Thursday, April 13, 2017

Where Pigeons Play Kho Kho

I watch the 
pigeons play kho kho;
a dreary day, hot,
they face headwinds, life!

I cry, helpless,
where the hell have 
I kept 'em keys 
to the locker?
Yeah, there where 
I've imprisoned my will to run!

Ah, the strides,
towards crashing waves,
always towards home
for a ripe mango,
to the art, words
and all things golden
— from the friendly sunset
to the angry yolk in 
the half-cooked egg,
served with milk, 
on humid Monday mornings
before I rush for fights.

Hardly do I play now,
I stare at open windows,
at the leaves who dance,
young and hearty,
while pigeons play;
yes, I've forgotten kho kho!

Picture courtesy: Sreetama Bagchi (instagram: @sreetamabagchi)

Saturday, December 24, 2016

Ode to Jackie!

He turned to me,
and I saw eternity
sparkle from the 
jaded eyes.

My dog, 
he is old now...

He looks up with fear,
his twilight n my shadow 
he loved to growl at,
occasionally smile at, too.

My dog,
he limps now...

The longing remains,
in his eyes,
he wags nervously,
lest I bring love.

My dog,
he loves to be patted, still...

But, I crave his anger,
his young arrogant growl;
he has never bitten my bait,
can never ever, now.

For he is old now,
my dog, Oh god!

Wednesday, December 14, 2016

My day just slit up!

Here comes
the last act of
my work holiday,
I watch the world
honk and vroom into a
melancholy sunset.

Thank you, luxury.
The little mercy,
my gift for a day
—a slit in the
blinds, bloody binds,
it expands my horizon.
From dour LCD walls,
to a greyish, Lutyens' green.

Monday, October 10, 2016

Is the fighter dead?

There, by the red woods,
under a Silicon canopy
that exudes, attracts power,
I saw its steely desire
to climb up...
Creeping along the
bare, brick canvas:
the world as we built it.

Blinded by the lustful flashes
of the one with might,
reaching for the source
of his power,
the upper balconies
of the city
where Lodi reigned,
Modi reigns.

And, in the dark
I see,
lies justified by hope,
I behold a mission,
a questioning vision,
I find the return gift...
A fight still remains in me, but is the fighter dead?

Monday, September 05, 2016

​Teacher, teacher…

The old man
on the wall,
he grins,
he grins at the
young man 
on the cross.

Teachers, both,
displayed on a trophy wall
of a school
meant for life.
But a school built
for barter, banter,
and grey matter takes over
the small matter —
a young mind.

I left teaching,
in haste,
avoiding the crucifix,
a little beyond
a church tower that
rings school bells.

Monday, July 25, 2016

Naked Resolve

The strength in 
his resolve
remains true to its purpose;
it makes music.

Exposed to the 
morning scorn and humidity,
he walks tall,
and naked.

The monsoon's been good,
it floods the lanes
with dreams,
and turns land to
sea of humanity,
sea of hope...
He was always a 
but away from his boat.

Monday, June 20, 2016

The Rain (From my Office Window)

​Words reach out
through the glass pane,
with trembling heart
and shaken resolve
they beg for a dance;
hear ye, raindrops.
They feel the haste,
the receding clouds,
the fading music;
and then, a rainbow
jumps off the million-dollar
skyscraper called hell.