Old Delhi Couplet

I will go to Ghalib’s house, the next time I’m in Delhi

Pay him homage with one of those urchin flowers

That lie fallen – on the sidewalk of the street

I must visit the old poet

One of these moonlit evenings

In the city of lovers, they call it

His spirit still walks along the winding lanes

Or so, some believe.

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Homecoming

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No one’s asked me how I am doing in a while
In Bengali, we usually say, “Cholche”
Meaning – And so it goes

I have never really felt at home in my house
Accommodated, but not welcome,
Truth be told, I felt quite alone

The Krishnachura by my
window was felled in the storm
A dump of sand now – where it used to be
I hunt for signs around this house now
I know there are
places, where I hid bits and pieces, of me.

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The Apology Text I Will Not Send.

drunken mishaps           are a souvenir from the past

I can’t seem to let go of

you didn’t want our demons to meet

so you left with yours

leaving me with mine

Unchained

 

This morning I woke up

with a mouthful of regret

I stayed in bed, for most of the day,

and thought how a restraining order

was probably invented for the likes of me

failing at goodbyes so hard

we make a fool of ourselves

 

I wanted to leave you wildflowers

and a Kazuo Ishiguro paperback

with the gateman downstairs

before moving,

Write you a note             that said

“This is farewell – if you want it to be”

I won’t anymore

So I’m leaving you this poem instead

Here’s hoping I don’t end up still,

leaving you those flowers at the gate.

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तूफ़ान/Storm

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Writing poetry to find the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can and wisdom to know the difference. Actually, negate that last bit. I never know the difference.

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Obliviate

Forgetfulness is magic

                          we live & die a little each day

I used to think it tragic

         now I wouldn’t have it any other way

It’s the remembering

that makes life tedious

Who said what –  did what – to who(m) 

Hoarding these memories thinking they’re precious

Isn’t the moment just as precious too?

I’d never thought of forgetting this way before

I see it now, for the gift that it is

What are cliches, but oft repeated truths?

Ignorance yields the highest bliss.

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