Tag Archives: love

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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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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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 – Sabse Peeche Hum Khade.

I've added a link to the original song here, please give it a listen.
Happy Birthday, Maths. 
Original: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CdhNW2J2kyo

Lift your eyes and you shall see,

it is here that we happen to be.

Why do you choose to be indifferent,

not bad enough for this, are we.

 

Do not believe what the World sings.

Do not let us be lost.

It is easy to know this,

whether we belong to you or not,

only ever, if you ask within.

 

En-charmed by your eyes,

the world seems to be,

and in this crowd we stand,

[waiting] hopelessly,

right at the very end.

 

Came and went, evenings of pleasure,

came and went, people,

but today, that you come,

you shall forever rest,

in my heart and me.

 

Do not smile, and let this

pass, for if we ever happen

to cross paths, again, after

tonight, you shall only say,

not bad enough were we.

 

En-charmed by your eyes,

the world seems to be,

and in this crowd we stand,

[waiting] hopelessly,

right at the very end.

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To Piyu, How to Bake Bread.

Piyu,

The first step to baking bread from scratch is to move yourself 

to a coastal town somewhere around Cancun and rent a lodge 

that costs nothing more than 12 cowrie shells, cleaned and placed, 

systematically, in a row, through a strand of seaweed, to adorn the 

landlord's neck. Then you find a friend, in a canine that refuses to sit, 

in silence, for more than a minute, at a time. Juggle ideas for his name,

while he rushes through the clear waters and allow yourself to be drowned 

in the honesty of his eyes and his proclamations of temporary forevers

in his imperceptible language of whimpers barks and howls. Then go on 

to name him after an alcoholic beverage you’ll grow to appreciate, 

as much as you shall grow to appreciate him. Once you have your 

superman lair and your woofing apprentice, wrap yourself in a saree 

that spells out incantations that trap men in an admiring gaze in golden 

thread and silver sequins. Now you’re ready to get down to the kneading 

of the dough that shall rise and fortify your heart, protecting the little daisies 

and dreams you nurture in its crimson chambers, behind the cage of hollow 

bones. After the dough is kneaded and the warmth of your body, your words 

and your curious mind has heated the corners of your World, you let it bake 

and revel in the scent of freshly baked bread while dancing around with puerile 

exuberance on your maturing face, shedding some light and happiness, that 

tends to unarm the sternest of men and forces them to smile, on everyone that 

manages to be blessed with a moment or two in your immediate vicinity. 



Or you could just buy the perfume that your van mate wore, that smelled like

bread and carry it around to make the World easier to live in for yourself and

for everyone you hold close to your heart.







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Onomatopoeia

At breakfast,

you read to me, from your favorite newspaper,
articles about intended duplicity. The World was
quiet for the Dawn to unfold, in its mellifluous
entirety, and the only sounds I could make out, in
my state of hungover reverie, were,

 

your muffled sighs, hmm and ch ch ch, escaping your chapped lips like the whispered whistle of my antique electric-kettle, expressing your discontent with the unlikely turn-of-events that haunt the modern World,

 

your words, de-st-ruc-tion and car-na-ge, carefully let out, each syllable, made love to, uttered with affection and regal gentility, with due care afforded to each of their individual fragilities, like baby birds, unfurling their wings and chasing the dawn for the first time,

 

and, the gentle tapping of your feet, tak.tak.tak, on our concrete floors, like morning dew, falling, leisurely, on dried and withered autumn leaves

 

and, the clatter of your teeth,(it was slightly chilly) a monotonous tone with no ups and down, like the clamor of those thousand pairs of feet, rushing for the first metro, trying to avoid the curse of traffic and imminent banality,

 

and, the crunch of bread under a blunt butter knife and a melted condiment, shining in morning shades of amber, just as in verse and rhythm as the drowsy and cursory pleasantries of children being dragged to school at ungodly hours,

 

and, the rustling of the cheap recycled paper stuck in between your sweaty thumb and index finger, the rustle of leaves from the first gush of the wind that heralds a new Spring every December, and,

the beating of my heart against its bony cage,

nothing but a silent observer.

 

It was then that I decided if you were ever to be

a figure of speech, you, darling, would be Onomatopoeia.

 

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dear Isabella.

what is the time?

is it time for me to leave you yet? cause I’ve been meaning to do so for quite a long time now.

it’s not that I don’t love you anymore. it’s not that I never did. i did love you and I still do regardless of what you’ll come to believe in the next few hours. it’s just that I love you a tad bit too much.

remember the first time we met. it was at the university I guess. you were late for your chemistry class while I casually strolled around looking from here to there. I followed you around later that day, contemplating on how should I reach out to you. you were wearing something black, if I remember correctly. looking back at it I can’t ignore the irony. you had a thing for black back then. you thought it made you look cool and that’s what you had always wanted to be. but inside, now I know, you were just a pretty little girl missing out on all the pink dresses you wanted to wear for the fear of being called too girly, for the fear of not fitting in.

I think three months from that day on, I wrote you the first letter. on the back of a poem I had written, I scribbled a few extra syllables and sent it across through a common friend of ours. I hear that common friend is married now and has three children of her own. two boys and a girl. the girl’s been named after you. It doesn’t surprise me now that I think of it. You had your way with people;

anyway, the poem on the back of the message I had sent was titled “a winter of white roses and shriveled up hearts.” it was a drunken composition much like a one night stand. i didn’t feel any particular emotional attachment to it and hence didn’t mind sending it across. three years later you told me that, what made you change your mind about dating me was that very poem and the few extra syllables around it. I would lie and say, I wrote it for you. but instead it was nothing better than a one night stand. just another night I had to spend alone making love to the paper and the words lurking in my ink.

the common friend came back a week later with a coy smile on her face and a piece of paper in her hands. you were a minimalist back then as well. i cant say I didn’t expect that already. I’ve come to believe that people who venture too deep into the sciences learn too much about the complexities of the world and hence prefer the mundane to what poets like me would call the notion of romanticism. the paper had a date and time on it and was signed in black, “Isabella.”

the date was set and so was the time. we met on the fifth of may, at a fast food joint. seven pm. I arrived at six forty five. you were there at seven sharp. dressed like you always were. once again the beliefs I had in regard to people who delve into science too deeply were confirmed. you were a sight to behold. the jeans you had on were worn out but to poets like me things like that are holders of great beauty. they tell a story of their own and well, your jeans were no less. they kept distracting me that night with every mark and tear whispering out their tale to me. you had a plain black tank top on. cant say I didn’t fap later that night to the image of you. but i will cause I know how dearly you hate the word fap.

the weather was windy that day and your hair kept on sticking to your lip gloss. yet you managed to stay calm through it all, at-least you tried to make it seem so. but i could see you scratching your palms covertly. love made you nervous like acids and bases had never did before.

we barely talked that day. you seemed preoccupied whereas I preferred sitting aside and looking at you. We did say good night towards the end of it and in those two words lied a promise. a promise of meeting again some night.

a few months later you sent me a message. 3:04 am in the morning. it read, “hi,” we both missed our classes the next day and went to sleep just as the Sun was rising from the horizon. that night had been the most eventful for me. five years with you and yet what matters to me the most till date is those messages you sent on some random day at a random time. you told me your father loved alcohol more than he loved you and that your mother had found love elsewhere. You mentioned a sister that died of cancer some time back and while you told me this, I could hear your sobs silently playing like a Frank Anthony record in the background. I apologize for that night and my ways. I shouldn’t have asked what your home is like or if you have a sibling. I am sorry to let you cry. I am sorry I wasn’t there to catch those tears before they touched the ground.

we met again but didn’t plan it this time around. You were walking back to your dorm when I first saw you that day. I wanted to give you a ride. But bicycles don’t make well for long drives. I was cycling away when you called out to me. To my surprise you mounted my bicycle and asked me to take you away. I did try to imitate the heroes I had read about but yet again, bicycles were not chariots of doom or stallions with golden manes. we fell onto a heap of dried leaves and couldn’t stop laughing till we were told off by an old man that taught me mythology for a semester. The old man still remembers you they say, the letter of apology you sent to him the next day is still the most beautiful thing he has ever read, they say.

but now it’s time for me to leave. the sun is setting and even though I leave you tonight and for me this is the last of day I will ever see, the sun will rise for you tomorrow and I don’t want to keep you awake too late. I don’t want to leave you and yes I do love you and always will but some things are inevitable. the universe has certain ways, it’s own dynamic idiosyncrasies and it is those that keep me from staying. you would have understood me better, maybe you still do, if you would have been a poet but then again people who delve into the complexities of the universe too much, like you have, prefer to live in a world that is black and white and the colors that flash against my eyes every night are those that don’t exist for you yet. But I do hope you realize that there’s more to life than just black and white. I do hope you understand why I prefer to speak in prose and rhyme. I hope you realize that there are some things that cant be explained in a laboratory and also some questions that can’t be answered by science.

I’ve heard a heart break tends to do it for some and if you do end up realizing all that I stated, i know you’ll finally understand that I did love you and always will, and Isabella when you do call out to me and I’ll ride to you in the same bicycle as before and we’ll fall onto a heap of dried leaves all over again. Only this time around we’ll be careful enough to not be told off by the old man who taught me mythology for a semester.

I leave you in this life, but darling please realize we still have eternity to dance through. our very own infinity to mar and recreate.

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