an unsighted leap
from the caverns
of land and sea
to the chills of a city
conceited skin-deep
and what lies in between
are trenches,
alternatively replaced by
thick and thin memories
a hybrid lemonade
a glassful of hybrid lemonade

a rain

the sky spreads open like an umbrella
to the star that predicts
a season of uncertainty
to the tree,
that awaits golden zephyr
to the bees
that have no place to nest
to the soil
that witnesses a cremation day after day
to the wind
that's lost in transit
to the toys
that fancy other eyes
to the autumn
that carries burnt maple leaves
to a heart
glistened in soulless memories

finally

Chennai,

A city that reads before it speaks

A sea that treats fish-breeder and eater equally

A rain that wets all but quenches none

a road that's safe even for a beautiful blind dame

a bus that greets politely to the beggar

a language that befuddles you but seldom belittles you

a dish that can be tasted only on sweaty fingers

a beach that storms you with aspirations

a jasmine that makes you sneeze until you wear it

a sky that undergoes frequent mood-swings

a crow that replaces pigeon in tamil films

a book that is categorically artsy

a dance that is performed till you retire

a raga that one learns in mother's womb

a drink that filters you from the mediocre

a film that is whistled more than its watched

a cosmetic-shop that only stocks fairness creams

a vehicle that is designed to rob you of your money

a tree that births weighty coconuts but seldom tires

a temple that has more shrines than devotees

a map that makes you lose your sense of direction,
particularly north.

a fallen leaf,
sicken yellow.
singing prose and lulling

a fallen leaf

a fallen leaf,
sicken yellow.
singing prose and lulling rose
asleep on earth's torso
worry-less, penny-less
hanging indifferently to breeze
like wax on the candle
like bubble on the soap
dying tomorrow, dying now

Coffee and me

At the street
as the wind rustles
the banana leafs
a motion complimenting
tyre and wheels
he puts me out of gear
served in an earthen ware
to the road that leads
and road that bleeds
to the moments of rush
people sipping hush hush
while the world leaps forward
i lean back,
reminiscing with my bean bag

At work:
Amidst the cloud of sounds
a chuckle or a frown
he kick-starts my refuge
to the oblivious deluge
of matters that never matter
and words that aimlessly flatter
of curses that never cease
from mouths that pretend to be at ease
while the world brainstorms
i switch off,
to the music that enhances
the sound of sips

On the bed:
as the bats takeover
tumble and hover
proclaiming another end
to the daily fend
he opens my eyes
and heavies my vice
to brew words that mean
and stir focus to the screen
as the world sleeps
in the world of darkness
i colour my dream
to the brink of dawn
i colour it cream.

Adyar Footbridge: a descriptive

A sentinel of human speed, this bridge never sleeps as he bears the burden of his daily pedestrians and their baggage, both physical and mental.



The kind of company he keeps has a lot to do with his shabbiness; from paupers to rag-pickers and hobos who hovel in the stairway that leads up to his torso.



Wallowing in dollops of fresh breeze, he bears the distinct musk of wet-wrought iron and sports a grubby look. An occasional growth of lichens on his skin adds to his texture. It seems he only bathes when it rains.



Things always look stunning from his perspective The sun retires in a golden haze; soon, the bohemian birds of twilight race against the tinted machines in a neon world, painting a reverie that can bewilder the hoi polloi who trudge across his expanse; the silken moonlight falls upon the trees; the echoes of the husky engine throb in his metallic chest.



He is aging rapidly. He wobbles with every step, and every roll; withering away into a diaspora of rust. A lonely sentinel, he stands in the midst of two crowded roads.

A little tribute to ECR*

there is innocuous charm in running away. so what's if it's a half-day get-away for an academic assignment. The sweaty bus-rides of chennai have become my latest fancy. The thrill of getting to the destination in the most absurdest of ways. It calls for handsome cliches but the irony lies in their actuality; wind in your hair resulting into exorbitant goosebumps that succeed.

It is an interesting feeling to be leered by locals while forming their queer assumptions about you, ranging from being a foreign national to a local hippie(how i revel in these). Their juvenile giggles and in your face stares. My encounters have so far been ingratiating in multiple ways. Whoever defined communication in the diaspora of language needs to be sleep-shaken.

I board buses riding on my instincts but often aided by locals who swell with pride in helping a pseudo distressed traveler. The bus-conductors ensure you don't sneak into privy slumbers through jarring Tamil videos that trail in your memory like fancy-dress ghosts. The village women do it subtler ways which means an overdose of jasmine injected in to your laryngitis and the passage beyond. I seek unimaginable comfort in the male fraternity that dare not ogle at you in a women-dominated vehicle(whoever talked of Tamil nadu being a matriarchal society)

In such good-willed environs one can't help dropping his guards. All the reasons that make my solo-trips a refreshing piece of memory every individual time. Today after my trip to crocodile bank which is some 42 km away from chennai, I felt enormously well-suited for roads. The roads that guarantee a bounty of experiences. The ones that lap you after adopting thousands before you. The roads that defy the purpose of gigantic buildings and redefine living all together.

* East Coast Road connecting Chennai all the way to Cuddalore.

If one believes in the correlation between epidermis-blisters and guitar skills, i deserve to be inhabited in the hall of fame of rock n roll. In the past 72 hours i have developed sores akin to shoe bites. Now my fingers and toe-nails look like brother and sister born to same parents, unlike previous lengthy differences between the two.

it's true, sheltering yourself in someone's music composition in inexorably easy than building your own. It's only when you do music, you feel feverishly intimate with it. Yes, i experienced laughter spasm when my teacher spelled out "fingering-exercises" for me. Only to be shadowed by exultation of dancing notes on the fingers.

a canyon of inferno
your eyes,
skirting the nicotine sores

blackhole

a canyon of sorrow
your eyes,
in the abyss of nicotine
floating across,
the ocean of milky-way
bereft of emotions,
but full of life
humming but noiseless
as you draw,
the curtains of your gaze
a gaze that consoles
my previous sores