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
jhadoo-sweeping
pocha-mopping
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

Pallindrome

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

Thursday, March 13, 2014

The Pianist and the Ballerina

He tunes his piano
She ties her point├ęs.

He sits on his stool
She takes center-stage.

He plays the opening note
The spotlight flashes on her.

He can only hear the crowd's loud cheers
She can only see eyes upon her regal body.

He glues his eyes to his sheets
She fixes her mind upon her movements.

His fingers move mechanically along the keys
Her limbs sway to the tune of precise timing.

He has played this score hundreds of times
She has rehearsed her steps to faultless perfection.

He lets his memory guide his fingers
She lets her limbs free to do their own work.

He steals a glance at her
She opens her ears to lilting melody.

Those sheets of notes cease to exist;
He's busy composing his heart's birdsong.

She is no longer a puppet in the audience's hands
Her soul leaps joyfully towards new-found release.

She is his music
and he's her dance.


Friday, February 21, 2014

Addressed to No One Anyone Knows Of

You can
piss on my feelings
all you want;
and get away with it.

You're a giant
and i'm a peashooter.

You're friendly popular
tried tested and trusted.
(Or so it seems.)

I'm the caustic irreverent
'rebel without a cause'
(Or so the world thinks.)
My existence itself is profane.

You can easily dismiss me
with a languid wave of your hand.
I'll be swatted away like a fly.

But each blow of yours
hammers steel into shape.

One day you wouldn't be able
to wish me away,
not when there are many of me.