Window of hope from a jammed window.

Surreptitiously the mystical hope comes in the middle of the night,
She glides on the wings of mild summer breeze and knocks at my window,
Frustrated by the jammed window, She flies away to another home.

Disturbed by the dream - next morning, I push open the window,
Two giant buildings and a noisy highway lie in front,
No wonder the mystical hope didnt wait here overnight.

With my head resting on my palm, I look outside in thought,
And thats when I saw a beautiful home in red coloured bricks
and on the blue sky an aeroplane passes by and winks at me.

PS: 4 months before travelling back from Amsterdam.

Raindrops keep falling.

I watch it drizzle from the comfort of my home.
As if it were a kid playing his own little game,
Pitter-patter it falls in a foreign language,
I say - "I know your cousin who pours in India".

Much more playful and much more child-like,
It wakes up from eight months of gestation,
rides on dark black clouds, screams with a lightening.
and arrives with a storm

I say - "you are a sober kid but your cousin is very naughty"
It jumps on my balcony and peeps through crevices of window
It even hides behind my girlfriends hair
and stays there for as long as it can.

On my 27th Birthday.

Counting the apples on the trees,
I rest with my head on your knees.

Blessed is this garden that is so full of flowers
And soft are the hands that run across my forehead

But then an apple falls on my head,
and wakes me up to the reality

The garden and apple are all dreams,
Single bed and alarm clock is the reality.

The balloon.

Held by a nail on the wall,
A gas balloon stands upright
And cries, "Let me go, let me go".

Out of ignorance or pure cruelty,
the rusted nail stares back emotionlessly
And asks, "Where do you want to go".

Lost in thought, the confused balloon,
soaks the mild winter sun
And breaksdown, "But I want to go, I want to go."

The Party

The half eaten plate of Biryani,
The empty glass of Whisky,
The lost fork on the table
And the vacant chair in front of me.

They cannot speak to me,
But they can see me and hear me too.

Should I lie to myself?

Right - Wrong
Fair - Unfair
Good - Bad

An answer to problem or a problem to answer.

Our Fingers Entangled.

Eight fingers bunched together,
Lost on the dining table,
Free from the shackles of propriety,
and drunk into the pleasures of the unexplored.

The two thumbs, with some semblance of sanity,
felt the fingers and thats when they realize -
They are two different individuals and yet,
intertwined into one.

No talk on Gtalk.

Wearing your grey coloured cloak of invisibility,
I am sure,
You must have seen me bearing a green torch.

But you,
Coldheartedly immersed yourself into your books of accountancy
and left me in the company of two dimensional people of tele-serials.

Face on the mirror.

The only bicycle in the bicycle stand,
The empty bench in the metro station,
The solitary stone on the railway track,

And the only face on the mirror of my lift.

The last morsel of Pongal.

It balances itself on the fork,
and waits like a bubble about to pop.

Never before have the ingredients
mixed themselves in such harmony.

And as I lift the fork,
I realise that I stare at threshold of two worlds,
One that had the pongal and one that did not.

Poetry in a Discotheque.

Her hair hangs loosely on her strapped dress,
And her drink hangs loosely on her fingers.
Unknowingly, she entices with an unmatched ease.

In between all this,
She pulls my heart out of the rib cage,
and eats it like a delicacy.

I, speechless and heartless,
Literally and not figuratively,
Sway with complete irreverence with music.