Saturday, September 5, 2015

The Idol Maker's Prayer

To you who sits serenely on her chariot,
thronged by hordes of mad devotees;

to you whose brilliance bursts through burnished bronze
 never quite buried under layers of silk and fragrant garlands;

to you whose smile is a lotus just starting to bloom,

I, being a petty mortal, am always aware
that the whole world dances to your whims.

You are
the fecundity of green paddy fields
and cracks on parched earth of a long drought.

You are
a house filled with the laughter of children
and cries of women with barren wombs.

You are
the comfort of full coffers
and a beggar's empty bowl.

But as I lie prostrate before you,
I desire nothing,
except to mould you with my own hands.
All over again.

No matter how hard I try,
I can never numb this
piercing pang of separation.
I can never forget
that I birthed you
and you birthed me.
But who birthed whom?

You're a daughter I'm about to lose
to your bronze counterpart;
he's dying to wed you
just to bed you
in the sanctum sanctori
of a timeless temple.

You were
the germ of a Goddess in beeswax
as you flowed through my fingers
and filled yourself out.

You were
pliable clay with which I caressed
the lotus blossom of your bosom.

You were
bliss that became solid
like the clay that caked your body.

You were
a spurting stream of molten beeswax
that gushed out in the heat of the moment.

You were
a hollow womb
yearning for more than just pleasure.

You were
green glowing bronze
straight from the furnace of frenzied devotion,
with which I filled the aching void of your being.

You were
a babe becoming a Goddess
in her secure cocoon- a womb of clay.

You were
agony tearing me apart
when I cracked open your hardened cast.

You were
no longer mine
when I carved your eyes
with a golden chisel,

you became Devi
when you opened your eyes to the world.

Wednesday, April 1, 2015

All that glitters is not gold.
All that's gold does not glitter.

Wednesday, June 11, 2014

When i have nothing to do
i hate to have nothing to do;
and when i have something to do
i hate to have something to do.
Whether to do or not to do,
tell me folks, what should i do?

Wednesday, May 7, 2014

My First Sonnet Minus Meter

When will this dense deluge abate?
Has time locked up this instant of gloom
and thrown away its key to freeze my fate?
Clouds of foul moods as dark as doom
come with gusts of tempestuous tempers
to lighten their burdens of torments over me.
They are so many- i can't remember
when it was i was happy and free.

I've barred my door and closed my windows;
yet their panes rattle my peace of mind.
I've retreated inside to cushion the blows
but all my efforts have been undermined.

It's cowardice that cuts deeper than a knife.
God, give me courage to walk through strife.

Sunday, April 27, 2014

A Suitable Girl for My Son

This is a poem that describes the sad plight of many Indian women who are thrust into the marriage market. I wrote this from the point of view of a mother-in-law. Please bear in mind that i don't at all endorse anything i've written here. I'm completely against it.

Let me see what she has in her purse.
Let me total all her assets.

Is she tall and pretty and fair?

Is her skin as
velveteen and unblemished
as a newborn's buttock?
Is it a warm shade of peaches and cream?
Does it give a pearly glow
when she pulls back her pallu?

Is her hair
long and thick and lustrous?
Does it ripple behind her back
and fan out like a monsoon cloud
when she loosens her bun
to retire for the night?

Can the curve of her waist be discerned?
Are her breasts big enough
to fill my son's palms?

Are her hips wide enough
to securely cocoon an heir in her womb?

Has she been to school and college?
Can she speak English like an Angrez?
Will she be an arm candy to my son
for his numerous work parties?

What wealth can i wrest from her father?
How much will her dowry
add to our coffers?

Are her rotis as round as mine?
Can she darn torn clothes?
Can she whip up a feast
at a moment's notice?
Can she keep calm in the face of
bawling babies and domestic catastrophes?

Will she stay at home to do the
cooking, washing, bartan, jhadoo and pocha?

Or will she abandon her family
to shamelessly chase dreams?

Let me see her and then decide
whether she'll ever be
as good to my son
as I am to my husband.

Some terms which need explaining are-
pallu- veil
roti- it's a form of unleavened bread
bartan- dishes
Angrez- Englishman

Wednesday, April 16, 2014

Wipe Your Slate Clean

Wipe your slate clean off all
the world has written on it.

Wipe off every single prejudice
that history and culture have
conspired to blinker you with.

Wipe off all you've been made
to like and dislike.

Wipe off
the good and the bad,
right and wrong,
happiness and sadness,
joy and grief.

Wipe yourself off yourself.

You'll see the world
like you've never seen it before.

Sunday, April 6, 2014


Think, write, scratch
go on go on go on go
scratch, write, think.