Category Archives: poetry

The Confounding Nature of Infinite Spaces.

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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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Love, Old And New.

The monuments that were so crafted to stand as witnesses to the beneficence 
and magnificence of the rulers that ruled over Delhi, for however long, have
become the favorite playgrounds of the young lovers of the city. If you walk
through Lodi Gardens, or Humayun's Tomb, at any time, even in the scorching 
heat of April, you're more likely to run into a couple whispering sweet 
nothings to each other, under the shade of a tree, than a tourist appreciating 
the meticulousness of the architectural wonders. This poem is in regard to 
the same idea and is, in parts, inspired from Ravish Kumar's absolutely 
delightful collection of nano-tales, 'Ishq mein Sheher Hona'.

I don’t understand Delhi.

Why do we come to buildings

The walls of which, reflect

The Sun, with a funerary gaze

And allow Amaltas to bloom

in their shades, like only

Planted to be displayed

On biers of glory

That doesn’t remain.

Leave the tombs

To the dead, and let us

Craft our own infinities

In squalid alleys that

Reek of sweat, spit and

Alcohol-laden morning breaths

That went to sleep, very late.

Come, let us build our own

Shrines of love, in between

The corporate rubble of

Gurgaon, and on the glass

And concrete inscribe our

Tales of gentle caresses

Stolen from this city

Of callous denizens,

And dreary dreams

[verses to match Khusrau’s]

somewhere under the

Moolchand Flyover.

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Kailash Colony, languidly reflecting the Sun on a Sunday morning.

 

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Another Pointless Translation – Saara Pyaar Tumhara.

Alternative title for this translation – Happy Birthday, Karunya C Banerjee.
Link to the song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PNL8zhQf4xY

‘Aanchal’ refers to the extra fabric that remains after a sari is tied and is usually hung over the shoulder. It is a very popular image used in Hindi poetry and Bollywood, and as tradition remains, several women, across India, even today, tie their most precious possessions to it, whether it be money, jewels, or the keys to their wardrobes.

Gathered, I have, all

your love, in the

folds of my aanchal.

 

The grace of you,

I shall forever see,

in the hands of a clock,

as they swiftly flee,

against the passing

of every second.

 

Upon resting my eyes,

on your glimmering face,

from exhaustion of

this life, in a passing

moment, I feel salvaged,

I feel safe.

 

Embody all my dreams,

you do. To have you by

my side, is to fulfill the

purpose of this life.

 

Shone the lines of my

fate, in the lines of kohl

that adorn your eyes.

 

We shall be brought

even closer, by a

lover, somewhere,

sometime, and the

world shall see, our

reflection, in all his

tormented smiles.

 

It is a different time

that passes now,

don’t leave me alone, I

implore. The Jasmines

bloom differently, I fear.

Stay by my side, don’t

let me go for the

endlessly flowing tide

of this World and its facades.

 

Gathered, I have all

your love, in the

folds of my aanchal.

 

 

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