The will to love

He said love is infinite.
One could love more than one
and each could taste different
but it’s still the same old love.

He said love is paying attention.
Two eyes to drink your lover to
and each glance reveals different
but it’s still the same old love.

I have heard of love abundant.
Once, in a river unsure,
Two fishes danced to the bounty
Many joined their celebration.
Many more were forgotten.
They stayed swimming to the unknown.
It felt like the same old love.

I see: love is intention
That poets mix with time
Imitating the fishes that stayed
leaving poems behind.

Koi Fish Painting Japanese - Free image on Pixabay


You asked me whether I remembered? I laughed apologetically.

I don’t remember any of it, but I am stuck in it.

Being stuck essentially is having all of your time warped.

What is time to an obsessive person? I want to indulge myself and think

of you. How does it matter if a minute of musing could cascade

into years? Let me have it for a minute longer.

All my time is yours, but you don’t ever arrive to accept it.

And that’s okay,

because you are happenstance.

The nature of obsession is such that it requires no audience,

no reciprocity, no memory.

It’s an island of pain, content in itself.

No, I don’t remember what you want me to remember.

But if you had the patience, I would gladly show off

what I have built on my part of this distorted dimension.

Come, walk with me


Things I have learned:

Endings are not sudden
…………— they accumulate like dust
Nobody really knows
…………— they see what they want to
…………….(even I do)
Promises are naïve
……….. — they are not necessarily bad
I cannot begrudge you
…………— ..
……………(I hate that I pretend to understand)


It is sad to talk in lists.


remember how I used to save a seat for you discuss before and after the lecture never in between nobody nods anymore they reply how taxing I say you said you needed me time and I thought soulmate songmate you can have that any time I refused to hug you right in the middle of a crowded railway station because I just cannot assert myself in public spaces now it makes me wonder why did you put up with me why does anyone put up with such irrational rejection I would like to think I am a little less stuck up than I was before I will always be grateful to the persistent part of you remember that silly inside joke where you gave me a nickname cooler than me and I gave you a phrase come walk with me


I could cry. I do cry.
I try unsuccessfully to be accurate,
to punctuate (I over-punctuate).
Conversations have begun to demand some context.


It is the grief that keeps probing the wound.
Has it healed? Has it healed now? Has it? Has it?
Can we ever un-love someone who has been
nothing but nice, something but absent?
I ask the day, are sins of omission as sinful?
I ask the night, how could she marry at 22?


Come, walk with me, one day
when I will be married to
a person who under-understands me,
I’ll sigh at the conversation’s dead-end
breathe in the cold moonlight,
and miss you terribly
like this—
all over again.

Lay still

Closure came tip-toed,
and whispered to him,
“Darling, you can have me.”

The feeling that the end was nigh
that floated on the surface of his being
became concrete
and sank in deep, somewhere.
He rested
as he watched Anxiety leave.
Now, he rested
underneath Her weight.

The knife lay still, wedged deep between his ribs.

Suboptimal living

I blinked back at the fan rotating above me.
You could say that I was awake. I would say
that I was still clutched by sleep. I yawned,
resisting the day that had come to take me.
All this while, the fan pushed the air.
It kept at it, whether I noticed it or not.
I would notice it if it stopped. If it did stop,
my attention would diverge midway to find
my wife, trying one ploy after another
to rouse me out of bed. I would grunt back,
acknowledging her impatience and,
this predictable urgency that mornings create.
Nothing of that sort happened, of course.
The three blades kept chasing each other,
so I lay there, watching them play.
I would notice the fan if it grunted too.
That noise that makes you think- what if
it would just snap off the ceiling and fall on you?
Would it drop down heavily or
would it leave a swift, clean cut on me?
Nothing of that sort happened, of course.
My wife would have had me repair it. She worries
about such things while I hope for it.
I did notice, however, a tiny spot of white paint
at the edge of one blade. It danced in circles
at that stupid speed. It just kept at it.
Monotonously. Involuntarily. Happily?
One complete rotation, now.
And now. And now. And now. And now. And now.
The birds chirped to remind me that the darkness
outside wasn’t night. It was still early morning.
Moaning. Mourning. No, morning. Yes, mornings
that lazily cast its shadows in our apartment,
coaxing me to reach out for the light
switch. Click.
Illuminate!”, I ordered the tubelight.
And so it did.
My wife, who was racing time in the kitchen,
peeked in curiously. I grinned back at her,
making light of my unprovoked strangeness.
We rushed through the things to do today,
the day after and a week later.
I reassured her they may or may not happen
just how it did or did not happen
like the day before and the week prior.
I assured her that I would try my best
to not be jealous of the electronic devices in our house,
those wretched things that don’t have to
jot down a list of things-to-do or
complain like I need to do.
Switch on. Awake. Switch off. Asleep.
Roused only by serendipitous electricity.
No will. No want. No will to not want.
Nothing of that sort happened, of course.
I was busy being whipped by busier routine.
I’d rather be an efficient robot
with gears that work because of non-optional, set principles.
I’d not have to decide to get up, every bubbly day.
I’d not have to create drafts until it was pretend-perfect.
I’d not be contemplating on things that don’t even matter..
I’d not have to sip my tea myself.
I sipped some tea myself, letting it warm my throat.
My wife sipped her tea calmly at the window sill,
watching the world awake, five floors below.
We had a few serene minutes before we left
to join the bustling, bright day while that sparrow
could sit perched at the window grill.
The very moment, I thought that thought
that meek bird jumped
just to guilt me. It jumped- no, believe me,
without spreading its wings, it dropped itself in the air
out of spite, as if I drove it to suicide.
But it had swooped back up in time to my wife’s delight.
‘That’s not the proper way to fly!’
‘Usual, I mean.’
‘Why would you want to fly the “proper, usual” way?’
she said, making bunnies in the air with her slender fingers.
I had a retort, I swear to you, but it abandoned me
leaving me quiet and my wife satisfied.
Of course, things of this sort happen.
It was time to leave for the day.
I turned to call the lift.
while the ignored staircase looked at me.
I stared back at it, imagining
myself sliding swift
down the railing.
The lift announced its arrival as I stepped on
a better thought.
I let the metal box close and
efficiently carry me down.
‘It is a good day’, I decided,
At least I’m not as sad as I used to be.
fun.- At least I'm not as sad


Was it something she said,
or something I realized
that I lost my grip on the plot
and fell
and kept falling
till I reached the concrete
and lay there, shattered?
Of everything I knew about me,
I did not know I was brittle.
Now, the flecks just lay splattered.

The silence weighs on me,
paralyzing any struggle,
and they all watch me
and remain broken.
If only I could fix myself,
pull every piece together,
maybe, and just maybe,
they won’t condemn me to their sighs.
It is tiring.

It is tiring
to exist in this dichotomy
between my state and my will.
I rummage through the rubble,
while a nagging question
remains suspended in air.
And, like it, I wish I could say
even I am hanging by a thread;
but, like it, I continually ask
Where is my centre?


Come, meet.


Come, meet me, wise man.
Find those stories I’ve lost to time.
Bring them to me when you come.
Bring them neatly wrapped with your care.
Open them for me;
unfold it slowly.
I’ll marvel when you weave tidbits together
to reveal worlds with your proud words.
Do that trick you do!
Create cheer
Make magic
with humble paper.

Come, meet me,
to speak to me about
these struggling guitar strings,
those shredded frogs in delicious meals,
that callous fact pointlessness is.
Come, meet me,
to show me why it shouldn’t matter to me.

Come, meet me,
and read to me poems
of unevolved tadpoles and love,
of complaining grief and love,
of telling times and love.
Come, meet me,
and show me how it does matter to me.

Come, meet me, wise man.
Share with me your joy.
Give me your advice.
Do that trick you do.
But don’t take back your poems.
Make magic with paper instead.


Paper Tiger

Unceremonious goodbyes

I find it childish-
The ease with which you walk away.
I find it spineless-
The way you’d rather run but won’t confront.
I find it hurtful-
The resolve with which you refuse to talk to me again.

I think, you find it easy.
You seek companionship while you live detached.
I can’t help but admire it sometimes.

I want to walk out too.
My morbid mind dreams of dramatic escapes!
I want to tear everything,
burn anything,
think of you being hurt,
and bang the door shut.
Cry out how you were not the one for me.
You are not the one for me. 


I would still leave you a little note.
I’d worry that in your pain, you’ll forget.
So if I ever decided that I would never want to talk to you again,
I’d write to you,
Reminding you
Of our bubble-like bliss,
Of our wreck-like woes,
Of your calm disposition,
Of my nonchalant ways,
Of this goodbye.
I’d explain to you why.

Such an end would be easier to swallow.
Our memories would have a pleasant aftertaste.
You might hate me, but you would cherish us.
We were perfect and complete in a distant time.

I don’t mind that you want to leave.
I don’t even mind if it is gradual; and seemingly certain,
and I have only time and distance and our tedious lives
to blame.
I don’t mind you leaving.
I mind that your will to leave
is more than your will to stay.