a lapping wave,
sea of ink colours pages
today is poetry

याद पिया की आए

i  miss you.
my disgruntled face,
constant gnarling at the sun
might have already betrayed
how much i hate the summer.

i hate the summer,
i miss you.

i miss your movement across the earth
as you
t i p t o e / march,
tread lightly* / thunder in,
caress / trample,
r e j u v e n a t e / strangle.

most of all,
i miss you because
i wish you would rush in,
darken the skies with clouds
like kajal for a goddess.
shove the sun
under a celestial carpet
woven from cool water
and colder skies.

i miss you.
my hatred for the sun
only progresses with the months
till july, till you descend.

they say that when love arrives,
you can hear a hundred violins,
you can see the colours in every living thing.
when you arrive,
i see only joy -  
pure liquid joy.

i miss you.

single book of matches
gonna burn what's standing
in the way
a lone flame might look like
a pitiful part of an inferno
that perhaps was,
but never will be
a l i v e.
you can try to magnify
warmth into heat
using all sorts of transparent things -
one* - a glass,
two - your face that can't hide what you think,
three - the lone tear the dresses your cheek in the night;
but let me know
when you succeed at
caressing cold embers into
a living, breathing fire.

burned out flames
should never re-ignite,
but i thought you might
i hoped to the patron saint of
hopelessness that you weren't
beyond her saving grace.
**** falling stars, i wished on
burning planets to see
if i could salvage the last light
from their core
to plant their fire in yours.

*i will never be your cornerstone

I'm proud of my words.

In secret, mostly.
Loud lights and
open mic nights scare me,
to write the truth.

The things i write
and the things i say
live in two different worlds.
one - where my mind has its
own way - telling me to
keep mum at least today - s p o k e n

the world i try to hide in
on paper
is forgiving.
it will never shun me
for living
under layers
    upon layers
         upon layers
of curving words that i created - w r i t t e n

i pretend to think
of the rhythm that should inhabit
the empty space between words,
but then i fail,
almost
by force of habit -
as you can now very well see
or hear?
Mics aren't as forgiving as people.
when the speakers blast
my trembling breath
into the corners of a small room,
i think i understand
why a mountain can be named
Mount Doom -
it's the same amount of effort. - s p o k e n

What do i do, then?

Then, i run.

i clamber over steps
stumble over wires
careful not to trip.
i leave behind the small room
with big people
and laughing lips.
and i run, run, run.
i close the door behind me
as i break into my own
castle of ink and unsaved notes.
i thank the chineese
for turning trees into
empty screens waiting
for me to empty my thoughts
onto them.
thank you, darling Egypt
deceased trees make me feel
better about myself
every single day - w r i t t e n

I'm proud of my words.

In secret, mostly.

You find an old trunk
In the attic of your nani's house.
Bravely braving the dust and
Creepy cobwebs, you tip toe,
t i p p y t o e
towards this testament to the ages.
On the heavy, heavy lid
lie the introductions of old stories -
tucked beneath discarded truths
and gilded lily lies.
You push the heavy lid up
like the brave, brave child that you are.
The only sounds -
a massive groan,
and the absence of your breath.

Tucked within are treasures.

The first layer -
a thin film of castles
royal drawbridges,
a high tower,
several dozen horses,
gold necklaces,
of Kings and Queens,
and the in-betweens.

A second sheath
Decorated with tales of conquests,
a victory here and there,
tales of rigid tests,
a problem to be solved
by the truly good,
and the uniquely pure.

The last layer sits happily at the bottom.
An age-old invitation to all
who seek solace.
Mumma's old dolls sit beside
Nani's soft sarees,
faded like her hair,
and like her memory.
This layer gives warmth.

No, it is warmth.

The last layer awaits your weary heart,
It holds the secret art of
curing every bad day.
This layer will caress your worries
And fold them into
itself
         into oblivion,
or perhaps
into a Happy Ending.

To tell you the truth about travel, I hate it.
Someone once told me
that travel is a compromise
for teleportation.
Everything
is basically a compromise
until higher tech arrives.
To tell you the truth about travel,
I really don't want to.
I want to let you hold my image
against long winding roads,
against the sad shrubbery
by the side of the highway,
and believe
that I'll be happy
when I'm not at home.
My loud voice and excited manner
may even trick into believing
that I adore the hustle bustle of a new place,
new people,
     new traffic,
           new smells,
                sights,
                      sounds.
But to tell you the truth, I really hate travelling.

Save me from suffering the pains
of packing a bag
with the most essential items
designed to make you look like
a Prudent Traveller™ - I want to carry
only my fatigue
and annoyance
at being asked to move out.
(Some Hajmola, perhaps - the green and purple flavours)

I am not seduced by lines on a map
telling me where to go,
and how to get there,
I swear.

I would rather have
someone trace the edges
of imaginary continents
across my mind
by virtue of their words.

Cartographers aren't redundant to the world,
perhaps - but have you ever had
a laid back holiday with
only
*i n t e r m i t t e n t naps?