The stillness of the noon;
Of the sky, of the sea,
late after the stars retire,
amidst unceasing waves.
It's about stillness.
Being still. It's about that.
Silence. No that is
not stillness.
Silence is still-born.
It's about those days when
you wake up when you wish
you don't have to.
and nights when you sleep
when you don't want to.
Dreams come undone,
castles on water.
It is the days when
the still small voice
is silent; goes dead, signless.
It's about those days.
When stillness matters.

The leaves in winter, they all fall in place.
In endings hidden, embers of a new life.
Every once in a while an unknown girl
walks up close on a smoggy night;
And an awkward lank woos her with
half-withered roses by the south bank;
Going after severed kites,
landing now by the memory lane:
by the Thames, holding a palmful,
saying, this river's named after you:
she has a dimpled smile;
By the lakes, deep at night, when the moon
walks over the waves, dancing with the swans;
Where the Lee bends around the corner,
a red bus emerges out of the mist,
a hero on chilly nights of the early autumn,
when the dhak welcomes the Goddess home.
Teals, wobbling out of the pond, by
the temple of love, closed for ages now;
Crimson paint dripping from the evening
sky at the corners;
Every day when loving this way
seems like a picture painting away,
get lost walking by the Thames;
Whirling back like the descent from the Eye,
time and crackers light the sky,
on a Guy Fawkes night.

The urchin banging at the car
on rainy nights,
begging for a buy;

The old house down the road
making way for another
highrise where no one will live;

The cobbler at the corner store
smiling away toothless
awaiting  his death;

The mausoleum of the hero
of the past - rebellion glorified
is the new tradition;

The aquarium where
water dried up
and the fish, all died;

I am the city that you
don't  see dying,
obsessed with 'progress'.

It was a story I was writing -
very interesting, but,
it never ends:

Just when the clouds gathered
at the edge of the season,
a conflagration from the beginning
consumed all the hope;

looping backwards just
when I thought, I'd reached ******;

Like the story about the oasis
where all the chapters are about
mirages,

this is a story about love,
but all the chapters are about
how not to love.

I see a butterfly in my cup
that I never noticed before:
and it flew out and flew away.

In the winds that
blew the pages away.

The evening song of the boatman
rowing into the sunset,
mingles with the waves,
sailing past mausoleums and mansions
long deserted by the banks.
In a moon beam's flash, to the slow beat,
come alive the pasts that
play out by the stars
wading through the skies:
bedecked women of the household,
servants in toe, about the courtyard,
children frolic as feasts are announced
and the nights of splendour where
music and magic become one;
In the flutter of rain,
pigeons hide, and bats, in corners
where heirlooms were locked precious
through generations; unknown
then, the hovel of a hermit
is thronged by the thousands whose name
now mingles with those of the Gods
for a glimpse into whispers past time;
It is the beauty of the tree that bares
her soul in winter offerings to the Earth;
Of the stream that offers oblations
shivering through moonless nights;

एक हमारा सत्य परस्पर, जो
रहस्य बन छिपा रहता है जीवन भर

This is our one mutual truth, friend,
that remains hidden a mystery all life:

खेलते रहते हैं  हम, टालते,
कसरती मेहनती हैं, कसरातों
महनतों में खोए रहतें हैं हम

we are busy playing, postponing
the question, and we are workers,
we remain immersed in our
efforts and struggles all life

पर कभी कभी, कल और आज
तक का हो सकता है अंतर, कि
'मित्र' बोलने का नही मिलता अवसर

but a day comes, when the difference
is but between the morrow, and
there's no time to even call out 'friend'

आ जाता है वो बुलावा, तो
व्यूह में फस कभी
लौट नहीं पाते,

when the call comes, so caught
up we become, that return
is not an option from the maelstrom

अचानक सा वो दिन आ जाता
है जब आ सामने उभर कर

suddenly, that we have kept hidden,
comes alive emerging from shadows

ये है जो हमारा सत्य परस्पर,
रहस्य बन रहता है जो जीवन भर

This our mutual truth, that
remains hidden a mystery all life.

A chant echoing in the distance:

fragrance wafting across, rising,

spreading like the birds at dawn

far into the horizon blue:

measuring in its sweep,

the shaman dance of the seasons,

rhythmically erratic,

the drum beat that is the beginning

and the end, a comet search from beyond,

seeking death in the shadows,

like the prayers of stars spreading across

the spiral arms of galaxies

through ages beyond number, too large

for our infant eye to stand witness,

a lighted lamp in loving supplication

at the closed gates of an ancient temple,

waiting to behold the beloved again,

a flame lighting the gulf into an abyss.