Who is this

Without my bits my being exists

Sounds, lights, beats

I hear and see, sleep and wake

All of which for organs’ sake

But in burning delight they matter least

Without them I know I’d still exist

In who am I lies who is this

The ditch

In my room, I am free

not searching for any key.

A word in my heart

speaks of a thousand years.

The winds come looking for me

through the line of light below the door

I did shut it close.

Now no more

Still I am in the same room,

on the same floor under the same roof,

I welcome sands and dusts,

they hit and caress my face

I smelt water, sensed it coming with them,

every single day I chased my shadow

unknowingly, overlooking my self

just as the borrowed breaths

through my inert breathing

ran after me

fleecing the treacherous years

holing my holed body.

But I am out of the chase.

A word in my heart

speaks of a thousand years.

The buried pumpkin

Mom went to Bangladesh, as an Indian, once a refugee.

With animated street view, she found the house,

and the stable garden with her stories.

Huge backyard where she’d play with her siblings, friends.

Divorced countries now. Separated, yet the same without ends.

She was welcomed by the relatively new inmates. Just like them.

At the end of the day well spent, what memento would you like

from your house? She pointed at a golden pumpkin lying on the ground.

She remembered her mother caressing her bruised knee

When she fell off from that banyan tree, standing there, still there

Unmistakably there

She carefully took the vegetable.

Her head moist, bent.

Times flashed, times changed.

She held the uprooted pumpkin in her arms.

Held it gently in her palms

Like a child, brought it home; to Kolkata, a sliced Bengal

In her words, as she’d recall.

We were thrilled to see the cute-looking guest from Bangladesh.

Ah! Today’s lunch! We thought.

But we didn’t say a word

When we saw her burying it in her favourite inseparable space,

She calls her kitchen garden.

My mom went to her hometown in Bangladesh, years after the partition and brought a pumpkin she couldn't eat. It was there with us for long until she buried it in the kitchen garden, from where grew many pumpkins, without inhibition. 

Heaven on earth - Hyderabad ZINDABAD

Hyderabad - a cosmopolitan city, with a mélange of culture,

A modern- ancient charm, with Charminar its signature.

With loving and lively hospitality, wealth and grace,

It offers bonhomie and warmth to people of every race.

A temple and a mosque standing side by side

Speak of peace, with the unique Indian pride.

Ladbazaar’s colorful music, those bangles’ “chhan chhan!”

Steals the heart of every lady and her gentleman!

In the winding lanes, the craftsmen of jewels

Of stones and pearls sell exquisite ornaments

From lacquer ware of vases to Ikat weaving,

Or gods and goddesses in fine wood carving

From bidriware, bangles to Hyderabadi biriyani

From Banjara women’s mirror work to chai Irani

It offers delightful places, to curious sight-seeing firangis

And also to those fun-loving shop-addict Hindustanis

If you want to taste the modern IT glitterati,

You must frequent our fashionable HiTech city!

With roads posh and wide and jaw-dropping malls,

World-class buildings with unending wherewithal!

Metro is soon to whistle on the streets…

Commuting fast in style will also be at ease!

The lingo of Hyderabad has a very special touch,

 Dakkani is a mix of many a beautiful tongue!

Mushairas and Mehfils that sing in the heart

Of Hyderabadi culture are an essential part

The poetic words of Wali, Makhdoom and Areeb

Are pillars that strengthen the Deccani Tehzeeb!

And Sarojini, whom Nehru called the nightingale

Mesmerized even the Brits with her poetic trail.

Bhagamati became Hyder Mahal in Qutub Shah’s palace,

Bhagyanagar became Hyderabad in a loving embrace,

Andhra and Telangana as twins have taken a rebirth

United, they’ll make Hyderabad a heaven on earth!

This poem was read on Monday 21 March 2016 at the multilingual poetic meet at Rabindra Bharati on the occasion of World Poetry Day organised by the Department of Language and Culture, Telengana on the theme of Hyderabad Vishwanagaram.

My heartfelt thanks goes to the Department of Language and Culture Telengana for inviting me and for promoting poetry on the occasion of World Poetry Day. While their unparalleled hospitality goes to prove the bonhomie of Hyderabad, the efficiency with which they had organized the multilingual poetry meet is laudable in every sense.

My special thanks goes to Elizabeth Kurian Mona for having helped me with the re-structuring of the poem. Without her effort, the poem wouldn't have had the look of a string of couplets. Thank you Mona.

The last condolence

Weapons are in pain

Listen to their dolorous language

Release them O Intelligence

from your helpless caprice

let them rest in peace

the last condolence in silence

with burning candles

could smile adieu to them

wonderfully infectious

Off to work

Roaring waves

A worker drinking tea.

She stays in the slum,

Beside the growing avant-garde mansion;

It’s soon going to touch the clouds,

Talk to the sky.

Quick

She has to leave for work, for her

Daily wage.

Image courtesy: https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/8d/41/81/8d4181b4b13451b1d3322bb513f11642.jpg 

Warcide

I am war

I am finally writing a note:

Everybody is responsible for my death

A common man

Kitchen is burning

The man has eloped from the man

Inmates numbed

Sympathetic wind brings food-smells

Oozing from the neighbor's walls.

Blankness has severed engagement

Yet the onlooker life, waves cadence

Words of the past do not feed the present

Deeds of the yore cement the compulsive lent

Memories counting moments.

Love hasn’t left,

Lines do not speak of mediocrity

And hormones secrete affection.

Useless utensils lying on the table

Like archaic words

Stagnation is the only mobility

Static rail lines moving the train

From day to night and day again

A predictable stability.

All of this has made the man

A faltered equestrian
His inability to smile and talk
Overshadowed his work

An odd man out

Lying flat on the ground

A jelly fish

Without fulcrum

Gets no leverage from the field

Has no knees

No elbows

His shameless eyes track the rainbows

Calls the perpetually engaged, social horizon

To fetch his pot of gold

Lines lie, don’t connect

Sees faceless teeth everywhere

More of teeth

Clapping the performance

Of the eloped man, leaving the man.

Life, in rhythm gallops

She has to go to work

In the end, she’d die

like every other lady.

But today, while making her Sunday lunch

with her comfortable, lazy hands

an indolent course that takes time,

she told she’d like to live in my lines.

Taking a picture is easier, I thought

a part of the shot.

But she! To be covered in lines,

How’d I write about the pounding of the heart

that lied on the ground on that first slow evening

drizzling on us facing the sky,

or about the sweaty hand that willed to write the story

of a prince and a princess,

or about the smiles that moved the brooks

but in time fell

as brown leaves in the history of pages.

Or

She wants me to write about the present moment?

She wants to die oh I see why.

Please remember I’d never want to go to work.

Women’s liberation, economic independence

Yes they’re important,

not for me.

For good or bad, I’d like to lean

withdraw money from the hidden wallet.

Then the evening gently drizzled I recall

as pleasant as a snowfall

but forever to freeze as a broken promise.

I see clouds stealing space in the sky,

it will soon rain.

Tomorrow, she has to go to work.

She never reads my lines

But she’d like to live in them, she said.

Listen