her up?" she screamed. Tears were now forming in her eyes, and they were waiting to flow down as swiftly as the blobs of sweat on his forehead.
"Mama," he spoke in fear and slowly released the fist open. "She stole your earrings from my bag!" He swallowed. "I stole them from yours," he admitted, "but I wouldve given it back once I am a big boy," he paused again, "big enough to not miss you!"

She picked up her earrings and wore them. She picked him up and walked. "I wont leave you at school when you're big enough, to not miss me! I'll keep you right next to me, every minute." She gave him a big, teddy bear hug. He cleaned his forehead with the sleave of her dress, gladly.

Sight!

I look down
at reflections
of the whole world above,
upside down
in blobs of
black off sunlight or
colourless ripples spreading themselves in water...

and I think
of how we see different things
at the same time
differently
- smiles
of joy sometimes, of sorrow,
frowns
of sarcasm, sometimes of mischief,
sighs
in relief, sometimes in disbelief
screams
from fright, sometimes from deep orgasmic seizures -
all possessing us
as we possess them in pride, sometimes in indifference...

and I conclude...
sight is that light ray darkened by life's blind spots!

Mayajaal!

Is that real,
the bunch of sweet nothings
freely exchanged?

Like a quick magic trick
it appears and disappears
before I know;
but they know,
they believe,
why reality is such a wonder-bird -

it gives you wings
it touches unknown winds
it sings a popular song,
covers up stealthy bygones
its cooks up a lucrative dish
from ‘hunts & kills’ of small fish

its not for no reason that they call it indispensable,
somewhere, that ‘real’ is really in-credible!

That ghost!

I watch the lights
bright eeriness
that unfolds
her.
She stands like a smoky figurine in its whiteness.

I look away
sight fixated
on the floor
that un-buries
her.
She grows into her full self like a brown creature with white teeth.

I twitch my brows
and gaze straight;
at the farthest wall
that un-carves
her.
She is the white sculpted curve staring into me.

I close my eyes,
wash my insides,
that fluid-ify
her.
She is the cast that embodies the petrified, closed-eyed, free flowing mystique!

When...

"when does it happen,
that the you and me phenomenon
that always sat discretely on the couch,
separate backsides backing each other
like blooming flowers stemming from a vertex,
transforms itself into a we form?"

i thought of my posture
right there,
looked around between
air and airlessness,
breath and breathlessness,

"when smells smell each other and start seeing each other!"

Time Zones!

Strong winds blew that night as gushes of air built themselves up over each other like flames of fire.
Some thoughts came by too.

She picked them up gently, as if they were light feathers, too frail to be touched yet too strong to be crushed. She let them only into some parts of her brain, disjoining them on purpose, so that they couldnt take over completely. How could he do that? She didnt care anymore, though.

He caught some winds too, by the window. The racing bus killed anything that wasnt strong. Basic physics right? Time. Speed. Distance. She couldnt have done that! He knew she knew something.

They gazed at the clock that ticked tirelessly.

5.15. She sighed.
10.30. He blinked.

Lies!

Will you
or will I
when you will
then will I
when I lie
will you lie
that you know not the lie
and then will I
lie down
to know if your lie
is
my lie
after me
or my lie
is your lie
after you?
 

Stills...

a yapping television
some trickling water droplets
clean plates on the side table
and newspapers lying hapless

sing songs of yellow fever
play games of scarlet checks
dance around in rhythmic motion
chop fine kung fu wrecks

while
the air
circulates
around all commotion,
circumvents
plastic drapes
kills rhyme in deep rest

and the mind
sits
splits
into half
and then half of half
and so on
separating
like wings under a shredder

that become
feathers ambulating in stillness...

Dirt!

...on the road sticks onto u,
like a leech in the forest
but is gender-less.

It covers your body and pretends to be a protector,
it greases you slowly, carefully when you’re not looking
and disfigures you.

Then,
like an outsider, it laughs at the new ugly ‘you’
and
secretly
and moves onto the next body, the next catch…

Next time, these creatures come back,
tell them –
not anymore, there’s nothing left to ruin anyways,
let them go chirp with other ‘dust’
and then settle down with half-hearted chocolate lip balms,

while you take a bath with your protector
who will wipe you clean of such filth/muck.

But its still scary, you know,
that a piece of crap can fool you,
and its even more frightening to see
that its out on the loose!

Stone!

There was a stone that shone
in light that caught the gaze of sight.

Whenever someone looked into it,
it gleamed in glory
and reflected back at him, bit by bit,
his true character's story.

"You're just a body healer", it shone at the doctor,
"and you, can only tell life's tale, O astrologer!
and what a shame, dear thief,
you cant run away with a single 'meaningful' leaf!"

Each passing day, several came,
stood stong like emperors, dropped down like slaves,
vanquished by a mere thing,
they dug up land, lay down dead in graves.

Untill one day, there came a man,
who stared for long and smiled,
"Okay I'm a nobody, but so are so you,
why do you choose to sit here denied?

If you were all that great and wonderful,
wouldnt you be elevated and celebrated?
Would people loathe you, despise you,
call you a killer of souls, whose killings you perpetrated?"

The stone lay unmoved, unchewed.
"Man's ego, mister Einstein, one will not forgo,
I speak the truth, I show you "you", bare and uncouth,
but you will not thank me, rank me as your top friend,
you will deny, modify, codify or even defy own life
you will stay put, not take note, move on or change vote,

and this is the story of every honest storey,
the glamorous are gold-faced, need soft beds
the simple are fainthearted, need euphemisms
the nobody's are rebels, need reason.

I am a stone, lay alone, stone hearted, soul parted,
I say you all seek the imperfect, deflect, I reflect what you reflect!"

Three Sixty Degrees!

She woke up with a sudden jolt.

The night had set in a few hours ago and she had very quickly fallen asleep. Her eyes had been steadily drowsy and she had decided not to fight them. There are better battles around, more engaging ones. Besides, a long day had its benefits. At least, it kept away insomnia. It kept away nightmares. It sealed the line between dawn and dusk effortlessly.

But that night, she woke up with a sudden jolt.

Something around her was not right. Was it the window? Maybe it should be left open...slightly. Fresh air could be a welcome guest. She looked around. The brown paper bag on her table was torn and its contents were partially visible. A blue shawl, peeped out, carefully concealing a white piece of paper. Bright white, almost distorting peaceful sleep. It struck her eyelids, forced them to open!

And she woke up with a sudden jolt, startled.

He had asked her to leave it with him...so that he could feel her all the time...with him...when in fact she couldnt be...and she had heeded! Now, suddenly she had it back with her. Returned. How? Mistake? Moving On? Priorities? New stories?

From her answer-less sleep, she had woken up, staring at her blue-shawl-self, suddenly, with a jolt!

Selflessness...

"I need to walk around the park tonight...like a fairy watching the moonlight," she smiled, "with you, of course." She held out her hand.
He looked up at the sky, glanced down at the grass before finally fixing his line of sight, straight at her. "Okay!" he smiled...

Trick...

Trickle Trickle
little star
I wonder how you’re what you are,
up above transactions sly
like a voiceless, soulless lie!

Stars...

Stars, walk down one by one, find themselves amid us and greet us in conversations;

they align themselves to five points
and ten points of view
like vertices and sides respectively,
respectfully,
they shimmer in spaces of sublimity
and shudder at saintly superficiality,
there's chatter and pitter-patter,
blinking and withdrawing in commotion,
soaked in idleness, a fundamental life constituent
and futility, a rejoicable commodity.

Stars descend onto earthly surfaces, in conversations that are delightfully pointless! :)

The Corner Stone!

The corner stone was white-tiled. The shape was a perfect ‘L’; of half a rectangle - length, a tad bit longer than twice the breadth. Dimensions are quite like that, queerly quaint or quaintly queer. They belie stories that would be, could be, succinctly, yet gracefully and embrace extensions, as effortlessly as they do, abrupt cuts. And then, there are the protrusions that pop up in the middle of their middles in strange shapes. The corner stone had none of that in its perfect white-tiled ‘L’.

Its imperfections manifested in arty yet artless splashes. Splashes that colored themselves a tad bit, just right. Slight beige. Slight amber. Slight jade. A mélange of sorts. And the corner stone was an unbiased canvas. It stood still in its lined pedestal watching its acknowledgements. It allowed everything. And it allowed everyone without protest - the auto rickshaw wala who smirked without reason, the university student who always looked at the sky, the adjoining theater watchman who was forever in haste, the sunglass-ed bike rider who either sang or hummed a tune, the car wala who always loosened his tie and the gay-ish steady walker who drew his breath a minute before he began.

But it did scrape off small chips of itself at night, powdering itself into heaps of inconsequentials - each time it saw the street beggar bring in his collections, each time it witnessed his meal around its pungent self, and, each time it looked on as he spread his wet blanket a few yards away to rest in the sleeplessness of the night.

Nonetheless, the corner stone stood straight, ah, that same perfect white-tiled ‘L’, slowly scraping off, by the night, those parts that some colors would manage to hide, the next day.

PS - In protest against urinating in public!

The Name Plate!

He awaited the name plate. For 2 months now. And he would peek at the blank surface that hung low at her desk.

She spoke to no one. And no one spoke to her. She followed a fixed path every single day. The office entrance to her seat, in the morning, two three visits to the boss’s cabin, the stout Bengali Mr. Das, then, back again at the seat of namelessness. He never saw her move otherwise. She never seemed to eat, perhaps never visited anybody and never needed a coffee break. Almost impossible. Yeah, she was that. As impossible as the red rose she wore, pinned on the braids of her hair. That was the only ugly side of her.

He saw her submerged in her files. 20th century’s only office, this one, where paperlessness was still a long shot. But that did not seem to bother her. Technology is a complicated thing, sometimes. It conceals layers of information at times and brings to fore, several concealable substances. It enlightens, embarrasses, expands and encroaches, and manages to juxtapose each feature erroneously, with ease.

So it was okay to be in a techno-less space. He had reconciled. It was okay to not be able to check her coordinates online. It was okay to wait for that vendor who had taken down ‘the name to print’, a few days back. It was all okay.

What was not okay was that she wasn’t seen at work in the last one week. Some intrigue that caused. Legitimate. But that could be because this was vacation season. Das was also on vacation. Maybe that’s why! He wanted to ask somebody.

Who would know? Miss Dixit? She would have the list of names. But how should I ask? Would I have to make up some reason? Lemme wait for another day…or should I…

He walked to the pantry. Some coffee would help. He poured something into his glass. 2012 Olympics played on the television. Romanian gymnast. Slender, swift, flexible, very difficult feats, perfect landing. But oh! not the best score. Why not? He wondered as he gulped down the dark concoction. The jury is always biased! He threw the empty paper glass and returned.

“Ashish Sharma”. The nameplate stared at him.

He walked fast to Miss Dixit. “Ma’am, the name-board at workstation 22…there…there seems to be some error…'Ashish Sharma' it reads…and the girl is on leave…you should probably notify the vendor.”

“Workstation 22. Yeah, we have a new hire, Ashish Sharma.” Miss Dixit was irritated. “What girl are you talking about?”

“Arey, madam, woh Mr. Das ke saath kaam karti thi na? White face…brown eyes…roz badi badi files ke saath baitthi thi…”

“Mr. Das?” she suddenly stood up. “Hello, who toh 2 mahine se nahi hai yahaan…kya Mazak hai ye?”

“Achcha? Haan ho sakta hai. He must be at the site. I haven’t seen him either.”

Miss Dixit was vexed now. “Das passed away 2 months back…Is this some kind of a joke? Please leave.” She sat firmly back on the chair and turned away from him.

He walked back numb. Absolute nothingness, feelinglessness. Past the cubicle. Past the heap of files. Past the red rose that lay on her desk.

Past the new, complete, nameplate.

Dizzy...

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...
something's calling from somewhere;
in that land, with those folks,
is that a song i wonder,
jus a simple buzz of a tune,
a flat intonation that
doesnt need to dive into your lungs,
it can simply walk a pedestrian walk...

hmmm...
some songs are sung like that
zzzzzzzzzzzzzz...

Silent Whispers!

It was always a tidy place. Yet, she would go about with her cleaning every single Sunday. She would fold his clothes, neatly, mindful of their already acquired creases and keep them back in the same place, same position before he woke up.

“So you’re busy again”, he yawned. “Ho gaya sab kuch, aaj ke liye?”

She smiled without an answer. Some words dilute themselves in the warmth of the saliva; some others extend themselves to restless tongues and get dissolved; she liked them receding back earlier, from the throat itself, back into the place they began. Words could churn themselves again and come back with a better offering, right?

“Breakfast mey kya khaoon?” he brooded. “I know what you’ll say…Toast sandwich…Bombay style”, he chuckled. “But it’s not fair, you know…I can’t make khana everyday yaar he got up from the bed and walked to her. “Bahut bore hota hoon”.

She always found most of what he said amusing…and very endearing...especially his articulation of serious things. She laughed and winked, resting her elbows on the edges of the cupboard planks and resting one side of her head on her knuckles looking straight at him.

“Very difficult ok all this”, he went on. “Main abhi bol raha hoon, I can manage this for a few days, theek hai, just a few days ok…and its not like I deserve to do it either no…I dont think anyone has any complaints with me…tujhe bhi toh itna tang nahi kiya hai…haan, a lil bit, yes, but by and large, not really right?” he stopped. "Definitely not tumhare jitna".

She didn’t stop smiling. She couldn't. Standing at the washroom door now, she signaled towards the lonesome toothbrush. It stood alone alongside some toothpaste. “Uff” he sighed and picked it up. He brushed his teeth as she looked on.

He knew she secretly checked if he was brushing alright. He knew she secretly timed him. He knew she secretly watched him. He knew she secretly kissed him every night after he fell asleep. He knew she secretly mothered their child. He knew she secretly wished for a lifetime together. He knew she secretly loved him to pieces. He knew she secretly yelped that night before she was rushed to the hospital. He knew she secretly knew she would be gone.

He knew now everything she secretly did.

“Men are suckers no?” he asked as he washed his mouth and showed her his teeth. She smiled the smile that had never ceased. He wiped his face dry. “They just can’t cook well enough!”