Akshay

Akshay May 2013

Dhrupad

I saw you today
under a bright sunless sky.

You,
bathed in green,
by a demure waterfall.

And you
moving
to the peacocks' calls
trilling,
through the leaves
that enshrined our midst.

You moved without care,
and you knew I was there.

Dhrupad is a very old musical form in Indian classical music. I wrote this poem when I was attending a Hindustani classical violin recital. I was transported to another world, and was missing a dear friend who loves classical music. She entered my imagination later, as is her wont.

Akshay Apr 2013

A bundle of beauty

When you fold your legs
and hug your knees;

a pearl encased
in a sheaf of leaves.

Akshay Apr 2013

Untitled - 2

Beating through walls of years
like a never-ending heart machine.

She walked in nonchalantly,
dawdling on wisps of the summer breeze.

The sun fell on her lashes,
breaking into seven colours
that make merry so fleetingly.

And returning like a moody river,
her smiles, like pools of dew,
her laughs, like torrents of petals,
her silence, an exciting mystery.

Akshay Jan 2013

Untitled

Don’t scratch at my heart,
I sealed its doors,
and all its crevices
with a swathe of purpose.

Don’t engulf my thoughts,
I built them strong,
with the clay of meanings,
under yesterday’s sun.

Don’t pierce into
my simple hopes,
I locked them safely
in a box of mirth.

Don’t enter my dreams,
I gave in to their absurdity,
with a promise to seek
what they ask of me.

Akshay Oct 2012

Poetry

As much as I don't understand you,
as much as I believe you cannot be defined,
getting close to you is easier than others,
and sometimes I touch what cannot be mine.

Akshay Aug 2012

These days

These days in college,
in my tiled box of a student-room.
In known people’s faces,
computer screens and cheap,
boring food; there is a voice
missing.

It says, “I’m ignorant”.

I’m ignorant about news,
about history and politics.
It says, I don’t know
what infects the homeless man I saw
scratching his rough hair on the road.
I don’t even know
which shampoo my friend recommended.

These days in empty walks,
in serious thoughts, slow books
and un-plucked guitar strings;
there is a voice missing.

It says, “I’m not sure”.

I’m not sure how these coins
landed up in my pocket.
It says, I’m blind to the ripped muscles
of the department store worker.
I get bothered though,
when the department store is closed
once, every month.

Somewhere between clean walls and a moving fan,
amidst loud horns, dust and bustling traffic,
I’m missing.

Akshay Aug 2012

Time Flies

Many times, when daydreaming
feels like a task.
I think of you,
and everything that was,
before it couldn't be.