And then there are days,

Such as these.

When only death,

can come knocking.

To wake you up,

from your slumber.

But that too passes,

like life eternal.

The statue in you,

crumbles not.

It floats along,

on a dead sea.

It neither stinks,

nor rots.

For that, too,

life is a prerequisite.

A City of Eternal Wait

It is time to leave. Wrap up two years of my life and leave behind a city I almost made home. But the thought strikes 'does anyone make Mumbai home'? Or are they all waiting to make it home. It is a city of eternal wait. People are always waiting. Waiting in line. For the train tickets, At the bus stop, to enter the stadium, for a job interview, to reach their stop, to get off at the right station, for their dream job, for the right home, for the perfect boy and on they wait.

Bombay has always been the city of struggle. You never arrive. You constantly strive. Strive for that better car, strive to send more money home, strive to become a star. It is this struggle that makes up the essence of Bombay. And it is this constant striving that never allows the city to grieve, to wallow in self pity. A bomb last, a bloody riot, deadly floods. The city cannot stop. The rich have to party, the poor need to clean up.

As this dawns upon me I wait too. I wait to pack up two years of my life in small suitcases. Brown and Black. I wait to wheel them off the city and into another.

The City by the Sea

I wrap up my time
in the city by the sea,
It watches,
in calm tides,
bags full of memories.

I leave behind a bit of me.
An old habit,
a secret told,
unrequitted love,
cigarettes burnt,
all go up in smoke.

Some salt in my tears,
and stories of the sea.
Two years witnessed by the city,
I carry with me.

A History Disturbed

There was a time in time,

when we flourished without any lines.

The streets were coloured saffron and green,

of kabab's and prasad smelt the streets.

Then history crept up from behind,

for the sake of a past secure,

the future was put on line.

A place of peace,

a tomb or an arch,

were all the same.

A secular state,

in silence it stared.

Thus a history demolished

and a future scarred,

marked the nature

of this secular democratic nation of ours.

Once disturbed, it never rests,

the war rages,

in streets, and homes,

in cities and nations,

uncontested.

In places unsuspected,

a house on rent,

a phone to connect.

A passport to fly

or a journalists outcry.

The daily grind,

a residue,
 of a history disturbed,

a future scarred.

Today, I want my words to dance
Dance to my tune,
to the music of my soul,
to the rhythm of my breath,
to the pace of my thoughts.

I want my sentences to flow
To flow from my grief
To flow from my love
To flow from hurt
To flow from me.

I wish to control.
Control the words that spill onto paper
Shape them like a trained dancer.
Shorten them, lengthen them,
Command them,to listen to me.

I want my words to run wild.
Run wild with passion.
to be written, to be heard.
To curse, to love
Run wild with passion.