An Ode to Shahid

“The world is full of paper
Write to me”, Shahid said.
But can I revive you
In mere words?

The broken flowers
That flew down to me from your land
Will they retain
The smell that must have
Lingered on your fingers?

There still lies
An empty cup at my sill
You promised to fill it to the brim
With stories of your winter mornings
I watch it struggle to contain
Droplets of the treacherous sun

An unfamiliar tune
Still meddles my head
From your rusty harmonica
I trapped that moment in a picture
But let you go
Will a letter help me
Get rid of that song in my dreams?

Under my breath
I still whisper in your tongue
Those names you taught me
How do you beckon a lover?
I wrote them over and over
But the door isn’t answered anymore

The stories are undone
The songs unravelled
The flowers, brittle, broken
I did write to you,
As an ode to Shahid
But the mail has lost its way
In the foggy nooks of time
Perhaps memory will show mercy
And rescind the leftover quiet
That renders my mourning
Asunder.

Imagine...

Imagine, cradling your babe
Gurgling at the sound of the twilight birds
Laughing at their ruckus,
Dancing to their songs
And suddenly going blind.

Imagine, walking across the street
To soothe a neighbour's incessant wails
At the loss of her only son
To the bullet gone astray
Your eyes stinging in the teargas
Your walking on the red snow
Only to find
That your own lies there
Riddled with a nation's hatred

Imagine, a chance
To run your fingers
Through your loved one's hair
Under the frozen cherry tree
From your childhood
Hand-in-hand
You take her along
Through those memories from yesteryears
Little did you know
That you would soon become
Nothing more than a memory, yourself

Imagine, walking out of home
To buy milk
For abu's morning nun chai
He has always liked it prompt
But you left him waiting
Never to return

Imagine, knitting a bonnet
For the little life within you
That could never be wrapped
In anything more
Than your cold, lifeless body

Imagine all of this
And imagine it to be
Every day, every hour, every minute
Of your existence
Stuck with that pungent odour
Of the charred remains
Of your ancestral house

Can you smell it yet?
My collective conscience is ablaze.

Coherence...

I shall write to you,
When the words drizzle
On the parched lips
Of my forgotten parchment...
And the train rattles
Over the rickety bridge...

I shall wind you up
In long, seamless sentences...
Our bodies in synchrony...
Your thoughts, enmeshed
In the barbs of my desire...
You shall provoke in me
The art of melting free...

I shall douse you
In the downpour of letters...
And you shall emerge,
Drenched in my coherence...
While your afterthought
Gives my language,
A new meaning...

Till then,
I must satiate myself
With tracing the outlines
Of your memory...
As I rest my pen
Restlessly.

Mincing Goodbyes...

Today, the morning is different.
The hoarse crow
And the distant rumble
Of construction
Remain constant.
The aromas of condiments
From my neighbours'
Still entice my hunger...
But the skies are awash
With ashes
Of a life, well-sung...

It seems like you've finally heard
Of my goodbyes.
The breeze tells me
You can't whisper one back...
...so you wish to sweep me off
In your torrential embrace...
And light up the wet crevices
Of my corridors,
With the lightning of your sighs...

Just so you know...
I can hear you cry...
As you incense my skin
Transforming your longing
Into goosebumps...
Just so you know
We must try to get by...
While I walk away
Frozen,
Leaving me behind...

(To my beloved city...)

The Resurrection...

I'm seething in your mind.
Your fury is in labour.
I await
The unleashing that you put off...

The cracks are growing.
And I can see you look
Through the crevices
In the door,
That you shut on me.

I sang the last song
Solitary.
Like no one was listening.
But echoes, they travel...
Your ears
Will not stop ringing.

And whenever you'll look
Out from the window,
Peeking through
The curtains of denial

You will see
How my whispers
Explode.
And the din shall be
Unbearable...

My spectre,
Too stirring
To ignore...

[Dedicated to Rohith, the scientist, activist and poet]

Post-its in my mind...

I need to write.
I've not spoken
To you, in a while.
How have you been?
What have you seen?
How many songs
Did you not sing today?
Which tree
Is your secret keeper?
How long
Since you looked up from the phone
And saw
Unmediated reality?
Is there any?
Will we ever know?
Will we look into
Each other's eyes
And see content?
Will we seek it?
Will there be a moment
In time,
When you and I
Will coalesce
And believe
That you are
What you've wanted to be?
They're just thoughts
I've been having,
Pondering away the futile...
While you were looking
Through the mirror,
Waiting to let out a sigh...
So tell me,
How have you been?
Where have you wandered?
What have you seen?

Of Smells...And Stenches...

Till when
Shall heaven,
Decay
Within mass graves,
Under the drunken smell
Of apples and blood?
How many
Shall remain,
To form a people,
To dream in fetters,
To die in letters, 
To bear the brunt
Of our cartographic lust?
How long
Shall we fool our reflection?
How often
Must we wash our hands?
Will ablution chip away
At this rusted sanctum,
And cleanse us
From the stench
Of a charred identity?
For my veins,
And thine,
Have enmeshed like vines...
Frozen. Still.
Through the travesty
Of time...
And when we tend
To the clots...
Sit down,
Take a pause,
We shall trip over
The undulating bed
Of coalesced bodies...
And the riddled milestone
Shall finally ask
Is it this?
Is it this?
Is it this?

[Title of the poem inspired by a Children's book written by Sara Joseph and illustrated by Koonal Duggal]