Boxes

You boxed me,

I boxed you,

Boxes are spaces,

Restricted places,

Hollow,

Closed,

Demarcated,

Instantly demarcated

By You.

Wait,

Me too.

Why do you think

We are boxed?

Because,

We don’t talk.

But you greet me,

And I do too.

Can your box make space

For another to fit,

Without feeling innate?

No,

I did not say mine.

Wait.

Two boxes of equal size,

Cannot fit inside each other,

And survive.

One has to listen,

One has to speak,

One has to stuff,

One has to vomit,

One has to drink,

The other leak,

One has to reduce,

The other eat.

So as a way

For the two to co-exist,

Is to stay in the box,

The box made for thee.

Open the box,

Let me breathe,

I just came to look,

Not fit into it.

I hear a solution,

Suggested by you,

If one box becomes small,

Then with ease it can fit too.

Did I hear,

Hear you say,

Ordered me to make

My box small today?

Once, twice, thrice

I don’t remember figures

I have done it already,

And you still have not bothered.

What is the guarantee?

If I make my box small today

You will accommodate me.

I don’t need to fit,

I don’t need to squeeze,

I don’t need any more gurantees,

Like the Aquaguard water purifier

Leaking meekly,

Even under the

Lifetime warranty.

I will give you a suggestion,

You don’t have to follow,

Make your box larger,

Or have the guts to throw,

Me,

You or

The N₂O.

The Scientist

When no one looks

I prance across

The infinite steps

Wrapped in

Red warm rum.

I am alone in this

Manly mansion,

Trying to earn a

Handsome sanction.

My world revolves around

Moons and stars

Rockets transcending

Earthly hours.

I spend long hours

Researching the globe

And wonder how huge

The macrocosm flows.

I love to be like this alone

Beautiful

Seductive

Like Latifa glows.

The strong noises my boots make

Makes me want to dance today.

I keep your picture

Under my bed

Oh God! Almighty

Do not protect me today.

I want to be free

I want to dance

I don’t want to think

About all the science.

I don’t want to follow

Rules and steps

I just want to dance

Over the warm red velvet.

No clothes clad me

I am free,

To take you far,

Far away with me,

In the rocket

I specially

Built for thee.

Dhobi Ghaat

Part 1

I want to watch dhobi ghaat

But not with you

You watch it alone

And I will too.

Why?

Did you ask?

Because,

I know

Love can make my heart

Warm

And give me an illusion

That the visuals were

Strong.

Part 2

Lights Off

Green seats

Velvet

A, B, C, D…….. K

Second last row

Couple Sitting close

Thrashers Bashers

All across rows

There is no passion

There is no love

It is too blue

No one has a clue.

Shoo…Shoo

Shhh… Shhh

La… La…Lah

I will check the email

Right away Sir

Why do you lie?

Prateek looks hot

So does the guy

Next to me

Crunching cheese popcorn

With utmost glee.

I wanted to breathe

So, I did try

Inhaled the air

Filled with the smells

Of nachos and fries.

I guess its space

Which builds the taste

I do not need any garnishes.

Belly Talks

Hello…

I hope you can hear me,

Knock Knock…

Oh!

You are moving and grooving.

Your inability to listen is

Very very irritating.

Well,

I am responsible for it,

Just wanted to tell you that.

Stuffing you with layers of chocolate,

French fries, kaathi rolls

And more muck.

The layers have increased,

So, you have become deaf.

You have a fear

That you cannot escape.

Do not worry,

I have learnt to say NO,

My love for those straight black pants

At Vera Moda,

Is going to flow.

The Remy Martins

Can give you a kick,

So can the crunchy salads,

Garnished with black olives.

I feared you got too much attention,

But I knew you wanted all of it.

So whenever I switched my lifestyle,

You burnt me and made me cry,

For Food, For Love, For Wrath, For more

Why are you so selfish?

Why can’t you let things go?

Well, I just wanted to say,

I have learnt to say NO,

And all the flabby layers of adipose,

Which feigned for my protection

Have to go.

When something goes,

I try to replace,

That feeling of emptiness,

By stuffing you

With more disgrace.

No longer will the straight black dress

Have a bump,

Or the Levis zipper will scream for closure,

And my fingers will become numb.

I am angry at You,

For not being able to say,

NO… NO… NO

Please stop it dear mate.

You had a voice too,

But You wanted to wait,

For me to realize,

Stop eating blueberry cheesecake.

Well, all I just wanted to say,

I have learnt to say NO,

My dear deaf mate.

I Still Eat Cheese

The emptiness and warmth of cheesy bites

Makes me pretend to be saintly and nice.

Whether She will marry a doctor

Or He a whore,

I don’t really care,

Just don’t plague me anymore.

Was I really there?

When the avalanche came

And made you scared.

I need cheese and

I need it now.

I slept with you,

In a warm wooden room,

In your archaic mansion.

The innumerable rooms

Looked like a maze

Of class room sections.

I did not molest you

I did not kidnap you

And ask for a huge ransom.

Thoughts float

In the labyrinths

Of my brain.

I remember you Rose

And how you lost

Your sixth sense.

Times have changed,

Distances have grown,

You have moved to Canada,

And I sit right now

On a hill top

In Uganda.

I bite into cheese

The most expensive one,

And I don’t have to kidnap you

And beg for your time.

Sharda

The light seeps in through the crevices of the haveli that stands incongruously in the dry and barren lands of Chittauni, located in Uttar Pradesh, India. The intricate mesh like patterns carved carefully on the numerous dividers and doors segregate the magnanimous haveli into spaces for mere existence but maybe not living.

Her hands unfold as she rises from a sacred early morning Puja session, praying to the Gods and Goddesses to bless her entire family for a peaceful existence, silently wishing for her own liberation as well.

She silently prays for an unknown freedom, an inexperienced emotion in her lifetime and ardently wishes that her grand daughter Saloni does not go through the stifling atmosphere that she experiences everyday.

The patriarchal society of India with its rich and historic traditions maybe a colourful and stylish iconography for cultural modernity for the myriad NRI’s thronging this Nation for photography and yoga, but it has metamorphosized Sharda’s world into a claustrophobic habitat of inert existence.

As she moves around the myriad corridoors with her arthiritic limbs spreading the light of the morning puja all around the haveli, her mind fluctuates to the numerous tasks that need to be completed for the day so that her aged husband of 70 can live comfortably.

She still remembers the day of her marriage, the way according to Indian traditions she was dressed with solah sringaar, the careful washing of her body with ubtan, the insertion of gold bangles studded with diamonds onto her wrists, the detailed application of mehendi on the palms and the gentle piercing of the nose with pearly fortunes. The blessings of so many people have now translated into a vacant bungalow inhabited by an equally desolate couple. It’s a tradition to cook for the husband. So no matter how weak in fever she might shiver, the steaming white rice has to be served to Him in the dining room that is far-away from the kitchen.

She breathes with vigour as the chula brightens up and releases flames to engulf the curry to be cooked. The ghunghat covering her face creates an atmosphere so stifling that her mind wanders to far away lands to explore and enjoy. She desires secretly to travel, visit temples at various sites.

The whole day passes to serve her husband and other family members who become rare guests to the bungalows. In all these activities Sharda has been taught to find pleasure. But now, at the end phase of her life cycle she really wonders whether the traditions and norms to be truly imbibed and followed could have been bent.

As her husband shouts out for his meal, Sharda walks with her weakened limbs holding the steel plate traveling through the myriad mesh like dividers and long corridoors to serve her loving life partner, silently praying for his awareness to her quest for freedom.

I hope that freedom comes soon. I pray that the general awareness for what is culturally rich and stagnating is demarcated. I wish the Shola Sringaar of India truly becomes immortal in its meaning than transforming into passive puppets of torture.

Tomorrow

Tomorrow I showcase my learnings,

Learnings that has formed my thinking,

Learnings that has changed me as a person.

Tomorrow I show you what I love,

Tomorrow I show you what I have found,

Tomorrow I end a phase and start a new one.

Tomorrow I discover, once again,

Who I am and what I could be.

Tomorrow, yet again,

I stand to explain,

I stand to justify my findings.

What happens after tomorrow

I do not know.

So I eagerly wait,

To discover tomorrow.