overheard at a restaurant

 this is not pity, it's guilt.

oh! i just can’t stand it.

    this psycho obsessing over me

    while i don’t feel a thing!

another city for company

paver stones shine in the setting sun

and low and mellow the sun shines off the tar

and off dusty leaves and glistening crows and

off the rooftops and bonnets of passing cars

the peepal leaves flutter in the shadows

in the halo of burning light around my head

stretched across the pavement beneath the tree

and around my foot swinging off the dusty parapet

on my left my rucksack leans against me

as i sit waiting hunched over my book

and on my right slumped up against me

sits the dog with six toes on his hind foot

the bats feed at the fig and now it’s the streetlights

that throw shadows framed by windowpanes and eaves

and next to the open door on the wall behind your tv

i once again have a halo of fluttering leaves

that evening’s long gone and huddled asleep

must be the crazy crows that madly soared

there’s a long night before me and well

i’m just a little more lonely than before

lurking in the shadows

sit still now. and hold that look, won’t you?

i’ll paint you an earthy brown, mellow and dark

against the sheet white. and in the shadows i’ll use blue

for black brings remembrance of things past

a lonely patch of sky

in the courtyard of the abandoned

house, where not a soul does dwell

hidden in the weeds overgrown

stands the broken well

the inside’s stained mossy green

with patches bleached white

and a ficus grows from a crack

its leaves peeking over the side

stones for steps spiral down

disappearing into the thick fern

and right at the bottom, a brilliant blue sky

to see a face does yearn

crazed memories

i’d just turned seven and we’d lie awake

sweating, and fanning ourselves in the heat

the summer was tough, the rations limited

and i still remember the delicious donkey meat

papa helped skin the carcass, so the cooks

gave him a chunk of the meat, unofficial, boiled

mama cut it up into small cubes and seasoned it

with mashed garlic, soy sauce, vinegar, and sesame oil

the starving donkey had broken in at the tofu mill

where my parents worked in the packaging-shed

it dashed away as the watchman came, and

was mistaken for a thief and shot dead

what's worse?

letters written, never sent

words spoken, but never meant

memories unremembered, nothing left to repent

collage

before me lies a collage of pics

of ancient childhoods and long lives lived

black and white images of love once young

people, once together, now far flung

before me lies a collage of pics

it glosses over hurts that time can’t fix

showin me only times when all was right

there are no pics of the many loveless fights

or the the times we cursed and shouted

and hurt each other with things unsaid

or the times that people wished

someone or the other was dead

before me gathers a collage of pics

as i see lives even now being lived

some relationships clearly under the weather

unhappy families struggling to hold it together

people being miffed and feeling hurt

dreams being ground into the dirt

perverted fantasies being lived out in others’ lives

husbands going fat and disenchanted wives

paths being chosen and destinies being written

disillusioned youngsters and old hearts smitten

realizations about passions and true callings

people speaking out and inhibitions falling

people standing by you on your bad days

with inane words and silences profound

and I’m surprised at how there’s always

enough love to go around

translating shiv kumar batalvi: ki pucchdeo haal fakiraan daa

a humble attempt at translating a poem by shiv kumar batalvi

a song

 

why do u ask after us mendicant wanderers

us, who are waters separated from the rivers

us, who have been born as tears

us heartbroken forlorn lovers

knowing well that pictures are but names

for blotches of gaudy colours

i valued them too dearly when

i ended up amongst the lovers

i slept with thousands, but

not one whose soul was mine

such fate did someone write

on my hands, in these four lines

my destiny was ardent, but of no avail

all the meticulous plans i thought i’d try

i left not jhang and pierced not my ears

as a flock of heers passed me by

people listen to my songs too

and they call me a godless infidel

for i called my hurt my kaaba, and god

was the name i gave my pain immeasurable

in the company of the learned

i often spoke out loudly with disdain

it was from a bit of pride in my love

from the small claim i had over pain

you pride yourself as being intelligent

a passionate lover is how myself i paint

let’s leave it for people to decide

whom they honour as a learned saint

in his voice

the text in english

give n take

the skin on his hands was fragile

and it had these random spots

his eyes wrinkled over when he smiled

and became distant when in thought

there was kindness in his gaze

and in the slow movements of his head

as he led us through the maze

of life, in the poems that he read

don’t cry for me, said he

standing on the stage

his wrinkled face lined with age

as the tears ran down my cheeks

for his poems were splendid peeks

into his life of sorrow

an ocean of grief

save up your sympathy

he said, with a wan smile

for sure, I have been down awhile

and i’ve had enough cause to mourn

but there are others that even i

have hurt, and left forlorn

there she goes

my throat muscles knot up

as around my eyes the water collects

but i tell myself to go on breathin

for the dive ain’t ended yet

fine, soul sold

you try in vain

to piece together a picture of me

from these ramblings i call poetry

alas, it is but abstract verse

borrowed sorrows are all I nurse

all made up fibs, all blatant lies

cold and distant winter skies

now i give nothing away

i write fiction anyway

this is not me anymore

this cold scream that pours forth

this hollow howl, it ain’t me

my spirit dwells elsewhere, free

forever beyond reach, I am

aloof from all that’s said

sitting with my feet up

and my hands behind my head

i am just a half amused onlooker

watching these ideas take shape

as staring deep into my eyes they  

listlessly caress the hair on my nape

and then escape through doors

of broken window panes

these ideas are whores

that titillate

you tread not on my dreams

but in elaborate sets that i create

lost amongst the smokescreens

of cold and foggy winter days

on shadows, broken, by blotches

that the dappled sunlight makes

as it filters through, inspite

of this swirling black dye

an inky black sky

cold cobblestones, weathered

blurry blobs of streetlights

the glass in your hand glittered

do you remember that night?

the sparsely crowded market square

in the fairytale town of bruges somewhere

do you remember what you said?

memories are lies i draw from my head

I asked you to stay, and bang bang

you shot me dead

do you remember that night?

no, that never happened, right?

go on and call my bluff

‘coz what you really said was

not enough

donning the garb

you’ve opened up your soul to the world

in the artist’s garb, naked, you lie there curled

to judge, to sneer, to laugh they’re free

for you’ve put out your soul for all to see

so you can’t be dull, and you can’t be fake

‘coz what you think is what you make

and what u make is what you sell

and what you sell can really tell

all that you are going through

your thoughts and your emotions too

how good or fking stupid you are

what silly think left a scar

what you believe and all your numerous faces

thoughts weeded out and the metastases

your morals, premises and the very basis

of your existence. nah, not an easy role

good luck, for you’re out to sell your soul

(from a notebook from sometime back; retouched)