Sunday, August 17, 2003

Reaching out

Walk with me to the edge of the precipice,
and I might just stop from
throwing myself over.

Listen to my silence,
and I might just start talking.

Touch me and
I might stop shivering.

Hold my hands
and I’ll believe,
I too am lovable.


Look at me and
I will have reason
to live.

Talk to me and
language becomes meaningful.

Share my dream
and it will come true
sooner than I think.

Believe in my vision
and I might see the light at
the end of the dark tunnel.

It matters to me most,
that you, and of all,
that you, have time
for me.

Saturday, August 09, 2003

My Daily Deaths

Looking
at you,
I die every day.

Your voice hypnotizes me,
and I sleep-walk dangerously,
in my awake state.

Your scents swoon me,
and I fall unconscious
by the wayside.

Your eyes like whirl pools,
attract, pull me under
and drown me.

Your gentle laughter like
melodious wind chimes,
makes me amnesic.

Your articulate expressions,
makes me want to commit hara-kiri,
at my own corny
mish-mash scribbles.

Why, even your dainty manicured nails,
like stilettos, slash my heart to shreds,
when you sculpt by your fingers
describing something excitedly,
to your privileged friends.

But, what really tortures me most
is that,
you don’t know any of
my feelings for you.

And that, I will never have the
guts to tell you…

Tuesday, August 05, 2003

Things You Left Behind

There are only three things to be done with a woman. You can love her, suffer for her, or turn her into literature – Lawrence Durrell





Came home last night
to an empty house.
Stripped of all essentials.
Picked clean like a fish,
to the bone.

You cleaned out
pretty meticulously, like only
you can.
Furniture, furnishing, crockery,
linen, music system, washing machine,
cosmetics, the magnetic stickers on
the frig.
You even took the lone bindi,
from the bathroom mirror.

All that are remaining, are my
books, looking forlorn, and forsaken,
stacked against the wall.
Like stricken,
abandoned pets.


It’s like, you didn’t
want to leave behind, anything,
that might remind me of you, of our
love that we once had,
of the joys we shared.

But, you are wrong.
There are so many things,
you have left behind.

The long drives, drenched in
monsoon rains ,shivering
and sharing a cuppa chai,
in some remote dirt road.


The surprise Sunday mornings when I served
burnt toast and bland tea,
to your royal highness, in bed,
to your amusement,
and my consternation.

The musky amorous outings that
notch the bathroom door.

The night I drove to you,
from miles away, as you bled,
losing our only baby.

Or the days you nursed me
as I deliriously rambled from
some strange fever.

The times we went to plays,
browsed in book shops, or just
doodled on each others
passion spent, basking bodies.

These are the things you
left behind, indelibly etched
in me.

How I wish I were a bird , that
I can molt memories, and
begin afresh.