If I was You.

If I was you, and you were me
Would they let us be?

If I was you, and you were me
What would they see?

Would they blow our brains out
Or would they chain our hearts
Before we figure it out?


If I was you, and you were me
Who would love more?

Once Upon a Time in Calcutta

Once upon a time I lived in Calcutta
Where the joy evaded the lonely souls
Where the roads took an endless toll
Of mass defecation
Where they cleaned up the trees
Burned a cuckoo’s nest
Where the poor helped the poor
In hot summer afternoons
Feeding water into their empty stomachs
Where the winter deluded you of the ghastly chill
Where sometimes joy spread around like a cancer
Amidst a romantic dream.

Once upon a time I lived in Calcutta
Where they told me about Marx and a dream
Where they hoped beyond the urban pledge
Of incredible India
Beyond the Potemkin villages of wonder
Beyond the gory capital city that disrespected love.

Then, I lived in Calcutta
Foraging the lonely streets
Looking for us
Wondering what you were doing
About those little naked children by the tea-stall
Who wanted to live.

Once upon a time I lived in Calcutta
Before the sprite dust invaded my eye
Leading me to the dark side of the moon.

When we prechead hope through the long nights

Never cry for the passer by,
Never weep for the creep.
Never dance with fear,
Love with a tear,
Never say no to life.

So
Let it be forgotten,
As a flower is forgotten.
Forgotten as a fire that was once singing gold.
Forgotten forever and ever, as time, our kind friend,
He will make us old.
If anyone asks say it was forgotten:
Long and long ago,
As a flower, as a fire, as a hushed footfall,
In a long forgotten snow.
 :)
(The second stanza is the poem 'let it be forgotten' by Sara Teasdale)

The Bugs Of June

So the bugs of June fly into the night seeking a halogen light.
They flock around it, all of them, fluttering their tiny wings, as if drawn by some gypsy magic.
They collide with each other and fall like some bizarre dead flowers, but they fly up again, time and again without fail, with no regard to their little lives.

They aren’t scared of being found.

They dope on that light amidst the silent night, as if they are scared of the darkness.
They are perhaps scared of getting lost.

I wonder how they fared millions of years ago when there was no halogen light through the long nights, when there was no fire, no electricity.

Did they seek for the moon in those scary dark nights?
Just like we do often? 

About a New Life (Lie)

Rain drenched streets, flightless moths, tall trees,
Unfamiliar faces
Autumn’s familiar smell
Sleepless nights and hot cups of tea.
And time goes by.
The memory lingers on for a while
Of brick lanes and crowded streets
And then it’s all the same..

Getting used to it.
Getting used to it.

Dreaming on, wondering is this it?
Is this the end?
Growing up?
Running for glory?
Money and fame
Sugarcoated smartness.

And time goes by.
Getting used to it.


Your memory lingers on for a while, and then it’s all the same..
Getting used to it.
Getting used to it.
 

Fly Away. Shoo.

Caged bird Caged bird
Don't you want to fly?
Caged bird Caged bird
Who will decide
If the heaven that you yearn
Belongs in the cage
Or in the autumn winds rage
In the azura up above
Or in your wings lost love?

Because its the Fourteenth of July.

 As a young boy I would keep a track of time. It was me who exactly remembered the day we shifted to Salt Lake, December 6th, 1998. It was me who would keep track of the score in every cricket match in our para. I would remember exactly the time when I would have to return home. Well we couldn’t afford watches back then. I remember it was the sun that would guide me. The rule was to get back home before dark. Back in those days I would measure time, I would mark dates, I would tell my brain to remember them, from birthdays to national holidays, everything-The dates that mattered to me, the dates that mattered to all the special people in my life. They seemed so important to that little child in me. Doing something for friends seemed so fun.

But then he grew up. The position of the earth around the sun didn’t matter anymore.
Little things that once mattered were slowly forgotten.
As we grow old I guess the meaning of everything around us changes, how we look upon life, our definitions and principles.
Time changes us.

Now ten years is a long time some would say, but for a ten year old boy is it?
No, he is just as fresh as the leaves of spring, in early summer.
Ten years. A decade they say.

My little dog turned ten years today. He grew with me. He taught me one or two things about love and attachment. He was always like the little brother I never had. The advantage of having a brother that doesn’t speak your language is that he won’t pester you with his problems. He would only listen to your sad tales. My canine brother would only bark in excitement, fear, joy and pain.
I remember that autumn of 2001, when he slowly and silently entered our life-my mother brought him.  He resembled a white snowflake, in our dusty apartment. I clearly remember those years, that holy time. I remember his first birthday, his second, third, fourth and fifth. I remember how he would drink water of the bathroom floor, how he would be scared to get down the stairs. I remember when as a five year old he would wake me up and save us from a fire accident. I remember those years when he was young. I remember how I would walk him around endless blocks and tire him out, how I would make him run beside my bicycle. He would hate me for that. But little doggy never said anything. He just outgrew me one day and I didn’t even notice it.

And suddenly he is ten years old.
Days passed and the memory of the last few years disappeared in the quick sands of time.  I hardly remember taking him out, I didn’t keep a track of time. I didn’t keep a track of him. I just let time flow. I didn’t mark dates. I tried to forget everything. And yes, I succeeded.

If someone asks me, dude, when was the last time you did something special for someone, I would say, I don’t know. I would lie. It’s a faded memory though.

Did I do anything special for anyone anymore?
I guess not.
I never marked the special dates. I never tried to remember the special ones. I told my brain to forget everyone, everything, and yes it did.
I never cared they would say.
But if you ask my little doggy, I am sure he would know. He was there all the time, he looked after me. He would know everything-all my secrets. He would know how special everyone was, and how important it is to do something special.

But my little doggy would not bark to me.
Years of indifference made him silent.
I did care. But how does it matter?
In this world,

‘when you care, you have to do something special.’

I guess I lost it there.

After the Rain.

The rain has painted the trees, the birds, the green field and my window panes.
Everything appears so fresh and vivid and new.

And like every painting they will fade away in a while,
keeping behind the silhouettes of summer.

The Waiting.

Summer has feasted upon the green fields, his dusty apartment and everywhere, in and around him. It made him happy and sad. He could feel the warmth of his own breath, the warmth of his own solitude. Blue birds in green trees made him happy now.

And a pretty face in a big city.

How time goes by he wondered.
The earth flies around the sun.

His thoughts drifted back to those days, when he would patiently wait.
When the shadows were taller, when the fields were strewn with little children and white balls, young mothers and old men, the bhelpuri wala and the fuchka wala and a little white girl by the swing.
He would see them all. And that would be his call. He would patiently wait for them to come.
And then he would soar to the field to be among them. A tiny speck in the large ocean of mortals.
For the Universe was expanding and he hated being alone.

How time goes by he wondered.
The earth flies around the sun.

But this time of the day he would love, when the shadows were taller, when he would patiently wait for his acquainted system of a daily humdrum of meaningless mortals.
Little children, young mothers, old men, a white girl, the bhelpuriwala, the fuchkawala…

He would wait for them like an unrequited lover awaiting his lover’s attention, momentary yet timeless.
He would hate the rainy days when no one would come, when he would be all alone sitting in his spotless apartment with his physics book.

He would read that the Universe was expanding and he would hate being alone.

Summer has feasted upon his life.
He could feel it.

The earth moved around the Sun. Years rolled by. So did joints. A branded institution. Ideologies.
And a confused will to change the world.

A thousand pegs and a few enemies were made. So were best friends.
His apartment grew dusty.

And some stars died somewhere in the Universe.

But summer was all around him.

The Universe was expanding.
The earth flied around the sun.
Continents drifted away from each other.
And he hated being alone.

He was waiting all over again. He hated giving up.
For his childhood taught him to wait.

But it was different-waiting not to be a part of something, waiting to be that something.

From someone else's diary

I escaped the barracks of my perfect self and for the first time in my life I started living.
I played hide and seek in marijuana fields before traveling back into the time when my parents lived.
I sailed through an ocean of blood shed by brave men and in that way I felt braver.
I made a fool out of myself by being madly in love time and again.
I wept for friends whom I lost.
But I never did anything. I never spoke out.
I ran away from everything. And I just let it be. For life happens. So does love.
Could I have made a difference?

I have been running for a long time, with no direction, absolutely clueless. I have felt better that way.
But it dawned upon me suddenly I am tired of all the running. I need to sit down. I need a direction. I need to change things.
I need to make a difference.

For life is about making a difference.
And love?

The Ghost Of Him.

As a little boy he would write ghost stories. Stories of bloodsucking vampires and zombies, how they would prey on helpless people. He wrote about them because he despised them, he was scared of them.
He doesn’t write about them anymore.

He only writes about his own self.

The Winds are Whispering.

The winds are whispering.
I hope they will whisper my words.
Words of love and poetry,
Promises of a lifetime.

I hope they will whisper
The truth.

I hope they will carry my words beyond the horizon,
Into that distant land where she belongs.
Beyond the rivers and the mountains
Into the far west.
And silently
They will whisper my words into her soul.

It rained for the first time.

The rain comes every year.
So does the summer and the winter.
But I don’t know why every time it rains
It reminds me of my childhood,
Of my parents, my brothers,
Our tiny little cats..
Of That dusty little apartment above the garage.
It reminds me of a time when life was holy,
When we had each other.

To you the rain is us,
To them its the change.
To me it’s a passage to the past
And to some ,
Tears from
Another heaven.

Memories of a Spring long gone.

I like this time of the year when everyone’s away somewhere.
I like to see those newly sprout leaves of spring through my window. I like to hear the cuckoo sing in the morning. I like to hear it in the evening.
I like the blue sky and the cool breeze. I like it here.
Even amidst all this concrete crap, I still like it.
I like to stare at that lonesome tree standing amidst all the concrete crap. I like to stare at it for a long, long time until my solitude comforts me.
There’s a sense of calmness everywhere and I like it.
 
I like it here around this time. There’s a sense of comradeship everywhere, in the streets and in every dark alley of my aged hometown.


I know you hate it here. But you would have loved it.
You would have loved it here around this time, when everyone’s away somewhere, doing something.
You would have loved to look at those newly sprout leaves of spring.
Even amidst this concrete jungle you would have smelled the innocence of your childhood, those dusty roads and misty mornings.
You would have heard the bird of dawn and dusk singing your own melodies.
There’s a sense of belonging everywhere and you would have felt it after all these years.
You would have loved to be here by my side.

And just like old times,
I would have written poetry for you.

Who are you?

 It's funny when I watch you from a distance.
I like watching you.
You look so beautiful.
But that's not why I like watching you.
When you sit there all by yourself I see you.
You never look around.
You are all by yourself
Probably wandering in your own thoughts.
You seem so perfect.
Your solitude comforts me
And I watch you with my two eyes
Like I watch the stars in that serene night sky
Like I watch that blue bird from my window
But they never look back at me.

But you did. Yes.
Your eyes.
I looked at them.
Those brown hazel eyes. They looked at me.
And you smiled.
I could not smile.
I felt
Like a cold stone.
Those eyes.
That look. I couldn't move.
You made me a stone.
Who are you?
Medusa?

No, you are too beautiful.

I guess I will never know.