In Bengaluru

I think someone is dead No, no, not the daily dead and dying But someone who is close to me She cut me off once, saying I am muddy water I think of a postcard she wrote to me Open, to my office address, with tenderness...

Unforgiving, this attachment to you is. My heart believes it is a place without lies. And calls out for your heart, thinking foolishly, prematurely, and without any proof that some look, some smile, some touch from you...

A: So, tell me. B: It goes like this. See, see, see? The green light came on The “Active” light came on My gypsy came on Rational doesn’t know she is cross with me Reason doesn’t know she is fed...

I write these poems imagining
  That you are reading them
Which then makes me imagine
  That you are seeing the heart of me

Like when the wave, after splashing you as if you were a child, Recedes, as if you were a stranger As if you will muddy her waters She too, began her indifference God, tell me, why everything Turns out like You...

If you let yourself go fat, and a bit of you begins to be amused by the world’s tantrums, And another bit of you is a witness to this amused you but in a passing way, then, my friend, there’s hope for you...