if you’re not famous by then

aren’t you too old at 33

to still be writing poetry?

strangers’ smiles

you smiled back for a sec at me

just the moment our eyes met

and now on you go on your way and

will in another moment forget

for what’s there to remember and fret

about in a strange stranger’s smile?

and leaning my rucksack against the wall awhile

i’ll stand here when you have left

drawing what small consolation there may be

from my burning cigarette

how fallibly human

how fallibly human

i lived and laughed

and travelled and sketched

and loved and lost

and then from time to time

i renounced it all

and came a-wandering after you

and then all i lacked

were the saffron wraps

and i could’ve passed

as a mendicant

but time and again

away i was sent

you turned me away

and so off i went

and i lived and laughed

and travelled and sketched

and loved and lost

until the longing

brought me back

and then all i lacked

were the saffron wraps

and i could’ve passed

as a mendicant

oh how i’m smitten

how insanely in love am i

i cannot live and i cannot die

oh how i’m smitten

how i’m insanely in love

i cannot win and i cannot give up

so i just live and laugh

and travel and sketch

and love and lose

like a happy wretch

for what else is there

in this life to do

until i die

longing for you

monsoon night, pabhoi

i walk quietly through

blocks of moonlight

sliced by the shadows

of the coconut fronds

all is still except

the crickets that chirp

and the fireflies that blink

over the fish ponds

a cycle goes by

still one handed

having replaced

the umbrella for a torch

highway lodge, shillong

through the open window i saw a butterfly flutter by

high above the noise of the traffic in the street

and i blew blue smoke into my rectangle of orange light

in which i was warming my cold smelly feet

driving through guwahati

and as we left the city again

the fog seemed to lift away

to a hazy peach morning

but i really couldn’t say

if it was because of

the coming of day

or if we had in fact

left behind the smog

i see you and i want to stay

but i’m not sure if it’s you

or if i’m just tired today

of my wanderings

lonely and long

a wanderer coming to terms

yes, i did once seek paradise

now, i’m not so sure

it’s become an addiction now, a disease, this longing

this restlessness that has no cure

yes, i set forth to seek love once

now, i trudge along without a hope or a care

just to understand, as i wander from place to place

why it can’t possibly be here, or there, or there

overheard at the restaurant

i can’t die

not yet

there are too many women who must be told

that i love them

walking down a dusty road

if there was just one person

just one person alive

one, who thought me beautiful

thought me beautiful all the time

beautiful as i sit washing clothes

in this pathetic shit hole

that passes for a bathroom or

beautiful as i walk down this dusty road

would it make life worth living?

give me something to live for?

i think you’re beautiful

i think you’re beautiful all the time

it’s what gives me a reason to live

and i think i’m alive

true that

- of countries and ideas and us

that surge of excitement at

the slow realization that

the idea - sans imagination - that

the present boundaries

that have stood  - if they do now stand -

for no more than a hundred years are really

more acceptable than the boundaries that existed

for six hundred years before that

is stupid, is just as silly

being civilized

i’ll say it like you want to hear it

and i’ll risk it sounding too corny

“oh! i want you so badly my dear…”

but the truth is i’m just really horny

new beginnings

(overheard in the shuttle the other day)

sure, we don’t look the roles

i know we don’t fit the moulds

u don’t look like a dad and i don’t look like a mum

u still wear slippers and shorts to the department

and i’m often mistaken for a college student

but so what?

we know what’s what and

we’re capable of love

parallel universes

edging my way along the pavement

crowded with strange people tackily dressed

i dodge smoke blown in my face

and paan spat at my feet with a certain grace

and yet my elbow still hurts

from where i bruised it against the rocks

while swimming in the clear pools

in my forested escape

what if?

what if i was to fall in love with you?

what if as i write this, i am in love with you? and

what if i was to never confess it to you?

what if you went on living and found love

found love and lived a lifetime, content

and some distant faraway day, somehow

discovered quite by accident

that this was written for you, now

would it alter anything at all?

what if i then told you

- in my wretchedness, having become cruel -

that i was just waiting for you?

that all that while i’d just been waiting for you

for you to take one step

to say but one word?

just a gesture

however small?

would it alter

anything at all?

cheap thrills

and when i’ve held the torch in my mouth and read

long enough, coz i lost the headlamp lately

my lips hurt, but it’s a pleasant tingling hurt that lingers

like i’ve been kissing long and passionately

life lessons on evening walks

i miss those simple days when

every evening we’d go for a walk

and duly you’d warn me against

monocled cobras and banded kraits

watching you i learnt

where to walk and where not

not on the newly built paddy-field border

but to go right through the just leveled paddy field

though it remembers your steps that sink ankle deep

unless it’s flooded with water

and that it’s ok to swim in the pond

as long as you don’t crumble and erode

the edges; and to watch out for leeches

and to not fear the humble toad

moments of clarity

my heart in the mountains

my head in the clouds

you by my side

and no rooms for doubts

some more bland poetry, dear reader

it’s nearly midnight

there’s rubbish blown against the pavement

just beyond the little shrine by the streetlight

whose glow is dimmed by hundreds of dead

moths collected in the glass casing that’s cracked

the cracked pavement is dusty

there’s fine dirt heaped in the drain along the road

i feel the dust between my foot and my slipper worn

and between the slipper and the cracked pavement underneath

even the air feels gritty under my eyelids

and tastes crusty on my teeth

i’m having a last smoke before i go up to my dingy room

- yes, i know, too many dingy rooms of late

go on then, gimme a better word, if you so hate

repetition - so like i was saying

i’m having a last smoke before i go up to my dingy room

- there, another repetition. why not, eh? why? -

i’m having a last smoke before i go up to my dingy room

and i see him walking by

he’s well dressed, even a belt on his jeans that seem mostly clean

even the shirt is mostly right

just slightly pulled out at the back; but his walk gives him away

he’s piss drunk, full tight

and then around the corner comes

his friend / brother / boyfriend?

on the bike following him slowly

trying to comprehend

- excuse me, i meant convince -

tryin to convince him to come home

- guess i’ve myself had a bit too much -

trying to convince him to come home, patiently

tolerating, ignoring, even accepting as such

all his self-indulgent ramblings

his furious invective, his allegations of malice

his abuses, wild, lewd and vile

his threats of hurting him and himself

his tirade against love and life

and something about this interaction

presented to me, on a dusty pavement thus

reminds me, even in my drunken simple-mindedness

it reminds me, now lemme get this right, of us

no, not us, of course, not you and me

but maybe you, and bukowski 

yes, even in my dreams

they tell me you like poetry

here

i offer you my humble verses

it’s easy to be a reader, isn’t it?

an audience by default

now that you’ve read them

tell me

am i a poet at all?

it means the world to me

it’s what i do all day and all night

in all my waking hours

and when i’m half-asleep

and ever so often, even in my dreams

tête-à-tête 101

when they ask

so where are you these days? or

what do you do these days?

they don’t mean, how do you live?

far less, what do you live for?

what they’re asking is

what do you do for a living?

just smile and say, this and that

if you don’t have an answer for the giving

‘coz, poetry, is not an answer

they’ll understand

honey

they don’t mean

what do you do with your time?

they mean, what do you do about the money?

unbeknownst to her, tacky dress gets a poem

as an afterthought, to pass the time

i read the names next to mine

posted on the list outside

one was an anil forty-two, the other a gayatri thirty-nine

and exulting at the possibility

of them – for once – putting a woman next to me

i waited for this perfect stranger to arrive

i watched the eyes of all the women

between twenty and forty-five

as they looked up at the seat numbers

walking anxiously down the aisle

the expectation in their eyes

then a flicker of recognition

a slight easing of tension

as they stopped short or passed me by

she turned out to be

a tacky dress who’s dad said

ok, so i’ll leave then, even as he

swung the bag up onto the overhead rack

and she waved goodbye even as she sat

down in a mass of glittering pink

and he was off in a blink

she had her coffee and then soundly slept

but to be fair, we did have a little chat

at the end of the journey when she wanted her bag

brought down form the overhead rack

and then off she went

with the uncle who’d come to fetch her

he dragging the bag, she clutching her purse

unaware that she’d been

the subject of my humble verse

considerate excuses

that it was your time of the month

was a wonderful excuse

kind, and considerate

i don’t set great store

by intercourse

anyway

goodbye

[1]

goodbye, dear mountains

my wise mentors of so long

i’ll always remember you

in my dreams and in my songs

oh how i’ve grown up in your very lap

how much i have learned from you

patience and strength, and wisdom

agelessly ancient, yet eternally new

and though i must leave now, and never again return

no matter where i go, no matter where i roam

my soul will always soar over your peaks

that will forever be my home

your meadows will always be my bed

wherever i may lie asleep

and it’s your streams that i shall walk along

in all my yearnful dreams

goodbye, mighty mountains

watch over my home for me

i’ll keep you always in my mind

and my heart is yours to keep

[2]

goodbye, dear valley

my green haven of so long

i’ll always remember you

in my dreams and in my songs

where in one sweeping gaze i’ve seen

rolling white mist, thunderous

clouds and skies clear blue

where every evening

the setting sun kisses the peaks

bidding the valley in the shadows adieu

and though i must now go

against my will, take your leave

my soul is tied to you, dear valley

and to your denizens, wild and free

give them my regards, low and high

mighty and small, wish them all

goodbye

the thars with their manes blowing in the wind

the griffons soaring on outstretched wings

the bold gorals staring from the grassy cliffs

the bush warblers with their impossible riffs

the tits rummaging in the oaks like sly thieves

the flying squirrels that know the sweetest part of the leaves

the bush robins and their plaintive songs

the musk deer disappearing into the rhododendron

the martens that go bounding over grass and rock

the rosefinches that dive into the wind by the flock

look, here they return

and off they fly

goodbye, dear friends

one and all, goodbye

[3]

my verdant valley of sparkling streams

i shall return to you when the day is done

when i have made songs of all my dreams

and all my songs have been sung

it is here, to you, that i shall return then

when eventually i die

until then, dear mountains

goodbye

an excuse to die

we all need, so they say

an excuse to die

is that why you keep that lump in your breast?

and will you - once you have an excuse to live - get it checked?

is that why you think i smoke? or cycle without a helmet?

and is that why when you ask me if i love you

i will lie?

for we all need, so they say

an excuse to die

too not enough

i’m pulled in too many directions

i’m torn in too many ways

i drink too much in the nights

i sleep away too  many days

too many thoughts in my head to think straight

too many windows in the buildings to even begin to paint

too much movement and too many colours in all

the fluttering shadows of the trees on the white walls

too many shifts in the light in the hallowed halls

too many people saying too many things

much too loud until my ears ring

too many doubts

too many debts

too many deaths

too many marriages

too many loves

too many heartbreaks

too many negotiations

too many aches

too many contradictions

too many voices too many doctrines

too many opinions too many arguments

too many hints

too many …

and not enough of me

but that’s vanity

not enough sanity

but who wants that anyway?

too much anger

not enough sorrow

too much pain

not enough love

too much heartache

and yet not enough to write with

reading under the sea on a monsoon afternoon

i look up from the book and i’m in a sea

of viridian clarity that fills all the space around me

from the ground right up to the grey rolling clouds

a soft damp surface seen from beneath

i’m on a bund between a fish pond 
dried out for maintenance and a paddy field 
long ago harvested, with cows grazing 
in the dry standing hay at the bottom

and with his clothes swirling about him

the man who brought them

stands gazing away

the wind buffets me in waves

and the bamboo clump moves slow-mo

like kelp or seaweed

and the wind in its leaves

sounds like the sea

wondering about feet

we used to have nice feet once

both of us

soft and kissable

in fact i remember licking

the smooth sole of your foot and those

little grooves behind your toes

mine are all calloused now

with grimy knots of leathery, pained

skin, the toes all splintered at the edges

like hard wood with dirt ingrained

unimaginable now, how i ever made love to you

the gnarled old man that i have come to be

sitting in a dingy squalid room with the leaky

bathroom, the only rickety window

overlooking a garbage dump that

also doubles as a cycle and scooter stand

through which a sow and her litter blunders

i wonder how you’ve aged, and

what your feet look like

i wonder

there’s still hope

for there are yet

in places you don’t know

long trains of cycles that go

one behind the other at dawn and dusk

churning slush in the monsoon and

at other times raising dust

there is still hope for us

places where we can be free

there is still hope that

one of these days you will 
listen to your heart and 
come away with me

run. love. write

i run

knowing i’ll never win. i love

knowing you’ll never be mine. i write

knowing i’ll never be read

hope is a distant thing

i work with the certainty of defeat

and it gets worse every year

downward spiral, pause, drift, repeat

running is just an attempt of mine

of making peace with distance and time

those timeless enemies of love

the eternal bane of my life

my love is just a stupid mime

a vain lonely exercise

to keep myself distracted

and keep the poetry going

my poems are just serving time

with no life of their own outside

my fading notebooks, unread

stashed away beneath the bed

and yet

day after day

week after week

season after season

i continue to write

to run. to love

for no other reason

but that i must

run

away from things. love

away my loss. write

away my longing

i heard about your separation

it sinks in

like looking at the remains of a road accident

the mangled metal flung against the half-uprooted tree

all still. all quiet. all spent

all hurt left to the imagination

blood, caked. dried

dark red i guess

but then i’m colourblind

in thin streaks

down the cracked window shield

and a stain on the headrest

a puddle on the seat

tyre marks on the road

and blood. dried in streaks

cracked. cold

and i’m sick

the bodies have been long taken

the eyewitnesses tired of retelling their tale

always beginning with what they were doing

how they looked up, looked out

the rubber screeching

the wild swerving

the noise

the whirring

the shouting

the broken…

the mind fills in the rest taking cues

from the tranquil menacing silence

creating for itself the images of violence

the backdrop of hurt

gathered

from the normalcy of your gestures

- a poor disguise

from the abrupt pause

or the odd word dropped

as you talk on when

there is nothing to say

from the stillness in your eyes

that gives you away

evidently not

don’t you get tired of it all?

don’t you get

tired     

of it all?

of strange hands held

in the drunken anonymity of friends’ friends’ parties

if not in the alleys behind dingy bars

strange hands held and run away from?

of desperately seeking love

despite the evident dangers

again and again and again

and again, amongst strangers?

of missing being kissed

being held?

and yet not knowing whose hands they are that you miss

sitting alone on a dark windy porch unlit?

don’t you get tired of it?              

of it all?

of running and hiding and seeking repeatedly?

of lusting and being unable to love? unable to love, for fuck’ sake

of holding and in the same instant hoping to break free?

of these cycles of burning and yearning and the heartache?

don’t u?

get tired?

of it all?

don’t    

you get                

tired     

of it       

all?

do you remember the floor?

do you remember the floor

of the dining/sitting room in the old home?

we lived there for nearly ten years, remember?

until mum left ‘coz she could take it no more

you don’t, i bet

it had little chips set in dark translucent cement

polished. with little colourful stones. split

into squares by flat bars of ground glass 

i’d lie on that sofa on my stomach

and stare at it for hours                                                                                                         

my face a foot from it

looking for shapes in the stone chips

everytime they fought, or scolded you, or shouted at me

or weren’t talking to each other for they were too angry

i’d go slump onto the sofa and stare at that floor

that was my escape, what was yours?

sorry to disappoint

he would always say

how glad he was that we’d turned out to be

such independent, well-balanced adults, we three

and caring too

as if his reiterating it

would make it true

back in mandal

back in mandal where the humble

house sparrows chirp with lust and greed

and the bold luindas hop squirrel-like

over stone walls of the boulder-strewn fields

.......................................................................

luinda is the garhwali name for the streaked laughingthrush

just another evening

i, after my dinner alone

amongst the goodbyes cheery

as people leave to go home

begin my quest weary

for an empty taxi going my way

that’ll take me to my dingy room

where under the influence of alcohol will sway

the flaky-painted walls of gloom

where tormented by memories of you

and by mosquitoes kept awake

i’ll go to the window for a smoke or two

and in the yellow light of the houses nearby

set against a smoky violet sky

try and find the inspiration to paint