My Daddy's song

It came along the way

sometime,

in the middle

not at the very start.

It came & held my hand

and i was cradled 

in your arms.

A song was hummed

in bass baritone

& sombre...

Yeh raat yeh chandni phhir kahaan

sunn ja dil ki dastaan...

Aapki pehlu mai aakar ro diye

Daastane gum suna kar, ro diye...

Rastaa wahi musafir hai wahi

Ik tara najaane kahaan chhup gaya

Duniya wahi duniya wale wahi

koi kya jaane kiska jahaan luut gaya

From Rafi to Mukesh

to Kishore's songs

i was held in a sway...

and slowly my eyelids closed

a smile crept through

and i dreamt away...

i have come a long way

but still when sleep deceives me

i sleep

listening to the same song

that you sung...

and sway to the beats

of your rhythmic pat on my back

and the warmth of your arms...

And as the night's shadow falls

i wish i were a kid again

with you holding me

the way only you can...

Words...

and the words won't form...

like those tears

which are hidden behind the layers

of undying hope...

cheap, easy catch.

my pride had a fall...

blinded by possibilities

i jumped, heart and soul

before i looked where the road goes...

Why is it that the smallest word

can hurt deeper than the Excalibur?

We would not be 'Us'

if she had not done that...

We are not 'Us'

because we felt that...

All the words

are just cacophonic noises...

they keep the silence at bay

but have no meaning left...

and i sit here

to put in words

what my heart can never say...

Yeh Dilli hai mere yaar

i miss the red brick walls
with some patches of pink and grey.
the rickshaws that drove faster
than normal legs could take.

And eat the chholey kulche 
made in large tin vessels
on the roadside, 
and Bunta near the gates.

Where PKKs were a rage
and colour coded
bags, bangles, ear rings and lipsticks
fashioned the place.

Where pierced nose
straightened hair (with blonde stripes!)
and one legged anklets
would always stay

Where ideals were fought
with passion and blood
and many more broken
and newly made.

Where Kurta, jhola
and chappals,
all made perfect sense.

I miss the life
that was constantly happening
while it always remained the same
just the faces changed.

The loud garish people
with warm, colourful hearts
with more colourful balloons
during Holi days

The place which calls itself

the heart of hindustan

And has some of the best brains

and brawns of the world

I miss it for all this
but more for the ones
who shared my laughter
and my grief
and they are still there
where 'We' used to be...

A bus ride.

Crack.
Something broke in there.
and the hollowness was back. 
shallow, deep, endless hole of nothing.
And i stand where i was.
Aeons back.


To those legs
mine were just another pair
of double x chromosomes.
Legs that would keep him warm
down there
where he needed to be held up.


I was free stuff.
Well, almost.
He had to travel anyway
Price of the ticket he paid
and then sat in comfort
of the closeness in the bus space.


i cringed.
the hard, wet window panes felt better
than those dirty hands
and legs
against mine.


But i couldn't speak.
Even though i know i have the right,
and i have fought for it more
than many i know.


i couldn't look into the eyes and say leave.
i couldn't raise my voice or my arms.


i cringed.
and prayed for the next bus stop.
And when it came i stood up
and left, without a noise.