Wednesday, November 30, 2011


The white cement chipped off the edge,
Bird poop scattered parapet.
I had climbed out of my concrete,
A high rise of seventeen,



Thats what others thought,
Every time I would sit for hours,
On the white chipped, pigeon poop

I sat there quietly,
As memories appeared,
Drenching my parched soul,
And blurring my glare.

It is here where I first felt the wind,
It is here where I first blew the rings,
It is here where I first touched your lips,
It is here when I first thought of sins.

It is here, where I first restrained,
When the edge lured me
To fly with the wind,
And enter a world,
Free from sorrows and pain.

It is here, when I first spoke to you,
Away from millions of miles,
Overlooking a muddy football field,
Where local stars played their sport, 
With heart and style.

It is here, where I saw the world moving,
With an unknown pace,
While I rested in disguise,
Amidst a rapid moving maze.

It is here, from where, 
She took her one last flight,
When her girl child was aborted,
After 210 torturous nights.

It is here, where he first intoxicated himself,
To give up on academics, and fly far away.

It is here, where our hands, 
Had shakily touched,
When he said the three magical words, 
Next to the melting wax. 

It is here, that I felt scared,
To go to the other side,
It is here, where freedom dwelled,
Away from over crowded rooms,
And bourgeois lifestyles.

It is here, where I first read, 
The iconic lines,
'Etu Brute'
As tears filled my eyes.

It is here, where I hummed Tagore,
As he caressed my hair,
Miles away through a magnetophone,
Over chat windows shared.

The parapet is no more,
As I visit back my dorm, 
Of 13 years and 23 days,
Of a boarding school in Kalimpong.

Expansion and renovation has made the school pay,
Crores of rupees to make false parapets every day.

The parapet is no more,
It has died a silent death,
Without vicious complaints,
Or any regrets.

I wish I am a parapet,
In love and in life,
A space for deep reflection,
Amongst crowds of infinite disguise.

Sunday, November 27, 2011

Let me remain

In the recesses of the dark
When the tears flow down
And wet the cottons,

When expectations fail
When expressions are like vacuum,

When the blue neon twinkles
And reaches out for your hand,

When the cries remain wounded
And embedded in concrete and sand,

When hypocrisy feigns ego
And normals the disdained,

When all the sounds of night
Amalgamate to haunt,
But, I try to restrain.
When I dream of beauty
I want to dream about you
But you are like vacuum
No feelings, no regrets,
Only sanctity.

I try to feign reality,
You try to feign justice,
We try to feign,
Periods of drama and the silent practices.
It makes us puppets of society.

Can you cut me,
To expose my stuffed wet cotton?
The cotton, so purely woven
By the dwellers of the dark hills,
Before I rot into oblivion,
And the murmur of birds,
Prick my humid skin.

Will you cut me before
He caresses my carcasses,
And kisses me again
And feigns to the masses.

When the tears dry again
And when solitude feigns pain
When the noise fades away
And I wave to never turn again...

I find you again.

On the post it note
Stuck on the blue dusty table,
On the dirty grey backpack
Next to badges of beatles,
In a blue folder of visuals
On my desktop screen,
Inside my dark blue bag
And the half bottle of davidoff
That you gifted me last spring,
In the neon Moutain Dew
Collectors bottle,
Filled with d'leau et l'cool,
That I remember sipping
Among intoxicated masses.

As we continue to stare at screens
As we continue to fool other puppets
The sanctity reveals satan
In the active lives of masses.

Let me not find you again.
Let me be selfish.

Let me remain.