hold still, my love!
let me freeze in time
that elusive essence
of all that you are!

let me pan from head to toe
all those fleeting memories
that envelope you like a halo!
--that heady mix of honey and cinnamon
as you say into the phone “hello!”
--that dainty dimple
and the happy curl of your ruby lips.

is it my breath that sways
those curls framing your cheeks?

for years have we shared,
for ages have we walked
the long road together,
stopping, but for mere moments,
to fight our little fights
and talk our little talks,
to press our hands together
and smile
at things small and beautiful,
at some rare memory.

hold still, don’t breathe!
don’t sway
those delicious mountains and valleys
where often our rivulets
joined in a torrent of frenzy!

where in the labyrinth
of time and space
did we first meet?
do you remember?

you are my memory
and I am yours.
but memories are ephemeral
and fleeting and deceptive.

so let me freeze them in time
before you and I
fade away.

click!

Wash your hands.
Pick a couple of situations.
Peel away old memories.
Cut in half; what, no seeds?
Then cut first this way
And then that.
Don’t cry, my love, its just
Some bad chemistry!
Take some hot, acrid thoughts.
Core them; throw the seeds away.
Chop chop and chop.
Take a few sprigs of happiness
Finely slice them, diagonally.
In the hot wok of life,
Toss in a smile, couple of fights,
Some heartburn, some sweat,
Stir fry.
Come, my love, let’s eat!

mute, dumb, the fan whirrs
sweeping first left, then right,
all around the waiting room,
seeing all, doing nothing,
from its perch on the wall.

chairs, mostly full
with faces furrowed deep
by worry, sorrow, fear.
in one, yesterday’s newspaper,
half- unread, like yesterday’s bride.

just beyond, the triage--
with the presiding nurse
in pristine white, oozing
professional empathy
and tight-fitting oomph.

anxious eyes peering
through the slit curtain
into the emergency room…
was that my dad crying in pain
or the guy with the broken leg?

inside that curtained cubicle
men in masks
squeezing life out
like one does a near-empty
tube of toothpaste.

silent, violent, sobs
from the son and daughter.
was that their uncle
who lends them his shoulder?
maybe, just maybe, the doc was wrong?

from that perch up on the wall,
the fan keeps whirring,
seeing all, doing nothing
sweeping first left, then right
is that fan god?

it’s morning
groggy-eyed, zombie-like,
stubbled, disheveled,
he rises.

Outside is the gleam of dew,
the scent of fresh bloom,
the chatter of birds and squirrels.
Not for him, though,
the brilliant hues of early dawn,
the bustle and cheer of the day just born.

Tarry he cant, mustn’t
shouldn’t, oughtn’t
for he has work to do.

And so he scurries about,
not much unlike a rat-at-night.
scratching the stubble out,
shocking the slumber out,
with a splash of rusty water
and scented alcohol

glassy-eyed on the clammy-cold seat,
with the daily in hand,
he lets in garbage as he lets it out.
(let’s see: “six killed, talks fail,
girl *****, man robbed,
chain snatched, stocks down, jobs lost…)

but no, tarry he cant, mustn’t,
shouldn’t, oughtn’t.
for he has work to do.

Not for him
to reminisce and wonder
at bright-eyed kids straining at their yokes
to remember that kind teacher
who patted his cheek
and held him to her smock
smelling strangely of
freshly ironed starch.

Nor must he think
of  progress cards and golden stars
and hobbies learnt at leisure,
of cycling in the rain,
and endless hours spent
under the mango trees
waiting for heaven’s manna,
of books devoured, adventures vicariously lived
in strange English lands
where they breakfasted on
bread and poached eggs and bacon.

Nay, tarry he cant, mustnt,
shouldn’t, oughtn’t..
for hasn’t he got work to do?

‘ Tis his lot to weave
his own web of chaos
as the road turns a
tangled mess of trails
darting here and braking there
in feverish, frenetic fits
of stopping and going
and spewing
clouds of carbon and venom
and especial epithets

no, no, tarry he cant, mustn’t,
shouldn’t, oughtn’t,
for he has work to do.

So what if he didn’t see
--just ahead of him on the bike,
the baby’s pink,delicate,
fingers as she clutched
her mamma tight?
--the shriveled, outstretched,
hand that cried for a morsel of mercy
since even the cataracted eye
was drained of hope?
--the strange aromas of
fresh coffee, incense, cigarettes
and some open sewer?
--the signals that said “relax,
you’ve 68,67,66” seconds to go?

Not for him to tarry—he cant,
he mustn’t, shouldn’t, oughtn’t, god forbid!
He has work to do!

Quotations to send
calls to attend, meetings to sit in,
sipping soulless coffee,
nitpicking.
accounts to tally,
targets to meet;
better still, exceed,
‘in’ trays to empty,
‘out’ trays to fill,
reports to make,
power points to present,
all before lunch
and, strangely, until after
until, outside the prison,
life has , once again, ebbed away.
one more sun has died,
or so cries the muezzin,
some distant bells pealing
in doleful agreement.
oh where has the day gone?

Stray thoughts appear
like lights switched on-
thoughts of children, wife,
neighbour
thoughts that convince
that here, indeed, is a person
with kith and kin and others to love.
But no, they must perish—the thoughts—
he must instead focus on the task at hand.

of  first weaving through
the now dark chaos
of blinding headlights
and urgent horns, darting bikes,
neon fireflies
and reaching ‘home’ where
the ***** is busy cooking
and the cubs scampering…
“hi dad ”says the kid
as he mindlessly waves
his soul numbed by
the monotony of the day just gone
and the tv that’s ever on—
and already on the report for the morrow

can he afford to tarry awhile?
to hug, hold, talk?
to share with him
a childhood anecdote?
horrors! he cant, he mustn’t,
absolutely shouldn’t oughtn’t!
for he has work to do!

And so the bedroom light’s on
until long after she’s embraced
by slumber, deep slumber—
her eyes closed
in childlike innocence.
can he watch the slow rhythm of her *****?
the languid curves?
the cozy bed
with its promise of warmth?
on the screen , scowling,
is the clutter of data
that must be processed
into bite-sized bits of
decipherable hieroglyphics—
now, not later!

Its so dark, so  still,
even the stray dog has stopped
howling its pitiful howl
one more cigarette
burnt at the altar of work
one more hour burnt at the stake
he simply cant tarry,
mustn’t, shouldn’t, oughtn’t…
he has work to do.

It’s morning.

dont hate me when i'm gone
when this body has returned
to being radicals and molecules with a life their own.
when it no longer breathes,
the hairy chest heaving no more
from sighs born of sorrow and longing.
when all life has ebbed away,
when all that remains of me are memories--
mundane and poignant...

dont hold on to me
hoping for a resurrection
for i'd truly be gone
and along with me, almost all that
identified me as me...
my smile,my countenance,my words,my voice
even my warmth,my breath,my complexion,my odour.


for me, you could pen an epitaph most prosaic;
"here lies a man who was born, lived and died"
nothing more,nothing less.
yet, if you searched long enough
it is just possible that
you would find something to add--
a little pointless anecdote
or an insignificant memory
that punctuated life...

i did sin, like every man before me
and laugh like most of them
and despair and scorn and spurn
even cheat and despise and lie
but to my credit should it be said
that i did love...

but now, all of that seem pointless
for it's not merely my body that
you now consign to the holy fire.
isnt it with great relish
that these hot tongues slurp up
all of my hopes, my anguishes
and my  most secret desires?

dont, please dont hate me when i'm gone.