Come

Come. Come from your bright yellow lights and half-remembered nights.
Come from the emptiness that fills your window sill as you struggle
for a frame of thought that will keep you still. Come from a long day’s work,
from a hard day’s work, from all work and no play, from all work and no pay.
Come from no work at all.

Come from the dream you had last night, from the hopes
you’ve carried through sleep. Come from heartache, heartbreak, from a place
where you’ve given more than you can take. Come from being cared for
and having none. Come from sunshine, and red wine in glasses that never run dry.
Come from laughter and abandon and recklessness and surrender.
Come from rebellion.

Come from your intimidations, from your fears, from the worldly wisdom
you can’t unlearn. Come from hate and passion and pride and misgiving.
Come from a difference of opinion. Come from your relationships, your upbringing,
your scratchy beginnings and patchy acquaintances. Come from your expectations,
from birthdays and surprises, from red ribbons and pink lace, from long hours
in front of the mirror, from a few words and many faces.

Come from the roads you've left behind, from dark alleys and white corridors.
from burnt pages and broken bridges. Come from a full life, from a life well fought,
from contention, from little joys in little things, from big smiles for little reason.
Come from the TV shows, from late-night cinema, the smell of snow,
that song in your head that won’t let go. Come from history, from the renaissance,
from the countries you've seen and the events you will.

Come from the daily news, that book you must to get back to,
your boardroom scribbles, the attention you can’t afford to spare, the coffee
you sip by the sidewalk as it rains, those pretty shoes you never wear.
Come from birds in the trees and kittens and ketchup and lakes and rainbows
and orchids and bicycles and architecture and every romance you acquire
as you flit through routine. Come from your photographs of birds in the trees
and kittens and ketchup and lakes and rainbows and orchids and bicycles
and architecture and every romance you acquire as you flit through routine.

Come from the things you are, the things you do. Come from yourself, from company.
Come from a moment ago. Come from thin air. Come. Let us walk.

Nothing

'What’s happening?’ 

You're calling.

I'm stalling.

We're talking.

A gun's cocking.

A car honking.

A couple bonking.

A drunk fighting.

A friend writing.

A sinner praying.

A teen straying.

A pain searing.

A mute hearing.

A kettle brimming.

A light dimming.

A cloud bursting.

A heart thirsting.

A day dawning.

A guard yawning.

A plane landing.

A band disbanding.

A nurse caring.

A customer swearing.

A wave roaring.

A kite soaring.

A fear growing.

A tear flowing.

A crook thieving.

A widow grieving.

A dream crumbling.

A stomach rumbling.

A dog chasing.

A father pacing.

A firm hiring.

A runner tiring.

A blend spilling.

A dude chilling.

A sculpture shaping.

A camera taping.

A villain resenting.

A victim relenting.

A will breaking.

A baby waking.

A hippie tripping.

A scissor snipping.

A debate brewing.

A doer doing.

A date waiting.

A critic rating.

A shell cracking.

A pupil slacking.

A cast rehearsing.

A stranger conversing.

‘Nothing.’

Red

The light shone red. The autorickshaw jerked to a grinding halt. A second early,

and I would have been alongside the white car that was hastily vanishing

from my present line of sight.

He pulled up casually in his three-wheeled truck, in no real hurry I now imagine.
As I stared long and hard at the blaring circular hurdle in my tumultuous race
to the railway station, he made me look the other way, at him.

Bursting gently into a heartfelt rendition of 'Tujhe Na Dekhoon To Chain
Mujhe Aata Nahi Hai', a popular 90s Hindi film song, he unhinged my frown
and set my resources pacing like a father-to-be outside a delivery room.

On impulse, I asked him, after waiting a few seconds for a break in the chorus,
'Kaunsi pickchar?' Which film? Then, before he could make an effort to answer,
I ventured, ‘Rahul Roy par filmaya gaya tha? Junoon? Junoon.’
Did the song feature Rahul Roy? From the movie Junoon?
Must have been Junoon.

He nodded in agreement, ‘15 saal puraana gaana hai. Gaate phirte the jab
pehli baar pyar hua.’ The song is 15 years old. I used to keep singing it
when I fell in love the first time. I let out an inward grin.

Without standing on ceremony, he humbly asked me for a cigarette, followed by a light,
both of which I gladly parted with. Passing the lighter back, he strode once more
down his lane of lyrical nostalgia, punctuated in greater variation this time around.
I threw in the odd line, without interruption, with equal soul. When he stopped,
I asked him where he was headed. He said something the whirr of passing traffic
drowned out entirely.

The light flashed green. As he turned his noisy engine on,
I waved him goodbye shouting, ‘Gaate chalo. Khush raho.’ Keep singing. Stay happy.

He laughed and waving back in return, trained his eyes on the road.
As my auto lumbered ahead, I mulled, ‘It wasn’t Junoon.
Phir Teri Kahani Yaad Aayi. That’s the film.’ I was wrong.

As we pulled into the next signal, I looked out and saw that the truck
had come to a halt three vehicles behind us. A part of me wanted to step out at once
and present the assumed correction. But, I decided against ruining the symphony
that had stemmed from our ignorance, and stuck to my seat.

The red light had changed much. Sure, I was a cigarette shy. But, that wasn’t it.
My singing friend-for-a-minute had, with his song and light-hearted manner eased me
of the anxiety that had consumed me moments before, the monstrous apprehension
that envelops anyone accustomed to the unpredictability of city traffic especially
when a train or a flight needs catching inside peak hours. In that solitary moment,
he spirited away a part of me I needed losing and left me with a memory that will linger.

There was much humming inside the auto in the half hour that followed,
and much more in the days to come. Some of it has lasted to this moment.

And, in case you’re still wondering, the movie was Rang.
I intend to save the song for the next time I find love.

Two

The night is at its darkest best
A girl nestles into fleeting rest
Clearing day from clouded head
She greets the stranger in her bed

Politeness seems to weigh her down
Her instinct quells to free a frown
Not who or why, it's how she asks
The stranger wears a mirror's mask

I thought there lives just one of me
Are you the girl I used to be?
The echo floods her empty sheets
Tugs heavily at her heavy feet

The silence staring her in the face
Is one she's struggled to embrace
Her wonder can't conceal her guilt
She feels the shiver of a tectonic tilt

She is the one she let slip away
To a tackle borne in course of play
The cloak she chose to cast aside
In her solemn quest for fickle pride

This shade of her has lost its hue
As colourful as the soil is blue
Fading faster than Icarus fell
She flickers into her shrinking shell

The girl rubs her eyes in disbelief
Her cheeks moist, she knows relief
Her breath curls inside a lasting sigh
I am good reason to make me cry

I

I choose not to grow
I choose not to know
I choose to remain
I choose not to flow

I am more than just a welcome vent
I am more than just a feeble dent
I am more or less the same as me
I am more than just a just intent

I hold within a faltering will
I hold within a humble thrill
I hold much I should forego
I hold within a void to kill

I am not the answer you seek to find
I am not the answer to peace of mind
I am not a door you can't get through
I am not the answer time swept behind

I hope to bend my view
I hope to start over new
I hope because it's all I own
I hope to make sense to you

Ride

My head is a bus
A dozen-winged octopus
Take a ride if you will, it won't hurt
It brakes like a dream, kicks up no dirt

There is a place I've set aside
At the window to this hazy glide
The seats recline to soak your sins
In this twisted deck, I am your prince

Night and dark, you clutch the heat
Warmth between bodies that never meet
You travel without moving, carried by a whim
By affectionate curse and hateful hymn

Coasting through a simple spell
You cast your net into the well
Bait is tender, the catch too steep
Short triumph peering into rapid-eyed sleep

Hills of reason, towers of hope
An elusive nether where rebels elope
Slave to journey, sworn to cause
My wanderlust, to think is to pause

Write I Must

I want to write but words fail me.

Let's take a moment and consider my options.
Make that a few moments.

I could mull over existence and her many virtues.
Spin a yarn of passionate unromance that would
wind its way into your next conversation with me.

Maybe my last fall from grace would appetise your attention.
The hundreds that preceded would do just as well.

An ode to accomplishment, an elegy to desire,
a sonnet to anarchy or a thesis on the art of shoveling.

I could demystify the irreverence of the irrelevant.
Or the solitude of the destitute.

Dwelling on basic courtesies might easily be
swapped with a lesson in gratitude. Maybe fortitude.

The lusts of a rising phoenix could well be juxtaposed
with the cries of a lost chihuahua mistaken for a wild hare.

The storming of the Bastille or the Earl Grey
that never made it to the tea party.

The roving libido of the French premier could hold its own
to the modest ambitions of second coming
of the father of the world's largest democracy.

Maybe a concoction of lofty language
laced with a symphony of unparliamentary anecdotes.
Some non sequitur. Yes, I fancy the vernacular.

I want to write but words fail me.

Aerodynamics

The ground staff have just made their exit and I’m sure the last thing on your mind

is a whimsical pen at play. Down the aisle I see you, a tail of hair, an odd elbow

if I’m lucky. I remember when I saw you first, moments ago at the door, 

as I streamed in alongside an anxious flurry of veterans and virgins. 

You must have mouthed the customary ‘Good evening.’ 

or ‘Welcome aboard.’ or ‘How are you?’ It doesn’t matter.

I don’t remember. It wasn’t your words that made those split-seconds

worth another visit. Was it the cheeky half-grin accompanying them?

The cabin in-charge for the day, Nancy she calls herself, holds the receiver to her lips

as she rattles off a well-rehearsed safety briefing. I look up. A seat belt has never assumed such inviting proportions. As your hands make their way through oxygen mask and life-jacket, twice over, I wonder why I’d never paid attention

to these things before. We’re about to take off when you prance

around with a bag, frantically seeking a generous overhead bin.

It isn’t until you’ve tried at least seven that you find one offering just enough, above me.

I inhale. Your aroma is as strong as it is invigorating. An inaudible sigh escapes within.

I watch you and turn away, smiling without cause or concern. The flight is sprinkled

with cursory interaction and your unintentional brushing of my arm in your stride. 

The air is made pleasant by good air conditioning working in tandem with your gentle presence. Meanwhile, Nancy unconsciously wages a desperate war to seize

my attention. Another day, and she’d have had more than her share. So I twist,

and stretch, consider sleep, then shut the thought, and all the while your nimble feet

walk past mine at intervals so regular, it makes me think you’ve caught

a whiff of my devotion. I can only wish my words will mean something to you.

I haven’t really done this before. Then again, I haven’t really come across

someone quite as alluring at similar cruising altitudes.

Your charms are immense. You make me delight in a sandwich

I would have never picked off a menu. I observe many a pair of eyes

shadowing your every move, and as we head into another bout of turbulence,

I take my chance with telepathy.

Hello. I assume you must be content having my mind at your disposal since

the time I stepped into your aerial kingdom. It isn’t easy sitting where I sit,

watching you go about your routine while the desire to converse with you

eats me from within. But, I won’t act on this impulse. I won’t badger you

with the likes of ‘A bottle of water, please.’ and ‘Do you have today’s paper?’

I won’t even give you the opportunity to ask me to set my seat-back upright

or close my tray table. I won’t unbuckle my seat belt, even when the sign is off,

or bother to find out what the rest of your crew looks like. I’ll stay awake

and silence the urge to count sheep, no matter how drowsy the aerated beverage

I bought from you makes me. I won’t mull over my existence

before and after this journey. I won’t stare, I won’t swear. I’ll stay put in my seat,

much to the dismay of the passengers beside me, till I hear the aerobridge

is in place. I’ll smile often, laugh a little and savour the purple sky

illuminated by the cries of two infants, both blissfully unaware of this brief mention.

I’ll return your grin when I disembark. No words will be spoken.

You won’t know of this letter. But, that’s alright.

You’ve had me for over two hours and forty minutes.