I love.

I love
Who I love
What I love
Not for love
But for love.
And thus I love
Too much love
Only love
And you.

The Gypsy Girl.

She drank beneath my yellow branches
The gypsy girl in a drunken spree
The world alas had a drunken lover
Who made a secret pact with me.

She had a little pot like belly
Her skin was blue as she could be
Her eyes were misty in the morning
And yellow in the evening sea.

She lay there like a broken bird
She smelled like a forsaken bee
The ale in her mind could work out wonders
And perhaps she dreamt about me.

Who did not rhyme by their good names
Who did not come by me to plea?
The world always forgot the drunken child
Who had one and none to reap.



And then a fire had raged amongst the heaven
And all the brave men did flee
Forgotten we were when death kissed her
The earth had stood still by me.


And if you ever come around
To seek my yellow branch and knee
You will find the forgotten ashen bones
Of a drunken gypsy-girl,
Neighbouring me.

The Bee Wife

Once upon a time
In my raggedy little room
Came a little bee
And she rested upon my knee.
Yellow she was-
The colour of the sun.




But as old men warn
About sparks in a barn
About beauty that weep
And feelings of a creep..

So I heard their chorus in my sleep

‘’Must we not fear little things
That swings and stings?’’

My brain stood aside
It wanted a stride
To crush the little bee
A flowers glee
Forever into that sullen sea.

But my heart forbade my grey friend
It beat,
 ‘Let her be. Let her be.’

So the story goes

As you see
That men like me
Like owning things
Living things
For no fee.


‘Pet’- Said my dear friend
In a tempest fury.

‘Hell No!’ I said

Wife she is to me.



And so I sinned
Until she stung
And died upon my hairy knee.

Because it rained here tonight ( For you)

Like those farmers
In a warm country
I have always
Depended on the
Kindness of the rain
No, not in the
Mere poetic harvest
Of a sacred nostalgia
No, not in the
Symbolic cleansing
Of bitterness and hatred
Of dirt
Of every god-forsaken thing
Wise men talk about.

Nothing of that sort, you know.

That pristine sight
From my balcony
The smell
Of colored wet walls
The pick pock sound
Of that
Endless repetition

Caressing my inert sensation

Has always
Been
Good enough for me.

Perhaps Song.

‘Perhaps’ is the heart

Of Love,

They say

So love me with a ‘Perhaps’

Today?

And then Perhaps

The day might

Stick to dawn

And the earth will

Go on and on...

And then Perhaps

We shall

Forever grow..

And dance and love

In an empty
snow?

Beautiful Mind.

‘Hey look isn’t it beautiful?’ she asked

‘It’s dead, dear’, he muttered grimly.

‘Who said dead things can’t be beautiful….’ Her beautiful mind replied, but she chose to remain silent.  

Acceptance always came from agreeing with the self-righteous, to whom contradictions were just another word in the dictionary, those who had understood life in their own methodical way, who had imagined it to be the same for everyone else, and had no reservations imposing it on others- Ah how she envied them at times, how stupid and lucky they were she thought, and even miles away from home she was reminded again what her life was-a decaying carcass.

But she still chose to go on, ignoring the inert words of ordered human beings, because life is precious, a precious aberration- And perhaps that’s where the enchantment of a beautiful mind lies-they could even sprout a rose from a decaying carcass.

Winter. Calcutta.

The poor people in the mean streets and the footpaths would vehemently hold on to anything that's warm,yes, that was the sign of a true winter in my hometown, not the plethora of ebullient youths braving sweat shirts and skull caps, not the retired schoolmaster and his out of fashion monkey cap, not the Gregorian calendar pointing out the month of December- if you wanted to know whether it was winter in Calcutta, you should look at the poor people.
They won't lie.