Starting out in Bombay

I exist on the periphery of a demented crowd-
rushing, rumbling, rummaging the city in
impenetrable geometry,

negotiating life in inconceivable dimensions of
concrete and fortune

I slackline in angst on the edges, looking for an inlet-
waiting to pursue, to be moved, to be bewitched;
alternatives exhaust-there is only one voice
pouring from within and out-
plunge!

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The stillness of this night is double-faceted,
unmoved by the candle whose flickering flame is
burning inquisitive of my abundance, in a room
whose walls are dampened with uncertain forlornness

It pokes yet again, seeping through the netted window,
mumbling impossibilities of stories from other rooms
coiled up in unforeseen love; and to this, it finally
makes me preach why I subscribe to non-consequentialism,
how I have managed to preserve beauty embedded in different
points in time-living lifetimes in a few moments

The clouds have started to rise again,
the pre-rain breeze blows out the candle,
I am compelled to put my intoxication to sleep
and still, feel abundant

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One day,
time will collapse

and you will be where you should be,
celebrated in the right crowd,
acknowledged for the right work,
embraced in the right arms,
residing in the right place

Till then,
don’t distil your dreams with reality;
make peace with your struggles,
for dreams cannot be traded for
right or wrong-time dissolves the
difference in itself

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You don’t realize your own self well,
neither grant me the opportunity to do so

Yet I’ve always managed to make
those discreet endevours in seeing you,
the way you should be seen-
a magnificent embodiment of mind
and mindlessness, thoughts and action,
love and duties,
of human and divine co-existence;

even if I don’t want to, yet
I happen to plunge into the divinity
manifested in you-
The sheer brilliance in
the way you forge things to
be catered to the world

That for me you are no less
than a Godsent mired in
the cumbersome reality of the world,
only to unravel the latent recesses
of your own magnanimous self

If only you could see, what
I can see!

Migrant

I was told that it was going to take a while
in constructing the boat and sending it back to the sea

But I was not not told, that it was going to
take a longer while in reconstructing the residuals

I was told about the storms and the tides,
the moon and the time

But I was not told, of the new land and languages,
the trees and the soils

My land across the sea is like the song of the
nightingale, echoing each night before sleep

My land under this feet, is the very elixir of
my breath and its vitality, my sleep and its dreams

The boat is the postcard of my existence,
unprepared to be moored to the shore,
divided between the invincible intimacy
of the two lands

And yet, they ask me to choose one,
or, forget the other

Meditation

A bird circumambulates a cloud
in the distant sky,
like a solemn pilgrim
with obscure prayers

Noises become limpid, like those of
the vehicles clattering on the road, or
the air swooshing between flimsy curtains
and the adjacent window pane

I put my high-heeled shoes back
into the drawer,
withdrawing myself from becoming
and repose into being

The mind marvels at the flawlessness
of the blank page-
unblemished by the words and
sketches of past or future

Noises grow into a pious silence
May be, every moment is an epiphany,
if lived in the present

Seasons

In a day, I swivel into spring
from autumn and summer from winter

When happiness tills the mind,
flowers and fruits grow on me

Sorrows snow into tears, turning
every possibility pale and white

Faith cloaks within gossamer,
wobbling away in heavy winds

It is autumn now, but I haven’t
moved an inch from the last winter