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)

Summer Morning

The cold blanket

of haze
I saw in your eyes

has cleared,

replaced by a bright spark,

summer they call it...

But I christen it lust;

I love it

for the bright lights

make you bold;

relentless, stubborn,

annoyingly bold.

Pic credit: newsx.com

The Sale

Summer sale on for winter wear, 
I just can't wait for that
retail salesman and his
market theory that always wins.

At sultry Chennai, it's a jest, 
but I'm hell bent on
buying that glossy jacket
to sweat n cook in it...

As it's winter here for me, in May, 
middle of the great Indian summer; 
where is my soda lemonade?
That boy drank it all, years back!