Aquarius, the water-carrier

The parched road eases past the village,
As the sun sears apart her clefts.
She does not tarry, yet watches patiently
How a helpless vagabond totters across her belly,
Into the village in search of a pod of water.
The road keeps moving withal.
She would not linger now,
Because that is her karma and that is her curse.

The wilted pilgrim sat down to rest beneath the birch,
A village-belle approached with measured steps;
Curious and Timid, a pail of water on her hips.
The road smiled and returned to look up again.
Glistening. Yearning. Imploring. Prolonging.
She does not blink.
She waits with even breath for her man,
For Aquarius, the water-carrier,

Whose needles of passion impinge innocently,

Soothes, softens and lulls.

Before plowing into and gashing out her flimsy sinews.

In a blistering afternoon such as this,
When your bruises get numb with protracted pain,
When dried rivulets of sweat track your temples,
A nagging tease...
The panacea of rain, I wish I could give to thee!

My Burnt Cigarette

You have died.

Your ashes now swim in the Ganges.
The blokes you once bullied, still look out, at times, into the starry sky.
Silently.
But your lucky friends, the conformists, fold their arms, sigh and say-
"Good Riddance... He should have died hereafter..."

You revolted with needles.
The mist of your eyes got clouded by your own smoke.
You could barely see;
You groped around and you tripped.

Face down, you stared on.

The black mirror staring back, in the misty darkness.

You lost hope and you died thereafter.
You sucked, injected and swallowed your hours,
You spat out angry blood
When we hooted and tweeted our insipid joys.

You called me on your birthday.
You had enough of your whores.
I should have heard it then, but I was busy smelling my own perfume.

I want to say you are still there;
That the tunes of your stupid parodies haven't lost a note.

That you look like a handsome Chinese monkey with curly hair.
I want to say, that my burnt cigarette is still burning...

It was the fall of spring.
The days got warmer.
You stubbed your last cigarette out and drank your last pint.
You looked warmly at your spilling ash-tray.

The doctor said that your heart was weak,
It could not hold through.
I know better.
Of course, it didn't!

(In fond memory of Samiran who died on 5th April, 2008)

The Phoenix Song

I feel betrayed.
My love swells up inside my throat
And falls down to depths unsounded.
My fantasies smell of burnt petrol
And rusted lamp-posts laugh at my naive dreams.

The eagle has swooped down today, flying far beneath
To listen to the boy with curly hair sing a haunting melody.
That music bloates my heart.
And a fistful of silken strands strangles me.

I mutter fervent prayers;
Close my eyes and wait:
But the music still bloates
And the silken strands still strangle.
I feel as if I am finally banished to this spinning gyre.


But then, one day a morning dawns sedately-
The boy with curly hair begins a different song.
The olden music isn't lost and the strands aren't gone either;
I can still feel my love aching inside my heart
And yet... my heart floates.