Thursday, 11 September 2014

This Time

This time I grew up.
Didn't delete a single picture or message,
Didn't burn down memories, Didn't cloud my mind.
This time I didn't cry.
But next time around, I'll be ruthless.
I'll judge you for your queer smile.
I'll mock your accent and stare at your scars
I'll stop to breathe before I let your scent into my lungs
This time I'll not make you my comfort. 
I won't let you become the essence of my being 
I won't let you touch my soul
No, not this time
Because this time I won't love you.

As is amply clear, I'm trying to write more and more poetry. I have been a regular at The Poetry Club, Mumbai for the past year and its unbelievable. So if you are in Mumbai and would like to read out your poems in the midst of fellow poets write to them at

Monday, 8 September 2014

Forty Two

So, what is the point of it all anyway?
Life, universe and everything?
Why do I wake up each day and go to work
Tired even before I'm started.
Fixated on goals I don't remember setting
Working for people I don't like
Why? Such an earthling question to ask.

When all I want to do is write.
I want to write about honey filled buttercups     
And sun kissed peaches   
Of curly hair that just won’t be tamed 
About kindled spirits and broken dreams
I want to write about values and cultural extremes
I want to write about frail eyes but strong hopes
And about sunlight that creeps in from between thin leaves
About raindrops that tap on my window, hoping to be let in
About myths and prophecies 
And about rivers that always meet the vast seas

But all I do is shake my pillow violently each morning.
Hoping that the dreams I lost that night would tumble out
So I read, about others that let go.
In between scandals and violence
Are dreams coming true, silently breeding hope
Like the wind knocking on your heart for a chance to blow away misery.
Like living each day with the wonderment of the child 
that saw his first magic trick
And there are those many pages later
In between real estate and oddly shaped classifieds
A lost soul, a mourning, a life
With incomplete dreams? Perhaps
Or maybe a lifelong of happiness and contentment

And here I am at an age of misconstrued ideas and confused ambitions
At crossroads that lead nowhere or everywhere.
And I hear myself whisper "It's always a choice."

(For those who didn't get the reference in the title. Douglas Adams in his book the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy, writes about a computer called Deep Thought that takes 7 million years to find the answer to Life, Universe and Everything and the answer is 42. So yeah, this is my Life Universe and Everything poem or something like that.)