Friday, December 13, 2013

For Tomorrows

Traveler..even after I get down from the train, it some times spins in my head
That feeling used to be a badge of honour. But, every traveller has her weary moments.

Some times, you carry too much luggage..The cup of tea and endless conversations which are never the same over skype... A bit of fragility which you forgot to bubble wrap.... Memory of a beautiful song which you forgot to pick up from your doorstep....Mummified love which you carry across continents. Every once in a while it reeks and ruins everything. Still, at the crack of dawn you will go and get new bandages.

In a few weeks, will be a year older. Crazier comrades have packed their shoes and decided to be in one place for a while. "Tired of being the rebel with no cause".

Dreams are  a bit jet lagged. I send them off to sleep with the memory of things yet to arrive. After all this buzzing like a bee, there might be a tomorrow to just stare at the mountain.

So, hey you tomorrows...put this in your diary. Stuff that you owe me. A small cup of butter tea at the mountain slope after an unending walk...raindrops by the window while I write on my rag tag journal..conversations which go to sleep only at the crack of dawn..time which will run free through narrow mountain roads...a well baked cake and lot of laughter by the roadside stall...a bunch of flowers which won't go all plastic...

Wednesday, September 25, 2013


As an immigrant, you are a glass bowl..
Will break at the sign of a bad knock.

Then you realise
That you have broken over
A heap of continents
Hundreds of grasslands
Several large creeks of mountains

You have broken over centuries
Over the heads of mummies
Over the cruel laps of gas chambers
Over the hospital smell of detention centres.

"Glass needs a million years to be bio degradable"
Through decades..
You will look for rainbow heads at subways
Will feel at home at Chinese eateries, Caribbean supermarkets,
Long line of queue for 'other passport holders'

Through centuries...
You will be chased out of sacred continents
You will donate retina scans to the darkness of motherlands
Your fingerprints will re assure the insomnia of natives.

Through thousands of years
You will keep a watchful wait
For that million years to arrive..
Finally, at last, at your door step.....

Saturday, September 14, 2013


Those who dream of rebirth have to go through many rites of passage.

Ghosts will float by
Like chalk squeaking over black board.
Leaving sandpaper trails all over the insides.

Be silent
Light the tear which doesn't know to fall down or evaporate.
The wind will guide through tornadoes
Sea will swim with you in floods
And the mountains will keep company while falling.
Don't be afraid of the dues to the dead.
They can wait patiently.
They have all the time in the world.

Being alive is the briefest moment 

Sunday, August 18, 2013

For Yesterdays

It is a drizzling Delhi evening, and I am packing my life into two neat suitcases, of correct dimensions not more than 23kgs.

Nowhere does it rain like in Delhi. A few drops of love on the hard, cruel, foul mouthed, quarrel mongering alleys. Highways where you may not have held hands, but certainly broken your heart into very tiny pieces. Signposts which taught you that being whole doesn't mean having all the pieces.

There isn't much to leave behind. I travel light through life and there is never much to leave behind. Except for the tribe of good friends who get that the tribe needs to roll through multiple continents at random intervals. And, there will be fellow rolling stone M, to greet me at my very loved old new city.
All the prayers, midnights spend having rendezvous with dead theorists, trying to stretch 24 hours into more than they could hold- everything has finally paid off. Got the scholarship and is moving finally. Should give joy its due and jump up and down. Then, should happily start the task of crossing mountain loads of work with a small flash light.
But, how do you ever move ahead without looking back? At the end of 3 years, life as I have known it would go for a toss. A small bird in head says that nothing will ever be the same again. There will be flowers, but they will smell of another season. The snow will sneeze differently and the roads will heckle in other tongues. Might climb mountains but can lose the sea forever. Hope the tiny bottle of zen stays.

Yes, the river can never be still and one shouldn't bathe in it twice. Unless you open the doors, how will new things ever happen?Unless you toss the skeletons around, how will they ever leave the cupboard to join a decent enough cemetery?

"How lovely it is to perch on a different branch
How good it is to run without blurring or freezing
All my sayings are of yesterday.
Now new things have to be said"
But, before I close yesterdays and name them last five years, one word of love. I wouldn't change one bit of you. Things which didn't happen and the things which happened. Have broken like a beggar and lost like a king. Have kind of mastered sailing alone and have learnt about the rhythm of the sea and the occasional hole in the boat. Have laughed like I never had and have cried like it is the end. Have left home in anger and came back to blood which is thicker than most things on earth. Have lost the idea of forevers amidst a relaxed display of neon lights. Have made friends with the best of people who make an alien city one's own.

You were the best days of my life so far.

Tuesday, February 12, 2013

Babloozz Poetry

I want to write at ease.
To write without bleeding and freezing

To travel without begging and kneeling.
To love without hating and hurting

To read without choking and panting
To jump without the memory of parachutes

To learn without knocking at every vain door
Which can't get over the wonder that it is made of wood

Friday, January 18, 2013


Some times all the efforts you have put in, all the grains you have gathered like a diligent ant is not enough.
All the hours put in, doing a day job and then slogging through stolen hours at night is not enough. The gray hair strands and the smell of sleep over dogeared books isn't enough. It just hangs some where like an unread manuscript.
You need to have color coded swipe cards to enter the places where knowledge is veiled like a highly guarded secret. Oh, you could take the other way and try to disregard them. Be the Ekalavya, whose knowledge is worthless without the correct stamps.

Have been trying to do the full Harry Porter routine and enter the castle for a while. When a kind Dumbledore opens a door, you realise that there isn't enough money to make the journey. You didn't win the yearly jackpot by the rein deers. This year they are giving it to the birds and not ants. The endless wait in the cold, to avoid delete buttons, trash folders, spam bins-to arrive at a place where an actual pair of eyes will glance through the manuscript...

Might just never make it. But is an ant. If the castle remains unreachable will one day go ahead and prove it wrong all the long long way.

Friday, January 11, 2013

Of Seminars

Is a vagabond traveller in a spice connoisseurs' meeting. As the smell wafts in and people spread their wares, I try to collect a word here, a word there.

Is more of a chilly farmer. There is never enough money to farm. And when  money, blood, sweat, tears and heartbreak finally blooms as some kind of quirky chillies, there are almost never any buyers. Long stretches of time and life is spent in smelling other gardens, walking through un known stretches, waiting in patience at alien doors- for the kind of seeds which will grow the quirkiest chillies.


Have decided not to farm for a while. As a friend said, need to recover from the wounds of last harvest.
So is here, an onlooker at the spice connoisseur's meeting. As the words float higher and higher, I try to conjure up the ghost of long dead Foucault , who looks like a ghost who will know the uncertainties of those who float amidst the surety of words. He drops in for a nano second and then goes away saying that he needs to use his time more judiciously and cannot drop in for each personal anxiety or perspiration.

So, I switch back to the lecture of a connoisseur who talks about the moods of high end spice market. The speech ends and the crowd wafts around. Self tries to act like one who fits in and ends up looking like a bad groupie.


There is no land anywhere in sight. Not more money than to get by. But, is still collecting the seeds. One day in a piece of land some learning house will be kind enough to lend, words will grow side by side with the quirkiest of chillies. The words will learn uncertainty and will waft with the smell of chillies. Till then, will be the vagabond traveller, moving from door to door, learning to respect the silence of uncertainities