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.

Monday, October 2, 2017


I am in New York
Sitting against lot of soulless buildings and deep water.
Not the kind of place that can indulge your existential crisis, however small it is.

Still, there is some thing to travel. You might start all broken, but somewhere it can fix the cracks within. It can make you see everything in a new way. Out of the small box in which you were getting bruised against the same mundane sharp ends. Opening up, seeing everything in another light.
It could be a small one day journey to an old palace in Rajasthan, days of moving through Himalayan foot hills or a plane journey to a whole different continent.

I will go back to the same box, to bruise myself against the same sharp edge. May be should plot more pilgrimages. Now I know that the pilgrimages were never really about reaching anywhere. God might have been somewhere in the journey.

Have been walking for hours. Knees and ankles threaten to break. May be, we are designed to move, run, see. Instead of brooding over stuff that will poison your cup with their proverbial drop.

Over the past 4 years and the PhD, it has been all about work. May be one needs to live as well, even if that means getting broken occasionally. The scariness of things that can go very awry. But sometimes you might need to learn to not fall off even if you are standing on the very edge.

Saturday, September 16, 2017

These are the perils of being alive.
Burn like water
Break over and over like glass

There are roads, and taverns, and streets.
Walk back home to undo all their work.
Moments which hang like dead bats
As if they can last forever.

But friend, forever is not even a place.
Run from places that catch fire
There will be tomorrows
Even after darkest nights