The it factor !

He sniffed himself
more often than not

Some times he wondered
if other people smelt it too,

In fancy hallways he felt at home,
Vanilla that rose up from white china cups filled the air,
These cups were full of it as well.
And he would wear all these bright clean clothes,
with saturated colors,
big bold rich names stapled to them.
He would wear these beautiful sparkling things,
that shined more than gold,
glittered more than the March night sky,
His clothes were full of it as well.

His speech was like an assortment of fresh green salad,
his acquired accent like salad dressings, overpaid for, from convenient stores,
These stores were full of it as well.

His walls were decorated with well composed landscape pictures
You could find him somewhere in the frame as well,
tiny and almost invisible, but some how he felt very big about this,
His engineering degree hung by the side,
As if someone had put a reflector in his sockets,
his pride glistening in his eyes,
Even his walls were full of it

He walked down the road with spring in his feet,
His hands in his pocket,
A well measured smile in his face,
Even his walk was full of it.

He sniffed himself more often than not,
He worried if other people smelt it too.

He saw me in the mirror the other day,
He said, “sh…
Don’t you tell,
don’t you tell nobody about it.
I am doing my best to hide it.”

I said- “Don’t worry bro, it’s not just you, everybody is full of shit.”

When the day dies

There is a building in Lalitpur. If you find yourself on the ground towards the south of the building you’ll, of course, see it’s south elevation. On the south elevation, if you ignore the ten small circular holes on the far right and the far left – you’re left, with sixty big windows. Each window, the border of which is painted white, has three major panels, each panel has its own smaller upper panel that is fixed . The bigger central panel is fixed too, the two panels on either side swing outside. The building is a huge five storey structure; nothing remarkable about it really. At 7:00 PM one man makes his way up the stairs from the right side of the building. He walks up to the top floor. He starts from the top right room. In every room, he first pulls in the window panes and latches them, he then walks back to the door and switches the lights off before he locks the door from outside and moves on to the next one. When in the next room, he repeats this act. After he is done with the top floor, he walks down the stairs and goes through each of the rooms in the lower floor, then moves on to the next floor. Eventually, he reaches the very last room. All the lights in this building have been switched off one by one, in the end only one window glows. But, before he checks the windows and switches off the light of this last room, he rests. He leans on the window and smokes a cigarette. After he finishes his cigarette, he dumps the butt in the bin and dutifully latches the windows, switches the lights off and locks the door from the outside. I did not check the time, so I can’t say with certainty, but it mustn’t have taken him more than sixty years to get to the bottom left room from the top right room.

Cauliflower Carpet

The city I live in rains on and pours, through my walls, windows and doors. But sometimes, I find myself in silence that stretches on like a rubber band; I think of sounds.

I remember the times when my ears were overflown, by the cries this city makes, the dangling dishes from the neighbor’s kitchen, the random Street seller dragging his two-wheeled spoke held bicycle shop,  selling random shit, everything sells on the streets from carpets to cauliflowers.

Sitting on my two color helical bamboo tool, that I bought from a similar bicycle shop,  I try to listen to the cauliflower and the carpet talk to each other, I wish I could comprehend their language.  What would the cauliflower say? What would the cauliflower have to share about its life to a carpet, what would the carpet understand? What about the cauliflower’s unruly hands that spreads out like disease would the carpet relate to? Wouldn’t the carpet only nod back – just to be nice.

And what would the carpet have to say to a cauliflower. What about its endless two-dimensional spread would the cauliflower relate to? Would the Cauliflower be awed by the stories of the sheep’s that were trimmed for the carpet to be born. Would the cauliflower be curious about the tale- What would he ask back , Did the sheep like their new hairstyle?  What happened to the them? Where do they live? How many carpets have they given birth to?

What would the cauliflower understand? Wouldn’t cauliflower only nod back, just to be nice. The city I live in rains on and pours, through my walls, windows and doors, but sometimes, when I find myself in silence that stretches on like a rubber band, I think of sounds.

My ears are overflown. The metal gates of neighborhood, they open and close as if they were eyes, the creaks that usually follow opening and closing of doors are replaced by dog barks that follow in religious conformity. These metal flaps are not just eye lids ,but also holes, like worm holes suspended in space with giggly edges,  they lead both inside and outside, it really only depends on which side you want to call inside.

When I find myself in silence that stretches on like a rubber band, I can hear my heart beat. It beats like metal gates like eyes, it imitates  the street seller’s timed calls,
it beats like the clanks in an old gas igniter in the neighbor’s kitchen, tikk ! tikk ! tikk ! Desperately trying to put something on fire with a little spark.  My heart beats like the way a spoon falls on marble floor, and sometimes my heart sounds like carpet is telling stories to a cauliflower.

Four days

Day 1

A daughter picks a puppy from the street,

brings it home.

the younger brother jumps with joy,

the mother walk out to the porch.

It’s a Bitch

So what ?

It will bleed.

No it won’t.

It will.

Alright, it will.

So what ?

It isn’t a proper dog.

We will need chains the mother says.

And a kennel,

Especially during her days.

Father comes home,

“It’s a bitch” he says.

They chain the bitch.

Day 2

The bitch is gone,

The daughter cries.

Her brother cries.

Day 3

The house is quiet

The children are sad.

The mother is sad

because her children are sad.

The father goes to sleep.

Day 4

Father picks a puppy from the store,

Brings it home.

The younger brother jumps with joy,

The mother walk out to the porch.

It’s not a bitch.

Stealing from Shakespeare

You are far more to me than you are to thee


I have killed cold nights in hope of a single day

When I may feel okay, I may feel temperate

And without any doubt I May

Waste all my life this way; for a worthwhile date

your picture stuck on my wall shines

Against LED vines; that I keep dimmed

The saturation in them declines

Like poetry lines; grown but untrimmed




And I would happily let myself similarly fade

In exchange for a moment with you that I ow’st

For I may trade a thousand sun for your shade

And like a 'shroom in the dark I may grow’st




You will get my crazy, bend down and see

You are far more to me than you are to thee

__________

Rhymes stolen from

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature’s changing course, untrimmed;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,
Nor shall death brag thou wand’rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to Time thou grow’st.
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

(Sonnet 18) William Shakespeare, 1564 – 1616

Moonshine lies

The moon shy shining from the top right corner of my room

eclipsed by a bookshelf and a few old dusty toys

waits for brightness to come
creeping in with the dogs of the morning with their crazy barks to wake

I stay in my half asleep state

Thinking about my dream,
-a wolf howling at a crowd of wolves and how he promises to steal the moon and present it to them

I wake up to a morning
there is nothing bright about the day but the sun

The wolf has stolen not the moon

but the sun.