In other Places

It is drizzling and

you already

are on your way

to meet me

carrying a colourful umbrella

- this happens in 

an imaginary city

where we stay together.

In other places,

where we actually 

act on living,

far away from each other,

reality strikes hard -

like a cloudburst

until it uproots

the ability to love altogether.

Enclosures

The conference table

barges violently into structures 

with all its paraphernalia -

mics and files and gadgets.

Everyone listens carefully, attentively.

If one looks closely

there are even rapporteurs.

The officiating nature is hard to lose.

The only thing now is

to decide the agenda of the ritual.

But that is when the garnished

meal gets served

and everyone 

starts chomping on it like humans

- the usual.

The tables are thumped yet again,

mics erupt in high pitched tones

- wailing.

In this melee,

nobody bothers to hear the vote of thanks

presented by the ever blabbering home loan.

The conference table

barges violently into structures -

wrecks into our homes

as an oaken pestilence.

Interstices

While we pretend 

to understand world affairs,

indulge in 

minting money, 

overthrowing postions,

manipulating data, 

confabulating politics, 

somewhere,

in an unclaimed touristy place,

polar bears roll on ice,

ants laugh at diabetics,

mountain goats defy gravity,

elephants play in mud,

spiders dangle above cleanliness,

pandas rip bamboos apart,

a little child learns cursive alphabets or

discovers the joy of eating ice cream.

Somewhere else, as well

a poet writes a poem,

that nobody

would ever read,

and smiles -

precisely for the same reason.

E Unibus Pluram

When a Politician

Dreams about his sweetheart,
Does he multiply her
Face into a crowd...?
- W. H. Auden

When a Policeman
Dreams about his sweetheart,
Does he inquire her
Of recent behaviour...?

When a Professor
Dreams about his sweetheart,
Does he demote her
to the second author...?

When a Doctor
Dreams about his sweetheart,
Does he diagnose her
In his area of specialization...?

When a Scientist
Dreams about his sweetheart,
Does he patent his
observations about her...?

When a Librarian
Dreams about his sweetheart,
Does he stack her
At arm's length...?

When an Artist
Dreams about his sweetheart,
Does he paint her
Deliberately abstract...?

Or 

are we all,
in various degrees,
Dreamers of the truest kind -
letching for Power.

Screenshot

Countless try

but have failed miserably -

they sit with their

fingers pressed hard at temples

in a peculiar position,

for what seems to them an eternity.

Some even play 

dead to get it right.

There's no concrete evidence.

The screenshot of one's Being

hasn't been captured so far.

Profound is the quantum of one's grief,

perhaps.

Nevertheless,

the fingers ache.

The body snaps and

disfigures.

A Dialogue

If only I were a house bulb,

I would shine brighter.

If only I were a street lamp,

I would shine righter.

If only I were a house bulb,

It wouldn't be an all-nighter.

If only I were a street lamp,

I would cease to be a switch-fighter.

Meanwhile,

streets widen

houses fall.

What remains is but an ignorant commuter.

Pyre

Your bones refused to burn
when we set fire to the flesh
- Agha Shahid Ali, 'Cremation'


...Being the burning type,
he burned properly
at the cremation
- A K Ramanujan, 'Obituary'

. . .

One refuses to burn.
The other,
burns properly, and
in between the two
the world
crackles...

Life is a flight
from cremation 
to obituary,
from obituary to cremation.

At times, you refuse
to be decimated by Words.
On other occasions,
people profusely 
singe you
on the pyre of life.

too stubborn in life
we persist.