lies

i know how it is to fly,
in complete abandon,
anchored by your love,
and believing so.

i push boundaries
defy convention,
to prove myself
over and over again
for no one but me
or was it for you?
that i did what i did
aim, achieve, reinvent and
chase elusive success
as you watched,
quiet. proud.
and almost made me believe
that it was love i saw
in your eyes.

i would have gladly clipped my wings,
and chained my heart
if only i had known
that you wanted me to trade my freedom
for your infidelity.

published in kritya

very humbling to be published in kritya, an online journal of poetry :)


http://kritya.in/0803/En/poetry_at_our_time.html

life moves on - II

The parade begins once again
Frantic phone calls,
Teary voices,
That cry for one’s own loss
And the struggles that the morrow holds

Formalities of dotted lines
Where one consents to leave behind
A sizeable chunk of notes,
Lest one gets lost in the surreal world
Of death and her angels.

The embalmed remains arrive,
Carried with callous care,
By masked care givers
For whom death begets life.

Others watch,
For a moment forgetting
Their own anxieties
Wondering if they too will cry.

The parade leaves for a brief stop,
Home.
Where bangles are broken
And vermillion wiped away
For the last time.

Rituals come.
People visit.
Rituals get done.
People cry.
And still the finality of it all
Refuses to sink in
Until an old memory is uncovered
From the depths of an old locked cupboard

Tears pour
Stop.
Pour again.
Stop.

And life moves on.

hourglass

Hour glass
Where sand pours
as fast as age carries you.
Or as slow.
Racing. Rushing. Pushing.
Or simply waiting for some.

At eighty eight, all I do
Is wait.
willing sand to flow
hoping that soon, there will be no more.

At thirty eight, my grandson
Holds it askance,
Trying his might
To slow the flow.
Ah! But time eludes him,
Slips faster
than he can hold on to it.

I wish I could slip him mine
And take his.

hurt

drip
drip
drip
blotches of red
on white canvas
mars the picture perfect world
that i have drawn within
my mind.

Hurt.
Stark, deep,
when it invades the idealism
i hold so dear
the lofty principles that i sadly cling to
believing that the world will one day see
beyond me
beyond what makes me.

it is now that i see
reality.
money is perhaps everything.
and because it means nought to me
i will have to live through it –
a blotch of red
permanently etched
on my stark white canvas.




there are people sizing you up wherever you go. your shoes, your clothes, your bag, your social standing. you mean nothing if you don't belong. you cease to become a luxury of acquaintance. you become a necessity that one must live with, when one wants to. society and its ways!

untitled

Love me like the way i love you,
With an intensity that suffocates
the rational,
Drives away fear,
Disrupts everyday mundaneness
Blurs the boundaries between heart and soul
Until
Until all that is left is pure passion
Passion that i will pour into your pages
Until your blankness fills,
Page after page
Note after note
Until i can write no more.
Love me like the way i love you


there can be nothing more cruel than when writing escapes me and i desperately want to write. a million words and thoughts run through my head but evade the hands when a blank white page stares at me.

hero. villain. anything but human.

man. sometimes woman. many a time, a child. searching, discovering, learning, unlearning all the time. about who i am.

and here you are, making a mockery of all that makes me. displaying my hidden organs that bear no resemblance to the turmoil that i undergo within. teasing my urges, decreed by the very nature that makes me, me. the very nature that unearths the villain in you. so that you may make a hero of yourself, by making me a sacrifice.

i cry. you call me woman.
i rage. you call me a man.
i stammer, stumble, pick my broken remains. you call me transgender.

and people read, watch, discuss me.

because it is easier to vilify me. than unveil your own hypocrisy.




pinky pramanik. what matters who she is? when all we care is what she brings?