Wednesday, December 21, 2011

हम खड़े थे आपके इंतज़ार में,
और आप थे जो बिन देखे
आपनी राह पर
चलते गए,

एक चिटठा आपके नाम
हम ने आप के घुसल-खाने
में भेजा,
आप उस को भी नज़र-अंदाज़ करके
चलते गए,

पर हम ने आपको पुकारा नहीं
कहते हैं, कभी राह चलते इंसान को
पीठ-पीछे बुलाया नहीं करते,
हमारी बेब्स आवाज़, हमारे ही अन्दर
घूमती रही और आप,
आप साहब,
चलते गए


Entwine yourself with me, for I have no words.

You speak to me of empty streets and wailing widows,

Concrete, death, pigeons and pyres.

Rising flames; the quest for the phoenix,

All we see is the grey: ash, stone, you, me.

We stand, made statues by the crowd,

lovers stilled in a frame,

And I think

of you

an artist dissolving paint in water

of children playing in the sea

silhouetted by the sun

And all of a sudden the clamour:

giggles, chatter, tears.

The sounds of being

Undone again, we are

Frozen no more.

Thursday, March 17, 2011

Saturday, May 16, 2009

Out of the blue, the fleas

Out of the blue
The fleas.
As they were painted,
Centuries ago,
on a canvas of letters.
They had passed
between the lovers,
Today they jumped over keys.

I felt them hop two-by-two
between oft-repeated names.
I watched them stride,
into the lonely night.
When the stars were dim,
out of the blue,
the fleas

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

Kettle House

A Body's wrinkled garrulity,
amongst the algaed-nostalgia
creeping into a
wrought-iron, rust-flaking bathtub.
Ms. Havisham's clock
seated, hanging near the
webbed window.

Cracks of sunlight
and oxygen help the fungi grow.

Saturday, March 7, 2009

One-act: A tree on stage. Else bare. This is a monologue by Godot.

Godot (aloud, stage whisper): Goodness, I am so afraid. What if they do not come today? I have waited and waited. I read somewhere that they had people to come and meet them, games to play, books to half-remember, life's chances to ponder. And they worried about passing the time. Worried about me coming! I am as punctual as good ol' Father Time. Which reminds me, what had they said yes, qua qua. More like quack, quack. I heard (leans forward, still in the stage whisper tone and volume) them debate my moments and movements. God they thought I was. God, oh lord! I would have been dead if I was God. Where is he anyway? Useless creature, does no work whatsoever; leaves it all to the mortals and they wonder about him. Pray to him, ask for favours. Or they wondered if I had any canine relatives. I may have had some I suppose. After all, Lucky was practically family. Ssssh... I hear someone coming. Or are they? (Looks up expectantly)

(The camera recording this, pans around an empty auditorium. No one is allowed to be there except the cameraman and the actor playing Godot.)

Friday, February 27, 2009

You, in this letter,

different from the car-horn that blared,

slicing the stillness of the evening।

That is where you have slipped in

between, the rythms,

like the sheets of the bed

and my legs tonight।

You, and not the sadhu,

alms-bowl and arm outstretched,

standing in plea,

You, and not him or me।