make up, made up

she,
short skirts
high heeled attitude

plastic waxed face
with pencil eyebrows
straightened hair

that once fell
in admirable curls
but she wanted to look

perfect in the photos
she knew that
she musnt pout

but turn on
that practised
half-dreamy smile

and look
unperturbed
in the plunging neckline

and aim
the dark black eyes
straight into the camera

she also knew
what men liked more
not the drunk,

skin-showing nightbird
but this girl.
So with bindi and chappal

she wore
her well-prepared
simple look for today.

mojo

you little round
bundle of fur
unbelievably soft

small, fragile boned
unbound energy
excited running about
with a slight limp

you love to play
unguarded curiosity
sniffing at everybody's feet

licking everything
on the floor
following strangers
faithfully at heel

but at nights
you creep in gladly
inside his shirt

find a nice warm spot
and curl up there
like an
affectionate child

and both sleep in peace
boy and pet
pet and boy.

nostalgia

songs,
like houses
I've lived in

sunny days
spent colouring
black and white notes

I've moved out
packing cartons
shifting to another block

leaving
a few things behind
every time

they lie forgotten
collecting dust
in some hidden corner

I go back
once in a while
to pick them up

and sing along
renewing
cobweb covered emotions.

break up

halve a whole
to create
two strangers

burn down
each others
lucid memories

erase a life
we dont dare
to remember

shovel in the years
cover it up
with sand

and you plant seeds
but they'll never grow
the soil's too dry,barren

so this is where
it all ends
you called it love

this joke,
haha.

(written in 2008)

haji lane

narrow alley
crayon graffiti
scrawled, smudged
on the walls

two boys sit
in a corner
yellow light
with guitars

playing a bluesy riff
smoking, 8 pm
a passing cat
stopped to listen

retaurants, pink
aladdin and
his magic cafe
jeannie-type girls invite

hookahs,
mezze platters
welcome to istanbul!
a man pops up out of nowhere

boutiques in a row
hip youngster bling
dresses, bags,
the funky paper shop

two hours later
we pass by
the same duo
sitting at the corner

smoking, wandering about
the same riff,
the cat curled up
at their side.

purpose

in spite of
knowing you so well
I poked and prodded
and provoked

to get words
that I knew
I could hold
against you

I wanted
to hurt you
because I was hurt

if I have succeeded
I shamefacedly say sorry
if I haven't
I do the same.

he was rather pleased
in this new place
this small town

where nobody knew him
it was quiet
it was just right

now he wouldn't have
to talk business
with endless clients

over fancy dinners
and wine
(by then he had learnt

the trick to sealing deals)
he wouldn't have to
hang out with

leching groups of friends
over the weekends
at bars where

fifteen year old girls
smoked in style
and laughed loudly

he had all those scenes
though, in charcoal
his well-kept secret

long nights,
sketch after sketch
with a gripping fervour

his resignation
was not sudden
but carefully planned

he had thought
about it for long
he had all the material

he was full of ideas
and had saved enough
to set up this studio

with a pottalam
by his side
he sat at his desk
and started working.

pigeon

you thing of beauty

on my window sill

strutting about

on your skinny pink legs

red iris,

shiny neck,

that cere, like a

proud nose stud

you catch me looking

and grace a side profile view,

a half-smile

like a shy indian bride

i put out my hand

to spread some grain

and you (darpok!),

show interrupted,

fly off above

to the opposite building's sill,

watching curiously

from a safe distance

what now?

do you expect me

to say 'ao ao'

like he did in ddlj?

come and eat

whenever you want,

silly bird.

Belief

I don't know enough
to believe
but I don't know enough
to disbelieve either

so let's just be
on the safer side.

moment

in an instant
I saw that
you felt the same way

look away now,
let it go
quietly

let it slip away
lightly, floating,
disappearing

leaving only
its memory
heavy, haunting.

edit 1

oh, look!
another manuscript
on the table

tucking into it
gleefully
with pencil, eraser

colourful pens
circling, marking
rewriting

chuckling
at delightful mistakes
and misprints

(look, he forgot
the ni
in organism!)

frowning
over endless
pages of proofs

learning
to pick words
and mind those em dashes.

piano class

dimly lit rooms
with ancient
convent windows

diamond peepholes
in the walls
dust-light streaming

pianos,
kawai, yamaha,
pearl river

gleaming new
in the exam-room
shiny pedals

while others
in the adjacent rooms
chipped keys

slightly out of tune
till mathew
pays his visit

dark brown wood
smelling of
years ago

of songs,
compositions, that many
hands have played

with fingers,
little, big
graceful, clumsy

of moods, emotions
that have sunk into them
over the decades

of sombre chords,
lively melodies
legatos, staccatos

faithful, they stand
silent,
waiting.

attender

grumpy morning
I open the office door
thinking of
all the pending work

'good morning maydum!'
a voice rings out

he beams
in his
checked shirt,
polished shoes

it's impossible
not to smile back.

preachy

if you want to give
then give
of yourself

if you dont
then you might as well
be a recluse

but just
dont get stuck
in between the two

it is all about
giving
and taking

not about
giving
and taking back.

continuity

you said
let's start
all over again

but there is
no such thing

because the past
forms this present
even if you don't
want it to.

rough

thin hard lines form
on your face, I wonder
why I havent
noticed them before

swearing,
you clench your fists
I look closely
for the sensitivity

the warmth I knew
in you, but it was
hidden
put away for later

I did not
recognize you then
wounded ego,
ready to fight

I remember
my shock,
watching you
as you lunged forward

at the other guy
but now I know
that all angry men
are the same.

sad

maybe
you're being
too hard on me

I want
to go back.

scene

outside the gates
the usual bunch
hangs around
the sutta shop

beside the ganna juice shop
which also sells lime juice,
orange juice,
any colour juice

at the bus stop
an old man squats
in his lungi,
content with his beedi

and slow motion life
watching amusedly
a gaggle of girls
bargain with an auto anna

as a boy
does the same
near the dhaba
for his weekly stash

inside the dhaba,
groups of students
crowd, waiting for
place to sit

a small boy
smart, bright-eyed
wipes the plastic
adding yet another layer

takes orders,
runs about, delivers,
ears open to
the daily college gossip

and conversations,
sprinkled with
a distinctive tadka
across all tables.

gloat

hurt,
chasing me
with tentacle arms

ready
to engulf, grinning
like a pirate

but today,
I'm a squid too
dodging, hiding

there's my
murky ink
isnt it misleading?

woohoo.

moving on

it rained,
noisy streams
merged into

a deluge,
leaving our world
drenched in memories

that fulfill,
pull, cling
and disturb

but summer came
in yellow beams
evaporating them

one by one,
slowly, deliberately
into

a change of season
sun-washed
starting afresh.

piano

trying
to push away
this jittery feeling

trying
to be firm
and rooted

trying
to be invincible
and indifferent

trying
to act
like i don't care

trying
not to be hurt
pretending

trying
to be
like you

trying
not to face
these irrational thoughts

black
and white chords,
only you can take me away.

there's something
in your emails
so full-bodied,
and put down neatly
into paragraphs,

that makes me feel
all warm inside
as I scan through
your thoughts,
honest

and its magical
that once a connection
is found
the screen of the internet
doesnt seem to matter

or is it
the comfort
of this is screen
that maintains
the flow

that allows
these insiders
to be let out
through casual lines
I dont know

but now, let me
read you
and sit down to
draft out my response

we're talking.

gone

I make one move
and its misunderstood
another,
and that is lost too

how ironical
after all these years
we find that
we dont know each other

this is beyond
my comprehension
I shall retreat now.

show me!
she cried,
running after him

on her short,
chubby legs
in her pink frock

come n get it,
he laughed,
holding up his fist

his eyes,
half-mischievous,
half-mocking

she stumbled
over the sands
excitedly

as fast
as she could
chasing him in circles

till she tripped
over an
unfinished castle

and fell flat,
on the wet mud
he turned

she sat up
and howled
five-year old baby

he, suddenly quiet
and bewildered
sat beside her

and held out
his empty palm.

live

band one on stage,
with lights, amps,
shiny metal

lightning riffs
powerful vocals
high energy audience
black t shirts, \m/s

happy-drunk,
springed feet,
screaming along in
whiskey drowned harmony

head bangers
up in front,
already gone,
losing synchrony

musicians, keen
nodding along,
judging, with eyes
and ears open

in between acts,
comments, murmurs
stray whoops
college cheers

after the show,
groups sitting
in a circle,
on the grass

a bunch of voices,
and an acoustic guitar
a few songs, a few laughs
good times.

square

they sang
all those soulful songs
about asking no questions
and telling no lies

but thats not
how it works
here,
with me

so look me
in the eye
and tell me
whats going on

and believe me,
I'm not even
going to flinch
I'm prepared.

far away

foreign land,
in shades of
grey, blue and brown

wide roads,
black coffee,
alien cleanliness

silent, smooth trains
signboards devoid
of spelling errors

the perfection
offers no amusement
or warmth

what is this place I say
no bazaars oly,
no cows on the road also

english breakfast
on my plate
I used to like continental once

but now I dream
of idli dosa,
of dhabas,

and of bollywood songs
floating in
from next door aunty's house

I cant take it anymore
home beckons
wait wait, I'm coming.

amma

your words,
my bible
your voice,
comforting

hand-woven love
soft fingers,
that speak of
wisdom and grace

your toughness
and your
incomparable strength,
that I absorb

your thoughts,
that I worship
your advice,
that makes me think

you fill me with
the love you radiate
And I'm ready
to take on the world.

In my deepest fears
I think of you.

My protector,
allow me
to protect you
It takes two.

city

glitzy malls
shopping bags
high-heeled attitudes

dimly lit pubs
bring on the maritinis
loud music, young energy

workdays,
traffic honks,
smudged noise

weekends
multiplexes,
crowds everywhere

queues,
bills,
routine

getaway,
getaway.

compartment

Pot-bellied uncle
keeps us up
with his mouth full
and his empty talk

Subtlety: an alien
to his brazen drawl
that slurs
and forgets meaning

Incessant,
he goes on
Big manager
of big company.

Heard above
the rattling of the train,
his loud booming voice
and my silent amusement.

fight

today is fragile,
shivering,
stripped down
to this bare morning

we meet,
halfway
but it is lost soon
to red eyed words

that neither of us
can swallow;
hurling them
like boomerangs.

broken,
about to break
man,
woman.

tired, exhausted emotions
go away,
come back,
stay.

I see this
and I see that..
no no,
give me some time

because right now
my focus
is all over the place.

I thought
I'd sit here
and prove to you
that I'm invincible

now
before I break
I'd rather
you get away.

oh delicious feeling

of rediscovering
the beauty
of falling madly in love
with a song.

wispy song
meandering, like
the carving on your chillum

fingers tripping
carelessly
on the fretboard

gypsy stoner,
where are you going?

wooden chords
lazily drifting along
nylon strings

picking up words
scrawled in my head,
finding melody
in the space between

my song,
dancing lightly
like a smoke ring

evaporating into
the warmth of my room,
the colours
of the afternoon.

paati

she,
bent double,
rippling brown skin

under her
loosely draped
faded saree

dragging palm fronds
on the road
her nosering sparkling

against the sun,
as she gestures
to us for help

young shining eyes,
gummy grin
and wise wrinkles,

woman.

beyond

now I know
what it was
that was so captivating

your movements,
so fluid
unrestrained,

unbound,
like your mind.
free.

and I knew then
that it was all
I wanted to be.

what is it
that makes me
want to pen,
type,paint or sing
every thought in my head

fear
that it might be forgotten?

song

when you walk awayyyayyyy
tell me what to do
with all this love

and as we drift awayyyayyyy
what do you think we do
with all this love

turn my thoughts
inside-out
washed, wrung dry

bleeding fabric
colouring others
in patches,perceptions

look at them,
clothes line,
half amusing

part of this
imprinted on that
and that, on this.

maybe the last

standing here
watching the sky
spill its colours
into the morning.
this beautiful view,
unsettling.

can you feel the distance
coming closer to us?

fume

and it springs up again
this wanting
to hurt you back
to show you
how hurt i am.

i can retort
or slap your face
be as stupid as you are
to play this game

but trembling,
i control myself
head held high,
not giving in
as you stand there
throwing word-darts
at my ego.

dreams,
like alcohol
devoid of any respect

for the bold lines
drawn to separate
different worlds

smudging them
into a
circle of confusion

things unspoken
now out in the open
among voices and faces

that are strangely familiar,
washing away the chaos
waking up fresher.

stay

softly ringing,
these notes you play
freely sashaying

into the half-light
rising,falling too soon
pause right here

can you sustain
this feeling
on your piano

Ha.

today
I am going to do
whatever I want
bye bye,I'm taking off

I will skip,hop
and do flip-flops
like that boy in the old
sundrop oil ad

I will do the limbo
and the locomotion too
watch tv,
or listen to music

when I'm sleepy
I'll just crawl into my rug
for some nice long
ten hours of thoughtless peace

buy myself a packet of gems
and sit on the terrace,
watch the sunset
and the birds going home

today
I choose to be
free will.

wisps of morning mist
dance in the beams
of car headlights

grey road,white paint
deserted flyovers,
closed shops

streetlight posts
stand tall
in mute resignation

equally spaced
in a neat row,but
never quite close enough

taking a turn now,
at the corner
of a gully

a chai-wala,
in blue striped muffler,
opens his stall

and on a cycle,
aluminium cans rattle
as a milkman sails past.

kochi

we're sitting here,
under this coconut tree
our own cosy harbour

watching quiet ripples
form in
night silver waters,

that stretch across
and open out
into the ocean

where dim lights
betray the silhouette
of a sleepy ship far away

water flows gently,
time laps at our feet
in easy waves.

Thomas Mathew

mathew
an old man
wrinkled face

grey shocks
of hair grew
out of his ears,

ears that knew
the sound of each note
so well

mathew,
the old man
the piano-tuner

he'd come to class
in an old grey suit
and wooden case

the day he'd come
hushed whispers
of his arrival

mathew
unscrewed pianos
unlocked a magical world

little fingers
pressing a key
ting

toy hammers
for every note
we'd giggle

mathew
repair man
piano tuner

we were kids
in awe of him
his piano-playing

he rarely spoke
only smiled
crinkled kind eyes

mathew
eighty years old
brown leather slippers

i wondered
in my
10 year old mind

about his family
his life
his piano-tuning

mathew
sudden hoarse coughs
forehead lines

i looked forward
to his visits,
childish curiousness

matthew
now no more,
leaves behind

the music ,
all the pianos
he brought life to.

katpadi

at the station ,
platform no.2,
on a winter morning

sitting on a bench
eating vada
waiting for the train

a crow,
head tilted
looks hopefully at me

people talk,
in low murmurs
that abruptly pause

at the three noted alert
announcements,that are
all too famliar

a big rat
scurries over
steely tracks and rail-rubble ,

grey and brown stones
that will soon
blur in motion.

its so much easier
to ignore the fact
that there's something here

and stay where we are
cuz we're both too scared
to accept it

too scared
of what might follow
you dont have to say it

though its been
here for so long
lets just pretend

and convince ourselves
that it wouldnt have worked
any other way.

Waiting

thoughts form

too fast,

escaping unfinished

chewing my nail,
slight frown,

staring at the screen

cursor blinks

blankly at me,

white contrast clarity

I think

I shall

take my time.

my lazy pencil
sprawls lines
on a white paper dream

free hand
in a flow,
letting go

in squiggles,
random loops,
and wind-chased waves.

upturned page floats,
waiting for you
to colour me in.

SeaShell

I'm so comfortable
inside my shell
I poke my head out
once in a while
I look around
it might be nice actually
to bask in the
warmth of the sun,
to somersault
with the others
on the beach,
to try and catch
the biggest wave

but there is also
the constant hustle
of excited feet
on the sands,
big and trampling,
that I have to carefully dodge.
nah.. today I just
dont feel like.
maybe tomorrow.

WaterColour

rain,
and the world
sketches itself translucent

trees and hills
start fading away
in wet layers

and I see saree clad
far away dabs
of paint, women

running across fields
with barefeet
and indian grace.

Ink

drop of ink,
on a
white paper crease

folded,
forms different patterns
each time

an uncertain surprise,
fascinating
to my six year old mind

sunday afternoon
tongue sticking out
chubby fingers at work

fountain pen,
open bottle
one clumsy act

and ink
ran across
spilling all over.

blotting paper
on the table
slowly absorbs.

tiny lights
flicker soft,
rooftop chill

radiant smiles,
glasses clink,
eye to eye

questions,
stories,sympathy
warm happiness

dance floor,
golden glint,
saxophone sway

old song we know,
mellow voices in
drunken harmony

a few hours,and
the party's over
they leave,happy-tired

sitting against the wall,
both of us
after everyone's gone

close,quiet
not wanting to move.
slowing down sunrise.

Coming back

faded memory
of green prints
on a blanket

of moments
that I'd caught
and held on to

put in an ice-box,
paint melting along the sides
orange-vivid puddles

at my feet,
leaving softer tones
less wild,more mature

I'd woken up early
that day,slipped out quietly
while you slept

its been a few years,
you knew wat i once was..
now I'm me

I'll see you soon.

friends,
constant,rock solid
friends for life

music room,
home for three years
we sang our way through

late night maggi,
last minute
crammin for exams

leaving and receiving
at katpadi station,
impromptu chennai trips

walking on the bunds
of paddy fields,
balancing acts

climbing vellore hills,
bruised,aching,laughing
getting high

dhaba treats,
(roti anna!)
bargainin with auto guys

gettin back after hols
to a new room
finding the best showers

friends,
whom I couldnt
do without

this place,
I'm sometimes
afraid to leave.

the voice shrieked,
as daggers of pain
pierced through

ten year old boy,
writhing,adjacent bed
in the emergency ward

the guilt was killing
standing,watching
and doing nothing

writhing within,
hands clasped,unconsciously
murmuring a prayer.

i thought it was
much easier
to block it out,

to pretend that
i'm okay with everything
but now i know

i'd rather feel
what i feel
than force myself

to not think,
for fear of
feeling what i feel.

2679

General compartment!
stand,or sit down
on newspaper

chinese scale,
for just ten rupees
pirated dvds,raw mangoes

chutney dribbles
from the vendor's idli basket
everytime he passes by

everyone stares
at everyone else,
an indian habit

nobody seems to mind
the heat,the sweat
the dirt,the tamil songs

playin on his cellphone
as he nods vigorously,
and sings along

two small kids,
their black, beady,
curious eyes

taking in every detail
not looking away,holding
a bold steadfast gaze

in the corner,
a young lady eats
a packed lunch,

curd rice and pickle,
and throws the rest
out of the window,

where paddy fields
and small villages
endlessly rumble past.

I took a walk today
in long bazaar
along the fort,
the heart of vellore

market-place smells
of fish,fruit,of afternoon
hung in the air
in chaotic competence

bright clothes lay
spread out on the roadside
in plain blues,yellows
among proud moviestar blacks

sunny families went
boating in the moat,
a cow on the footpath
moo-ed morosely at me

I dodged hawkers,
made my way through the crowd,
liking the lightness
of anonymity.

Drunken laughter,
you and your friends
just chillin,
havin fun,
your nightly routine
after the
long tiring day.

Ash falls.
Burn your
orange-glow souls
in a circle
on that couch
every eye reflects
hollow silhouettes.

5.30 am,
the bell rings
milkman,paperboy

amma's up already,
two cups of tea
one glass of bournvita

the maid arrives,with
her bright smile
gets to work

grandmom chants
her morning prayers,
the diya is lit

busy kitchen noises,
something sizzles
on a pan

and a delightful aroma
permeates the air
tv-ad style

background noise
of a news channel
or a hindi serial

familiar clink
of amma's bangles
and pressure cooker whistles

I'm home.

thoughts float,
bob up and down
like paper sailboats

in crooked,
rainfed rivulets
during monsoon

that diverge,
broaden,and
gurgle nothings

and sometimes
disappear into
potholes and drains

boat-marks erased
by the water,leaving
shades of soaked white

thoughts float,
bob up and down
like paper sailboats

and i dont know
which ones are yours
and which ones mine.

Raindrop
clinging to rusty
old iron bars.

splash,
one falls
to the ground.

born,
shivering,shining
another swollen pearl

bright oval,
swaying to and fro
at its tip.

water film,
reflecting
fleeting images.

unsteady world,
dissolving into nothing,
into everything.

of no consequence,
just another raindrop
trying to hold on

to rusty old
iron bars
in a moving train.

6 pm,
whiffs of a
clear,earthy
rain-flavoured wind

it starts off
as a tame drizzle
grows into a
full fledged downpour

some far away door
crashes against the wind
whoosh of the gale outside
curtains flying

close these windows now
thunder rumbles and roars
the world blinks
streaks of lightning

bang!
goes the transformer
frantic groping
for emergency lights

8 pm now,
they fade away soon,
flicker of the oil-lamp
burns a wind-distorted flame

black out in the apartment
someone's stuck in the lift
voices echo
in the corridor stairway

amma and I
sit in the balcony
black leaved trees
ominous animal outlines

its those monkeys again
chattering,swinging from
branch to brach
and into someone's kitchen.

we gossip,watch passers-by
mingled smell
of wet earth,
hot chai and samosas

Candle,with its
rainbow ringed yellow,
tilt it to get
wax finger-cups

familiar old routine,
hyderabadi ministorm,
I miss the excitement
of power cuts.

yellow days
like fraying edges
of old parchment

the dust of vellore
subtly golden
noise pixels

thirsty sun
coffee bean
roasted skin

dead flies
in the canteen
heat-killed conversations.

Smoking,
eyes glazed,
J after J.

Flying.

Oh how its gonna kill you
this thing
Thats keeping you alive.