Wednesday, December 1, 2021





"Pujo Pujo Rod"


You blame it on the lights

the name for which is “Pujo pujo rod”,

for what is clawing inside your throat.


Dead parents make way to your mind.

Festivals have this thing about them.

They bring in the almost-forgotten ones,


those, whose presence as sure as daylight,

as taken for granted too, turned to a

distracting absence that time couldn’t erase.


Your letting-go skills sharpened now,

the deletion seemed sure, inevitable, final

of those carefree moments basking


in the warmth of the concoction of friendship

love, truth, the taste of which you thought you

forgot- but for this autumnal sunlight


you endearingly call the “pujo-pujo roddur.”



The Prophecy


My best friend said

you will leave me.


And when my eyes

questioned her

in half-acceptance

and half-denial of

this dreaded fate,

she simply said

she knew.


And slowly added

you are serendipitous

mostly, nothing to

hold on to with faith,

like they don’t, those

in the desert,

their scanty rainfall.


And as she said this

my sand-stung eyes

almost gave in to

the uneven fight

between her prophecy

and your ubiquitous

presence in my mind.


Poetry, will you leave me?

Will you not be mine?



The Incongruities


The amputated legs of

a young man on wheel-chair

makes an incongruous sight

at Maddox Square, with

rustling silk breezing around

and chirping teenagers taking

breaks for pouted-selfies.


And when he folds his hands

to the deity with a smile on

I wish I had looked away.

Some deference can be

hard to watch on and some

smiles, apparently misplaced, can

jolt you out from your feel-good beliefs.




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