P. Raj *

My Maruti cuts through,

The Naag Pahad.

To see a man,

Wearing a pendant,

Of fifty two pearly ghats.

Curling peacefully amidst the clasp,  

Of a warm desert shawl.

Feet dipped in water,

His locks softly smearing in golden grass.

Camels ride,

On his bare chest,

Pilgrims plunge,

In his navel for an ascetic quest.  

He who,

Juggles both a Desert and a Lake,

And keeps a part of Incredible India awake.

* Pushkar, Rajasthan.

Flatline

Alarm.
Wake up.
Feet on floor.

Eyes closed.
Bathroom.
Colgate on brush.

Up.
Down.
Side to side.

Gargle.
Spit.
Smile.

Bath?
Cold.
Compromise.

Deodrant.
Polo men.
Apply generously.

Keys.
Right to lock.
Check.

Raise hands.
Hail auto.
Metro.

Tired eyes.
Yellow line.
No seat.

Remember.
Another day.
Another dollar.

Realize.
Motivation.
In Flatline.

I rest my flag

I rest my flag,
Where I have bled.
For when peace comes,
It may remember me.

I rest my flag,
At the end of my ambition.
For when eternity comes,
It may remember me.

I rest my flag,
Where I am laid to rest.
For when oblivion comes,
It may remember me.

Grim polity

Oh my! Granny,
What big eyes you have!

Better to see my constituents with, my dear.

Oh my! Granny,
What big nose you have!

Better to smell opportunity with, my dear.

Oh my! Granny,
What big fangs you have!

Better to flash at the reporters, my dear.

Oh my! Granny,
What long nails you have!

Better to count your money with, my dear.

Oh my! Granny,
What great fur you have!

Better to stay warm at campaigns, my dear.

Oh my! Granny,
What loud voice you have!

Better to drown your's with, my dear.

Examination halls

The carpenter comes to class to work on some tables

I remember all the unhinged chairs in the front rows,

pencils and scales in the middle rows,

chits that flew as airplanes in the last rows.

Between these rows, I have managed to complete some years.

The carpenter gets his saw and says that the desk needs to be cut.

Empty it of all things important.

How do I tell him that it is already empty;

it is the desk which is important.

He switches the machine on and I ask him one last question,

something which the world so readily asks me every time I plunge into action

- "are you sure?"

He laughs at this.

His grey eyes laugh a shade brown

and I cannot help but wonder if that is the color of my desk 

or my insecurity.

He says "I have been doing this for 25 years now.

It’s nothing new.

A new batch of desks will be dispatched."

I look at him with all the wood I could muster.

Can you drill it up?

He says “drilling holes is not something I do often; that you learn in classrooms.

I only use my saw to make things right.”

This generation is just scribbling texts on paper

hoping that one day they will become textbooks.

I am Writing long answers

to make sure my future bio does not read failure.

This generation walks in examination halls with pens

made from a company called difference of opinion

yet the marking scheme reads your opinion does not matter

They swagger in the halls well prepared,

but if you see their shaking heads, rebellious specs and nervous hands,

you might be able to catch change.

And change is that kid, that desk, that invigilator, that lost bottle,

who you always forget.

Always. 

I can tell you a lot of differences when I walk in and walk out of halls

and yet I cannot remember any difference.

I think change stays put in examinations halls,

sits there like a quiet child,

bends over the desk

to hear the noise inside the hollow wood.

And then it smiles.

We are all acting as if we all are in examination halls,

and a bell will ring

and someone will come to collect our papers

and we will have our worst fears come true.

That we leave questions unanswered- Or worse- blank papers.

I am not

My friends are surprised
that I've never played Holi

Carelessly I used to tell them,
I'm not a Hindu.

Its an Indian festival

they say,
(Do you celebrate your ex's birthday?)

Sometimes I've wanted to
but I'm told that
the white man's religion
must not be tainted 

by any native stains

So I hide my curiosity 

like expired disinfectant
careful of boundaries
I'm supposed to be what they are not.

I Devour Lotuses

“So they went straightway and mingled with the Lotus-eaters, and the Lotus-eaters did not plan death for my comrades, but gave them of the lotus to taste. And whosoever of them ate of the honey-sweet fruit of the lotus, had no longer any wish to bring back word or to return, but there they were fain to abide among the Lotus-eaters, feeding on the lotus, and forgetful of their homeward way.”
                                                                                                - Homer, Odyssey [Book 9]

Yellow stems,
as pale as the backs
of those that bite
these blush petals,
with an excellence, or elegance
devoid of compassion, or thought.

Or the absence of choice;
The choice always is yours.

Springs birthing
from a body.
Washing clear
the mollusc’s prints.
Your sunlit streets
shove all but yours
into a deeper abyss.

Such is the case of a life of a gift;
The choice always, is yours.

(empires) tumble,
(emperors) perish,
(mechanisms) destruct.
ministers flourish.

Flounder ways
to season the founder.
Vines wriggling around beds,
flourishing eyes
as screens on your palms.

Blip’s on your forehead too,
Downers, you’re all downers.

The choice, always, is yours.

His fantasy

He can only IMAGINE
how blissful and breathtaking,
it becomes in her arms.
Under starry skies
as they flee cares and cries
of the tiresome earth.

He can only imagine
how liberating and breezy
to lie eye to eye, hand in hand
alongside each other;
lips barely touching, lightly brushing,
the promise of closeness;
blocking out earth's coldness.

He can only, only imagine
how sweet and secure
all ail and plague to endure,
for a touch, for a peek
into that haven of love
that he loves to seek,
experience and feel.

Silence Kills

It is killing me,
Suffocates me
It grows slowly on me
In and around me
Like a fortress with
Impenetrable walls,
Whispers sweet nothings,
But kills me softly with deceit
and serene disguise.

It creeps all over me
Gets me embroiled
in its stinging nettles
like poison ivy.
Tortures me with
Icy fingers painfully
till I cry out.
But no use to shout.
Only silence abounds.

Masks are only for Parties, Politics & Plays

You wear on the mask of Ego,
Also that of Apathy!
You prance and dance
Live it up in a short-lived trance.
Fooling us all.

You wear the mask of Pretense
Also a mask of irksome Fuss,
Always chatter and flatter;
Say what does it matter,
as long as it seems hotness.

You wear the garb of Fortitude
Pout, strut, boast and flaunt
Scorn sentimentality,
No one you need nor want,
Fooling a few of us.

One day unable to peel
the masks,
You will be blinded, perhaps
Too late for help to ask.
drowned in a dark pit
of your delusions!

February is for friends

Remember how we used to crack copied jokes

You won’t.

Cause you are busy with dse

Or perhaps busy understanding the argument for the debate

You are going to win in the next 60 mins

And I am proud of you

But I like setting reminders and this is one such copied joke reminder

“the ship that never sinks?

--

----

Friendship”

And you'd say #itsnotevenajoke

But you still go ahead and laugh your best original laugh

And your eyes shoot with all the stars 

that my spectacles definitely reflect

Because how else will I know 

that I am scoring friendships.

On days when basketball court rules were the only rules we did not flout

you taught me that one love isn’t just a song.

On days when I learnt the entire climate chapter

To make sure that you understand how the monsoon wind travelled up

I forgot that you already knew the directions.

On days when I was a casualty in disaster management

you were the helpline number.

There was no history of missed call between us.

I know for a fact people tend to answer landline quickly than cell phones

You should get a landline now 

February is for friends who still remember landline.

And those who don't.

There was a boy

The boy who lives

I know the boy is still there

I only remember his nickname now

Nicknames don’t make for facebook searches

He was the only person who used to shout daddyyyy when he fell

instead of mummy

and on days when holi was all colours

and not water management

when 5 p.m. meant that every child had to be out

Preparing for the game – Gallery

Why?

Because it used to take 30 mins to color the ground in criss cross

And it was a hard task

to find people

who could make such criss cross

Who could see where the lines were going,

Whether the lines being drawn were straight.

Even with their backs

They could draw a perfect gallery.

On such days

On such grounds

February gave you artists.

February is for friends who got lost

While playing hide and seek.

And chose not to be found

February is for all friends.

A Britannia cake can carry a lot of stories for a whole trip

So much that on birthday

I gifted a friend Britannia cake.

Some memories do not have calories.

But they do make you happy fat.

Some friends will always forget your birthday

But they still wish you anyway

Some friends will always come for the cake in your birthday

But they mean all the sweetness in the world when they say Happy Birthday!

And that is not because of the cake.

Some friends are not lightbulbs

But they do make you forget the distinction between sunshine and just light.

And in those moments

these friends edit their own names to one name

their phone numbers change to one number

Which says call anyone

Feburary is for friends.

I know of people who when look up in sky

See all the flights they did not take

And still Everyday they fold a paper and make paperboats.

Recycled paper boats

Make for good friendships.

At least they aint shipping friendships.

February is for all friends.

We keep the f word   f lo a ting....

Friends.

Unreleased

Director promised December,
unkept.
Many wanted to know
why?
Eyes waited.

Strangled to the fortress wall,
bloody wall alerted.
Many suspected
Who, how and why?
Unanswered,
Eyes were shut.

Innocence on the wheels,
attacked in the name of pride.
Not only windows were broken,
Nation wanted to know
why?
Eyes were frightened.

Yellow barricades
& unsafe ques
Threatened was the nose
with folded hands
on the poster so huge,
Below the unibrows.
Eyes welcomed.

Eyes were here.
Eyes were there.
Could not see,
what was everywhere!
Eyes were unreliable.

-Shakti

Delhi

The plaintive call
of the azan
at dusk
And the shrill silence of the skies —
a forlorn cry to whom — or what —
I do not know:

a past
wrinkled
by the tattered pages of Time

The birds fade away
silently
to wherever it is they are going
And I
remain a speck of dust
In this city of ruins

A moment of violence

In the yellows of the streetlamps, dark shades are woven

Shadows patterns of branches on unmanned footpaths

Silhouetted arteries of the dusty concrete

There where window lights hang listless in the night sky

Like discombobulated fireflies, and the flaps of an owl’s wings

Sound like the night’s heartbeat.

There the boys are kings at night. And they speak in a scream.

(Jhaantu and Gillu and Baamba and Ponty.)

Perched on rooftops, vulture like, they spy cities at rest,

And their spider like fingers coil around knuckledusters,

Agleam in nuclear colours, and the coruscating hues

Of seedy billboards.

Inebriated, their words are frayed at the edges: rusted,

Moth eaten. The offspring of dead end jobs, their voices

Trickle down your spine like ice water. In slurry

Grunts, they decree capitalism an omnipotent malice.

Burps and vomits and talk of  women.

It stirs them from their slumber. It makes the blood,

Course through their veins.

In the streets paper dogs totter: their vermicular ribs

And reptilian barks, their rabid eyes, their spit,

Stretching from the mouth like the slender tentacle

Of some fairy book beast, hidden yet in the recesses of 

Sawdust throats. Soft billows of dust and a lumbering gait,

Every breath like a tubercular cough.

The boys launch stones from the roof: yawing and caroming off walls,

Ricochet bullets, tiny meteors, cling, clang. And they find

The soft flesh of the dogs, napkin skin torn, patchy red shades now.

Pinprick silence pricked by howls spat out like the overtures

Of a berserk charivari. In a shock of wind a white polythene bag

Performs a crazed jitterbug.

Armed with iron rods, the boys now drift in their yellow SUV:

A phantasmal apparition. A sudden swerve, a screech, a halt.

Doughnuts on unsteady roads. Black residue of tires etched across an

Empty parking lot like a frozen rictus carved out on cardboard

Pavements. Torsos dangling out car windows like unstrung marionettes.

On the tip of their tongue a taste of whisky,

And mindless violence.

In a cul de sac, they see the dogs: panting in a corner

Quietly, all dead to the world, foam coagulated around the mouth,

The eyes filming. They coil their fingers around the rods tight

Like the legs of a spider wrapped around a beating heart. They kick

The paper underbelly of the dogs, and laugh. They raise their rods,

Unsteady, swerving, swivelling, and they mouth curses that sound

Like the ululations of a crazed lot. Chants of forsaken supplicants, godless.

And they stop.

For in the phlegmy eyes

Of the dogs,

The boys see

Themselves:

Overturned and disfigured.

And their hands quiver.

The Typewriting Mouse

There lived a tiny mouse,
Who wore a hat and a jacket.
And to resemble Sherlock Holmes,
Kept a pipe in his pocket.

He used to live in a hole,
Which he’d burrowed in a house.
Where lived a girl with her parents,
Who were oblivious of this mouse.

This mouse was rather special,
He fancied himself  a writer.
And to complete the illusion,
He bought a tiny typewriter.

On the typewriter he poured,
He thought, his mind and soul.
But he really just recorded,
What he saw from his hole.

What the cook made for dinner,
While the mother wrapped herself in silk.
And how before the father came home,
The girl sneaked out with a bowl of milk.

The mouse didn’t ponder much,
Never wondered why the girl went out.
He had no time to pause his typing,
He had too much to write about.

He loved the sound it made,
His keys of his tiny typewriter.
The tap tap taps of his machine,
Made him feel like a serious writer.

One evening the girl brought home,
Three stray kittens mewling.
The mouse observed them from his hole,
And continuously kept typing.

The kittens heard the tap tap tap,
And their ears shot straight up.
They bounced towards the hole,
The mouse was out of luck.

The kittens pawed out the mouse,
And while it was squirming.
One of the kittens swallowed him whole,
Along with all his clothing.

The girl poured the kittens some milk,
In a shallow bowl set on the floor.
While the kittens lapped up their dinner,
The girl peeked through the mouse’s door.

Inside she could see the typewriter,
And lots of tiny sheets of paper.
The girl took them out and read them,
Then stapled them with a stapler.

She submitted them to a council,
Under her own name with pride.
The council applauded her efforts,
Even though she wasn’t bright.

Another Apple

A woman of twenty years,
Washed ashore without a ripple.
Letters etched all over her body,
In her hand was a white apple.

The woman woke up staring,
And eyed the apple with suspicion.
But after six days of hunger,
She finally ate it with apprehension.

At once she was stripped,
Of every thought she had.
All emotions left her soul,
She was neither happy nor sad.

After some days of naivety,
Came a man with a stubble.
Before kissing her he gave her,
A gleaming juicy red apple.

Tracing the letters on her skin,
She wondered how he had none.
As she bit into another apple,
He promised a bit of fun.

Suddenly the sun dried her off,
And the letters peeled off her skin.
They then drowned in the sea,
Cursing as they couldn’t win.

Blood! Blood! Blood!

Blood! Blood! Blood!
Celebrate this blood!
It stains uniforms and swords
And reveals the cost of victory
Bemoan it you must not.
Boundless courage in every drop
We must glorify it all!

Blood! Blood! Blood!
Examine this blood!
It defines your life path
Hardships and privileges
Question it you must not.
Historical rights in every drop
We must segregate it all!

Blood! Blood! Blood!
Hide this blood!
It stains only women
Though born without violence
Discuss it you must not.
Life symbolized in every drop
Never speak of it at all!

Dirty Linens

My mother told me not to wash my dirty linens in public. 

She taught me how to use concealer 

When I got slapped for speaking out of turn

So I could hide my bruises from my peers in school. 

She told me the skin benefits of hot milk 

When it was poured on my head

For reacting to uncouth words with my eyes. 

She taught me how to drive a car

So I was able to find my father

Inebriated and unconscious, on a pavement in Noida at night. 

She pinched me from under the dinner table 

So she could protect me from getting my phone confiscated by brother

when I didn't prepare my lies well.

My mother told me not to argue or be 'political' on Facebook 

because "you can't call a spade a spade

and nobody entertains a woman with a big gab."

My mother told me not to wash my dirty linens in public, 

But I don’t know how to tell my mother 

All my clothes have torn. 

As I Stirred Myself A Cup of Something Hot...

My words will be left behind 

Inside this filter you've added outside

Your words will be intertwined 

Between your assumptions

and my elaborate notion of 'kind'. 

Not much will remain 

Except letters, now homeless and vain 

These stubborn crystals will deceive 

you, me and the invincible sieve. 

My sweet words

They have no meaning

Or any place in this lonely jar -

I've heard you like your coffee sour. 

Something Political

With piquant palms, 

They ambled, hand-in-hand

In a park full with people

With mouths full empty words.

And then
like the fate of two freshly stubbed cigarettes,
afire and affright,
they lay in bed, turned heads;
she could never make peace 

with the stench of whiskey on his breath.

Everything I Am Now

I am now a bundle - 

a bundle of burnt matchsticks

and unused condoms.

I am remnants of lovers 

who didn't kiss me goodbye

I am now the songs I didn't sing 

for ears that were listening.

I am now the tears that hide 

under my pillows till the alarm clock sniggers

at the dormancy of my dreams

and abuses erased by selective amnesia. 

I am the the calls I never returned

and the flights I took to all the cities

to save a love from drowning in alcohol.

I am the cheesecakes I baked

to win back the love I lost to insecurity,

through the stomachs of his friends

I am the lies I glued to the last page of my notebooks

all because my heart couldn't decide

which part of my body needed more blood.

I am them all,
I am all my mistakes
Wed in a bundle,
waiting to undone and re-distributed
to all those who should've loved me better.

Purana Qila

Now that the smell of the Afternoon sun 

has soaked into the freshly mowed grass

             The burden of a borrowed cigarette 

Rests heavy on my tongue.

I wish I could turn into the tree

sprawled under yellow flowers

but instead I press upon 

a lawn not made for guests. 

The faces around me wonder 

if the faces would've been different...

                      Maybe the rain would've rained

more gracefully? 

Butterflies may be new Emperors of this fort

                but it seems that, perhaps, 

                                  the birds have always been the bards.

 So...who are we?

We are tourists, trying,
                                                                    and failing, 

                           to find a home in the sky. 

Chinaman in Chandni Chowk

The smell is invasive,
The second coming of Timurids.
Sesame seeds popping in hot oil,
The sound of musketfire.
Copper, silver, ivory and Gold.
Fanned in  brilliant battle array.

"Chinaman! O, chinaman!
Namaste! Chinaman!
Step over here,
Examine my wares."
A rough hand, around my arm,
Plucks me like a pigeon from the flock.

Thick arms and barrel chest,
Underneath the tattered banyan,
Tucked a battering ram.
He opens his palms,
In a practiced flourish,
"Look here Chinaman.
Our's is a humble shop,
Its wooden bones soaked in history."

Jalebis the likes,
That adorned the lobes of Anarkali.
Incense burn like pyres of Chittor,
Atop coconuts the size of canonballs,
That struck down her danuting walls.
Jamuns weighed with price of gold,
Milk cakes, barfees, halwas and puddings,
Sitting helplessly against parthian flies.

"Look you here chinaman.
These footprints caked in hardened clay.
The begum herself stepped here,
And fed her noble face."
He crosses his arm before his chest,
His brows locked in a frown.
Perhaps unhappy that the pigeon,
Too hesitant to peck.
"Look here chinaman.
Have you ever seen colours such as these?
What stays your hand chinaman?
Come now, take a pick."

His throat tightens like sinew,
And lets fly a streak of violent red.
The spittoon resounds with a "tunk",
Testimony to the accuracy,
That won the mughals her many victories.
"What will it be. My chinaman? What will it be?"

Time holds no sway here.
Men may wear steel mail,
Silk robes, cotton shirts or denim jeans.
But the chowk always remains.
So here i was,
Stuck in a limbo,
With a warrior clad in a battle- worn vest.
Like a frightened mouse,
I made a squeak,

"Maaf karna! I am diabetic."

Indraprastha Extension

I furtively keep looking over my shoulder
While I try to reach my society as soon as possible
As the dark shatters the Palace of Illusions
Somewhere in Indrasprastha Extension

Illusions that we live in a modern era
Where women are empowered
And are respected as human beings
I wonder whether my safety is a delusion.

Matsyagandhas turn to Yojangandhas
Inside the many beauty parlors in Madhu Vihar
In order to become desirable to men
We still undergo these transformations.

Then we feature in matrimonial
Both on newspapers and online
Just waiting like Amba and her sisters
For a family sanctioned abduction.

The Childlike Kuntis in convent schools
Remain unprepared for sexual advances
The lack of knowledge renders us
Incapable of articulating protestations.

Eyes like the lustful ones which tried to rake
Draupadi’s bare flesh after the game of dice
Can be found on buses, streets and metros,
In a way, we  all experience her humiliation.
 
The most frustrating and enraging of them all
Are the Gandharis who jog and gossip in the parks
They choose blindness and do nothing about their sons
When women suffer because of their heinous temptations.

The Palace of Illusions is razed to the ground
And we find the same stories and women
Just in denims and permanently straightened hair
We live in the same Indraprastha’s Extension .