Sunday, May 31, 2009



-- What comes as tears and tributes
are the words that you have left behind.
On my part, I have always looked at
obituaries with an unease and sneer
and today, I pen the rain of the dark
clouds of sorrow your death has
left behind,
we have written volumes about you
your daring and candor and the way
you fetished your body and talked
with pride, at times contradicting
your true lies, we wondered
about the free soul that hid behind
the veil and talked endlessly about
the rights and wrongs of the
'woman' in you

When I met you as a young girl
you were all smiles and bangles, wrapped
in a kanjeevaram, the coquetry did not end
with the shy smile with which you evaded
a bunch of curious girls who wanted to know
if the story was indeed your own. We too,
infatuated with Carlos, tried to dig deep,
while you steered your body towards
the spirit, Carlos was your Krishna,
there we stood enamoured with
our poetess whom we read
for ages for our alphabets and metaphors
just to miss out the vital, the spine
in her letters which spoke out volumes
of courage and strength behind
those bangled giggles....

sadly you didnt matter as long as you were alive
now in your absence, this vacuum you left
behind transubstantiated by a treasure cove
of words and the knowledge of our bodies,
not the shame, unanchored by your presence,
we lost our prophet whom we didnt care much
in our homeland as long as you were alive
Now the media blare out your greatness, playing
up with a sad sitar in the background
and critics who called you either a slut
or a deranged soul spread jasmines
of praise over your shroud. You had discarded
these flowers and nourished your
verse with their flotsam decay ages ago.
you loved and laughed at your fame
wallowed and shrank in its glare,
a schizophrenic as you call yourself,
In your honest daring you challenged
all you ought to have challenged
deceiving the world with your bangles
and anklets,
Kamala, you left behind
a pride of words and a sea of thoughts
and this void where your voice reaches
us from nowhere to touch and soothe ourselves.

Wednesday, May 13, 2009

I listen to complains in the
background, just to close my eyes
and dream of the perfect posture
of our bodies fitted in like a
self-aligning ball bearing, the
husk and the kernel, my excesses
carved into your hollows, your
muscles melting into my skin,
your skin sheathing my nakedness.
Probably I was sleeping all along
till you broke it with a hug under
the covers that stayed with me
all night, probably I sweated
in my sleep and disturbed your
snores greased with passion,
even shook you up in your apnea
unconsciously, but in your arms
that wound me, and the shoulder
blade where I cushioned my head
there was an assurance that I
begged, which I failed to feel
in moments of conscious living

Tuesday, May 12, 2009

Yes, We Write and Love

Icons have survived fatwas erased by time’s waves
And died eventful deaths with epitaphs engraved
On their tombstones, they have fought not being
Wieldy, they have often missed your body’s warmth

When you were in love, wanting to be loved
She dared the world with a whiplash on her
Tongue, sandpaper printed with words that hurt ,
Cleaned; abrasive they mumbled frowning

and she was ready to be writ on water

Women have committed suicide, they have also written
waging war against their lovers and husbands, haven’t
they also printed after not having slept with a drooling
publisher, they have washed out their blunders in
a mugful of water, while searching for the ocean’s

deep found only in your eyes, the bottomless chill
had scared them as well as stirred their loins.

In the end did they die convinced that love was all
and fame nothing at all? Or did they sense love was
an illusion they pursued like words and verses?

Or was that sheer joy in living that defined love which
surpassed all compunctions stringed in moral hanks.
Or was it like the sorrowful river that flowed on with
Inexplicable pleasure twirls that told us the tale of
a union of opposites, raked up adages that we grew up with.

When the blossoms of childhood died with a stench
When they bloomed again in late summer, didn’t we
Wait for a winter that killed flowers with a chill?

In the pleasure of wading sinful love
Didn’t we contemplate again and again on
Death etched on our beloved’s faces?
Eventually when the eventide turned over
Didn’t we turn back instead of rolling on?
And when we turned back there was a river
frozen to its core, that stood white and still
waiting for a thaw and the season’s roll.


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