A new



She calls me from her bed.

There’s an academic on TV.

Why  won’t she pick up my call?

The telephone rings seven times.

You  love, intensely.


I found a Billy Collins poem.

He asks and forgets.

Speak, I am listening.

Won’t you ask me to stop?

I am sorry, I want answers.

Your grace is charming.

Please tell me my story.

Love ends if it begins.

A leech, dust, dirt.


Call me a nuisance, please.

Ask me to make a move.

The veins in my left hand is rising.

Your  lukewarm water is cold.

Osho’s space, empty.

By the night, below the bridge, the river runs.

I said I want nothing from you.

Only a piece of your soul.

Don’t write to me.

Her breasts shall shag as her muscles elongate.

You are a fool, eternally.

How shall I pass?

Burn me, lightly.

I just can’t say goodbye.

You must know the answer.

How far have we come?





memories of Namche

blink at bhaiyaji’s dhaba around 7 p.m

when chai runs out and you order coffee with soggy aloo pakodas.

I forget our conversation but i keep the juice bottle,

playing with the orange pulp back at my room.

one  lost evening i looked out of an elevated hotel room window to a host of fireflies,

circling with snow burns, instrumental music, backpackers, warm water

and blue tents.

with each switch

each year

each winter

the light bulbs burst.

waiting for Radha

encased in a frame of mild curves

dust beaming on a sunset streak,

deep into green groves,

half shadowed perhaps,

you  recline on a tree,

the color of your skin,

between porcelain and blue,

smothered with the silent melancholy of your tune.

You were placed on a false wall,

in a rented one room,


transfixed in the orange gaiety of your robe,

cast by golden vapour.

You own a peacock and a cow perhaps,

in that scarce moment do you see me as I saw you,

waiting for Radha?



on her feet,

erase and erupt like the curves of smooth hills on his picture book.

For each stride she takes,

the pain rises and settles in his shores,

always by normal accident.

While the tempest of her lost stories

wither; languid trees shaken out of their blossoms.