North Campus and his Flowers.

Delhi was overflowing with broken flowers; flowers crushed under the feet of pertinent dreams; flowers plucked to death by promises of adolescent love; flowers betrayed by dishonest poems. Flowers, languishing under the fluorescent Moons that line the city streets, waiting for the Sun and the man who would sweep them to their destinies. The man would more-often-than-not be an old NDMC/MCD worker, too tired to take a minute and appreciate the crashing beauty of these casual bystanders to the vicissitudes of a metropolis lifestyle, and the flowers in their own way had accepted the banality of their existence.

But the ones that bloomed in North Campus were different.
Walking around North Campus, for my after-college reveries, I’d often see flowers lying idly in the corners of the sandstone pavements. There was something extremely self-aware about them. Their shades of red and yellow exuded a sense of finality, unlike the usual despair; a subtle declaration of a conclusion reached, and a purpose fulfilled. The way their petals wilted, into themselves, or onto the streets, reminded me of my first conscious rebellion, against the supposed tyrannies of life.
I had painted three beautiful canvases, with all the colors I could find, and then I had set them on fire, aided by gasoline and a decade-old metal vase.
It was as if the flowers were conscious of their sojourn on this planet, and did not want to stop asserting their beauty, asserting that for several students who walked up and down those roads every day they were the only respite from homesickness and the sheepish realization of the monotony that awaits them. They were confident of their shades and hues and the brilliance with which they shone through against the whites and blues of political propaganda posters, and litter from the Ridge, and on the days of my afternoon walks, they would lie just a tad-bit too unperturbed, just a tad-bit too suggestive of an underlying smirk at my humanity.

If they had to bend down to the whims and fancy of some evolution theory, they weren’t going to do it smooth and easy. They were going to burn, and with them, they were going to burn beauty.

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The Confounding Nature of Infinite Spaces.

insideoutside

walls, doors, window frames,

cordoned graves,

humayun’s tomb

grand, untamed,

extends out to the edges

of Delhi’s constrained

infinities;

sandstone bathed

in blood and pain;

columns that seek to break

out from in between the teeth

the Sky keeps clenched

to not let the renegades

escape into his infinities.

 

Infinities within infinities—

histories within histories—

and I hide several within

which tremble at the strain

of those larger than themselves

whenever I visit

did I say where

Humayun’s tomb.

 

A testament to the reign

of the second in command

of those that had

the World prostrating in their trail;

a testament to the failed

grandeur of the name

that now lies crumpled on

pages of rewritten history;

a testament to dragged—

through—the—streets—

she—paved irony.

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Cutting Silences.

In that time,

As I cut lines

Of silence on the

Back of your hand

With shards of paper

That bled

Unwritten poetry,

All I could think of

Was the way we trapped

Our passing times

In the space between

Our shaking fingers,

And the way I let

Loose into your nostrils

Powdered forevers

Laced with tremors

From my fading

Fidelity.

In that time

My nose started dripping;

Was it blood, or screams

Painted in technicolor?

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T o n i g h t.

Consider this bar on the

edge of a thousand stars

eternally yours, for t o n i g h t.

 

Dance joyously and whirl around,

on Saturn rings, s p i n n i n g loud,

on the turntable of time, t o n i g h t.

 

In whispers, sing songs of love,

and cosmic desire, fear not for

the eyes and ears, of the void

like forest fire, spread w i d e

across unending horizons,

and a w a y. Under the reds –

the greens- the blues – of

the passing-by Suns, rest

till the end of the record that plays.

 

And when you crash, like Icarus in flight,

and memories melt off your bones

and callously mix with the silt

of drying ocean beds,

let the caress

of those importunate waves,

the shudder of your lives and

the current that runs

[ t h e n and t h e r e ]

[ w h e n and w h e r e ]

through the veins

of your youth remind you

of the bar that was

eternally yours, for t o n i g h t.

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Eid In India, 2017.

A message from the Moon

Was just received,

That this Eid, he will arrive

A little later than believed,

For that silver man is yet confused

About what to do,

If Indian railways can’t be used.

 

I tried to converse with him for a bit,

And question what left him this perturbed,

To allow the sumptuous delights

To be served,

Under an unlit sky,

And to this he very eloquently replied,

 

Sir, this happens to also be

The first Eid,

Where even Allah can’t say with surety

If those that hang on seekhs,

Are carcasses of poultry,

Or the body of an innocent man,

A Muslim, who enjoyed his share of meat,

Being roasted till cooked just right,

while the keepers of our democracy fan

The fire of the tandoor.

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A Gathering of Rebel Meteorites, In The Middle Of Nowhere.

Bar stools, twisting,
On orbits of steel,
Reflected, that night,
The shine
Of a fifty few stars
That were all
‘Made in China’
And sold in Delhi ─
Gift wrapped in
Copper and tungsten wires ─
To adorn the walls
Of an apartment that had,
No one to call
His own,
And yet smelled of
Leather upholstery,
And hung-over infinities.

And on them sat,
Meteorites who had
Sneaked out, away,
From their inconsiderate parents,
To do the
Mambo number five,
And craft, in this

Inebriated haze
Their own galaxies.

22nd

A bunch of wayward meteorites, 4:59am.

 

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Radiohead, You And Me.

We reminded me

Of Radiohead songs

In the manner with

Which, we swayed

Against the tide of

The several instruments,

Soft and mellow, one

Second, and blaring

Our beings, to each

Other’s naked ears,

In another. Tracing

Words and worlds

That spelled

D E V E S T A T I O N

In oddly placed

Riffs and refrains,

Upon our bare and

Corroded chests

With our chilly, bony

Fingers, making each

Other bleed verses

That could only succeed

As songs of defeat –

In love.

RADIOHEAD_THE+BENDS-57397

Radiohead, Danny Clinch, 1994.

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