Beyond this, what can I do?
When all that had to be said was said
And all that was to be done, was.
There were no barters and no bargains.
(I’m hopeless at that kind of thing)
lines, definitions, nuances, hope
one by one were stretched
an elastic band pulled too taut,
to collapse.
The point would have been reached, for sure
if not this way then by some other route.
Another lifetime that halted a bit, passed us by.
Isn’t it funny?
Haven’t we been here before?
this wistful regard, this knowing
we will fold and store away,
in large tin boxes, labeled “ my life”, “ your life”
with memories for mothballs,
nods smiles and half glances for tissue-lavender.
revisit, and again wonder at coincidences,
perhaps some other lifetime.
So be it.

Now we’re done with talking.
Tears throttle.
Words. For long held-back. Erased.
Take! This touch.
But talk to me. Say something!
Listen! Speak?
(Maybe tomorrow he will)
Words. For long held-back. Erased.
Burst out in an icy fury.
Nasty. Clawing.
an orange-red rage
shakes the skies
red-splattered.
its echo
splits galaxies.
~

“ Morning-o Manhattan”
“ So what’s tweakin you?”
“ Later, what will you do later?’ you ask, furious-impatient.
Sixteen years, Jung and a coffee–moderated politeness.
“Sit in a temple and write the lord’s name in a book”
Silence. But you were always a darling.
~

They say she won’t meet anyone.
No media. No awards. No photo. No nothing.
Empty. Beyond.
I quite understand.
From spotlight to recluse
With nothing left to say
Is not too far a journey.
I envy that.
My house will have high walls and blue kota.
Somewhat like her lit corner.

for jw~

Write me a love poem, you said.
Words are brittle.
They get pinned
to reference points in whirling mind mists
or like a missing slash on a t, rankle long after.
Meanings can morph.
take on no-name pastel hues and shades.
Flutter free like a psychedelic butterfly,
Or bear the brunt of dry afternoon sun, shrivel, fold into themselves.

Write me a love poem, you said.
words define, tie in, set a boundary; like a barbed wire fence.
Is infinity really eight letters long?
a milky swirl of pinpoint stars and galaxies
all encompassing, alive?
Doesn’t precious have a number value you’d put to it ? Does it?
What about faith? The Indian one, asthaa?
Forget it. I shan’t even try define.
It is what it is.

But write me a love poem, you said.
Words of endearment, yearning, longing, waiting
much quoted, bandied about, like scrabble pieces
random
Or stale smoke in a closed room, tawdry.
Meanings disappear in tiny crevices between letters.
Helpless. Proud. I look away.
It is. What it is.

You can get three for ten bucks-
plastic mugs with little hearts and “I luv you”.
by the steps, at andheri station
why would one need three? I dunno.

painted on rickshaw screens, truck tailboards
those three words again.
he’s telling the whole wide world;
rather profligate, no? but how cute. Well, in a way.

Paper rose cards, hallmark, archies.
Keychains. Wrapping paper. Movie hoardings.
This season’s. Last season’s. New!
Whittled on green in the ladies compartment. In a lift.
A heart, an arrow and two initials, entwined.
Last week’s countdown top ten hit. How very nice.

As the earth waits patiently,
dawn’s first fingers brush awake the sky.
Unbidden,
a scarecrow, arms extended, guards a parched field.
A cuckoo sings to the last moon.
This planet whizzes intent on its axis,
a path predetermined.

a small town called barsana,
trees etched in emerald- gold
gold-dust lines the winding lanes
every morning,
the sun sprinkles fistfuls
fine spun gold.

wise winds blow. so they should.
a thundering gale from an old forgotten epic
dry scorching currents too, persistent
a winter waft cuts in from Siberia
Time, ruins;
the endless march of seasons.

the ether echoes proud with his name, unsaid.
millennia-old, yes.
you, perhaps, could reach out and touch it.
in this play of mirrors, mirrors within mirrors
that one happenstance,
a meher
every particle dizzily resonates with.
~

someday sometime
if ever we’re skin to skin, you and I
cleave to me
the grit of bitter desert sands
the anguish in the echo of a footstep
angry interstellar storms
the acrid curse of that lava river
lashing arctic high winds
be at peace,
if only for
that splinter of time.

The problem, you see, is with the name.
star-crossed
it heeds a far away call
a radiant flash through cities, forests, deserts
an iridescent molecule in a metastate reaction
a tinkling laugh that weaves past
hotels, railway stations, monuments, seafronts.
revelling in scorching heat
the gentle prattle of first rain
warmth of a roadside bonfire.
rich in
this trance of our own making,
swirl on.

Aaj rang hain hey maa rang hain reee
Mere mehboob ke ghar rang hai ree