Friday, February 23, 2018

Eliot and I

He was ambushed,
questioned, in a dark room,
where is your Waste Land?
Around you, he sighed.

... Near me, I discover,
while I try to gauge
the length of a long shadow
cast by my office desk lamp --
dark, hiding my Waste Land,
lighting up theirs! 

Sunday, February 11, 2018

Ode to Lutyens' Dew

The morning dew
lounges in her hammock
at Connaught Place,
it's still winter, a Sunday!

I search for coffee,
but skip breakfast, or did I?
Wow, I did jump a few signals,
to enjoy the smiling traffic
-- a few vintage cars
and dogs of Lutyens' Delhi.

Wednesday, January 31, 2018

Homemade Heaven!

Winter, her morning songs, calls for a dance; but the heart wraps itself in summer, his lullaby... A good layer of fleece, thick skin of cotton, and a fine lining of love. It's complete -- my homemade heaven!
Pic by Sreetama Bagchi (Instagram: @sreetamabagchi)

Wednesday, September 06, 2017

The Potter's Pizza

In an existence dear,
beyond spinning stories,
I see a man,
who bakes ​good-​natured
fighters in a clay mould.
Men, they are but clay,
baked in fire, hardened...
yet brittle to reality.

And, in that dream
I see myself​,​
young and grinning,
toss a pizza,
a perfect circle,
made on a potter's wheel
which spins epic tales.
Unlike the boy​
I keep meeting over coffee
at my dressing table.

Friday, August 25, 2017

Delhi and a Democratic Irony

I seek the obvious,
the irony of a 
monsoon morning,
as I leave the lawns
down south,
to the loan sharks
high up on a steep
pecking order.

I seek salvation
among humid, smiling faces,
even as a storm brews, 
in and around
Lutyens' reminders of slavery,
a few signage bright and yellow,
which herald sunrise, sunset,
and democratic bonded labour.​

Saturday, August 19, 2017

Ode to the monsoon wind

The moist wind,
laden with words
for a memoir,
reaches me through
the long corridor
that begins at Connaught Place,
stretches onto adulthood
at the cubicle end of KG Marg.

One, two, too many
man hours later,
the dusty opaque spectacles
give way for a greener tint.
It's monsoon outside,
winter in here.​

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)