In the rationed sunlight
when there is no sun inside the room
and it is vaguely dark
a figure walks away from me 
like a noiseless shadow.
It walks past the door and kneels
as if to scratch an itch. On the wall 
a shape appears, like a photo frame
in which I see the darkness 
of my dark beating heart, a scratch
running through it like an arrow.
the figure now morphs to a gecko
its shadow crawls up the wall
behind the photo frame
and nibbles at the arrow

Quietly, I walk past
- the streak of sunlight
- floating dust specks
- the noiseless shadow
and step out. 

The photo-frame follows me
with the beating heart,
the arrow, and
the nibbling gecko
still inside, now
a streak of liquid drips from it.

I wear a rain-cloak
under the charcoal gray clouds
ready to burst on me.

If a river had ears, they would’ve heard
songs of the clouds and the rain
floating in the breeze above oceans

If a river had ears, they would bring me 
stories told by gurgling, shrinking glaciers
imploding in warming streams

If a river had ears, the waters would know
all the secrets of dolphins and mahseer
it would play the scores of a whale’s song

If a river had ears, they would be blocked
and, when the waves hit the banks, the river
losing its balance forgets the course 

If a river had ears, those would be pierced
their small holes plugged with white pearls
stolen from an oyster’s shell 

Some rivers have ears
like ones flowing through Kashmir,
with their dainty drooping lobes,
pierced by bullets. Robbed of their
red-threaded golden dejhors,
the ears echo of unheard miseries.

look at the graph, he said,
this line that makes a hill
is the echo from your heart.
who sent the first ping?
a beat, a rhythm I can't decode?
Next time, listen to your heart carefully.

I drink 
your being 
in short sips.

Dreams

of a colourful parakeet all to myself have come true
a nest drawn on lime wall peels
crooked lines tracing clipped feathers
A home / A cage, a sunset
rainbow dreams -- locked at two ends

Recalling toys from childhood
I see a black ring running away
From a stick in my father's hand

Doors have become trees,
bars of a cell, blocking my way
drooping branches a noose, a wreath.