Hurt

The first time we fought, you and I,
I had promised you breakfast at Sharma's
And you'd promised to sing to me,
But I woke up at noon hungover and you 
Wouldn't grant me drunken immunity,
And I accused you of irrationality
But you accused me of betrayal,
And my crime was greater, indisputably,
And for half a day afterwards,
You held my heart in your hands
And squeezed it so I couldn't breathe,
And now that you've at last let go,
It hurts that never again will I
Hurt because you fought with me.

...

For a few white moments this afternoon
on a bench sweating rain

palms cupped around hot styrofoam
brown liquid burnt brown hair on tongue
steam joined hands with smoke
ash dissolved into asphalt

a vein thawed
an artery melted

and for a few light moments
I was whole
again.

Jasmines

Most plants last a week or two

on my once-barren windowsill,

until I neglect to water them --

(boredom / apathy, who can tell? 

or the fact that they aren't 

jasmines) -- but these

jasmines have survived months and I

have kept nigh light and rain

(on impulse / instinct, or from need? --

I don't know which).

Fifteen months, and finally

light is less wanton with its ministrations --

(less wanton / less generous, 

what's the difference?) -- 

on a fortunate day, a ray or two 

might leak down the sky's edges

into my jasmines' 

open palms,

slowly (surely) dying.

I'll air the curtains
and fluff the pillows tomorrow,
and, perhaps, allow

sweat (and blood?)
to unclog the pores
of my limbs and lungs
and wash away 

the perfumes of

faint, lingering jasmines.

Aftermath

It took years for my shell to grow.

A million skin cells bled, and dried,

then decayed to dust - like men at war -

and fossilized over millennia into

scales of tempered steel.

I must have defied countless sieges - 
that coat of mail and dermis had
endured wound and rust - but you,
you chipped, pried and plucked away
one loose scale at a time.

I've no more skin cells left to bleed.
The marauding's done. Move on to your
next plunder while I vainly scoop
my armor -- water in your wake --
together into ice.

Attar of rose

I knew not quite what I sought at
A winter bazaar in old Calcutta --
Terracotta, conch shell, a silken mat --
When I chanced upon the finest attar
Of rose in a crystal vial. A whiff
More giddying than opium milk; a sniff
And cities fell and crashed and burned.
Intoxicated, I returned
Infinitely to a joy olfactory,
Until at last the vial was spent!
I've plundered fen and glen; that scent
Eludes me in all but memory.
Had I perhaps been more restrained,
A vapor might have yet remained.

Stay.

Your form is clearer than water when

I close my eyes - dots, spots, crinkles, 

and all your smiles - despite the distance 

of a thousand miles, 

but the distance of a thousand years

will snatch every day one tiny detail - 

toe, smudge, fingerprint, white spot on a nail.

Had I been blind when I found you, 

and let my palms eternalize your pulse,

your breath, the warmth around you, the

contours of your kneecaps - 

these sensations and not those sights - 

you might have lingered endless eternities, and

I'd last a thousand fights.

Nights in March

On nights like this the roads and streets
Are wet with rain and taut with breeze,
But this - my king-sized bed -
Is bare and still and dry as husk,
Yearning for the warmth and musk
Of your breast instead.

Ablution

In Varanasi, where temples
outnumber the temple-goers,
we sought to sully
the waters of a tired river
that exhaled the stink
of past pilgrims
with the stale mud of our
infrequent sins,
amassed over thoughtless
years.

We believed the whores,
thieves, homosexuals,
who attested the chants
of widows and priests
and plunged ourselves
into a river whose waters,
balm and sulfur
for soul and skin,
we were careful not to
swallow.

Is it strange that I
perspired in the water -
dreading the ablution
would purge my conscience
and strip me of
the redolent muck
I'd thoughtlessly amassed
over infrequent moments
when I had truly
lived?

Snake

There was a time you were flesh
and I was skin -
If you were cold I trembled,
when you hurt, I bled,
and when you burnt, I scarred.

But now that you tire of me,
you cast me off -
Plucking me away with nails,
as if I were nothing more
than flake and crust.

I'd got old and wrinkled in the meantime.

The Least You Can Do Is Pretend

If I die today,
then tomorrow, will you miss me,
or will you waste hours minutes days,
laughing in hyphens,
weeping at trifles,
before you notice my absence
and realize it is time
to laugh, or weep, once again?

Not Goodbye Just Yet

Sleepy-eyed on lazy afternoons
I amble to your door even before
Other afternoon rituals are observed,
And pound and shout / kick and pout
Until you, disgruntled lazy bum
Let me in with a silly glare.

After I've got my daily hug
Back you sprawl upon your bed
Which complains with pitiful creaks / shrieks;
I go fishing / scavenging through your drawer
For matchsticks and six two-rupee coins.

Then I dart across our patch of grass
Dodging airborne spit-bombs, ants and snakes
And fetch from the other side of the wall
A smoke for you, a smoke for me;
Our happy puffs punctuated
With feeble rings and mindless chatter.

But soon some Sunday, slave of habit
I'll drag my feet to your warm black door
To find it locked with cold steel;
For you'll be gone with all your loose change
And I'll have to buy my own cigarettes
And in silence, smoke alone.

Get Out Of My Head

The slightest brush
of your skin
sent dots,
dashes,
and pinpricks of joy
down mine.

Now, all I can do
is wait
while the hurt of longing
slowly bleeds
through the pinpricks
you gave me,
still on my skin.

Loss

Like all fate-less whispers

that are lost to the thoughtlessness of self-obsession,

so did this pass unheard.

I have heard the silence growing,

bit by bit...

In words that remained unsaid because

they seemed unnecessary,

were deemed unnecessary.

In the pause before a hug

that wasn't asked for

but should have been given.

In the quiet comfort expected of a friend

who should have been there,

but wasn't.

I have heard the silence growing, bit by bit.

What was once the inconsequential quiver

of a gentle pluck

is now the screech of a shattered string,

and all music the drifting flotsam

in dying laughter, unspoken dreams,

and unsung memories.

The silence that was once one of expectation

is now one of punishment;

I heard it growing,

and presumed it to be acceptance of my flaws.

I presumed too much.

Moonshine

Moulted skin of a dying sun

that is salvaged and spun

into hoarfrost and raiment

by naked moons.

The same beauty that enchants, deceives,

for moonshine is unreal. A barren spectre

of the light of day, now

stripped of warmth.

Yet, the moon I will not deny

with all its hollowness, emptiness

and factitious inspirations of poetic affection,

for its moonshine is you...

You, I cannot deny, for I

still drink in the scent of hair,

smell nascent sweat on bathed skin,

caress undulating spine from nape to hollow

taste moisture of tongue.

And you swell, and throb,

and ebb, and retreat,

phantom lover. With form,

but without face or name.

You entice me with light but

bring me no warmth...

Moonshine!

Now That He's Gone

Edges of pictures
bruised with stains of oiled fingers
and dusty mem'ries.

Reflected in tears
waiting hidden in parched eyes,
wet with fetid hope.

Wind, be merciful,
lift them away, her window
she opens for thee...

All In a Day's Work

   
She saw you
Beaming, teasing, pleasing,
And crooned and swooned with 'charming sway

She smelt you
Oozing, touching, heaving,
And longed each day to be this way

And she came
Laughing, giddy-kiss-blowing
With a heart so thrown in disarray

But she lay
Writhing, weeping, hurting
As you spat at her and walked away.

Deliverance

For R, S, V, and for P, beloved-est letter of all.

Remember R,
how we danced 

in the first rain of July Monsoon

beside the lone Gulmohur, 

that swayed to the melody of your copper anklets,

Conjuring a thunderstorm of vermilion,

like abir in Holi.

And as you spun in a web of dizzying rhythm,

I plucked a rainbow from the sky

and laid it in a pool

of July Monsoon

that had seeped into cupped palms

from the lone Gulmohur's leaves.

You shone like morning glory.

Remember S, the darkness

that hung above your eyes

when you strayed into my dreams, in

the witching-hours of those summer nights

of calabash water-pipes 

and cannabis. 

With bleeding lip and smouldering heart

you burnt a kiss

on my pulsating neck.

You reeked of magic...

Afterwards, I awoke

in the lingering fragrance

of bitter incense, wine-red blood,

relentless fury

and opium poppy.

Remember V, the petals at dusk,

I scooped them up

and blew them in your face, gently,

but they clung to your raven hair

still wet from the Ganga,

her maudlin waves waltzed away by the wind

as we gazed at her spangled blackness

one last time.

They bid us farewell.

I borrowed some stars from the night

in return for some kohl 

from your eyes,

and strung them into a garland for you.

You smiled,

but I wept.

Remember P, how I hated you

for your indifference,

and longed to be freed,

to plunge to Ganga's delivering depths, 

or drown in July's Monsoon,

to shred my veins with fatal steel

and drown,

in my anguished blood instead!

But weak and alone in all the world

I resigned myself 

to the whims of your companionship...

I look back and smile,

For now,

now that I have accepted you,

You have learnt to love me.

Overture

On dewy grass I tossed and turned,

Ripped some, tore some, let some burn,

Blew some rings of pale moonlight

In inky darkness of the night.

Above me loomed a pockmarked sky

With buxom clouds whose heaves and sighs

Pierced me with a longing crisp

To write of then and days gone by.

I wrote with flaming heart and quill

Till th' silent breath of night stood still,

But alas, the ink too mocked my plight

And left my thoughts, to join the night.