And so I walked in a haze   Light like the wind, Heavy as a wave.   I walked by everything that preceded me   Along everything that followed.   I traced every path, graced every ground   Where I left a trail, an unapologetic mark   Places I didn’t have reason to go to   Faces I shouldn’t have held so close.   I revisited every grave I sealed shut   Ripping up every bone from the gravel.   And just like that, I was faced with the fabric of my existence – Woven indelicately by me, by my destiny   I had questions but I was immune too long, had scars that never hurt. Not once. I had an ignition to keep walking   But my heart pounded heavily.   My mind directed me, yet again   To chase a worthier world   One that already had its home and heath in my head, that which I never found my welcome in.   And so I walked on,   For every step I found caution,   Every aspiration was deemed a mistake.   But while the most pristine, carefully crafted d

I do not want to feel it; But every early morning A certain restlessness creeps into my bed   Gently stroking the surface of my head Sending down tingles of misery, Paralysing every trinket of hope. What could it be, I wonder Desperately finding a way around the fact But alas, temporary consolation Is now falling short in covering the act It has been you, just you Victorious, both in capturing my fancy   And making me feel inadequate.   You, and your uninhibited ways - Refreshing and reckless, And nonchalant (and demeaning) demeanour   Were never for me.   How could I be so wrong?   When I saw you then, I thought about possibilities When I see you now,   I think about my flaws. I do not want to feel it; But I feel resentment. For wounding me in your own strange way For making it seem like it will never go away And for lingering and hovering like a bunch of moths   Around any found remnants of light. But fortunately,

To harbour an idea, (I won’t say dream for that seems needlessly embellished for this piece) for a good many days, months and even years, having gone through very distinct phases – of thinking it in the first place, of establishing it as one to pursue, of wanting to act upon it but not, of acting upon it and failing, to actually achieving it has served as an eye opener of the first order for me, and though I don’t completely comprehend its ramifications, here’s what I have understood so far.  For once in all my years, I set out to chase something that I believed (and believe) would ultimately become my profession. At last, to the relief of many and myself, I had a singular direction and the only visible trajectory was forwards in a linear motion. Though I am not one for jotting notes, it was all charted in my mind, organized according to serial number, colour and topic. I’d do the usual and achieve something mind-bogglingly grand. I’d escape the nest to find my calling and tra

I want to dig open your grave I want to dig open your grave to smell you again. I want to carry your bones in my messenger bag, so I can look at them when I'm bored at the dentist's Or when I'm in a queue for my tickets at the cinema I want to brush the remaining filaments of your hair at dawn And wash them at noon And humor them at night I want to find an inch of your skin and sow it in your ceramic pot You loved it so; and it always yielded well. I want to bury your crippled teeth under my pillow And push daisies in the sockets of your skull. Now tell me, is it any good that you rest so quietly? Foolish are my feet to tread so lightly. Midnight come, and I will whisk you out Be equipped, my dear For we will paddle off into the moonlight like old times.

“Shery Beneavou, Sir. 24, in years. 24 years in flux. Kind hearted, with a gentle disposition and a tasteful genetic make-up. Ideal girl. She’d come home with flowers and chocolates. Balm to a tiring day. Rosemary pink in spring, sky blue in the summer. A-liners, halters and racer-backs. The usual girl. Movies and popcorn, apple tarts and cheesecakes with berries on top. A vague girl. Now, don’t misunderstand me, I pray you, but make an allowance for me to call her a floating paradox. A paradox of conceptions. A genuine, but ridiculous nevertheless, idealist. A cat in a bucket of water. It’s true, sir! A gnawing cat. A pretty combination, a doleful combination… Insurgent. Like a queer wave on a low tide day. By Jesus, the heroic misery in her voice! Carefully crafted stories of pittance. Careful, but flawed, sir. I could read them all. I could read her. Nothing in there. Stories give her purpose. Pardon me, sir, but these stories she weaves for purpose. For recreation

Fire God hath no fury Namo Namah Her surma-laden tributaries. The pious pundit rants Successive, dangerous chants She throws her head backwards In hysteria Matam ki khushi, matam ka sama. A thousand bowed heads A thousand devoted faces The blood-curdling jarring Of maha-ghantis Holy intoxication of the havan-kund But Dharma resides in only one. No, Dharma sees no one. Yagya karo, yagya karo Karna- the greatest danveer Comes down from the heavens today, they said He will prowl the streets in disguise He will have gold coins in his pockets. Heaven-manufactured, heaven-sealed! Who’s the holiest of them all? Bound to get lucky, that bugger! And then the men combated For the best spot by the fire And the women wore bandhinis and laheriyas The children cried. Dharma peeped from the window Karna tousled her hair. “Women have dressed for you.” He smiled.