Honored by Usha Ma'am & Rukhiya


>> Aug 27, 2010


Between you and me
There is this sea of space.
Even the warmth of your blood
is not on the floors where my feet are.
And in between there is a plastic
that burns quietly, without flames,

Between me and you, there is ash.


Three course of meal,
and in between, we make love.
Morning - I excite.
After lunch its you.
And before its night, we try.

On other days, we sleep,
Strangers and hungry.


Between you and me
We share ghazals.
In a serene night
With you around, talking of moon,
I play.

Life is so good between two songs.
We live the moments in pauses.


You surprise me with
bright sunflowers at times,
The other day you come and embrace
when I am still sleeping.

Simple Sun enters my room,
finds an excuse and lies beside me.
You drop the curtains.

I smile in dreams.

- Thus, Tilting an usual square,
we make a story of our own,
in a rhombus.




>> Aug 13, 2010

In a suave Indian lounge some people gather to party. Posh as they are, and as is the word, they show all of it and much more than you may wish to see. With some Peter Colonial Country shirt and with a perfume that arrogantly bosses over the air of a third world country, they laugh and fall over each other, 'unnecessarily' is a word so true to its own existence. Beyond their attire, they are conscious of keeping their feet on the ground and so bring plastic flags which feebly depict a tri-color a third world country should. They take positions, one after another, finding their partners as only a neon light glows inquisitive of the emotions, pride or lust.

There starts the National Anthem. Importing independence and democracy onto themselves, some fold their legs, some lean back, some talk over a boring lyric and the others, if left, sing along. After that, all clap, more as a relief than of a passion. Even the big cotton flag, despite the artificial wind around, embarrassingly hangs without wings. In small groups they talk of boutiques, outsourcing, global warming and Page 3. Patriots as they are, their country's poverty gets two or more 'uh-oh's. Intricate, the conversation is, and some 'plastic' flags get walked over. Respect their sincerity though, even unknowingly they help environment.

They party with soft liquors, pastries and many things which can help them touch each other, of course being straight. No leaning back now. All this and much more of it spells and smells of countries that do not include the one, they are celebrating of. And the heroes' photos, as uninvited as they look, get appreciation by a sleeveless conscience, not for the sacrifice they have gone through but for the rigid and glowing manhood. Blame it on neon light and some queen's country's liquid.

While the show goes on, some shadows come out of them and invisibly walk out of the door, where humiliation has got a new name by celebration.

Out on the street under a lamp, two children, newly and fully dressed, where such adverbs are still uncommon, make a paper boat on which a hand made flag stands. It radiates cheap colors painted by immature hands. They sail it through the river that flows through the country which is in need of a respect today. The boat sails. The flag stands proud as the shadows watch.

As the boat dilutes in the horizon, the innocent souls scream, 'Jai Hind'. Somewhere, a Mother sheds a tear or two and smiles.


[ Thanks to Usha ma'am for being a perfect teacher :) ]



>> Aug 7, 2010

There are people for whom
A does not precede B.
May be I am one.
At times beneath the banyan tree
you have touched my hand
in one moment that we can not recreate.
I was to take yours and press a bit,
shelter your cold palm in mine.

I have only smiled.

At times inside a lonely tram,
along the roots of our heritage city
and with an ageing conductor,
you have wished I will cuddle
and plant a kiss, perhaps.

Spring has come, but I have sat
like a tree where winter still hails.
Stoic, willing, wishing and still desperately, wishing.

At times while argumenting
You have tried to fight, jostle.
Anger is the flame of love's impurity.
You have tried to burn us together.

I have kept silent
Having hundred questions to ask you
but never could, even one.
I have let you win, always.
I have let you lose, thus.

In high fever, one night,
Trembling you have murmured,
" Come unto me".
'Passionate' the lover I am, have stood still.
Gently touching your forehead I have let you sleep.

In all these times,
where we could have created
loving sequence of a thousand touchable dreams,
I have existed, only.

Now that you are not there
for reasons humane, I wish to shout and say,
my restraints were only apparent.

Deep down, you could never know,
there was a heartbeat that ran and ran
and is still running, today, at this moment
for that one touch...

... A touch that will make me feel like a child,
and let me sleep, just.

We will make love when I wake up.



The Hungry Tide

Inspirations Continue...

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