feeling separated and then the vision of one

Twisted in lifelong ivy, that stretches from the golden womb, hiranyagarbha, beyond the indras of the indras, beyond the marching ants, i stood there, looking at the old man, looking at the young boy, knowing that both are one.Hari and Hara.

twisted in long words , from serendipity to polysyllabic jargon , seeking wordless 

yet in munching in the worded , i fumble upon you , the long eyelashes and the dreamy stare , silence and yet a long string of thoughts attached in space 

i fumble into you the quick witted , quick spirit winged sandal cherub

i mumble along with you , the dainty , poised , yet clumsy Japanese riddle  

i dance with  you the crazy jaw hanging dance around a circle wordless  beat of a drum , a eastern European flare .

i keep meeting the  unreachable, unquenchable , insatiable one ….

then i realize that firaq means seperated and seeking at the same time,

then i realize ishq does not mean love but union ,

then i realize that ishq da malang means the wild one seeking union ,

can the separated  seeker ever find union!

only the helpless hanging jaw and the rolling eyes know the answer in a dream forgotten but slightly known…..   






varied longings or the karjat poems

Varied Longing in the  Karjat poems  (2010 -2011)

In this period began a period of living beyond the edge of the city. For the first time In my life , I lived in the countryside  away from the city . It was a period of being alone , in solitude and despite  the sudden movements into the city where the contrast brought about a bunch of poems , I lived alone  . It began as a period of having money but the structure of a job seemed like a golden cage . So earlier I was a soldier like the rest marching away to scrounge for jobs , petty consultancies , or writing, working hard , never bothering of saving money , spending money , and then this period ushered in the gilded cage .

In this period I started  working in the outdoors , not cushy at all  , but at the same time in the element  of the outdoors which was  not comfortable, despite the  money , Life began all these  tests, the  test of being pushed beyond endurance.  In these poems  therefore due  to the above mentioned circumstance  different angst appears , a sort of random angst , another  longing , a strange appearance of  anger within  , a burst of clarity , a burst of dream like epiphany , the stunning nature  around with its beauty , and its bursts of elegance brought about these poems  .

The range in these poems talk about difficult times talks  of a certain ushering within me. A certain transformation where there was a break from angst ,  then  to a an acceptance , through moments of just watching and just being . karjat poems holds the perid of painful transformation as it contains a range of feelings and a variety of thought


Hanin (  longing }

You might have not seen him , but I have seen death riding on a buffalo

And I wondered whose neck has he placed the noose .

You are not afraid of hell you say ,that could be true

But is it not that time stretching, a waiting sate

Wait that makes you hate

Is that not hell !

Have you not got lost when time becomes less, and whispered timelessness

Have you not cared nothing then but less and less?

Is it not then you touch bliss

Far away from that hiss

Is it not then we say, there is light

Where Time rides on time

And all the days that work with hands

Are strung on her waist

So why does time walk on time

Sticking her tongue out

When the inky sky her color becomes the night sky

Why does she swallow all that passes her by …

The doors become her legs that wide apart where boats pass

Into nothing, a chasm of emptiness, Where we would hurtle ,

Riding on the back of a gigantic turtle




21st October 2010

A series of poems were written on a wayside café in bandra, with this effort to get out of a wave of meaningless and exhaustion which was coming over me. Written during the time I shuttled occasionally from the city to the countryside and back again , to and fro …… a humdrum existence between heat and humidity . The city brought chaos, a reminder of  my urban existence , the village , the country brought solitude , and that was deeply welcomed .


Poetics of the Mundane

My wife is coming piped the stranger at the cafe

How nice ,

Bollocks says envy

Boring says the radical,

Settled says the conservative

A skinny waiter smiles

American drawl on Indian girls – femininity entranced in tone skinned legs.

Noodles and chewing gums

And the rest dribbles on the skinny legs .

The dork looks on , hoping for a stare back , hopelessly the waiter waits , his pink apron , green shirt

Fitting in the pink place of rugs and pastel shades, under a brittle light.

The evening sighs!

The road is laden with noises moves sideways

And the graveyard sits with its silence

Next to the moonlight on the cross

I yearn for more.


City of worms

You are not missing me ,

Texts the phone flashing

Humanity bobs up and down the sidewalk of a crowded street way , middle of town.

Irony twists the smile

Fancy feelings can emerge

She was very cute

I was scarred when I I was born

You are intentionally loosing your weight

We need to hang out more often

Banters from the café that sits on the edge of this narrow street

The “Awesome” generation cozily sits on the yuppydom of life

Skull caps gather outside for prayer

For god the great

The saffron clad marches outside hailing a king that is now god the great

That’s damn weird says one of the awesome

That’s really cool that he made out with that guys mom

That’s the kissing room quipped another awesome

They called us cheap in that party

My party had a kickass cake , which I was too drunk to eat

He is such a fag dude

Will you just chill out

The walls around here seem to be crumbling for a while.

The middle class bubble bobs away

The bpo has seen best of my generation being dragged out in the consumerist gold screaming for more

In these glittering highways where dusk sits still like a wet crow,

The city winds screeching like an un oiled machine yearning for more !


Feelings under the cracked sky

Do you feel my love?

Do you  feel the bloating bubbles in my mind

Do you feel the white hair gleaming in our empty prattle?

What a rattle

A story teller’s tattle

Do you feel the quarry leaping in my dream?

Where the young man shirtless

Picks my face and hangs it on the hanger


Moroccan tea with Jesus Mary and me 

I sip the tea ,made by Claudius augustine alburquerqeee

Who ever is he but a wanderer like me

The boy with the glistening face

Brings me that tea

The lip gloss on that girl shines with a mystic  plea

I know that I have hidden the skulls under the bedroom floor ,

Turning my old scribbles into a flower ,

Turning the old skulls into cups that float to the sea

Where I can see the crumbling tower and that hands that stretch out to smile ,

For I have been here for  a while ….

For a while, for a while !

For then the old dreams return back beyond , the melancholy , beyond the going on and on ,

I can hear the man with the golden beard say

Now don’t make followers make believers! Now die in the head

Now speak the language of Mary in laungerie

Le the tables turn,

Set me free!

Set me free from the cross

Baptize them not in fire, water or brimstones, of hell, damnation and devilish desire but in kindness, friendship, and the white light of a blushing bride.

Amen to you now

Amen to me now

Amen to them now

Amen to the hundreds of them who bring the fellowship to the burning light around me

Now !


Another zoo story

The toad had a sexual climax on the window sill ,

The menstruating lioness saw this phenomenon with a yawn

The children had gathered in the zoo where the exhibition of the once wild animals were now being paraded.

Creatures of the wild  still prowl in the invisible night sky

Like the way I do




During whisky hours

Lights blink

Patterns click

Floating cups of faces

Some cracked ,

Some hacked , some laced

All leave traces

Races of many kind

Thoughts that shovel , living in that hovel ,

Bringing the  stories of stallions that grovel

Beneath the weather beaten sky .

A fresh face

A fresh trace , beneath the glaze

They float in and out ,

Streaming thoughts, racing , spacing , leaving

Finally an empty space ,

Beneath that merry weather cloud

Lies  a sheet of white haze.








A lover’s babble

I call you from the ancient caves

From the ancient lines

I call you more to enter,

My eros entwined with chronos

You are invisible and wild

Where I see you in a boy who looks at me

I know its you

Where I see you staring,

I know you are in me,

I don’t need you in me as much as within me

Calling my   heart to me, so you dance with me like you danced in a solitary dream,

Like in the Spanish dancer and the black cat you are in  me .


Party 2010 and the road home

Melancholy hangs from the pocket like a flower

The shirt sleeves drool,

Fatigue pockmarks the road that lay beside me


And from that stray thought caves a stillness and its taste lingers

As the tongue protrudes in the sky

I lick the rain drop

Some smile , sliding across the room , as my trousers shuffle with my coughing tie

Looking at them moving through the room,

My stomach belches slowly

Then the auto stutters and

Jerks,  I think of the monsoon fog touching the tips of rooftops .

I wondered then how the sky lines have now  turned into my song lines

I thought of how my burden has become my high five

How my love torn lace turns into the cover of my inverted space,

Of how my orange house bore the sky

And how now I have recognized my cry

Muffled deep in my pillows




Narcissus blooms in the groin

An old man sees pale flicker and shudders

The bearded warrior hears this and laughs

The grating sound tears the young boys ears ,

Muddied water stirs and the mirror cracks

I churn

The chanting cripple knows death and its haunting

Corridors of tomorrow fall apart

I chant , I chant ,I chant !

The blood lotus blooms,

Centered wisdom grooms

And, the white warrior stands

Naked in a circled emptiness.


Centre in my verse , (14 December 2010)

The winter frisks through the curved mountain line ,

Breathing gentle fire, does the great god turn towards the west .

A few wood sticks catch fire , as it burns  through the lightened door of our expectation .

A man bent not with age but with sour life bemoans a lost cause. Thin figured and huddled looks through the glassy screen of numbers as the sky slips away with buzzing cricket!

A sleeping dog and a crippled man sit with its approaching stillness.

As the wood smoke touches the sky lost in  darkness , a man climbs out of the yester years window  and lodges in my mind .

A man of the new moment, a man of the turning leaf , a man who smiles at the oncoming monsoon swaying in the air of gladness of life spent by such madness .

It’s the winter air which makes me blush , which makes me look at the sky and know that the peaks hold on to the star with all its gladness like the way I do ! like the way I do now ,

Like the way I find my lines sitting on a wooden chair near a wooden table, finding the centre in my verse , finding the uni in my verse .


Mad women and her run way under pant

Mad woman calls with the beckoning finger

Of early morning tiding

Of joy contained in tin boxes

To break free into early morning glory of gold rush,

Of Sorrow and the sweeping veil to lift , to crush in

To become a spot of red

Then you know the flow

With the orange rush of her smile that does glow

Then you know what it is to become that early morning hush

Despite the maddening crowd that does rush

In that early morning crush.


Dripping afternoons  in October

Drowsy days comes to an end when the files slowly shut,

Middle aged men wipe their brows,

Fans slowly stir ,

Tappings on the keys slowly ceases

Droppings on the leaves shines

From a glazed window pane .

Then comes a sudden shaking of wind through the leaves

Rustling wildly, an invisible hand shaking a mop of green

The neck of a tree is strangled and rattled

The floor is suddenly covered in bright yellow

The sky is split into many half’s with white sharp light of lightning

I can hear his voice next to my ear talking of a recent love loss , love lost in

The funnel of time,

I can hear him saying,

“I will give it under her ear”,

“I have given her all this love for nothing”.

The rain drips faster on the window panes, streaking

My sadness away from the dust of memory, melancholia and mourning.

I look at the face that’s mumbling and I hear him say, today I will enjoy, I am done .

I smile knowing that he will “live”.











This poem is written by my dear friend Patrick Mc Laughlin

On a long train journey from Bombay to Calcutta , he wrote this poem somewhere midway , it was a journey , short but memorable ..

I read my poems  to him and two other fellow journey birds , which are  written above , and he  instantly jotted this poem  down .. I feel in his own way he responded like a poet would, like a thinker would on that moment how we in our journeys are always unutterably alone, in transit but traces are left , human traces .

Its nameless 

But its by paddy as he was fondly

Called by everyone.

The box of thoughts rolls back and forth

In wheels of time our youth is caught ,

Stretched to breaking, retched, aching ,

And still the cogs perpetuating,

Disconnected hatred, creating joints, while the strand is strained to a breaking point ,

Pups and trains will bark and toot,

Our words remain as marked proof.

We do not









viraha {separation}

Did ram really love sita , did krishna really love radha ? These avatars , these mythic hero of our epics , realy love their beloved .The separation  of the lovers was it to show, the waiting feminine , and the constantly moving masculine. To show that feminine years to be loved , to be recognized. The masculine is  evasive , more outer notions of mission , or duty. So what does loves separation bring to the lovers , this viraha , who learns what soul lesson . What does the feminine learn, when she says like radha , i am not going to meet krishna in this real world but in vaikuntha , what does it mean when sita says now no more , let the eath take me , let me go on my  own. What does the masculine act of ram mean by ruling for hundred years  . The masculine embraces the external duty but only remain in long unravelling lonliness of 100 years. What does krishna expereince as the avatar shot by a hunter , waiting for his death like radha waiting for krishna .

Will the masculine understand the feminine , will the feminine understand the masculine thirst of wanderlust . What does seperation bring to the human psyche , what does it tell about love . the legitame marriage of ram and sita remains driven underground in the drama of an exile. radha krishna prem becomes immortalized , institutionalized in shrines , neo religion but in their own narrative krishna embraces the wordily ness of kingship and the intense skirmish of war . is it easy for the masculine to move ahead , than the feminine whoich years nder a pale lamplight of memory. viraha rasa explores seperatrion and the soul to merge with the beloved with longing . Once the lust of the outer ceases , and for the feminine , the longing to let go of the wish list of a nest becomes  a reality , knowing  that all nests don’t remain steady in the daily storm of  of time . Between the eternal and the ephemeral runs both the banks   of life .

The answer of the male and female is to meet in a bridge across both the side of life. Between both this and that , lies the balance, here ram has to meet sita within him , and viza versa , where  krishna meets the radha within , and there you know why separation , cause that is the union which is needed, wanted . That is where  the beloved  lies , simply within.  seek it , find it .

Just us

I started writing short stories very young , but only at 22 did i finally got some of them right . i have these stories wrapped up in old diaries . To put it in the computer , then to blog it , is the journey of the stories to see the outside world .i think just us , is one of the stories  which completely true , but i maintained an artistic distance , for it happened a long while back . 

Professor  shahani , my lit teacher and Dr  shahani of jaihind  college would be happy , i got the distance to see an event so sharp, so painful , but in a fit of pain , in a fit of inspiration on an empty evening in delhi in the year 1997 just us emerged .

In 1998 the next year on dschool day i read it out to the entire sociology department . After the reading i heard some strange comments .

Dr  brara who thought i was rubbish in kinship paper she took  , clearly  knew that i did not want to study kinship , was not interested in academics. For some strange reasons  kept looking at me and kept saying just us , just us   while passing me by …. 

i did not understand what was the sub text  of repeating the title in a smiling gaze ,   but i thought maybe she appreciated my effort …

rossama asked me , is this  true, i said in all author like way , what does it  matter , its a story . Dr ray explained as to why rose would want to know the truth  of the story because of  the erotic  aspect , the heaving  cleavage , mother , themes about the violence , eros , and pain which is carved in Just us  .Dominent themes in my writings which have  emerged later . so here it goes …. an old story from the yellow pages of childhood .


Just us 

The furniture’s had acquired our shape as we had moved from city to city. if I stood a little further away from them, I could see them clearly as a reflection of our life’s. In an empty room with only the whirring of the fan they have their own life’s like ours, alone and un kept .

The forlornness of the clock with he angel missing and the elephants trunk stuck to a fevicol are examples of being just us .It was December 87 and Bangalore was not as cold like Jhansi had been  and we three had just returned home after our Christmas vacation .the house had that musty smell of not being stayed and abandoned for a while. In one room there were heaps of magazines and Ashtray  overflowing with stubs and four empty bottles of mcdonalds and three bottles of Romanov.

Well mothers are supposed to be the goddess of wealth and well being in the house hold and they try to be true to their expectation and thus not surprisingly the cleaning began. The tamarind tree waved outside and we both rushed out .The air was in rush and so were we with our roller skates newly bought and not foreign unlike the other boys in the apartment.

Raghav got his cycle and I clasped my fingers on to the back o the vehicle of ours.

Raghav grunted and my hand got tugged and away we sailed into the evening down our favorite slope out onto the main road and back again into the gates of the compound. The roller skates felt r the change of the road from pitch to concrete and then flattened grass. Soon we heard the cry  “its evening now come home”. At that age disobedience does not come so easily, but  haltingly  and so we came up quickly. The table was set and the house had lost its initial air.

“Keep your roller skates at the proper place.”

“Touch your books before they fail you”.

“Drink your milk.”

Bathroom ,my eternal refuge ,the crap pot my eternal rest.

“Stop meditating in there” .

“Do your maths before you get thirteen again.”

Tintin is worried ,snowy cannot be found .Haddock has abandoned Tintin.

“Will you come out”

“Will you just keep quiet I retorted “.

There was silence and the tap started leaking .

Had to clean my arse and the bathroom was flooded and the tap would not shut.

Stuffed Tintin in America down the front of my pants and slid out ,,placed it underneath the mattress and was now to do the daily act.

Then there was a flurry of the sound of petticoat, and sari quickly brushing each other .Just looked up to get a resounding slap ,which flung me on the bed. Got up and was slapped again. Will you ever speak back to me like that? Will you hun ! I did not I tried explaining The hands caught hold of my hair ,yanking it upward and another slap and then another ,one after the other. “the mind its time to start struggling ,so I struggled.

You are showing me how strong I am huh! ,

She was always good at kabadi but the places she decided to show off it was amazing .

Thus the experts foot got me knocked on the floor ,and she was promptly on me pinning  me to the floor ,half underneath the cot and half outside. The smell of must was defiantly underneath .

Her nails by then had lovingly entered my thigh and I could see and feel her heaving cleavage and her tightened breath.

“You are not that big that you can fight me” .

“Will you ever speak to me like that  at me. Will you, will you” .

Well there was no need to struggle once the goddess of wealth was angry, what’s the use in struggling. I then succumbed to her mighty wrath. They say when the goddess of wealth is angry she leaves the house she resides in. So she did in five moths time but not in the ordinary route but in the routes which are designed for mosquitoes and cockroaches , ,the pesticide way ever handy ,ever available.

The cities changed, the houses changed and the furniture remained with us changing along with us, changing along with us. Now its Kingfisher large and classic mild stored in the cupboard.

The skates are lost in the loft, too old for them.

The musty smell returns now and then, but then the maids are always there wherever one goes and of course a vacuum cleaner came three years after she died , ever handy ,ever available .

Baba had told us to worship her photograph for now she truly has become a goddess.

so we did as obedient as ever.


under the blue sky

 Under the blue sky

Under the blue sky is written in the spirit ,  where individual love merges into the  wide universal love .  it is written where there is a love affair of the master and student is like a lover and the beloved… the two chase each other like all lovers do. drama takes place in the pilgrimage  from the head to the heart. Ram becomes the charecter who is the seeker , who seeks love , spiritual solace , liberation , but is elusive , young , foolish , keeps mistaking the external for the internal. has to learn yet that the external is the external , and the internal is the internal is internal , when they do meet , it is a moment of enlightenment. Finally the boy turns towards the sun. its the moment and the moment only where it all meets . The great gap between the then and the future , all that remains in a day is the now.


About Ram and the White Mountain                                                                                


The boy on a hill with a staff looks on,

Behind him winds the pilgrim’s progress,

The winding path of humanity trails down ,

In front the same humanity winds up,

From the dusty plains ,To mountain forest and cloudy tops,

The mountain turns white,

The boy has known the entire thoughts corridor Before ,

Now it’s recognition,

Smiles at strangers , love blossoms like a blue flower,

She is behind him walking, then in front , then in the side ,then below , then above!

The light and the time of light play tricks, the seat of the top is reached, a seer in jeans and dark glasses talks of infinity , and the windy top of  grass sprawled on the seventh hill make them all turn upward to the sky.

The boys pursue love from the hills to home where connection travels across seas.

Love, makes the body light, the erect spine becomes the human tree of connection , spreading its branches far in the blue light,


the blue flower  blooms and then  only nights keeps falling ,

stars rush away and the flower fades ,

night becomes a blanket , self doubt becomes the tool,

did the flower fade , or was it a fad

Trembling leave , becomes he,

Searches in the night in  his own chambers for her,

The memory that showed promise and desire,

Could it run away,

A throbbing hurt vein pulsates.

Behind him the pilgrims call out ,

The seer claps his hand,

Pilgrims yell, they keep moving to their heights,

The screaming of ecstasy continues

Ecstasy touches the sorrow of the boy,

He looks around , he is back in the forest among the flowers of love,

The flower is blooming from his eyes,

The fragrance lifts in the air, another she in the dusty orange plains sniffs

And lifts her own fragrance, another sniff,  he follows around!

They meet in a fragrance filled air , between memory and desire

There seems to be such a space, such a sky, then there is no he nor her .

Somewhere up there the seer keeps clapping his hands,

The pilgrims keep screaming ecstasy.

Somewhere down there  the flowers keep blooming,

And the fragrance keeps becoming me, you and all of us

Under the blue sky.


About Ram and the blue bird

To chase the blue bird , I  raced down south ,

I told myself that its for my body but my heart raced, my heart raced for the blue flower,

The fragrance was hidden in the folds of my four fold heart,

I strained to hear the bird singing in the darkness  drenched was the  night,

I strained to hear from my heart , my body ached  every bone ached,


I reached the vacant temple, there  you sat in silence , I heard you singing I said , I saw the lotus blooming ,, the lotus nodded a bit and I was forced in the corner,

that force  my lotus became a bit stiff

The corner of the world, the flowers were blooming and drying.

sometimes the corner spoke in some songs which I strained to hear .

I then after a long while heard,

heard a storm blew up , blew my walls and in that empty space,

i knew that  you were the blue bird as she spoke and

silence became that song.

the singer , the song and me  then became one .



Turning to the sun

The great sky turns eastward breathing fire

The wood smoke yonder touches the sky

And a crippled man with a dog stares

At the approaching stillness, while

Behind the wall, a man bent not with age

But with sourness stares at tiny numbers

dotted on  a little screen.

And the world slips by, Where as I sit on my wooden chair, on my wooden table,

Find the centre in my verse,

Finding my verse in a slow swirling sheet,

of   purple.



Oh ! Arjuna

I think about the heroes journey all the time , the mission , the quest , who is the hero, the seeker , the avatar , the individual who dares to move from the known to the unknown …… Arjuna is truly the hero archetype , now we celebrate Arjuna in this poem.

To Arjuna for the hero who dares to travel!


O Arjuna

Time to act , in your inaction there is an action

Do not doubt , for doubt is dead , therefore simply act

In a single action , lies a deeper fact

That you  are meant to act.

O Arjuna

Time to put down your sword , and sit still.

Time to care , time not to care , time to sit still.

Time to walk the inward way .

Time to know that there is inside and outside

Time to sit back and stare

Know that you deeply care .

In the forest of the night to watch ,

and to be aware

O  Arjuna

Time to love , time to merge time

Time to feel, there is no you nor  I

Time to know that love is a lie but in it we fly .

To know that superb why

We fly and we learn why

So fly so high , so high !

O Arjuna

Time again to sit and receive ,

Do not hold you fullness and deceive

Time to learn that life is beyond that why

To go beyond that high!

That which holds your heart is outside

To learn and you will know that which is inside

Would move you to glide on the slippery side

O Arjuna

Time again to go to the centre

To look into my eyes , to know there is nothing , no time , no body

No soul, no great hole.

Just the now

Time to blow the flute and stand next to the cow

No time no time and to know that all does not rhyme

Arise awake Arjuna

Hold your bow and let the arrow fly

Your journey ends and you will no longer shudder

No longer will you blubber

Or sit down and cry

To  you yourself  you will  die

You will be free and that will be your ever lasting high !

* These are the  five stages are the five quadrants of a heroes journey .

The hero is a metaphor for courage and in the Indian context Arjuna is the hero who has it all but yet in the midst of the battle field he has a spiritual crisis , which is called dharma sankat ,


* In resolving the conflict Arjuna transforms and moves to the stillness within chaos guided by Krishna or pure  consciousness .


* The first part is the warrior quadrant of conflict , of action ,the second is that of ascetic or the withdrawal , watcher in exile  , the third is that of the lover , or the merger , where there is no distinction of the you and I , the fourth is Arjuna the pupil on the battlefield learning , shuddering with fear of the future , dependent , and curious .


* in the fifth stanza , he comes to the centre which holds the four fold part of the journey and in that he finally learns that the old self is gone and the new  Arjuna has found victory over his old self, therefore his arrows can now truly fly.

Arjuna (hero) and Krishna( guide ) have become one .   

white vampire and the eternal beloved

most of the time sexuality  either  frightens the meek, the puritan , the servile, the reppresed  or it enrages the conservative , the right winged modernist .   rarely is it celebrated in its perversion, violence and sacredness. can the temple and the gutter meet , here an aghora willl say when ganga jal and urine waters become one , does the soul becomes the universal soul, enlightenment takes place  . the poem below is an attempt to bring the merging of poles. its not catharsis but an imaginative cry , its not a confession , its neither a memory , or a desire , its simply a thirst to bring together the dance of poles , an attempt to make it a union.

The white vampire and his eternal beloved

In many ways he had found true love in him, and he was not human but god. In the forest of the night, where dreams dwell deep, the old man comes with a beard shows the glory of god and says I understand with his eyes and says it’s a good thing that you know where you want to go, and where people come from, but most of all to remember that you are initiated and that you should not tell anyone for most people are such thieves. He did not understand the word thieves and secrecy and neither did he understand in what way he was initiated. However he knew that his love could not be human but god , for in his dreams he had seen the glory of the sky and the wide horizon gleaming in the twilight pink called shaphak. He knew that he was a vampire who liked drinking semen, he knew the process of sucking he was addicted to , its where he drew energy when there was such a gaping hole in his heart . He knew that love sustained him and since there was a hole in heart, all there was, was bleeding. So he needed semen in his throat to fill the gaping hole of his heart.

Yet from the gaping hole brought out a desire, a thirst for the divine beloved for he had seen him in a deeply loved ones eyes , he had smelled him in the deeply loved ones embrace however fleeting. It was a force which he could not discount, he cannot ignore. The force was in the stillness when he sat quietly. He heard about a death a minute back, while looking at deeply green leaves , he felt the last nights semen under his pallet. He felt the loneliness of a man’s dark brown eyes. He felt the quiet desperation of man struggling with a shroud of material demands. In all this he felt the river gurgle quietly bending towards its own destination, the clouds turning dark as the water held in them slowly trickled and the moisture under many armpits moistened.

So was it with nature that it brought sex and death in a wild fragrant way he thought of the sweet pregnant girl , her vulnerability and the news of her death and the child’s on a green sunlit day . Where from the glass pane, there stood a brightness of the flowers and life bloomed but the smell of death had followed his nose. So he knew that behind the curved sickle of a smile as the grim reaper reaped his harvest lay the beloved in all his nakedness, in his entire dance. He called him the boy with the peacock feather.

On moonlit nights in the he forest he became a dark girl with bursting nipples and moist vagina, with dark hair and she would enter him on those nights and he would then become less of a vampire but a corpse which came alive. He could feel the power of the force of her fluids fill him, and as he bend down on her, she moaned arching herself, the fluids stitched up his heart. The gaping hole ceased to be for a bit and all he thought was him and her , how he turned to she … How humans beings did  not matter but only a god did , the one who shifts shapes and the one who made the  forest become wet with pleasure .

longing !

it was death and its poetry like the poetry about sex which makes me stir and write, its uncontaminated fragrance makes me go to graveyards , shamshans , burning ghats and tower of silence  .The news of death , however ancient it is , always surprises , like the yaksha said in the mahabharata to yudishtra , the amazing thing about human beings is that everywhere people die but the human being still feels it can live for ever.  Thats the amazing thing about human beings .the being does live forever , the human body does not. longing is written for a person who lost a loved one and it changed his life for ever .


I have seen death riding on a buffalo.

That’s right! You say you rather be in hell.

Well!  Is that nothing but a state of eternal wait

Where time stretches like a worn out fate

Then I ask, have you not ever lost in that hush,

Where the sky blush and you touch bliss

Away from the hiss!

Then again , Look at them turn where fate spurn

The innocent, pockmarked by time

I can’t even rhyme on the bells that toll, around the ashen laden chime,

Where it all becomes news, where the smiling becomes lost

As the ghost toss!

Then where is that seeking, when in so much leaking!

You tell me, can you even stop the knocking on the door of time

To  not let her ride, to  not let her tongue stick out, to  not let the blood sprout

To let you then  shout,  shall I , to  let you know that it all ends, my friend, of gladness, sadness, and madness

Of closed space, and open space

It all ends till you know.

Life then after words ,

Longs for life itself

Then it all begins as if there is no end,

My friend

Then begins the endless where time ends

And there is no I

But the eye

In the golden hue that run

Where there is nothing but you

Only you!

In the golden orb of the sun

It  only  becomes you, Only you, Only you

Only you!

the dark son of meloncholia

Darkness has to be understood and explored , rather than denied . it cant be that you can only be in the light when the world in you and the world around suffers . In only through the darkness can one see . so in the darkness of all those nights i started seeing . i can only thank those days of madness , from where the awakening came, i awoke to the madness . The poems below evoke the awakening that happened through madness. Watching the madness , watching the stunned pain that trickled out , and then in that acute watching , lay a slow awakening from various nightmares.




The house by the river


I came to that corpse a while back,

I felt that it had begun to sprout,

I saw its gaping hole as it spread its leg out,

I knew then, that I felt wrong; I had to move on,

To where and what I know not, but to move on,

There is that language which is all wrong, a little like a church gong,

A little like the muezzins call to the faithful, a little like a rattling of chants over a sprout of a fire in some

House, that’s dutiful,


I came back to the house my father builds

He calls his house his base,

I feel its base; I feel the rats that mock at his gaze,

The water that bursts out of sullen taps like brown puke,

Like the dust rising out of the carpet, as if a hundred horseman galloped by,

To kill the beautiful,


I feel unsafe as if they would come and tear my clothes to put a burning lamp on my face,

I thought of my grandmother’s corex bottle that slipped from her hand to mine

I felt the screaming of the mirror as it cracked under my wrists,


I felt the nib of the pen break as my parent and his wife fell to their throats,

I felt her smile as she betrayed me by turning her face to the wall,

I felt his betrayal as he murmured into her ear, that my breath was foul

I yearned for the fragrance which lied in his face, and I sniffled my snot in the smutty pillows.

So then I bellowed, will some one hear me please?


The silence of the graveyard heard me, the moon and its madness heard me,

And the dead mother heard me.


A voice in me i heard, pushed me; I then started to listen,

Now and then the voice comes and goes but it urges,

it forces,, it wills ……

So now and then, the house begins to live,

And the murmurings from the walls slowly cease to be ….

Then the scuttling of the rats slowly ceases to be …..

Then some walls crumble, and the flower bobs its head just to be…..

Just to be …….



To you


So utterly gorgeous

When I see you in the light

Of the half bred moon

Shed your kindness

Let me be !


Free me

From the clutches

Let me be

A star

From the clouds

Let me free


I let go of you in this sadness

Of the urine filled path

Of catacombs of needless lanes

I let go of much more

To know

To flow

Through the honeyed river

Beyond the flies

And the lords

To the cave where you sat

So still

So still

And became an ant hill










To the other


To you the other

My mother and my father

I have seen your bowls split

I have seen the froth spill from your mouth

For then I chose you to be me


I have now known it for long

That I have to be long gone

Floating in a basket down the river

Where the tongue gets blackened



I know your love

For now I own you

Both of you


And how


To see the wind fill in

My bones


I now know then that I take your skulls and fit them into mine

And  I will then see your love in my blood

Fill with wine

To drink it from the crest



Torrential rains



I am the gypsy of torrential rains,

Lashing on the panes of a black and yellow car,

I am the vendetta of a pained song ,

Ringing in the ear of an early morning waif,

The one who hits the early morning road,

And waits for the calm of the storm.


I then become the gypsy of Hungry for care,

Of the song which lies in my marrow,

Through the Khyber of sorrow,

I reach out for your hair, and stop for that moment and stare


I then become the gypsy of in and out,

The moment of glee and season,

The moment of yellow brick roads winding

Towards epiphany, towards remembrance,

And false talks of deliverance.


I then become the gypsy of candid lies,

That straight laces the truth and snuffs out a kind which shows

no much than what was before ,

Than what is now

The partner wills and dies, the game is savage

And we play well.


Then we all become the gypsy of torrential rains.




On becoming Guha ( secrets)( a cave )


The last of the stars came riding home!

It was a mangled state of being where he connects to my torso!

Driven by the tear and wear of my sphincter!

My legs wrapped around his neck for the last embrace!


It was the end of me, for all that gasp ,  what was left  was the butt end of my days and ways .

An exchange of a five hundred note , and never to see the smutty hands that passed between me and him.


Lies in these folds of time my confession, my shameless borderless

Being that rises and falls in a heap, the roar of the trains pass

by , how I crave !


I talk in a lit room about descent and divine knowing well the ears that listen,

heap me with the praise I hear

In the shadows lurk the eyes that grope with the longing which is a thirsty thirst.

The eyes that bear a manic Monday speed of smutty hands.


I talk of the shrines, knowing that the shrines have passed me by

Knowing that they have all passed me by, the fragrance leads me to the corner where I long!

To raise my hands in the sky seeking the cloud bursts that wash me!

Wash me of the contaminated.


Wash me of the fear and loathing,

The agony and miss spelt ecstasy,

The misled venture, into the urinated walls of desire

that comes into the hands of strangers.



I then want you the female force of time to meet me

Into the time less

Road of the white light!


I want you to enter in me as the waters enter

The orifice, the orifice of the earth!


For then I know would I bear,

Your secrets

arya , the noble one , aria , the song in my heart


Arya – i think words are limited to describe a person who meant a lot to me . However poems describe a world which cant be explained , the world of love . the world caused by a lovers meeting on the borders of society . A world in the garden of lovers . in that garden i heard a song in my heart. A song that became a swan , a bushel of leaves , bloomed , and died , the swan rose up in the sky and had a song , with which it died . Thus it was with love , a moment of acute impermanence but what a moment . These poems were written during 2008 -20010, when the song was alive.

Running with me


Will you run with me under the haze of a white washed sky?

The melancholic streak of blue screaming across,

Will you run with me over the grass of gladness stretching across like velvet carpet over my frothing mental landscape?


Will you run with the blanket of the night that covers your naked shoulders glistening with the sweat of heaving?

With the breath of the morning,

With gleaming noon light through the stained window,


Will you run with me through the ancients charged in moonlight, the ancient stone limbs of yesterday?

Will you then smile through the catacombs, nightmares of needless desires!


The clump of trees which are wishes of your far away thoughts beckon , and will you then know that all the points which are in your life are nothing but only you , a strain of you, only you ,


Will you then run with me?

Will you know what you say is completion is nothing, but a spiral, a spiraling ringlet of time, to know there is nothing,

That which is not, to that which is,


Will you run with me through that range ofWhite Mountains?

Will you then turn blue with me as you partake the poison, and then

Will you run through the wild fields of insanity, and burst into a flame, crackling away in the wind,


will you then soar through the darkened smoke of your desires that you call confusion , which is nothing but thoughts that dart away in a skull which is a bowl , deaths only reason to live , will you then string the skulls like pearls and roll it around your neck….


Will you then cease your breathlessness, and know that where you start, I become your end, and my end is your beginning,


Will you know that there is no separation, no completion, no finality, no resolving, only a dissolving not into me, because there is no me, not into you because there is no you ,


Will you know then that you have run into that which is not!

Will you after all this knowing still run with me with silver dots in the horizon?

Will you then still run with me ……..


And you say even ….

As the sun sets in that spotted desire,

Another desire begins with the fresh awakened face,

The mascara has streaked over the eyes that speak of the minutes of my running time.

Time that takes to cross the road, where the world simply turns away with the buzz in my head,

And you say even! With the smile.

The freshness is awakened after the dawn blooms and the crows glide over the silent streets, and the weathered evenings of yester years and purple sunsets, and the harrowed wanderer in desolation trickles by…


And then again you say even with freshened gladdened eyes .

And I dream of the streaked mascara and my withered youth blooms in a smile , the lilacs , daisy , jasmine  on many  bobbing buns smile to hear my passing thoughts , that beauty has found a place in my gladdened eye and then your whisper has even found a mark in my single tear that rolls softly by.


And I gaze at the brown golden butterfly that landed from the bright blue sky from nowhere,

And you say even …..


Two hundred and fifty million people in my bed


I don’t mind them as long as you don’t bring them to bed now , these million of them , I don’t even know who is who ? Who is that woman , who is that man ?

Not now!

The late evening at the sound of her sternness, frozen feeling nuzzles in the corner of her elbow and sighs ! .

Can I tell her that I weave a background from which we two dance, the choreographed background remains in time throbbing.

Can I tell her that one spoon slides over the other, and the rustle of garments slip creating another longing , another path way.

Old memories and desire remain stacked , a hundred re visits has been done , now they are gone like million rain dripping on  crusty ground.


Not now ! it’s the timing , but what jaan is the timing ?, time to care , time not to care , and time to sit till , time for you and time for me and for hundred decisions and for indecisions before its time to look at you and say goodbye . Slipping through your fingers.


The spoons lay on the bed stacked next to each other and you get tickled now and then,

Now and then you wonder what is more underneath a word and a sentence dangling!

What are the dreams that may come, brushing you in a space of moonshine and sunshine and all the images and the days of the open hand catches you unawares.

Your gasp, the pain and pleasure grind and then you frown at the timing and another time slips by changing, arranging and re arranging feelings.,

The bouquet rustles as another dress is worn and the crows circle and on such a morning of early light , you turn my heart and I turn yours .

The door shuts and I turn to the open road and as the images slide away, the real slowly becomes unreal.

Then the two hundred and fifty million people including you and I become one.

A hush falls timeless.


Just a trifle madness


They say that I am crazy like the sun drops from the sun,

They say that reality is not that!

Reality is changing.

Like the wheels and its rapid movement


Like the words that fall in meaningless rapture

My tongue is useless ,

It feels like the world and word are one


That the mad man on the road says no rolling his eyes in a half open crazed stare

The closed silent man on the road stares quietly on the floor .

The beer mug gets looked at ….

The seriousness of the children are all that’s left at , and nothing else matters but the math scribbled on the board .


The jeep turns and the man who loses his erection looks at his muscles with sigh,

The sodomised man married to an American beauty looks the other way with projections,

calling  the other  young man a lady of leisure.


The abused girl whose brother felt her up cries as she does not know the guy she is marrying is the right kind.

Compromise is called surrender and the drunk man on the street wakes up to look at the crows with the dawn.


My tongue is still useless, the words fall like an empty prattle,

as the wise man with bitterness hidden craves for sweetness

and his daughter brings on baby talk ,

on which he smiles.


I look at all this and  more and long for the hidden door to open onto the river , the plank at the edge of the river

The dragon flies and the long grass burst up into the sky ,

The frog flick their tongue and the fly dies


I spin on one leg, the three legged manic dog rushes about and they play poker gambling away

Love rests on my thigh and the invisible touch smiles

I realize love has wandered in ,


The madness lingers to the day sliding away into the night.

The quietness goes away

And my thoughts race away into my dreams,

Where voices drown and the blue light of the moon

Holds me in its shadow, and the gap between words stretches

Like a smile.