Sunday, March 4, 2018

Before Good Bye- To India

Green fields, blue skies
Calm lazy shades of the mild winter
I am gonna be a stranger to you once again

These journeys before we say good bye to each other
Your bursts of bougainvilleas
Your people who say Radhe Radhe
To make way through over crowded streets...
I'm gonna sell them all
For a dark winter in another corner of the world
Where the sun doesn't rise very often.

Your songs which melt in my blood
Your streets which walk through my veins
Your harsh sun which brings
The freshest of swear words to my mouth

Why do you always have to
Choke my heart with more than I can handle?
Your magic of turning tears into floods
Your gift of deewangi which can
Sink my entire world

When will you learn to tread lightly?
Without turning the briefest of winds
Into storming tornadoes
My years are entangled with
Moving in and out of your arms

This time the merchants will cut out
The last of my anchors to you
With blood money, I will be buying a passage
To bleak dark winters, racist taunts
And people who take a long time to thaw.

As I begin to collect the pieces
Which accidentally get broken from your hand again and again
Let the clock tower
Strike through my midnights
I will try to turn moments into words
To buy my way through the seas.

Can you please keep the flood at bay
Till I haggle my way through to another shore

Saturday, March 3, 2018


കൃഷ്ണാ നീ കണ്ടില്ല
ഉരുകും മനസുമായി
ഞാൻ നിന്റെ മുന്നിൽ വന്നിരുന്നു

നിന്റെ പടിക്കൽ ഇളകി മറിയുന്ന
നീ കാണാത്തൊരു കോണിൽ
കണ്ണീരുമായി ഞാൻ നിന്നിരുന്നു

രാധേ രാധേ വിളികൾക്കിടയിൽ 
എന്റെ മൗനം നീ കേട്ടുകാണില്ല
നിന്റെ പാദങ്ങൾ തേടി ഞാൻ എത്തുംപോഴേക്കും
നിന്റെ നടയുടെ പടി അടഞ്ഞിരുന്നു

ആരെയും വെറുംകൈയോടെ മടക്കാത്ത കണ്ണാ
നിന്റെ മുന്നിൽ നിന്നും വേദനയോടെ ഞാൻ പോയിരുന്നു.

നീയൊന്നു കണ്ടെങ്കിൽ
കണ്ണുതുറന്നെങ്കിൽ, മാറോടണച്ചെങ്കിൽ
ഏതോ ജന്മത്തിൻ ശാപവും പേറി ഞാൻ
കല്ലിനെ അലിയിക്കാൻ
കണ്ണീരുമായി അലയുകില്ലായിരുന്നു

Saturday, January 27, 2018


The universe has a well ordered system of distributing sorrows.
Your share will arrive at your door step at the designated time..a system of delivery which never misses an address.

The current dispatch for me arrived not very long ago
Somewhere between 5'8 and 5'9 with a small patch of hair above the chin.
Slippery terrain, mixed up moments
And losing your heart without ever intending to do so.

Ever since, it has been an unending flood.
The house, the street, the books, the mist, the parks
They all smell of salt.
All drenched and forlorn, I keep looking for an elusive dry corner.

All sorts of gods become stones which stay silent
Words of wise women, sisters..
They fall on deaf ears
Thousands of miles, hardest of journeys.
They lead to nowehere
As I come back to the same old sorrow.

Trying to unremember, backspace, cut off, begin afresh
Only to fall back into the salt of the flood again.
From here, sunny afternoons and dry corners look like fiction

But then, some one needs to tell me
"It is just a packet of sorrow from the universe"
Nothing can stop or end or shorten the pain it brings

But nothing, not even sorrow is forever.
The water will recede one day
And then from under a stone, new moments will arise
They will know how to bask in the glory of the sun

Saturday, December 2, 2017


A procession of poets at the rented door
Their words, their music, their ecstasy
I stand mute, without lines

At dawn it will flood again
Sinking prayers like paper boats.

There is a place beyond the beyond of beyond.
Ask the poets to meet me there
Where we will attend the funeral of the dead once more

Wednesday, November 29, 2017

Letter to the saint

Oh Saint of the broken people....
We who carry too much light through our broken bits
Come to you in our states of trances
They must be blessed
Those who can pray or have faith

O Saint,
Coming here to wash away the traces of 
Walking with an apparition
Might be as pointless as the threads
They tie at your doorstep

The flowers we carry
Like the memory of footsteps 
Saint, is there a way to send in less light?

That mad poet of yours
How do we, the people of silences
Sit through the ecstasy of his answers?

Kings who bowed at your doorstep
Princesses who built ornate walls for you
But then, you were a fakir

Oh Saint,
Take away the weight of flowers
And fill it with the lightness of roads

Sunday, November 12, 2017

The day after the flood
And tornado.
The day to count abjectness.
But, there is a freedom when the water
and storm has taken away everything.
There is nothing to count.

This time friend, I am not beginning again.
Let the full stops have their way.
As the bout of flue evaporates, will hit the road again.
Roads have always been kind, they have always taken me in
Without any questions.

Next week, Pushkar

Tuesday, October 17, 2017


It has barely been a year since bags were unpacked on this shore, which I thought will be closest to that place they call home.
By now, have managed to sail with Jesus without the accompaniment of tea and oranges.
Friends who make this place home are a few time zones away, at least for a few years.
And, without the aid of therapy and the lines of Tathagatha, a few realizations arrive rain drenched, looking slightly awful without an umbrella.

There ain't going to be a place called home. Transit is where life is. The people I meet in transit, over a fraction of seconds, they are everything.

As I sit with Foucault and shed tears over a cup of tea, he makes a suggestion. May be it is fine to run forever, to new places, to new work. He offers to be there, on a wall in Boston or Santiago or somewhere else, to give company over new tales of heartbreaks, alienations, new kinds of genocidal mobs. They are all the same, still they are different. A change of scenery always looks fine, even if the story that you will carry across continents will be the same loop.

Friend, this is never going to be that happy marketing brochure story. This flawed, broken, wonderful, colorful, bleak, tear filled, joyful, mundane, exciting life. You are not going to check any of the boxes that they sell at the counter in standard human sizes. This is gonna be an experimental piece, always open to new ways of breaking and being whole again.

Don't lose heart in this bleak winter (though it is so sunny outside).
It is time to repack again.
What is winter to a nomad who knows another place where winter can unfold slightly differently.
Is thankful for the smallest things. Like that warm dinner with an almost stranger.
Or the warm embrace of a friend who is getting onto a plane to another time zone soon, may be for another 2 years before we meet again.

It is time for new work. New books, new diagrams, new proposals. You just cease to be a flute when you stop working. May be a year or two. Will give all I have again to this new project which is kind of flitting inside head. Will leave again for another shore, may be by that river. Though it is going to be cold there,  the buildings definitely neoliberal and the mobs a bit genocidal. But, aren't they all the same everywhere? At least I might be able to try out this new tune, which needs a lot more funding and an altogether different set of tools. Foucault says that he will come with me, wherever it is that the tunes will take us.