GRAFITTI

This is the most recent thing I've written, only a about a week or so ago. I worked this one for five hours, from full stop to full stop. I think I'm happy with it. Except the title - almost apt, but not satisfactory.

Grafitti

Oh, do not grow fond of these fingerprints.
They have travelled far across these pages,
nicked and rough, and ink-stained so ugly;
seasoned by the stench of blood and mud,
by chalk-dust that chokes little children,
and the fluids of my body. These
hands are not meant for your hands to hold;
these shameful, painful peasant frames
that mould and hold and surrender,
with no sorrow, all they've ever made.

For all young men grown old in their bones,
and all grandfathers alone in their homes,
these fingers tell stories in scabs
and scratches against these city walls.
All their names are sweet secrets
inscribed in the margins and lost
in the safest reaches of memory,
in the realm of forgotten fancies.

Oh, do not grow fond. Do not get lost.

ABSENCE MAKING NEWS

I watched Inception last night. My heart is still racing. I'm going to go watch it again on Monday, once the fucking weekend price hike is over, and again, if I can afford it. Two-hundred and seventy-five bucks to watch a movie - ouch. But it was totally worth it. (It's ridiculous that I was watching movies a decade ago for thirty-five bucks, balcony seats at New Empire: Deep Blue Sea, thrice. Oh, yes.)

This poem was inspired by a friend's parents. They have the most enviable way of letting the things in their house hang on to their history for them. It would explain why they seem so youthful: the past just leaks into the little things, and the people stay young. Neat, no? The impression I get is that if the house fell away, the things within would still be exactly as and where they are. But this isn't about them, of course. It's about me. Written mid-April, here in Delhi.

Absence Making News

Within the rages of middle age
with its bodies that need refitting,
its baffled hearts (or so they seem),
its patches, pouts and peregrinations,
I spy with my little eye: oases.

These bodies they are not innocent.
The skin conceals, the marks mislead,
and two bodies grown old together
carry more weight outside themselves.
(Or so they seem.)

I find myself jealous
of the letters, fetters, strings and baubles
set aside, to remember, relive, revive
this sleeping keeping store.

I worry about wrapping paper, love.
So young and not so young, I dream
of grey hair and flowers,
of weathered love, sweet
and familiar, grotesque and graceful;
the smell of sweat and spice and soil and sky,
of cinnamon, and skin.

My fingers reveal the roads
of rock and sand, ice and ocean,
farm, forest, rainstorms and revelations -
this shadow of my hand on your belly,
your one small toe much smaller than the rest,
the smell of my bad habits, and
the shape of absence making news
in blesséd scars, old scabs and missing clay -
all this and more,
nothing promised, nothing safe.

THE LOCKER

This was written on a plane to Bangalore in March. I find I write compulsively while in transit, either out of boredom or just a sense of weightlessness, of the unsaid but sure knowledge that nothing is required of me until I arrive. I also find I tend to revise poems as I copy them down - from napkins and scraps onto pages, or from dirtied scratchings into a 'fair' version - so, this one has been revised a little bit and probably will be again until I'm tired of feeling imprecise.

The Locker

The face you wear is hairless,

no grace in your shapes;

your relief is no escape,

your body bends and shifts -

this landscape is not made of paper.

Later stones skim

over this gleaming mirror,

skip and shatter.

Ripples collide, rebel and return.

The sea is a surface where

men may read strange thoughts.

You, sailor boy, don't forget:

remember that mermaids

are sea-monsters too.

This face you wear does not care

to cast its shadow, 

but below these gaping waters

they all know your name.

Head up, young person. Head up.

Step One

This is intended to be a blog of writing. I find myself embarrassed to begin blogging again after such a stretch offline, particularly my own writing, but here I am anyway. I'm doing this because Rahul Rai - poet, philosopher and lighting designer extraordinaire - thinks it's a good idea, and I guess I do too. I'm terrified this entire thing will become sickeningly pretentious, but since I spend most of my time playing with pretense, why deny my own impulses? And anyway, I prefer 'aspirational' (not 'pretentious').

So, sufficiently bolstered, here I go.

As I type this out, Mallika Taneja and Tarun Sharma are rehearsing "Milte Hain" from Taramandal, Kriti Pant is flat on the floor on her stomach next to me and dead to the world, Neel Chaudhuri is sitting behind me with the fan off (to help with his hearing) and making notes, and Rahul Rai is caressing his mustache bristles and chuckling to himself. We've had a working morning, and as August approaches, Taramandal is breathing again. Tadpole is at work, and I sense the slow but powerful beginnings of a good feeling stealing over us.

Now, Neel Chaudhuri is playing 'Aaj Ki Raat' and Rahul Rai is dancing. This is home.