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)

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?