What is poetry to you?
The faceless man’s obituary on the newspaper nobody cares about?
Or is it just what I write?
What do songs mean to you?
Nothing much, just sounds and rigmaroles
Or is it just when I sing?
Don’t you like a quiet drive- no radio no honking- or is it just a drag?
Or do you only hate it when I drive?

Were you awake when the night turned purple?
*And battleships invaded the silent civilization
Of mystical beings
Army men-like grass blades stung the sky at the horizon
The gravel road shone like a milk white drape
Out there, a faceless man escorted creatures of the moon
Down where you and I stand
There was a shiver down my spine and I called soundlessly
All sounds dampened by this heavy droning that swooned
everyone , but me.
A cloaked man stood by my window, hitched breathing,
As my throbbing head paced in double time, I thought that was you.
Next moment, I was out cold.

There was never a soiree without her-
Until the day everything changed.
Strangely that night, all too blatantly
Glasses clinked’, giggles echoed
Inane but spirited chatter
Churned together with the air
The very air that had usurped her being
And not left a trace behind
Pallid evenings gave way to pallid daylight
But like an inkblot in the night sky
Her bright eyes and ever so fervent smile
Were beclouded irreversibly
Her pictures vanished and so did her memoirs
So did keepsakes of her bleak existence
A familiar kind of existence
She breathed in every word ever said to her
Cried with the morose, bumbled with the inebriated loner
Cordially marveled at the disillusioned old man’s jokes
Not too high-spirited and never overbearing
An ever-smiling sponge- a beast of the worst kind of burden
Devoid of desires, complains, broken dreams-apparently
No one seemed to remember her at all
Or notice she was gone.
A raven sweeps over- a little boy stares, everything’s still the same
No wretched tears about the girl who’d never bother a soul
Never mind that she’s gone.

Damsel in distress
but in Indian streets.
Look how she walks
and, look how she speaks
she takes too much pride in her being
she's asking for it, isn't it?
Look how she talks- her hands fluttering
Look how she weeps now
Her hands quivering.

If I pen down why I'm this way now, will it be a sad truth?
If the yellow-ochre walls turn grey somehow, can I call this a gloomy day?
Can all people bear the sickness inflicted upon them-
Or are some of us superhumans and the rest just ordinary men?
If I scribble some things I saw in a dream and feel better about today-
Will you tell me why the last day we met was the last day I wept-
yet I'm not doing better now anyway?