Conversions

Sometimes,

when I've been writing too much

poetry

but a thought arrests my brain,

wrangling it like a boa constrictor,

and I just have to turn it into

an article

I witness a little disentanglement

of proverbial threads.

The words break free,

like rebellious pearls

from a gossamer string

and fall;

scattered shrapnel 

hiding sarcasm, truth and lyricism-

what you, the reader, shall find

depends on the glasses you wear,

and the wine you drink

because just like that,

in the blink of an eye,

I can transfigure 

Prose to Poetry

because perhaps that is

my language, after all.

Dark

Is there a name 

for this impenetrable darkness

that seems to have bathed my 

hands, toes, hair and heart?

Is it called sadness?

But sadness sounds like a consequence,

like a phase or a feeling.

This seems to be a continuum of unhappiness

that turns the ladle round and round

until the milk turns to butter

and my eyes become red rubies

and my cheeks become wet marble.

This seems to be a bed 

on which I must lay alone,

pillow-less,

head resting on the graves of happier days.

Maybe there is a name for this 

thing,

but would just knowing the name

be enough to pull me out of this hole?

Or should I choose the easier option 

of sinking,

drowning,

and being forgotten..?

Prayer

Throw me down a thunderbolt

from Your celestial abode

so that I may arouse

this sleeping earth into 

awaking. 

It has slept for too long,

stayed quiet for too long,

allowed injustice for too long.

Let me electrocute the silence

and turn it into an uproar, and

into fireworks

lit up by the screams of the sinners

and the fiery eyes of the victims.

Send help now for this purge,

and blessings to the brave,

and wine to the artists-

let the poetry never stop.

Even when the Gates of Hell

are opening (or closing)

and an Apocalypse looms over us

like the shadow of a merciless storm cloud-

bless me

so that I may still find 

a moment and a paper, and create,

and never hate.

Bless me, Father.

Girlfriends

Yesterday, the boss decided 

I wasn't efficient enough

to be paid during a pandemic.

The boyfriend felt

that the waterworks that followed

this terribly timed firing 

were hormone driven hysterics-

not to be encouraged,

not to be taken seriously.

The landlord threatened to evict

me unless I suddenly metamorphosed

into a married lady

(because what else would 

lable me settled enough

to be leasing myself a house?).

But the only real reason

I would call it a bad day

wasn't because I got fired,

or dumped,

or rendered homeless-

these are just adult problems

you can't really escape.

It was a bad day because

I finally hit rock bottom

but my girlfriends were too busy

quarantining

to come and laugh with me 

as the year billowed on by

and time's merciless attacks

left us confined 

to a two dimensional screen

while my life went up in

flames.

All Cities Have A Colour

Why is it that when I

close my eyes and imagine

cities

Delhi is a shade of melting gold

on a dry summer afternoon,

Humayun's tomb gleams in the distance

while a parrot yearns 

for its mate;

its calls of love nurturing the mango tree 

and my human ears.

And Bombay is grey.

Black clouds fight with thunder

as Colaba watches silently,

hiding its true self

in a bullet-hit cafe

or a black-and-yellow taxi

or the cobbled roads on which

drenched lovers walk together

before the sun comes out again.

But 

Calcutta is a shade

of orange melancholia;

layers of dust hide the truth here

and time slithers into 

an insecure puddle of old stories

with even older protagonists.

Durga watches over her children

who chase dreams in Kumartuli

that even their grandkids will see

in that very same shade of

orange 

that one can find

in the setting sun.