This is my usual journey
The Express train
Tedious - and regular
evoking vague nothingness for
Two Hours.
The page of a book
cheap milky coffee
potato chips
and gazing into nowhere.

Today an Angel like Beauty
sat so dreadfully close 
And didn't even look at me
once during all those boring
hours - Empty

The silly one-act play
As the profane sadly woos 
beauty - in Vain
A fantasy oozing
lust and bad taste
and ofcourse as
all tragedies end
in another death

These days all my nothings
are being filled with sadness
and restless intoxication s
flooding from everywhere
relentlessly
in this soul less suburbia

The Narcissist


He tried to desire others
he tried ... he tried
but then
people
were

grossly impoverished
mediocre and ugly
Or
beautiful and
way too superior

The wild lonely
flower
his
only solace
was  the  other him
sunk  inverted
in water

Boys Do Cry

It was long ago
when he was a child
and hated text books

Every time pearl like tears
oozed out of his eyes
an uncle an aunt or maybe the
rickshaw man who took him to school
would say
"BOYS DON'T CRY "

It took him some time
to know what it was
to be a BOY
and then
to be a MAN
and he knew
it was not right to
have eyes full of tears
with uncles
and aunts
and
yes
friends around him

But I have seen him cry ..

I have seen his eyes glisten
under the darkness of night
or lonely walks through the
mad
love-less
urban shadows

Amidst the lonely
Festival crowds


in love
and out of it

Someday, I wonder
all his angst will form a
large rain cloud
and a deluge will
drench everyone - everything

I'll hear him silently
scream
YES I am a man
and I do Cry

Even the white Parliament
Looks  so green
Through syrup bottles

And broken radio
commentaries on
test match cricket

men in white
play in the fields
open green
and the street vendor sleeps

Water Colour On Silk

In this wooden box
Green
preserved with care
were,
selected memories.

Yesterday, 
carefully
taking off the lid
Thinking of drying the letters
after the damp drizzle

you know how rainy
it has been.

An angry angst of
Black Moths
fluttered out
into light .

Worried,  
Anxious,

fingers
cut with rust.

The
water colour on silk
had turned to dust.

Under the Grey dome of June sky
Alone.
Met Office and his
jaded soul
had yesterday
proclaimed -
Depression.

But then 

The shining blade of
the rain drenched  grass
Green and youthful
Beautiful and proud
oblivious to all around

Something
struck him with wonder
and
Embarrassed,
and embraced by
happy melancholia

he sang a
Rain song

Intoxicating was
last light's moon.

Waking up at noon
delirium  -  confused

Oh !

At my door
wearing green
first monsoon

If only you dissolved in me
like salt in ocean water
inseparable lovers we would be
and the world would bathe in us

Coffee -
the nausea of waking early
Why talk using metaphors ?
Why pour slimy poetry ?
Don't you know what
I am talking about ?

The scribbles - the wall - the ugly
its all just about me

Poems from those days
now lay unloved on the wooden
table -- still moist from last
monsoon

And

the songs still carry
the faint fragrance
of eucalyptus bark
and familiar colognes

Come new rain
Bring new songs
Bring new poems
Bring flowers white
that no one ever saw
just for me
will you ?

From this place
to that
lush hills
dry flats

He traveled
enough
and for long

Taking a pause
he thought
its time now
that I rest
and listen to
some song

but then on his
table wooden
a letter waited

with rain and
breeze from
distant land

and a new walk
began

Photographer at 55

He lived in a forest
in a wooden house
One that smelled of Birch
and tobacco
cherry pipe

The woods had wolves
and he lived alone
Beyond the hills
shady gloom
memories lived
like money in
some bank account

No
It was really a studio
I mean
If you walk down the living room
you'd brush against
curtains green
chequered.

then at the door
a jump cut
to blackness
and
red light
and Ilford
100 ISOs

Yesterday after a
moderate storm
when the wind tracked down the
walls
and the candle flickered

The black telephone
beside the
large photograph
He wished for
the other side
the 30 yrs ago
where a smile was waiting
to say
I'm proud of you
artiste my love

he knew he was quite
a dilettante though

next came rain
and the candle died

and late that night
when the wolves were hunting
he dream't of
Saraghina

32 searches 23
in the mirror

Once he hated
cockroaches
INTENSELY
and loved the
long train
journeys

now the creature is
just a mere insect
and transit times
short and thin

what else could
death mean ..

one hundred years ago
the moist sky -
the black still ocean -
your eyes
Monsoon.

After the storm
cello and flute
Noah's arc
yellow green
and butterflies
fluttering

3rd of may
your teeth
pomegranate seeds
painted lips
brown chop stick
white porcelain -

a crooked fork
with a broken tine
coffee cups with
cracks of time

And
sour lemonade
garnished

with Grey moths
with large
stiff wings

Like a coffee shop
life has been
MEGH thought
while reading
comics

With
people coming
chit chatting
and leaving then
of-course

Leaving nothing
except the faint
hope of the
rendezvous
next one

familiar
acquaintances
some pretty ones

And
rainy days
crimson suns
maintenance
required
shouts everyone

And at night
the last dish wash
all the fancy lights
goes off

only to sleep till
next newspaper brings
fresh fragrance of
brewing coffee

when all that seemed
truer than life itself
vanishes as obviously as death
one can only say
"it was inevitable"

The leaves that fell in
last night's storm
wept to sleep
like hungry children

News ink

bicycle bells

As I sip my tea
and my Kolkata awakes
Kanchenjunga is
Turning Golden

Coffee -
the haze of morning mist
Tuesday.

Restless
in the dark
I didn't notice

a fresh coat of paint
that this wall needs
Or

Did this ugly scar
just happen
last night ?