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.

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.​

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.​

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)