Lest We Forget

Lest we forget,
Carved in war memorials remain,
Yellow rose lives nipped in spring
Tired feet walking on shores
And hearts beating on bunker doors
Arteries bleeding June grasses red
Their names etched on grey stones,
Lest we forget.

Lest we forget,
The changing images on your laptop screen
Volcanic islands reeking tears of the earth
Crimson, yellow, scalding surfaces thick,
And the Monday morning blue of the Pacific,
Staring solemnly at the working week ahead,
Ticked in the log books of our memory,
Lest we forget.

Lest we forget,
The toffee wrapper glistens in my coat pocket,
The lottery winning joy for a Rupee
Hidden away like a Swiss A/c secret
Is the evening wrapped in chocolate
Our shy silence needs words,
And they fight the crumpled white of the pages
Lest we forget.

Lest we forget,
The air of your bedroom remains heavy,
A cocktail of your after shower lotion and a tired body
Your reclining form three metres away,
Like a declining sun after a scorching day.
Laughter flowing like a mountain stream,
Remained trapped in the cobwebs of your room,
Lest we forget.

WORDS

These words which burn the page,
Would have scorched your skin
Starting like a mountain stream on your neck
Snaking its way down your hilly breasts,
And resting on some plateau.
Panting, out of breath,
Swearing until I've taken notice.
Little black scribbling melts away
Drowned by beads of salt on your naval
And a day vanishes in the dark of your being.
Squabbles with friends wiped out
The shove in the bus
The dirty look of passers by
Erased when the words kiss your skin. 
The room resounds with 
Little drops of buttons on the floor,
The hissing of clothes coming off 
And the whispering of the vernal woods.
With every inch of your skin
A kingdom won.
With every kiss,
A dragon slayed.
And when you drag me inside you,
A pilgrimage of sorts,
Visiting life...Creating one.

Sitting Inside a Classroom

Outside the glass windows,
The world waited with bated breath
For the lectures to end
And education to begin...
The tall pines swayed in affirmation.
Urdu alphabets adorned the black board
Like trinkets and earrings
Holding onto a bride's body.
Outside, the planned gardens and "chowks"
Brushed away the bullet holes
That had ravaged the air so long ago.
Words, drunk on longing and pain,
Moved slowly in the rose gardens.
Pricked by the thorns of the years gone by,
They bled nostalgic laughter,
And a mob of shared pain
Lost themselves in the Bazaars of the heart.
Like smoke from an unpuffed cigar,
The city slowly slipped through my fingers.

Having Torn A Letter

Tearing your last letter this evening,
Was the hardest thing i did,
Since i let you go last spring.
The words wailed, winding around,
The walls of the house,
And the logs in the fireplace crackled.
There were thirteen strikes when the clock struck twelve,
And the dogs barked all night.
A final 21 gun salute
To the words and the world
That was torn.
The man in the moon hid for a while
And the wind outside,
Observed a minute's silence.
These were words I had kept hidden,
Black inscriptions on coloured paper...
Like the green and gold of a year's harvest
Across the spring time fields,
Words that I had kept locked,
Like memories of parting,
Less painful with every passing year.
These words hurry and scurry across your street,
French kissing your window with the telegram,
"Winter has arrived."

Regret

Let the stars speak of a different time,
And an unknown city sleep like the sea
Strangers will talk of their past,
As the night accosts them with its breath.
Your body is lit up by flashlights of a flash flood traffic.
Open your chamber of secrets,
You should know strangers guard them well..
Wake up the dreaming cactus with your laughter.
For all you know we would be
In different cities tomorrow
Separated by 15 minutes on the G.M.T dial.
And for all you know i would regret
Not touching your lips
And be spring to a leave-shorn tree...
You would not sleep tonight
A taxi will take you away...
Like a mother dragging her child
From the evil inducing candy shop.
Let the muted protests
And cries of longing
Blossom Leaves on that sleeping cactus..
Let the cactus sprout leaves
In the city of forever winters....

FOR SOMEONE IN DELHI

FOR SOMEONE IN DELHI

I so want to write about you
But I am so afraid tonight
Afraid the ink
Would reek of your blood
Afraid that the pages
Shall be crumpled
With your nails trying to ward me off.
Tonight the Gods
Lie stripped in the temples
Deaf, Mute and Ashamed
They hide behind curtains.
Silence is silent tonight,
Fighting for words
Inside an Intensive Care Unit.
Vesuvius...Wake up...
Melt our hearts
Burn the floors of Heaven
Let the Mayan prediction come true
Let God know
How long 45 minutes can be.

Bhutan Chronicle No. 6

When you visit me this weekend
Do not rush your return.
Every night, I see your nightbulb
Flicker in the opposite hills,
Like Morse Code.
I want to see you coming
Stealthily, like the wind from the mountains,
Which creeps in every night
Through the wall cracks.
The uphill walk has made you pant,
And beads of sweat glisten on your skin..
Like white pebbles on a moonlit night
By the river Jhelum.
Your "Dupatta' looks drunk tonight,
Slurring this way and that.
And that mole on your breast,
Sits like an unfrequented well
On the mountain top,
Out of reach, Yet desired,
Every time it is looked upon.
Do not rush this weekend...
There are places to go,
Maps that your nails and fingers
Will draw on my skin.
There are depths to dive in,
Walls to mend,
And wounds to heal
Mazes to unlock
And gibberish spoken when
The birds chirp me out of your clothes.
Do not rush your return,
The weekends between these mountains
Are rather long.

Bhutan Chronicle No. 4

They say winters come early in Kashmir
Since the 1990's,
Even evening comes early.
A sudden whistle and a few heavy footsteps
And everyone's back home

Shops are shut,
And "Dal" stops flowing.
I remember Kashmir in old Hindi films
And in newspaper clippings
And your phone calls from Pahalgaom
All three in black and white.
Those nights, when you stole your father's phone,
The valley crept in
Through the 6 min. conversations.
The pines and the "Chinaar' rustling
The Sunday marketplace bustling
A gunshot here
A gun wound there
A life lost here
And "Mission Accomplished" there.
Shahid said  no trains enter
This Valley of Death.
Your calls have stopped..
And you have taken a flight out..
Kashmir now lives in your autumnal letters
Letters written in Blue.
About a paradise,
Where "Red Alerts" color the evenings
And White Noise the Nights.
Speak to me of Us,
There was so much Love
Every night for 6 minutes.
Give some to Kashmir.
Give some to Kashmir.

Bhutan Chronicle No 3

These scissor winds that blow here
And the chimney winds from a farmer's hut,
All speak of you..
How you craved to be written about
Like a child in a market place
Begging for a new toy..
So let me put you on the dissection table
Let my words be ether
And my scalpel-pen carve you..
Your eyes,
Your lip,
Your hair..
Little by little....Everything..
For a new batch of wood-carvers
Or hand-loom makers,
Who seek to put you in dye,
So you never die, my love,
Only DEATH does.

Bhutan Chronicle No 2

This tiny town of Jaigaon
Is where two countries,

Bhutan and India meet.

Buddha owns the monopoly over the first two
He sells himself in the market place
100 faces masking each other,
Angry, cold, diabolical.
And the monarch presides over the cash counter
And India smiles like a truant boy,
Creeping into you..Seeping into your blood
Like new Found love
Or the first addiction of adolescence.
In a gambling joint,
India plays his cards.
A Kali temple down the road,
A missionary school shining every morning,
Street vendors fluent in foreign policies
Where currencies of a monarchy and a democracy
Are in currency.
Oh! this anarchy on common sense.
Politics, nation, borders, "Mazhab"
The early morning Azaan
Lifts the shrouds of this mountain town
India walks out of the casino
Arrogance of a young gambler
HE has played some of his cards
HE has hid some of them...