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.