unpolished stuff from the poetry workshop.

1. radhika's earring

(this is the pick-an-object-from-and-compose exercise)

a tiny elephant, dangling;

separated by a head from its twin.

features on one side; the other

is the dark side of a wooden moon.

2. this doesn't really have a title, but remember the Tibetan festival in college and it's flag?

(and this is the go-outdoors-adventure/poetry-is-out-there exercise)


i spy six blue bands and
six red bands coming out from
a central sun. it's a flag
fluttering, still; at the wind's whim.

i spy momo-steam rising from
behind. there's inscription
on the flag. it could say freedom.
the vapours have it. some people don't.

the mirror of music

I am building up my dreamscape. It consists of a house mostly, for I am not ready to work on a world first. It will be inside a regular sphere colored with all the nice books and movies I like. But it is translucent still. So when I move the curtains I can see through, while you cannot see me. There are no colors inside the sphere though; instead there is music all the time. Right now, right now, I am playing Steve Roach, his Structures from Silence, as a kind of break from all the noise. When the music breaks through, as it does when after the atoms of noise when spread also converge and splice to meet the person. Then I rush to the pool and keep my head under the water, like that bird under the sand and there is the more perfect silence in its death and clinging softness on my ears.

This minute I realize the colors. But I cannot dream my sphere, so I grant this world hues, so light streams to cover objects with a lighty color light. The home called the Moon is really so very tall, anyone can tell. Before I can enter, instead of a verandah I wait outside for the smell to enter you, that is the guest’s welcome. The smell is an invisible sketch pen, marking me with the right depth for me to enter the Moon and like it. Else I will turn to ice, and not be able to cry. Prepared, enter.

When my footprints will no longer mark this road

Last night, when I was listening to some music on my laptop, my thoughts constantly wandered over to home and connecting home and songs, the tune of a Rabindrasangeet flowed through my mind--Rabindrasangeet, the eternal creations of Rabindranath Tagore.I don't listen to Rabindrasangeet very often but then some of these songs are my absolute favourites. Now, last night, this idea of translating one of those favourite songs came to my mind. This is total madness because its not possible to recreate the same flavour of that song in a translation. But, I love it so much that I desperately wanted to share it here.

When my footprints will no longer mark this road,
I won't steer my boat,
Oh, I won't steer my boat across these banks anymore.
Done will I be with my buying and selling,
Finish will I all my borrowing and lending,
No more will there be visits to this market!
What does it matter if you don't remember me then,
Looking at the face of the stars, don't call out my name?

When my footprints will no longer mark this road,
Dust will accumulate in between the tanpura's chords,
Vines will grow over the house's doors,
Oh, dust will accumulate in between the tanpura's chords!
The flower garden, dense with grass, will like an inhabited forest be,
Surrounded with moss will the banks of the lake be.
What does it matter if you don't remember me then,
Looking at the face of the stars, don't call out my name?

When my footprints will no longer mark this road,
The flute will continue to play thus,
Pass will the days, pass!
Pass the days will, just as they do today,
Oh, the flute will continue to play thus...
On each bank, the river boats thus,
Will be filled up with water even then,
The cows will graze, the shepherd will play
In this very field.
What does it matter if you don't remember me then,
Looking at the face of the stars, don't call out my name?

When my footprints will no longer mark this road,
Says who I won't be present in that morn?
In all games oh,
In all games of life will I take part!
Says who I won't be present in that morn?
By a new name shall you call me, knot me in new bonds,
This self of mine shall keep returning forever and ever...
What does it matter if you don't remember me then,
Looking at the face of the stars, don't call out my name?