another night and then another dawn

the greed for their story went on and on

another night and then another dawn

the journey that was up in the air

a monk who could not sit without a chair

remembering faces that knew no fear

i thought of the sheep we always shear

passions ebb as seasons flow

the seeds would live if we would sow

another night and another dawn

the things unknown had begun to spawn 

the curtains burnt in the cigarette fire 

the factory announced that they would not hire

morning prayers and a sleepy meal

weeping for the bread that he did not steal

so many desires and no place to die

had to presume that someone could fly

so many friends love cats so much

and trees are scared of the human touch

on every inch i love to dwell

so many things to always tell

another night and then another dawn

the greed for their story will go on and on

Cat Lover's Sundays

All night she has been a ghost
Not in the usual sense that cats always are
All night she has been a ghost to herself
She lived with humans
But had not realised that cat lovers are only free on Sundays
She had three children
Three spunky playful kitten
She had gone for a evening prowl
They came in turns and took two away
She did not know that cat lovers were only free on Sundays
They took away her healthiest children
She had no chance to say goodbyes
She has been a ghost all night
Crying looking for her children
Still trying to understand that cat lovers are only free on Sundays
The thinnest weakest one was still there
Lost and lonely
In the evening they were all playing together
Then one by one two were gone
Too young to understand that cat lovers are only free on Sundays
Their dinner is uneaten
Their is a sense of despair in her eyes
Looking for her children in every shadow cast
Crying the night away
Another litter might come and go
But cat lovers are free only on sundays.
All night she has been a ghost
Not in the usual sense that cats always are
All night she has been a ghost to herself
She lived with humans
But had not realised that cat lovers are only free on Sundays
She howls as she cries
One can feel her silently going mad
Little by little as her hopes fade
Sometimes picking her self and going for another search
She is yet to realise that cat lovers are only free on Sundays

#SORROW

Digital reworking on Van Gogh's  'Sorrow'

How did we become like this
Atleast Kafka thought of it as a nightmare
We have reduced it to the mundane
In India you do not need television to see amputated legs on the streets
Or men and women with eyes gouged out 
We see that everyday
On our way to work
On our way to parties
They are there all the time haunting our crossroads
Alienation cannot capture how disconnected we are 
What do these people invoke in us 
Even the ones who patronise build walls of apathy
We know the violent cruel system of human trafficking 
We even ignore them on our way to Jantar Mantar 
Coming together to protest for lands some of these beggars might have migrated from.

Saw something violent on the other day
That day when my facebook wall was lamenting brexit
Screaming and calling democracy stupid
That evening i saw a pregnant beggar
And my mind erupted
People right in front of us
Sucked into the dirty underbelly of urban begging
The levels of greed have become so steep
That they are being sucked straight from the womb
A violent hatred for left liberalism erupted from within
All those people who call democracy dumb
Who hate the urban losers of globalisation
Even as they dream of protecting the landscape and the environment

I cannot relate to people who use politics to judge and enforce their elitism
Nor with people who constantly call people stupid
This they do just to hide themselves  
And their glaring failure to be connected with different aspirations
That is almost all of my facebook feed
And that young pregnant lady begging at our crossroads
She brought out so many things
Waiting and gathering like the monsoon clouds
Again those thoughts raging in my head
Atleast Kafka thought of it as a nightmare
We have reduced it to the mundane
My pain of brexit
And the way we ignore the urban poor (even) on our way to Jantar Mantar 
Coming together to protest for lands some of these beggars might have migrated from

Numbness and a Dear Friend

How is it to be numb my dear friend 
Is it a comfortable place 
Like in the Pink Floyd song
I heard brown sugar makes you numb
That is why I never did sugar
I have an handicap
I cannot understand numbness
We are all numbed are we not
Born into four concrete walls
Our right to live depends on money
Trading relationships for sustainability
Choking rivers with our filth 
How could we survive our modern lives
If we were not all numb
How long will be go on surviving dear friend
We live life as if our soul is an excess 
Which can be ignored, forgotten , castaway
As we live our lives busy 
Feeding, clothing, decorating and entertaining our self(s)
Yes if we do it for too long 
A numbness does envelope us
Taking us further and further away from this world
If we get too hurt 
A numbness does envelope us
Cutting us away from people close to us
I don't think we ever become numb my dear friend
Yes, an envelope of numbness envelopes us
Blessed are those who feel that envelope
The feeling is the first step towards melting that envelope away
You will slowly remember 
I cannot understand numbness
We are all numbed are we not
Born into four concrete walls
Our right to live depends on money
Trading relationships for sustainability
Choking rivers with our filth 
How could we survive our modern lives
If we were not all numb
The very act of living is our constant negotiation
Finding ways and energies
Reaching out from this numbness
Grabbing all the love, magic and connections we can
One may get distracted again
Feeding, clothing, decorating and entertaining our self(s)
Maybe the envelope returns
It will again melt away my dear friend
Each time it returns it is an invitation to look after yourself 
To understand how depended on this world we are
Yet, to let that make you feel more connected and free
How is it to be numb my dear friend 
Is it a comfortable place
Even if for just a while

THE MANY DEATHS OF ROHIT VEMULA

The first blow came from his comrades
Realising that his struggles meant nothing to his Marxist brothers, he moved on further left
That was some years ago
Rohit took the blow and like any good fighter
Used the blow to become stronger

Somewhere though, the death had set in
A young Marxist was forced to become a young Dalit Marxist
the world of universities and learning, could not free him from caste suppression
They pushed him deeper into it
Yes, the first blow came from his comrades

The second blow came from the nation
Caste is history they said
Some even said, caste was the culture of the nation
Yet they believed that talking about caste now destroys the nation

Rohit loved justice too
It is a sad one-sided love story
He and his friends felt that Yakub Menon did not get justice
They called some friends to talk about Yakub Menon and justice

A small band of boys, radical and isolated
A small band of boys with a one-sided love affair with justice
Easy to isolate and destroy

A strong South Asian powerhouse began flexing its muscles and nationalism
Such strength against a small band of boys
Dalit Marxists, with a one-sided love affair with justice
Yes the second blow came from the nation

The third blow might have come from us all
Poverty, hunger, pride loneliness and fire
Rohit must have remembered his old Marxist friends 
There were many of them and in large numbers
They had all the organisation and structures
There were many love affairs they still shared

But they were still silent 
Busy with their grand struggle against capitalism
many did connect 
But, they too were isolated, few and sometimes far away 

It is an absence of hope that leads to suicide
A complete absence of hope
Yes, the third blow might have come from us all

Rohit died but left behind a body that was so alive
Finally in death, maybe he just wanted to be
Just a student, bright, political, hounded by institutions; 
a bright citizen who had to leave all hope
Yet in his death, he became more Dalit
His identity was further hounded

Rohit's fire touched many hearts
Many of his older Marxist friends came out on the streets
Marching and chanting
But they brought in their old battles
Fascism and capitalism won over Rohit again

The final (yet)  flow came from his comrades 
Even as his mother led an emotional candlelight march
Even as she was assaulted, arrested
The old Marxist friends stayed inside universities debating nationalism and capitalism

Yes, the final flow came from his comrades 
His narrative does not suit their memory

The room where Rohith killed himself . (Source: Express photo by Harsha Vadlamani) - See more at: http://indianexpress.com/article/india/india-news-india/dalit-scholar-rohith-vemula-the-student-the-leader/#sthash.lMlEpZ9R.dpuf

A Blank Verse For My Smile

Once, smile had a meaning
Its own connection with eternity
Now the connection is gone but everything else remains
Just that, the best things do not bring out a smile any more
Sometimes they bring out a deep sigh
Learning that the faintest smiles etch the deepest
Sometimes i smile when death heals
Someone has to give that farewell smile
Jokes too make me smile, so does love
Everything negotiated through that broken connection with eternity

A BLANK VERSE FOR A TROUBLED RIVER

Floating on the web @ tumblr.com

The night was a neon outburst of emotions

Dawn brought some dread, some hope

The other side was steeped in dusk

They sat down to drink some tea

Hoping their dawn would shed some light

But, the other side was still dark

Some music could perhaps to stir the soul

Can music save a dark dying river

Can a river ever die

The tea pot was empty

But no one knew what was inside

On the other side, the dusk still lingered

How does light come in

Do we know how to remove our shadows

Unanswered questions over a opaque tea pot

Dusk came in and soaked their senses

The dusk on the other side lingered on

Another night, another neon outburst of emotions

The touch of sweat and sperm is itchy

The mix of sperm and sweat is becoming unbearable
The sticky humidity makes it worse
Please turn on the air conditioning
But there is no electricity in Gaza for over a year now
But Delhi is humid and has no windows

The touch of sweat and sperm is itchy
Sticky humidity makes it worse
Maybe we should take a long shower
But my friend lives in a salt pan far away in Kutch
They share a bucket of clean water for a week

I cannot take the itchy stickiness any longer
My cravings leave me listless

Maybe we can fly no more

Please turn on the air conditioning
And I will pray for the submerged villages of Narmada

I want to chase your warmth again
Delhi is humid and has no windows
But in my room now so far away from Gaza
Air conditioning brings out my goosebumps
And makes the mix of sperm and sweat seem so much better.