Category Archives: poem

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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Hotel La Vie en Rose

On a corner street, one metro station further from Kashmere Gate, right next to the Raj Chaat wala is, the Hotel La Vie En Rose.

Legend says that the British Crown and it’s royalty dined there, once upon a time.

My grandmother tells me that they served the best Chicken Tikka and that she preferred having it with some pieces of lime.

She says that she went there with an Army officer once, for a date.

She says that it was there that she found the love of her life.

It was the only place in Old Delhi that stayed open till late.

It was the only place in  Old Delhi where everyone preferred arriving with a mistress and leaving with a wife.

It had a Burlesque Lounge and served the best booze, the way she tells it I’m reminded of the Moulin Rouge.

 

But, what she doesn’t know, is the current state of the much renowned Hotel La Vie En Rose.

It doesn’t serve Chicken Tikka any longer, the hotel manager prefers being called a Lady-monger.

Fresh roses don’t adorn the lobby any more, nothing remains as it was before.

The Burlesque Lounge was shut off once the British rule ended.

Now It’s the abode of men who’ve lost fortunes on alcohol and casual betting,

They might have been pushed out of their homes, but they’re always welcome at the splendid, Hotel La Vie En Rose.

 

Every night, at seven, ladies line up by it’s doors.

Passing children spite at them, laugh at their Gajras and call them whores.

Men on motorcycles describe the way they shall make love to them that night.

Even when they’re traveling with their children and wives.

It doesn’t smell of roses and the pink stained glass windows are now tainted.

Much like the ladies that look out of them at midnight.

 

With tainted windows and painted faces.

It still remains a place where everyone gets their happy ending.

The much renowned, Hotel La Vie En Rose.

 

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The watch from the dusty old attic.

In the corners of a dusty attic,

I found a watch from my younger days.

It had a Velcro strap and the Spiderman on it’s dial.

There were two button on the side,

one to activate the stopwatch function and one to turn on the light.

The stopwatch didn’t work any longer, but the light did blink dimly when I tried.

Two memories played simultaneously in front of my eyes.

One of my college days when procrastination led me to work the hardest just before the deadline.

The other was more of an image, one I’d like to believe had existed in reality at some point of time.

It was of me, five years old, telling my mother it was time to leave: at a party on a Sunday night.

The glass on the dial was broken and the hands that must have told a younger version of me the time, were still at 12:30.

It could have been an afternoon or after midnight,

the moment when this object from my childhood days became a lost memory.

I wouldn’t know because, in their stillness the hands seemed fast asleep.

Too indifferent to tell their now adult master,

the position of the Sun above his head.

Too tired to travel across three sixty degrees.

 

The light and the way the hands stretched out like a pair of yawning grasshoppers just before leaving for a deep slumber, were not the things that mattered to me the most.

The broken glass on the dial though, left an impression on me.

The watch might not fulfill the purpose it was meant for. It might not be, any longer, what it was meant to be.

But, it was very special to me.

Because in this watch I had the ability

to turn the hands to my favor.

To try and fetch myself some more time.

 

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Rules for his unborn son.

Somewhere down the long winding road of smiles and frowns,
He learned some things about the business of life.
Wrote them down and never shared them with his wife.
While having some tea with some cheese and a bun,
He left them behind as rules for his unborn son.
– The first one was to expect less and act suprised on getting the best. Being humble was the key to make people love you he wrote.
– Know what you deserve and never settle for less. Fight your hardest and lose in a grand fashion if it comes down to it.
– Take a shower daily and spend on your scent. You may leave or die but it is your smell that remains. The lady you love will sleep with your sweater. Make it easy for her.
– Choose friends for life and let them go if your paths diverge. Laugh at old jokes and cherish memories of the past. But remember how the road you chose and the road they chose could never meet.
– Keep you girlfriend close but your girl-friend even closer. Your girlfriend will be your wife but your girl-friend will be a mother and a wife, a sister and a friend for life.
– Drink but only enough to make you laugh. If you see dimmed lights and reminisce about the love of the days past. Know you’ve had enough.
– Dream as exquisitely as you can. Dream in velvet and pearls and some chandelier grandeur. They might posess your mind and drive you crazy. But, it is these dreams that will help you endure the unfinished and dishonest business of life.
– Venture onto the long winding road of tears and sorrow. Dont keep them in. Dont delay them till tomorrow. You are a man, not a model of clay. You have a heart with imperfections and pain. A shadow of fear that lurks within.
– Laugh at the things you hate. Dont waste your energy or your brains on them.
– Choose the ones you love wisely and the ones you hate with utmost perfection. Be choosy while hating, be careful to loathe.
– Always keep a drink of scotch nearby and a hot chocolate even closer.
These were the rules he left for his unborn son.
The ones he wrote down while having tea with some cheese and a bun.
The ones he never shared with his wife.
Rules for the unfair business of life.

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To be human.

To be calm with a raging tornado inside.
To be happy with a wailing mother within.
To smile when you’re about to cry.
To cry when your eyes are dry.
To walk when you want to run.
To sleep when you want to dance, and to dance when you are breaking inside.
That’s what I’ve learned of my life.
And also that happiness eventually becomes something you can purchase at Alcohol stores and small cigarette shops.
Sorrow is a part of being human.
People love being in love and yet deny themselves this simple pleasure.
To be jealous is an honest emotion and scars don’t go away with a simple lotion.

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Strangers.

She sits and writes a page long letter.
He calls her number every night at two.
Only for her to tear it away and for him to end it before it connects.
Two strangers on a desolate bridge.
Held together by tapes and bandages.
Some on her wrist and others on his heart.
Tears in a bottle.
A heartbreaking piece of art.
Messy hair and a loosely tied bun.
Cigeratte stubs and lines of kohl across her cheek.
A copy of Love Story by Erich Segal torn in half.
A Coldplay record playing on repeat.
A lonely room on the Upper East side of New York.
An empty heart beating in the city that never sleeps.
A beard unkept and a love, so wild, let loose.
Shards of broken glasses and empty whisky bottles.
Blades that were marred and a beauty so scarred.

A love story left incomplete in Central Park.
A lunch that was had at The Plaza Hotel.
A Sinatra song that was almost sung.

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A Beautiful Lie.

On March the first 2014,

Mary walked up to her and said I love you.

On January the third 2015,

Mary introduced her to the folks.

On March the first, of the same year,

Mary popped the big question while smiling ear to ear.

They drank bottled up stars and some meteors too,

Reminisced about the day they met, the day she said I love you.

On the eve of an April fortnight,

Dressed in white and pink,

With some doves amongst them too.

They were pronounced partners for life,

The bride could now kiss her wife.

From that day on,

They lived happily ever after.


On March the first she said I love you.

On the third of January I met her folks.

Back in her house my brother called me a dyke and asked me if I preferred some wine or some hot lesbian action with some line.

My father said I was dead to him and my mother asked me to leave the house.

As I left they all suggested I go to the Church and get myself cured.

My father even threw in a few punches and some slaps while I felt trapped.

Trapped in her love, she haunted me daily.

I managed to work and keep away the work place harassment,

But I was the office dyke, guess I couldn’t save myself from the embarrassment.

On March the first exactly one year later,

She popped the big question with a Tiffany’s ring.

She tried to laugh and even sing.

But I couldn’t stop myself from crying.

Could she tell how hard I was trying?

I said yes and she rejoiced.

I thought of empty chairs and invitations unsent.

On our wedding day we had three guests.

Her dad, her mom and a minister on rent.

I had dreamt of a father-daughter dance and a walk on the aisle,

But I guess the love of a girl, for another, is just a beautiful lie.

She stood there in pink while I was dressed in white.

She waved at me and winked at me from far away.

A smile on my face, a beautiful sight.

Later that day we became partners for life.

She finally kissed me,

My love,

My life,

My wonderful wife.

And after that day, and one later in May when little Mary came along

We lived happily ever after.

Google and love.

                   Google and love.

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