Maybe (Mumbai, July 2016)

Maybe, just maybe, love is not a forever thing
you know?
Maybe it is just an evening spent
taking crowded trains to unknown stations
figuring announcements in foreign languages
and wandering walks through delapidated
bylanes full of squishy muck and cow odours
eating strange food in strange cafes petting strange cats
witnessing strangers' birthday celebrations
looking for reflections in murky waters
contemplating violent deaths and starring in porn movies
sticking heads out of cabs which would be
so much more fun if they were speeding but
you do it anyway
and one of us falling asleep on the other's shoulder while
we pass the world by...
Maybe, just maybe, this is what love really is.


Pic courtesy: Shihab Karim

Departed

my friend.

what is it like

to be dead?

is it as frustrating?

death, like life.

do you see now

what the living

cannot

or

are questions still

unanswered?

does this distance

bother you too?

this sudden stark

transition from

living, living,

being alive to

nothing.

nothing. at. all.

do you also wonder

if we had exchanged

places, would I,

(would you),

have felt that the world

has suddenly become

too big,

because your (my)

leaving has somehow

emptied the earth.

drained it.

do you also

write poetry

that I can never read

but address them

to me anyway?

my friend.

does life bring you

as much sorrow as

death brings to me?

The next time I meet you

The next time I meet you,

I’ll ask you why you didn’t reply

to my last Facebook ping.

The next time I meet you,

I’ll ask you to tell me in detail

about all the walks that you

took around Kolkata, and all the

lovely pictures you clicked.

The next time I meet you,

Darling,

I’ll ask you to describe what it

felt like, discovering that Hussain painting

in an unassuming tea shop.

The next time I meet you,

I’ll ask you how you managed to

get that picture of a crow picking

on a black polythene packet

and how in the world did you

come up with that caption?

Is that really what you thought when

you first saw it, or was it thought of later?

The next time I meet you,

My Gundu,

I’ll ask you what it is like living

by yourself for the first time

in an unfamiliar city.

The next time I meet you,

I’ll ask you if you ever managed

to cook “baigun bhaja” the way

I had asked you to, over WhatsApp.

The next time I meet you,

I’ll ask you why you don’t write

regularly enough. Don’t you want

to finish the 365 Stories project?

The next time I meet you,

I’ll ask you if you’d like to visit

that dessert place on 12^th Main again and later

bitch about how overpriced everything is.

The next time I meet you,

I’ll ask you to join me for karaoke and

do my favourite song first and then

yours, together.

The next time I meet you,

My love,

I’ll ask you about those pictures

of yours, sprawled out on the grass

and who clicked them? Do you have

a secret admirer now? Is she a Bong?

Will you settle down in Kolkatta?

The next time I meet you,

I’ll ask you why you really cancelled

that Hyderabad trip. Was it really

because you wanted to see me perform

or was it something else?

The next time I meet you,
I'll ask you why you didn't write

anything in that Jhumpa Lahiri

book that you gave me. You really

should have.

The next time I meet you,

I’ll ask you what it was like,

walking up Nandi Hills. Did it

make you feel strong? Was it

worth it?

The next time I meet you,

My Dearest,

I’ll ask you how you managed

those seven days in the wilderness

when you wrote your last

love letter…

The next time I meet you,

I’ll ask you where all it hurt and

did they pick you up carefully?

Were they able to gauge your worth?

How precious you are?

The next time I meet you,

Nitin,

I’ll ask nothing. I’ll just

squeeze your hand and say,

“You were missed.”

Fickle

Memories: fickle.

Like a misplaced key, book, shoe,

I forget you too.

Two chairs drenched

All it takes is a

picture of two chairs drenched in

early summer rain

Life, love, and such

Hot
summer
afternoons
sprawled out on
the floor
I
read
Bukowski
and try deciphering
the meaning
of
life
love
and such.

Monsoon

At the far corners of the city

rain clouds have arrived. Soon,

I’ll be welcoming the

monsoon on my balcony.

Everything will transform then.

The dusty road outside office will be

home to mini-puddles each a

mini-ecosystem, perhaps.

The champa tree will lose

all its blossoms to the

unrelenting rain and wind.

The terrace will once again

become a pleasant

reprieve from everything.

And I? I will remain the same.

My monsoon will only

arrive when you do…

Thunderstorms

Darling, do you know what

I miss the most?

Thunderstorms.

The kinds that turn midday to dusk.

Sitting in my hostel room

Looking out the window

Straining to recognize the landscape

Familiar, but rendered strange

By the incessant rain, lightning, thunder…

It felt like time had ceased to run out.

I wanted it to last forever

And simultaneously wanted it to stop.

That feeling of wanting and not wanting

At the same time…

You, darling, make me feel the

Exact same way… Darling…

Do you know what I miss the most?

Thunderstorms.

Plus sized revelation.

Darling, I now understand your

need to hide me.

It’s not that the love is absent.

Or that you’re ashamed of me.

Oh, it’s not ME you’re ashamed of.

But of YOUR capacity to

feel, experience, be driven,

by pure physical attraction,

by lust.

For someone like me. 

The Jealous One

Leave your madness

outside the door,

someday.

Let your dreams

leak out of

your jeans’ pocket

onto the street.

Forget your passion

on a restaurant table.

And come to me

lost disoriented

thirsty. And only then will

I love you.

Remember. If

your desire for me doesn’t

drive you to insanity like

your dreams do,

my door will always

be locked for you.

I am not

your mistress.

I will not

compete.