narratives

(i)

along corners of buildings,
in shadows of crowded streets,
as red lights turn to green,
people hurry.

a broken button, a stolen purse,
a fallen slipper, forgotten books,
the city gathers these
like a magpie.

it picks up distractions,
expressions on faces
just before laughter,
lingering smells of
the tired and the melancholic.

obviously, cities can tell
quite the story.

(ii)

the familiar know
the inviting lights
of marketplaces,
the fading greys
of oft used roads,
the sound of snores
on busy afternoons.

and i, i am
but the enraptured audience
of a master story-teller.

i watch hagglers of prices of cloth,
their tricks and counter-tricks,
like a game of chess
between two best friends
always playing
the same first moves.

children crossing roads
with habitual precision,
fruit vendors on roads
or people sitting on park benches,
reading the newspaper.

nothing puts them off,
not even the rain.

(iii)

when everything is new,
there is no guilt in loneliness.

for amusement, i walk
old streets with older stories,
i sit by myself
in coffee shops
to read magazines,
i scout bookstores
whose every book
the owners know,
in cinemas i look
at people's faces instead.

as souvenirs, i collect
evidences of stories.
i wonder where couples
come from in the trains,
what worries line
the child's face,
whether the man
in the tight jeans
has had sex yet.

i take pictures in my mind
of pink houses with no doors,
of homes in slums
with air conditioners,
of the woman sitting
with big bags
in the bus stop,
of old people riding rickshaws
on crowded streets.

(iv)

the wind is but
an old acquaintance.
it carries a tune
from times past -
a gentle reminder
of my own song,
one that my heart
once sang to me.

new people in old cities,
we always sing our songs
carefully.

if i could whistle,
i would have done.
i hum it instead
hoping
that my feet will follow.

like nostalgia,
the notes are made
of warmth and
gushing emotion
that surely belong
to some time else,
having the edge
of something completed.

**
reworked from here:

http://head-start.blogspot.in/2010/09/narratives.html

Sita

I am Sita.

Why do you ask?

Is it because
of my silence
or my rebellion?

Which offends you?
Which takes
your breath away?
Which makes you
want to brush me away
or take me for granted?

Tell me, why
do you think that I
would wait within boundaries
you draw for me?

Why would I not flirt
with strangely garbed men
who come knocking at my door?

If they spout ten heads,
would I scream in a fit of rage,
or cower submissively,
and let myself be taken away?

I am Sita.

Why do you care?

Is it because
of my seeming conformity,
my life within a life?

Which soothes you?
Which makes you feel
I am like any person
you would encounter
on the road?

Answer me, why
must I not go where
I please, dream of
love-making in forests
while monkeys and trees watch
in voyeuristic nonchalance?

You would protect me,
you say, you with more
than just Bala, you
who have experienced Atibala,
you would hold me dear,
fight wars for me.

You would abandon me,
just when I allow myself
to be tamed: a Queen,
by any standard?

Let me not lie to you then,
I am she,
and yet, I am not.

I am Sita.

**

reworked from here:
http://head-start.blogspot.com/2011/02/myth.html

trepidation

love letters in my mind
are all for you, i find.

i don't mail them or tweet them:
quite like secrets, i treat them.

i push them into pink envelopes
patterned with blue hearts and empty hopes.

pages and pages of length comes easy
(but the same for work would make me queasy).

what would we do, if we were lovers -
kiss, flirt and give each other flowers?

true, while i don't care for you -
in my mind, i write to you.

i wonder if you know
that i write to you so.


**

(this came out of a bet with A who wanted me to write something rhyming "flowers" and "lovers".)

stationery

i'll carry around a
little yellow scribble pad
when i'm with you.

when you're not looking,
i'll make little notes about
things i ought to remember:

'bites nails when bored'
'hair curly when drunk'
'sings stupidly while driving'

i'll commit to memory
little details about you
that even you don't notice:

'eats left over cake crumbs with fork'
'holds down right corners of pages of books'
'thinks dinosaurs still exist'

but if i forget the bigger things:
like when your birthday is
or what you do for a living,

please know that i'll have
enough even without this
to blackmail you with.

**

"A poet never takes notes. You never take notes in a love affair."
- Robert Frost.

shelving

i couldn't tell you
what it is like
to finish a book.

do you forget people
whose thoughts have been closer
to you than yours
(for mere hours sometimes,
whole years, sometimes)?

do you leave behind lives
whose moments you have stretched
into your life from theirs
(fall in love with their ears, perhaps,
find counsel in their fears, perhaps)?

don't you have nostalgia
set aside for old friends
in your life and theirs
(beers, (cheers!), leering at similar rears,
tears, peers, wearing similar brassieres)?

i couldn't tell you
what it is like
to finish a book.

butterflies

it's been a long time

since you've given me
butterflies.
(i miss them.
they miss you.)

bookends

corners of streets don't see
more than beggars and coins
and homeless people's blankets;
children playing hide and seek
lovers waiting patiently or
people walking mindlessly by.

don't be fooled by sounds
of haggling over peas
of chatter at bus stops, footsteps at subways.
don't be fooled by smells
of cigarettes and chai
of rush hour traffic or sunday afternoons.

they don't see hope
or love or people moving on;
they don't see day,
routine or people holding on;
they don't see night
or sleep or people giving up.

in spite of this, i write
- a fool for smells and sounds,
romantic by day
and idiot by night -
about love and hope
and people stuck routinely
in corners.