blog, since ’99




                            When I cried
                            she knew why
                            and fed me what
                            they had given her;
                            warm poison that
                            dripped from her
                            purple nipples.


                            When he cried
                            I knew why;
                            she fed him
                            with a spoon.
                            As he slurped up
                            the fluid, tears
                            brewed in her eyes.


                            Flat breasts and
                            dry nipples; I,
                            lying on my back,
                            silent, watched
                            the lizard scale
                            the grey wall
                            its tail that
                            wriggled about
                            like a forgotten
                            baby in its
                            smelly bed.



Puja Room

                           In the room
                           that hath no
                           picture of gods,
                           but a dry
                           chirag and a
                           dusty thambaru
                           guarding darkness,
                           came, as father
                           opened his panes,
                           the light.

                           the chirag burned
                           as he lay silent
                           in white. 




                            I knew her little
                            Her words had
                            strange accent...

                            As the rain
                            was cuddled in
                            by a mild breeze,
                            she showed me
                            that there is
                            more to words
                            than we see...

                            Does my poem
                            bear an accent ? 



Our Mother

                         She split the nut
                         in her left hand.
                         The breakfast was ready
                         from her red palm...

                         Golden bangles tingled
                         as she washed
                         clothes and bathed
                         at three in the evening.

                         A tap in the
                         kitchen broke
                         She wept and wept
                         to put the flame
                         to fumes. In
                         a room where
                         nothing, but
                         fogy silence stayed.

                         She splits the nut
                         breakfast was ready
                         from her white palm

                         No tea or water
                         the taps hoaler
                         in bursts

                         I burn my finger
                         in the hot pancake
                         She dials for the plumber
                         The line is dead
                         her left hand

                         epilogue :

                         for you I give
                         half my dreams
                         and half my
                         mothers' unknown
                         tears and a
                         drop of my hopes
                         and a thumb
                         that smears my
                         thoughts all over
                         the face of despair. 


                        She cared
        		to call me
        		for her knot

        		it unwound
        		all the loops
        		and made life
        		as simple
        		as a line
        		on white screen.

        		I sit on
        		the dead rock
        		tugging at
        		the piece of cloth
        		which makes a knot
        		as the day
        		goes by.




                           Falling night
                           behind a
                           vanishing door.
                           Four suffocating walls.
                           A misty smoke
                           traces torn images
                           of my scrawny
                           shadow on
                           the damp walls.
                           On the floor
                           of my mind,
                           dusky colours,
                           desire for
                           rebirth. On
                           the dry canvas
                           -- blank -- stars
                           shed no light.

                           In the port
                           of pale doubts
                           and insecurity,
                           along with
                           the serene
                           lucid moonglade,
                           the enchanting
                           feel of nature's
                           riddles wades in.
                           It, as I
                           walk through
                           the streets,
                           scatters on
                           the roofs and
                           vanishes into
                           the earth's deep
                           in search of truth.

                           Closed doors. The
                           lonely vedettes,
                           guarding peace
                           of night for humans,
                           it seems here too
                           are the walls.

                           Shadows of
                           the rain lie
                           so vast
                           like the sea,
                           and cast a
                           fading question
                           mark on the sky.

                           Wet sand.

                           The night, the
                           breeze swept over,
                           surges into me.

                           'Did not you
                           see ? I have
                           become a man'

                           She laughes. Her
                           laughter, like
                           sweet memory
                           of a sleazy
                           grey cloud,
                           pours down and
                           drips through me.
                           I cannot see;

                           The night...
                           The night had