Sunday, October 16, 2016


Half here, half somewhere else.
Circles which walk through continents without the aid of any passports
Same script, different faces.

May be, there is an option to walk away
Without performing the part, leaving the stage empty.

The unknown
The taste of today which isn't tomorrow or yesterday.
Head clerk who hates paper chewing
Hoarder of time when letters from the thesis gets up, pulls out a chair and
clunks cups of tea for a conversation.
Moments which rebel and walk out to buy the last tickets for a play by an Iranian man (may be white rabbits /red should email the author).

Scowl which makes you want to buy a ticket, to get on to a set of wheels.
Traveller, circles make me dizzy.
Sit down by the 500 year old fort/palace/mosque/pigeon house.
Walk by the pond or whatever is left of it.
In the mild chill of evening, talk about the metaphysics of unsaid prayers with a very dear friend.
Sun will drench in red and you will walk into a play about red rabbits.
And, you would walk out, feeling guilty of having killed the portly old man on stage.

Write without names
Read without lines
Lose with grace, again and again.
Tear that envelop, read the script and toss it over to some unseen bin

Walk with just the steps of today.
As if you are in a new city where you don't know how to wade through the traffic, din, dust and strangeness

Saturday, October 1, 2016

Before War

Perhaps one day, the color of your skin, the God in your name, the rhythm of your native tongue, the food on your table, the drink in your glass, or some thing else which is insignificant will make your head roll in a genocide. You live in that shadow: the next riot, the next mob that will come to your door. They might arrive in months, or decades or a hundred years later.

That wait can pull down the movement of your days, or you might forget it during a journey to the mountains.

It is the season of war in the republic which is slowly turning into a banana. Men whose faces carry the sign of murders and rapes with honor, shriek war cries through television channels and streets into your head.
As they get ready for war, I suddenly feel the need to go to that tiny restaurant. To eat appam and fish curry. Before the season of righteous bombs begins, hoard as much normalcy as possible.

The world is full of war, this is our share of it. In the mountains, forests, my tax money harvests bodies of dead teenagers, curses of wailing broken men and women. I remember the Syrian boy who came to my kitchen in Europe. His travel across oceans, lorries..his parents waiting to die with the next bomb in Aleppo.

As we wait for bombs, genocides, tornadoes of hate..
May be, should hoard enough of life.

Well made tea..a lethargic afternoon sun, a knock on the stranger's door that may or may not get answered, a drink at the edge of the evening before it falls over, the lazy Saturday when no work gets done, the biriyani which arrives in silver foil, laughter which stumbles on inconsequential things..

Before it all ends.

As I was moving back to India under the premiership of Hitler, with a Muslim name in my passport; my mentor who is a European Jew said, "you are too optimistic"

Great platoon commanders of hate wait for us at different time zones of history. Past and future blur with the fiction of today.

May be I should live. Before the concentration camp becomes an industrial complex, before the mob reaches my door, before days sink into a very dark winter.