थिरकते कदम

2011-12-21T08:49:00.001-08:00

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

Banaras

2011-12-21T08:39:00.000-08:00

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.

http://library.nu/

2011-03-17T08:05:00.000-07:00

http://library.nu/

great books!

Out of the blue, the fleas

2009-05-16T21:53:00.000-07:00

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
two-by-two.

Kettle House

2009-04-15T00:17:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-03-07T10:30:00.000-08:00

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.)

2009-02-27T07:36:00.001-08:00

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।

2009-01-28T07:51:00.000-08:00

आज कहाँ कहाँ गए न पूछो

यह कदम

लौट कर फिर आगए

यह कदम

घूमते हुए घुमाते हुए

यह कदम

तुम्हारी तस्वीरिएँ

आज इन्हे रोक न पाई

मुस्कुराते हुए, गुनगुनाते हुए

यह थिरकते कदम।

Scenes from a starry night

2009-01-26T07:09:00.000-08:00

Lyrical moods and moments. A little note that send us flying high. The saxophone sounds, the velvet-alone voice and the couch beckoning. Or maybe it was the words. The little dance they performed under your command, the pictures they painted, the worlds they showed you. How you took this, our language, our tongue and twisted it to include the corky-casket fragrance of whisky, the touch of the plasticky keyboard. The delight of the eye as it looked through the camera's lens. They made me travel, all of these and more. I used this to move, to escape, now here, now gone. Now missing and now found.

I wish I had tales to wrap around these words, to be able to sing the song of the old man journeying down the road; to tell you about the woman in a red, shining polyester sari. She and the baby she held in a black, flowery dress in her arms. The dress and a towel all she had to fend off the november chill. I want to be able to tell you that I know. That I knew she was taking her baby to the hospital, that she was alone. That as she sat next to me, her mouth moved to feel her child's body. She was relieved that the fever had broken that morning. The jerk and halt of the bus ended our conversation and the vingette.

A man in a faded black kurta and a briefcase sat down beside me. I know not the art of the raconteur. On a graph I plot different shapes, sizes and photographs. A dash of lime and a man. The mishti-doi effect of the woman I lay beside last night. The sound of the car horns in the roads beyond.

Something passed me

2009-01-08T05:22:00.000-08:00

It was an old man with

A toothless smile

Muttering to himself

Telling me of

Lonliness ahead

It was a butterfly

That had just left

A fleck of golden pollen

Against your brown skin

I looked

It was the bus

I saw, that

Carried the crowd

Of strangers

To destinations unknown.

The Object of your Affection

2008-12-27T09:34:00.001-08:00

For what do you do when
the object of your affection

likes you less than you do?

For what do you do when

he walks by
lit cigarette in hand, the
winter sun
lighting his face as he swings
his hips so casually

For what do you do when

the laugh that you share
is dissolved in the
morning mist
over the chai cup

For what do you do when

the half-glance in your
direction, makes you want
you, the mouse
living in the dark
and he the demi-god
who does not return your
look.

I decided to ramble about love

2008-11-01T08:37:00.000-07:00

It was a walk on dusty roads

There were returns, occasionally.

I registered the cigarettes first

The language second

Hesitating, I tumbled

The laughter followed wonderingly

The lessons were tough

Stories stuttered in between

I moved about the spluttering mustard seeds

Notes from a melody played by a boy

You stood there

I wished to touch you

Delhi's own

Claimed, a denial no more

Loved by you a dream

We awoke, on the same bed

A slight nudge

Chai was the call

There were no tea-leaves

Did you know I admire you?

2008-10-17T07:51:00.000-07:00

That crinkly smile,
Jellied words, berry-flavoured almost,
Or did that become
Too exotic a flavour
For you liked
The coconut
that mingled with the chicken.

Will you share a drink sir?

2008-09-11T13:08:00.000-07:00

Would you chatter more sir

or will you just smile

that look in your eye sir

as if you just saw a child.

I make a bad rhyme sir

but would you stay awhile

that which you taught sir

it didn't go with time

that which I saw sir

said I had little bind

2008-09-11T13:04:00.000-07:00

And they had been captured. The coral, the ashtray and the plate of marble. Smooth and rough, light and shade, textures and colours playing off each other. A button pressed, a photograph taken. She had wondered about them for a while, putting them in place. Clean lines, contrasting shapes; chaste, almost virginal appearances. Quite like her beloved. One who had been able to slice so perfectly and delicately through bread, chicken, tomatoes and her.

Parricide: A memoir

2008-07-28T08:05:00.000-07:00

(Reflections on I, Pierre Rivière having slaughtered my mother, my sister, and my brother...)

A body
Its flesh spread
In foetal curled
Small incisions
I begin to make

Slivers of skin
Coloured red
With salt water
Slide across the floor

The mass that
Tries to scream
Throw throw throw
Baby and bathwater

The knife plunges
Again
It is no sword
I use it to cut bread

Bread you demand
I bake, I serve
The calendar
Today purpled

You thought it
My birthday
My gift -
My freedom
Your life.

2008-07-23T12:08:00.000-07:00

this is where
i feel inadequate
here just here

self indulgent
a violin bow
wrapped
in velvet
a china doll
layered
in plastic
editorial sanctions comma no black ink
clean copies
washed by the machine
artists oil colours
not less but more

i did not
dance sing shout drink mingle join
i do not
remember
the mouth
that touched
the hands
my aching breasts
lines of love
i do not know
where i draw
your shape
mine
quotations
that never cease
utterances they
become
i think
the dankness
of the room
does not
stop

the open door paralyses

"Even the Rain"

2008-06-26T02:56:00.000-07:00

I started to smile, and then the dust came

settling, settling; covering even the rain.

pink, mauve, red I had, control them I did

but they played, colouring even the rain.

a july bride you wanted, framed I stood

for a sari wearing even the rain.

me you demanded, shatter me you would

let it come I cried; ring even the rain.

a pen brings no relief, Vebhuti said,

Shahid replied ink will bring even the rain.

"Jungle of Words"

2008-06-17T07:19:00.001-07:00

one tugged at one strand
the other at another
whisper they did to me
about their roots

i called out to them
to sort
to divide
to mark

and
gleefully they laughed
mockingly cried
so you too draw

boxes in boxes
shadows and shapes
you dare order
and prevent play

doll doll doll
do you say i
or name
without us

screech
tumble
slide
glide

did they
and i unable
to hold
to stand

joined their play
you abandoned me
i hold them now
and they me

2008-06-11T11:34:00.000-07:00

The poem below, "Courtly Love" was jointly written by Akhil Katyal and Vebhuti.

Courtly Love

2008-06-11T11:06:00.000-07:00

Polite mannerisms

Praises of the lady,

or man.

Mangoes, mushrooms, chocolate

Puzzles he gave me,

These were poetry.

A fiddle struck,

Blood-red oranges sucked,

Idle words read by you,

They became poetry.

2008-05-20T12:15:00.000-07:00

I write

I have nothing to say

Insanely something presses against me

Do not read

Do not talk

I make this a moment

for

rambling

as if it were enough

for me to write

and you to read

no bicycle bells ring here

tea houses and coffee shops

they are a different world

you will not meet my twin

prosaic

dry

modernist

but you may bump into her

if you do

will you pretend it was me?

"All poetry written before the age of thirty is filled with adolescent angst"

2008-05-20T11:56:00.000-07:00

i laugh
what will you fill that with
irony or coconut pieces

i run
as if from you or myself
or the dog chasing me

i have no subtlety
you call me crude
fuck a mode of being

i write out of vanity
you read out of politeness
such is the gathering of bloggers or family

adolescent poetry it is say i
but call no man happy or adult till
the fertilised ground can be tilled again

Offerings from 2007 - i

2008-05-20T09:39:00.000-07:00

Embrace...

Once we were lost, and now are found.

We met at a moment when,

You were not you, and I not I.

We journeyed together to the cliff at the top of the world,

And from there we leaped into the beyond.

We heard the music of the spheres together,

And to it we danced - the perfect dance.

Soon, all too soon, the music stopped and the dance ended,

Perfection never lasts for more than moments.

Now, instead of the music, a silence plays,

And it says simply -

My friend, Farewell.

*************************************

Spaces Revisited

The ever-flowing stream of chatter,

The quiet buzz and loud rings of cellphones,

Silences that situate themselves in between,

Cars lined next to one another,

The solitary dry tree in the midst of it all...

The crowds of people walking in and out,

The red brick of the buildings beside,

Rings of cigarette smoke that fill the air,

Animals, birds and insects all demand their space,

The I in the midst of it all...

The street urchin that begs for a morsel more,

The tea-vendor who supplies the daily necessities,

Raindrops that splatter on the ground,

Ink that flows and marks the page,

The eye in the midst of it all...

The lovers that meet and part,

The workers that seemingly never stop,

Corridors that resound with the laughter of friends,

Posters that mark the walls around,

The cry of ‘Aye!’ in the midst of it all...

******************************************

Sounds that barely whimper,

Silences that stifle screams,

Shouts that are never voiced,

A Whole is made of this

Shards that pierce the skin,

Fragments scattered in the wind,

Blood that flows unabated,

A Whole is made of this

Death awaits behind a smile,

Lives flicked away like ash,

Statistics that remain,

A Whole is made of this

*********************************

Offerings from 2007 - ii

2008-05-18T09:50:00.000-07:00

This is being placed here on a friend's (Akhil's) recommendation. He felt all my poetry and work must be on one blog, and not be scattered all over; no matter how scattered and fragmented we as beings were.

Adversaria scripta

Things written on the side, Latin.
Little inscriptions in the margins,
Doodles of dogs and men,
Squiggles in red,
Collections they were.
Meaningless marks,
Two lines, highlights,
Questions, lovers’ names,
Notes exchanged, archives created.

A struggling poet’s attempt at creation –
The sixty eighth page of the book,
“Burial of a butterfly”
A little blue butterfly, dead.
Ants nibbling at it.
I wanted to give it a burial.
Another attempted a photograph,
Framed beauty, life – freeze.
(For the wings fluttered in the breeze)
Desecration said one, deification remarked the other.
And the butterfly – sealed in wax.
Dead, but stolen from a worse fate...
That of ants nibbling at it.

But the main text.
Kafka and Karnad, the important things are...
... ... ... ... (Tap, tap, tap ...)
Sense or nonsense? Never mind that.
These were things written on the side.

**********************************************

Itinerary

Days spent in longing...

Nights in sleep...

We toss and turn and turn and toss,

Must we, Oh must we sweep desires away?

***********************************************

Puppet on a string…

The light danced at the corner of the stage,
As I did at the other, pulled along,
As the banjo was plucked,
As the women embraced,
As the audience stared.

The spider seemed to keep time,
As it left traces behind, silver – grey,
As rags and blocks mounted,
As grease and dust mingled,
As guarding doors slammed.

There, just there... I was tossed,
Behind those doors,
Thinking I was wooden,
Tugged by strings, no flesh, no feelings.
Did they not feel the sticky blood?
Did they not hear the cry?
Did they not see that I was a not a toy?
Did they not know I was a boy – Pinocchio.

***************************************************

Of What I do not write...

I write of desires and flesh,

Flames flickering black and red,

Touches as light as summer rain.

I write of marks and letters,

Ink that displays itself,

Silent pauses in between.

I write of sunlight and flowers,

Gossamer threads of a spider’s web,

Dried leaves twirling in the wind.

I write of spices and spaces,

Aromas that waft in through the cracks,

Amber liquids swirling, half-stubs burning.

Notice of what I do not write.
I write not of silences and screams,

Nor of the blood that drips onto the streets,

No rape mars my verse, no riot erupts,

No prostitute sells wares,

No lives, money, blood and flesh traded.

I draw the veil over their existence as others have before;

I join the ranks of history,

Comfortable.

Numb.

And judge myself guilty.

**********************************************

Frames

Green tendrils trodden underfoot,

An earthen pot blackening

Over a long lit dying fire,

Glass fragments strewn along the path,

Strangers kept in, kept out and flung.

Yellow leaves caught in a whirlwind,

An old rusted grill sticking

Out of the window sill,

A barbed wire running along the wall,

Pictures captured, framed and hung.

Crimson dripping at the end of the blade,

A twisted brown cane that has seen

Many hands, many backs,

Oxygen-less existence,

A body bound and a corpse strung.

****************************************

Tales Told

Empty rooms, silent spaces

Each with tales to tell,

And what tales they told,

I listened,

Tales of experiences felt.

Bottles of whisky and broken glass,

Empty inkpots and scattered pages,

The mattresses on the floor,

Cigarettes stubbed out long before.

Games played - those won and lost,

Shadows that danced through the arches,

The tinkling of the doorbell,

Blows that fell.

Roasted cumin, gingerbread; coffee and cinnamon ground together,

Rituals that made up each day,

The paint splattered on canvas and ground,

Children that ran around.

Empty rooms, silent spaces

Each with tales to tell,

And what tales they told,

I listened,

Tales of experiences felt.

**************************************************

Was it Creation?

2008-04-20T23:02:00.000-07:00

A Dialogue

I love this
This moment
Where we coincide
Another poem.
A song mayhap.
Or was it a couplet or a rhyme.
Maybe it was just prosaic,
This conversation.
You, I and the lines we shared.
We read each other.
As if it were a need.
As if we could
Create.

(Jointly written - Akhil Katyal and Vebhuti)

I wished to write a love song

2008-03-15T11:16:00.000-07:00

Sesame seeds wrapped in honey
That was language
Charcoal lines
July rain dissolving sketches

Beggared touches
Silent traffic
I-pod.

Flâneur.
Rrr
rrinn
gg.

And yes,
The cellphone.

Last Stand

2008-02-16T03:23:00.000-08:00

They banished me.
My lovers muttered – enraged.
Stamped, stubbed, thrown in the dustbin was I.
Exchanged furtively, struck in corners.
While my lover waited.
Silent, unable to breathe
Till his lips touched me.
Walk not on grass, smoke it!
The cry subdued.
Fools… they did not know.
I was what their fragrance was made of,
I the scent they’d never forget.

(On the occasion of the ban on smoking in North Campus)

"I would have treated her like a flower."

2008-02-16T03:10:00.000-08:00

"I would have treated her like a flower."
He had told me, cupping yellow petals.
One slight movement, the gentlest touch.
A love remembered, nostalgia in place.

But this, a memory...
A glimpse of a boy in spring.
When butterflies fluttered, March mornings came alive.
I sat listening to a man narrate his longing.

He spoke of a delicate love,
One that rooted deep.
There were tinges of purple,
Scarlet, when his passion had blazed

Strokes he wanted to leave.
Those marks he wanted to absorb,
Screams that touched his beloved.
Gather them, her and cease.

Wrapped in words his love,
Left me the tale,
His love, and mine.

Debates on poetry

2008-02-08T14:09:00.000-08:00

We sat down to lunch today,
(Talked of love and song)
The waiter bungled the order,
Clarifications were necessary.
Grey, black, white – they made pictures,
(It was a collection of haiku, I looked at)
Tomatoes, onion and green chillies
Bread and philosophy were tough, a little burnt.

Steel clattered, scooping rice, dal and eggs.
(Connections and markets were the norm)
A pack of Goldflake, in the corner tossed
The cigarette’s last stand.
Plastic, wood, brick and the sky,
(“Poetry is made of nothing”, said one)
Tea undid the chill
I paid and left.

"zindagi kaisi chal rahi hai?"

2008-02-08T09:47:00.000-08:00

alright, surprisingly an attempt at creation in hindi... this was in response to the oft asked question "zindagi kaisi chal rahi hai?"

zindagi chal rahi hai...
kabhi dheere, kabhi tez...
apni raftaar woh mere liye nahi badalti...
kabhi woh mere aage hoti hai,
kabhi woh mere peeche.
raftaar uski aur main us se alag.
ham kabhi ek nahi hue,
hue toh yeh nahi dekha,
ki hum main se kaun tez hua,
aur hum main se kaun dheere.

zindagi chal rahi hai...
uski apni kahaani hai,
jo kehti hai mujhse
tu likh,
par jab main likhti hoon,
toh na kahaani meri rehti hai,
na uski,
woh toh kisi teesre ki ho jaati hai.

Aur woh teesra kaun, aap poochenge,
Woh aap hi toh hain.
Jo sun rahe hain,
padh rahe hain.
yeh kavita, yeh kahaani
ab aap ki hai,
aur main puch rahi hoon -
zindagi kaisi chal rahi hai?

Tonight

2008-01-24T06:29:00.000-08:00

In the pews, your name formed the rosary,
The beads were resigned tonight.

Traces of your lips, I forgot,
As kohl my eyes lined tonight.

The chef’s taste had been yours,
On passion I dined tonight.

Your silhouette flit in my memory,
My own lines got designed tonight.

Punctuation marks and you ruled my world,
I left the ellipsis behind tonight.

Byron, Derrida were displaced,
Shahid entered the mind tonight.

Where the road was blocked,
I, Vebhuti, a path have divined tonight.