The catastrophe of being a poet is that you are an annoying brain with delicate bones made of glass, who watches weird TV shows and reads bizarre newspaper happenings, ponder over the final chapters of your literary idols while walking the rain with hands inside your pajama pockets and dig out incomprehensible meanings someone managed to scribble at the back of his notebooks. Psychologists have such complicated theories about your social ineptitude, hence you die breathing the yellow notebook pages of a second-hand bookstore even though your brain signals warned you about chronic asthma. But you'll live for centuries inside punched hearts, libraries and under lazy bedsheets because at least for a moment you made a total stranger giggle, weep, scream and sometimes jump in joy over a well-penned verse. Did your friends tell you 'you ****'? Well, no one's gonna  remember those *** holes and always remember if not today, but someday you'll be someone's wonderwall.

Once upon a time, somewhere
When the seagulls speeded
With a bike to a night that
Popped new tyres and did
Not wipe the rain, storm and
Long blue letters that spoke,
I remember you, I remember you

Chillies that swam across the earth
To a milky way where seasons
Changed, candles blew over
Secret nights and lodges Mum
Did not know, emotionlessness fails,
Don’t fly away because
I remember you, I remember you

There’s a standing table and
Papers all around, the ghost
That tiptoed into a bedroom
Where an insomniac fooled
With magic pen and blue eyes
I see you smiling and you know
I remember you, I remember you

Get on the chair and climb
Up to my swing, I’ll take you
To my city and show little jingles.
I caught the sun inside my-
Palm, your little town and
A comic store, look at this!
I remember you, I remember you

I should start making sushies,
Swim across a little ocean
To find a Mickey world of
Endless topics and FIFO workers
You're probably goanna **** me
For the good things I did not write
But you do remember me, don't you?

Will the Baul ever quit his search
Singing all through the-
Deserted land, ektara a trail of his
Existence walked him with no promises.
Will He ever listen to their bald cries?
To His realm they say beyond the blues,
Life awaits out of the tableau of massacres.
The world of assumptions tampered
By a philosopher’s fairy tale decides
Birth, death, rebirth, curse and richness?
The blind light is biting his body, heart & soul
He still needs it, his poppy tears.
The system needs it to tear him open,
His body, heart and soul in vain.
Music of the Baul has no destination
Still the voyage is essential.
Ektara has to walk with him, all through
The barren lands, villages and futility.
There’s no end to his search!

Don't send me, I don't want to go
To bridge poetry at the loss of words

Don't send me, I don't want to go
I've walked miles, singing Gulzar and Gazals

Don't send me, I don't want to go
To sail in silence, cadaver to your Dal

Don't send me, I don't want to go
I might return as a fragile layer of dust

Don't send me, I don't want to go
I don't, oh beloved, don't don't send me

Soaring from the breath of my soul
Winding silence in between my dreams,
I stared at the swellings of my eyes
Over creeks and soil wiping them dry.
From Gulmohars to the things unseen
My earthly shell has learned life
To heal the revealing wounds.
I’m prisoner of the fortune no more
I live and breathe in tranquility,
The poet’s potion to heal the bitter portion!
I was the White Mountain faceless
And lonely like the tiny blazing aura
Numbing away from the crammed world,
Slight and elapsed like the deft cloud.
A new season I can foresee
Inside the distorting images,
Archaic and ripened from lemon pennies
To receive this broken unattached life!

I was flying like a kite at the end of his motorcycle, I never felt it before even though I have travelled countless times with him for the past few years, I was drunk like the wind, dancing with his tripping silk wrapped around his slender long neck, the night I breathed him in, to everyone's disapproval. The night should have a comeback, but he's on his bucket list and I know both of us are not going back.

I can't believe that every freakin day I wake up thinking of those circles and go back to bed late night getting somewhere lost inside those comic strips. It has always been there at the back of my head for the past few years, but when it started to bite my conscience, I began to solve the puzzle, little every day. These days I sit in the library, stare at my computer screen, deduct lanes, find faces, trace stores and calculate the kilometres that my mind travels in a minute. It makes me high somewhere and trust me, technology amuses me every time I crack one little clue and reaches one step ahead in solving my mystery. Yesterday night, I was watching NASA's live announcement on the discovery of seven earth sized planets and for a moment I thought what if my mystery fell right out of Tardis. Who knows.

I don't remember when I first read Sophie's World, today I sit and write about Sophie's world hoping someday someone is gonna read it too.

We live alongside her, well, I live in the third world and we hardly know anything about it. However its a reality, and I see myself like the Italian grandmother who appeared on my computer screen this morning trying to make a conversation with 'goo-goo'. I am just being another 'cucumber with anxiety'.

Hey goo-goo, okay goo-goo, play Mary did you know!
"..this child that you delivered, will soon deliver you"

I don't enquire his broken elbow,
His breakfast date or half aged umbrella
We never spoke, neither did we smile
He's a character I look up to everyday.

He wore glasses, starched shirts and
Ate at a local hotel all day,
In his ancestral home haunted by-
Bushes, he lived alone with a window pane.

I see me, a generation of threatening
Solitude when I see his barely made way
Nobody knew the exact reason
Nobody read his palms, he was alone.

I look for him everyday, the old man,
I imagine the gentle engineer he was,
Today he's dying a little every season
With the mangoes and its roots invading.

I met my ghost yesterday, on the bus at a time young girls are not supposed to travel alone. I was thirsty for freedom; she sat next to me dressed like a wanderess, she smelt of some cheap perfume and her face a golden cage. We sat together like anthills and did not speak, we were immigrants of a violent history, she sold her body and I my brain.

When the world spins, you look around and wonder
Who you are and where you belong?
And the whole world seems upside down.
The meaningless existence and angst
And the little scare around you
That makes you doubtful about the tomorrows.
I know this feeling
Because I was not myself with my sun sign
I was new, a totally different me
I tried to quit remembering
But I just can’t stop thinking that flows into me
It took me to unknown grounds, crowded towns and deep narrow lanes.
Alienation is not being alone
But the haunting strangeness of your thought process
And the feeling that comes along with it
To run away from the phony society
And seek an asylum in solitude.
We have a special thief inside us
A hunter who could grab our heart and body
And leave the motionless torso to wander in reality
Why shall I be forsaken?
I cannot trespass my broken images
They make a clear picture and meaning sometimes.
This pluviophile is lost today
With the intuition she felt so deep,
There is no recovery from this sentimental thrill
And she is happy with this madness!

I stand there, every day, nose to the cold iron grills,
Eyes to the sky, dark and cloudy, desperate to rain,
Feet kissing the earth, mad roots of hibiscus plants,
Clasping my hands to catch some wind and put-
It all inside my bag, time has come to gather my things
And leave. Live the moment with me, grow with me.

...and when you sleep and wake in a world so unfamiliar I sit cross-legged on the floors of my house, watch rain kiss the Arabian sea and west winds wave a goodbye..

When Trump was closing the big gates,
Nonhumans of a classroom debated over speech,
Nature's call and an assumed reaction.
Supervisor said its ok to not speak in class
Because non-speech is not death,
Cross version species conversation is possible.
The romantic Kompridis checked tennis scores
And nonhumans had a grand pool dinner.

When he asked me to draw something I made little flowers at the corners of pages and when I grew up they bloomed all over my notebooks, today I pick them up one by one, look through the pages to see him and the evenings humming birds sang on its branches.

Leave my flesh, blood and the lingering scent, leave it to your strongest desires, lecherous books and loose roads, they all have forgotten to run behind you, they've all become independent rascals.

I wrote them, he did not write back,
The walls of the buildings bore his name
and the jammed rhymes swam
at the tip of his pen,
they did not recall his youth
neither did I.

I sat back on the arms of my pillow,
he has become the city, the
restless street and restoring noise
I ran away from. The first grade corner
and kneeling nostalgia rushed
the doorway, vanished.

He absorbed the flames, lifted
the loops around my legs and my
mix matched shoes. The choosy
memory ripped off my rib cage
and filled it with
deep-deep golden moments.

When did he defictionalize my
September?
I never felt his hands or the mind
or his vertebrated little words but
The city, its lights and the marks
and traces
stagnated my baked brain.

Today I feel uninvited,
I miss the way I mused over his
******* youth, the music of
his wine soaked eyes and
the flawless silence he embraced.
Like always
He has become another cotton seed
Lost after my September.

Did you know-
The greatest Triumph of the year?
Time has a meaningless cover,
Well, Time is meaningless, anyway.
Sigh.

At certain junctures of a journey you feel you connect to certain people, places and situations at a different level, hardly comprehendible, quite different from the hundreds of people you've ever met and many places you've ever been, they leave you with a spirit, their inherited tastes and an obsession that you will go back to it all someday.

You are there, everywhere
I smiled, laughed, cried and jumped in glee
You were there, I didn't even grasp the hole.
When the moon hit the stars
I hurdled my balcony and saw the-
Chain of lights, those and movement and I
Sensed you about, I spoke to you,
Your husky voice and hands perfectly mine.
How many times did I pass your thoughts?
Do you know you evoke memories in the-
Strangest junctions of my bursting imaginations?
I know the place, somewhere around the corner
Unoccupied by me, I willfully ignored your future
And now I think I should clasp if forever as mine!
I walked slowly so that I could walk with you
I caught glimpses of you and you smiled.
In those longest nights I thought of salvation
You pierced my eyes and held me with meaning.
I thought I’ll seize you next life in the banks of Sarayu
But dis-remembering you this life is so impossible.
Do you remember the days you made no sense to people-
Around us and then you looked my way and sighed.
There are million little things I want to tell you
You were an illusion that happened to me, a magic!
Today I know this me, consciously and unconsciously
Envisaging you.
There’ll be one day this poem reaches you
And when you read I can see you, beyond the walls you are
I can feel you, the peculiar scent and the breeze you carried
Let us walk together to the world we spoke to paint life
Where we can be happy with each other!

On a foggy florescent triviality
I was coupled down to a pear tree,
Insanity lurking deep inside its woods
I called them noise of my emotions.
Realty became too hard to trust
That I sometimes fell into the
Rustling of the dry drenched leaves
And the emotions made sense
Behind the darkness of my closed eyes.
The sweetest part being locked up in me
Is the emotion being non fictional
That the gentle rain embers into mist
Until I vanish into the uninterrupted dream!

When things grew into necessary betrayal, people took aspirin. I ran. Everyone dream of running, I feel it too often and then I forget my legs, the little spirit inside me and pretend to be a slave, caged and beaten. There's a conscious forgetting which is needed, the other aspirin. But you **** the beer, throw cards, break the plates and kick the half empty bottles and you run..run through the streets, the crowd, the dingy lanes and you rest your head on the ground.

I went there again today,
The plants I taught my-
Third standard lessons,
Tiny rooms with choir mats
And a long verandah that looked
Almost like a dream
My mother wove,
They've all remained the same,
Without alterations.
I walked the backyard with my aunt,
The new lotus pond and
Her kitchen garden
The temple that overlooked
The huge mango tree
Has become affectionate remains
Of an off-track history.
Bartered land and
English medicines,
A new plastic tap,
A European closet
And few glass plates their-
Souvenirs.
I remember the days,
The sleepless summers
They collected mangoes under
Persian torch lights,
The occasional scooters
And auto-rickshaws
That scated the narrow orange road
And the bubbles I made
With kids next door
From gums of little plants.
I have outgrown those images
But nostalgia is a nice feeling.

Sand castles and the noise of the water hitting the rocks,
Shells and the sand grains that carols the summer dusk,
There was laughter and memories and the endless- restless sea
There was him walking on the coast with prayers on his lips.

He doesn't know who he is, he was in quest of peace
He had a scar which haunted him, but was lucky-
To dye it with music and holy rites and endless dreams
He’s the holder of the thread of his kites today and he’s flying.

You’ll not rot and rust and return back heaven like dust
You’ll sing the songs, long exiled master pieces of yours
You’ll heal insomniacs, meaningless souls and corrupts
You’ll be what you always wanted to be, a happy man.

You were a stranger yesterday and today a pal
Tomorrow you’ll be remembered for the footprints-
Melodies, conversations and your 200 year old piano
You’ll be missed someday, but today you’re my friend!

Joseph Kern had never seen The Starry Night,
Had he been there, the parsonage across
Van Gogh’s memory, leading to Arles or somewhere else,
Had he been there, he could have thrown the pebbles he
Collected that flew through his window
In the afternoons he eavesdropped.

I like to think that Joseph Kern has seen The Starry Night
While somebody played the
Violin Concerto No. 2 in E Major, BWV 1042: II. Adagio
I like to imagine him  amongst the thickly applied whorls of paint,
I like him across the English Channel, waiting with one of
Rita’s puppies, echoing the sky-
Not as it looks but how as it feels.

Serious days, break down and slide through me,
I have been thinking that I won't make it to the -
The day my letters finally reach your standing desk
But hey, I surprise myself these days, poems are home.

Images ran wild, they boiled the water,
Like a train running off the track
They trickled down, metaphors poured out
The world, million voices, reverberated
Buzz-buzz-buzz, inside my head.
I was alone in that room
With panic attacks, lust and voices-
That slipped in through my half-window.
I broke the mirror, the brutal paparazzo
Who printed pictures of my many facades
I looked at him and grinned,
Clink-clink-clink they smiled once-
Dancing with wine glasses and alcoholics.
I walked, walked fast and twirled-
Like a tornado inside my cube
People spoke outside-life tales, notebooks,
Their late night phone calls and fine men.
The world didn’t bother to open the door,
Tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock the clock yawned.
I sat on the floor and opened my pen,
It vomited blue letters on the yellow paper-
The customary dilemmas, past and blunders
But something was new, a story.
I looked for The English Patient, the nurse
And his burnt skin I misplaced
They did not appear, I lost hope.
Gur-Gur-Gur, I snorted like a mad cat
Misdirected to an old jute sack.
I climbed up to my bed, hid under the rotten-
Blanket and closed my eyes, the images ran,
Ran away from me, climbed the hardwood staircase
And fell down, I broke my knee.
I opened the books- USSR, Pasha, Buddhism,
Laughed loud like an unbalanced bloke,
Tore them apart into pieces and pieces,
Hush-Hush-Hush, my yellow monkey warned
And I played with him “hush-hush-hush”.
I sat next to my half-window
The pseudo city, dozy walls and the distressed-
Street light. Out of track.
Images flashed again- chewing gums, pink house,
The anonymous Christmas gift, malnutrition
And the hibiscus my mother planted,
“Incey Wincey Spider- Incey Wincey Spider”
I sang all day looping around a pole.
I sneaked down to the floor and dreamt
Eyes wide open, a black and white old film.
There was no exile, no god and his sins
No wafers and secret lessons upstairs.
Only the sea, popomatic, DD evenings
Cassettes and a rocking bamboo chair
Aw uck- aw uck- aw- uck , the seagulls squawked,
I slept.

I feel jealous that I wasn't there to grow up with you, in the rain. The matchboxes I used to play doll house burst yesterday night and it rained my entire face, wet pillows weeping over my loss. You haven't seen those match boxes but did you feel the rain under the city?

Once upon a time people 'mailed children',
I was imagining me inside a postman's bag
And travelling to your city,
I would have self-posted me
To which address?
Maybe to your university.

I stole the relic they did not sell and
Invented a future for them to pretend,
Their decorated intelligence perhaps
Made a habit of wandering with the-
Stories I created, I travelled with them.
I lived in stories, with the characters,
Their adolescence & lovers and their
Whimsical tales drowned my nerves,
I don’t know how pitiful it is to live
With lifeless fonts and their charisma
I did not click pictures of their realism,
I wanted them in all ages with more
Stories, imperfections & inadequacies,
They’ll all disappear or die someday
And I guess life wouldn’t be like stories.

Blonde pages and bulb lights, titled peaks and tethered bags, I sniff
Hug me safe, quite; the beats inside a wrap where nights mutely tailed,
Past not breed but memories not leak; roads to touch that fright me kip
To a world I see, breathe and live; flesh, blood and dreams on sail,
You, your world, your soul, your journey, I sit-aside, a tiny stake

I knew they will come
In-search
Of yesterdays.
Today they came, jumping
the fence, somewhere
from the river bed,
where they lived.
While I sat inside
An air-conditioned cube
Sketching their fingers-
Like mine
They invaded a
Concrete jungle.

I and you won’t be
Two unfamiliar women of our land.
I’ll not leave you to the radio
To swallow up our history,
We’ll have phone calls and photographs
Transported between seasons and changes
And barracks of old classics
Drilled in between our conversations.

You don’t leave the land, abstract-
Smell or your braced triangular family
But I, your daughter, a nomad
Demands change, unbuckled knees,
Thunder and lightning than a
Frozen damp lake.
I don’t know if this absurd let you down
Being a floating female disc
Without a silver hanging off her neck.

Your cotton sarees and senseless arguments,
Modest gestures and peripheral smiles
Walked miles with me.
My uncivilized ways and half assembled days
Somehow compromised your 7pm calls.
You didn’t declare an ownership
Or terrified me with protection
But your roots branches and leaves
Held me with an irresponsible luck.

You did want to walk with me,
Comprehend your traditions and family tree
But you grew obsessed over my books,
My anglicized friendships and father’s ways.
I don’t want us to wrap up stories
Let us be ‘us’, flesh and blood
Without English comprehensions,
Fork and Spoon-
The world is desperate to squeeze in between
‘us’.

I want to sit next to you every eve
Even when I’m miles apart
Sip your ginger tea and gossip with Leela
And I know you have more of
Mukundan, MT and Padmarajan
Jolted in between your memories
Wanting to be told, to be felt.

Retreating monsoons, half naked veranda
‘Shifting houses’ and ice cream spoons you lost
Bridged the gaps of a dysthymic brain.
Your diary and worn-out scribbles
Lifted an awkward silence, I ignored.
And I know there are plenty of
Conversations
Separated by a trigger.

Your four loud aunts and their-
Disproportionate-pinches,
The main house and its innumerable doors
And the single toilet your grandad possessed
Will always be ‘our stories’ with mango pickle
And little almonds
I recollect as your curfew years.

You need not worry, I will not-
Sit with bubbles in my mouth.
I can pinch your cousins and
Exchange few golden bangles.
I can walk the temple lanes with your-
Mother, silken skirts and jingling anklets.
And I know the family recipes,
The exact nicknames and garlanded gossips.
There will be days, get-togethers and
Photographs
Added into your prized collection.

A subconscious music flooded my psychology
When chlorine water, light-lit-days,
And flirtatious silly men
Swung in fine tune next to me.
There was always a detached-attachment
That translated a traditional ghost
Who announced a corner for itself
Somewhere exact I cannot pin point.

Let us not freeze the prologue
We can walk door by door
Between generations and blue window panes
In a coordinated tune guided by-
Voices of our ancestors.
The genes inside me needs a
Second hand journey
With-out an altered you and me.

They will say I was only a delusion, few broken words hardly comprehendible and a room full of tobacco scent, they will execute me for my outlandish brain and hang me on public every single day . And I wont be there to tell them I was something more than few mad absinthe drops and love letters to a mysterious man, I knew it from the beginning that they will not find the secrets I hid under my curly locks.

Seems to me I am doing something wrong,
Terribly wrong to the birthday cakes you
Ate and bikes that broke your spine, but
Spaceless words leave me with pipedreams,
Three years, long and gone but it's not easy
To quit binoculars, I always watch over you,
Obsess over the voiceless words and
Movies I did not understand but I know that
I will keep chasing unless one day you
Pop out of that lousy little town. One day.

A muggy dream walked to me
Yesterday night, all roads down
The equator
With the taste of salt and sweat
And the clocks of the world
Stopped for a moment,
I wrote without papers
Of all the things he ever said.

The drama of falling from a cliff
I did not know I was dreaming,
A careful section of love letters
Obscured under leather jackets
Flew with the body, down to the sea.
My red mail box had to wait
For the Orientalist’s stories,
It did wait.

I trawled his journals and poems
Like a desperate lover hunting-
For a vilified unpublished hero.
I didn’t want to be his Halloween-
Horror night or fallen oranges of the dusk,
I wanted to be the cigars he puffed
The rancheras he sung and the clipped
Clothes that hung on his backyard.

The clichéd sappy night fall,
Physical sensation and a tight lipped smile;
I had to write poetry, chew my nails
Chop my hair to fall normal again.
Why did they not teach in schools
To pause poems and eat popcorns
Why did they not tell me
To stop my wiggly sly will?

Lover, I’m drunk in Chaucer
Sea and a monster, now I’m drowning.
Let us paint the house, draw the walls
And say sorry to malicious kids we made
Let us take photographs, hang them on
The walls and make trips back to our sacks
Let us drive the hills, sing songs
Shock the folks and live out of track.

What am I in search of?
I don’t know.
This insomniac was in quest
Of an answer or maybe
An asylum for my lunacy,
I walked aimlessly,
I searched down the tracks-
Of the water that fell from my eyes,
They didn't answer.
What is it?

I got wish threads and stood frozen
Tangled what to wish for and
Walked back with an empty heart,
A confused mind and a lost sensibility.
I don’t know what I want from life,
I know I’m in quest of something-
Which I cannot name.
What is it?

There is no place in the world
There is no air to inhale
I’m living, I’m counting, and I’m waiting
But I don’t know for what this living-
Counting and waiting is for.
What is it?

Temple bells, Qwaali and Candle lights
Made no meaning, they killed me
‘They’ told me I will find solutions but,
What is it?

What am I in search of?
What is it?

From fetid ashes and sinned sleepy logs
I desire to enslave you to my lucky red seeds
And imprison you from my forgotten birth
To another universe forsaken from this earthly tomb.
Hide our unspoken lies with a furrowed vine,
Goodbyes cannot slur the listless loops
For I have the screeching pleasure of hope
Between every breath I took to meet your eyes
And the soothing unexpectations of the new world.
I never felt scared to defeat my homeless tears
But I gently feared the faceless stranger,
My heart, every insane edge of it yours
Just as sharp as the brilliant lonesome star
There is no profound mystery in these eyes
Other than the magic of my little red seeds.
Behind the frozen mirror there you are,
I’ve lost the piece of heart I  burried with my luck
The gap in between the recaptured echoes
From my melted strength to frozen smile
I can tell you, you’re my lucky red seeds!

It’s all about remembering the calls of the blue water and stories when the golden globe sank inside happily to be born somewhere else with apologies for the rejected words and love and a reminder to nail the frail blank papers!

It’s all about carrying picture albums all the way round in the school bag and holding the panic of leaving the heart possessed things, to leave foot prints at the door steps with sonnets in heart and ink stains on the skirt with the word ‘forever’!

It’s all about the crisp wind easing the whine of heart and the effortless glad crimson scars of life, drinking coffee and lobster watching rain through the cracked window pane searching for the adventures of beauty!

It’s all about becoming a part of the unwanted yellow note book pages breathing the never spoken emotions, ******* the tiniest memories with echoes of time and dust and whispering to your silent soul about your lessening autobiography!

It’s all about being the ballerina when melodies played late night, to see things scattered all over the desk and lay by the window on the crest with memories pasted on walls filling stillness all around the corroding iron ramparts!

It’s all about searching for the dried out basil stems and binding them with a thread and wishing that someday they’ll fuse together to swim in sun lit mornings for the dragon flies to bind the kaput dreams together, to live life!

It’s all about waiting at the familiar doors with the falling petals of memory and still trying to figure out the moist waited face with a screaming brain, aching veins and wrinkling skin ;the fingers searching in the wet mosses for the familiar shadow!

It’s all about dying with a dream of the familiar imperfections with the stony silence of the skull and dreams of a twilight graveyard with darkness all around a red rose faultless among the dried damp flowers!

Your generation is full of pillows that need hugs,
Come here, congratulations, you finally made it!

This is how it is, more or less like Ramanujan,
Or I don’t know if it’s okay to think like this,
Whatever makes you comfortable, stable.

I know how it feels to be outside my body
When appachi, valyammavan and all others
Exist in minor contradictions, but you must
Realise that the pictures that run your mind
Include things as silly as our car loans.

In the slanting late-night musings that you do-
Beneath the green and white curtains of my room,
I collapse into a cupboard of my little history
And you stand as a ghost in absence. Lost.
Like a child, like how I used to be. Crying.

Have had I told you that you smell like
A jewelry shop in brand new air freshener,
Just after a midnight Medimix shower
Perhaps you could have recognized me-
The tiny girl, daughter, lover, and mother, next you.

Where did I fail? Probably in the mornings I learned
To walk, the years that taught me math lessons,
Times father reached me as phone calls,  
In college as a pair of blue jeans and love poems,
While in Chandini Chowk, inside the tiny room-
Upstairs home and all the hours before I walked
Into the college library with my roommate.

In the space sliding of a nameless burn
My degraded past and revolting chattels sob
Sketching reality into lasting trace
For my spirit to sink in this bitter survival.
Can you recall the regal cloud of my smile?
The mistake made by your dense remains
To banish me from my bare actuality,
The agony to escape and hide in mystery.
I wish I could tell you the story left behind
The roots of my prevailing sustenance
But there is nothing you could do
For this stubborn old wood!

There are days when I go Kaki's, at the corner of the field, leaning over newly imported plastic chairs, sipping tea, counting  vimanams and think of you. I have absolutely no idea where you live, but in my Culture Theory class, I sit and map your existence, believe me, I came down to a radius of 30kms- where my meaning of life is your 42. My friend told me I am a creepy stalker , of course, she absolutely had no idea about you, me or our story. I don't know, I really don't know why I keep thinking, keep missing, keep reading and keep hoping.

BTW Trump won.

*******, I have never seen those eyes
But you are my 42, meaning and universe
The dog, a room, few chilies and some strange-
Men! I need more, more of everything.

He is probably one of the few people who still carry a handkerchief wherever he goes. While I wash and dry his clothes under the scorching South Asian sun, his handkerchief safely finds its home inside those formal pockets. Wet and divine.