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

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/

http://library.nu/

great books!

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
two-by-two.

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.

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.)

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।

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

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

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

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

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?

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?

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

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

(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.

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"

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"

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

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