Sri Lanka

Sri Lanka

The storyline from,
The tip of the Deccan breast,
The trickle of Adam’s bridge,
The infant’s Jaffna lips suckling
His mother’s milk.

And below,
You find a child curving
Out the contours, the slopes
And curvatures,
Covered by salt diapers,
Evolving day-by-day,
To be a grown up boy

Who will one day,
Wear the Silk Road around him
To be a rightful prince
Who will transcend his heritage
To carve a little place for himself
As the boy who grew up

To tame the lion’s heart
And embrace the cartography

Of sustained serendipity



Daniela & Frank's Gorgeous Cambridge Mill Wedding, Anne Edgar Photography
Daniela & Frank’s Gorgeous Cambridge Mill Wedding, Anne Edgar Photography

Historically, an unknown,
That came into being, long after
The stone age, when the heart
Looked deep into the inner sanctum
To assure oneself, that there
Are places inside, that are nameless,
Needing the intervention of a noun,
That can sink or stall or rise.
And one creature who not knows
That the height of man, is not
How he feeds his intellect,
But how he ensures that a fortress,
That is unsure of itself and yet lies agape
To allow the entry of a lifetime warranty,
When real, is an indestructible filler.
The longest road made up of cameos,
Of the shortest distance to travel.
When an implant inside your heart
Becomes your only cargo of worth,
Starting a tradition of inching towards
The very drawbridge, that opens
To let one tongue out
And another – yours – in.

Hangover in Hanoi


The places
We orbit and the places we land
When we are like magnolias
In summer, quenching
Each day, holding it so tight,
Like God was trying
To take it all away from you,
Not knowing whether the places we land,
Are tarmacs or rocky ground,
And still we land, knowing
That the unsuspecting instinct,
Tells you that it is perfectly Ok,
To get lost, so lost, in the night,
And not to resurface at dawn.
And all you are at sunrise
Is a rum whore and a sex-drunk.
As dead as the mattress at a cheap hotel,
Too hungover to know, that the night before,
Had just been pimping out the rum,
While the body was soaked
By a woman, who at 10 AM the following morning
Was finally steady enough,
To look pleasing to the eye.

Three Poems on Gay Marriage


Till Death do Adam and Steve Apart

What else champions the muted heart
To rapture in the loudest decibel.
Who would have thought that history
Could be made, in a tuxedo and a tuxedo
One jet black and one mute swan white;
And when they came off
Under a tapestry of yellow stars,
They became a shade of cinnamon brown
And together, flared by a flame,
They could only caramelize.

Muscle Cars

They call it the aftermath, the echo,
The residue; A kiss leaves dewy lips
Sunburn leaves behind a rosy patch
A cigarette makes the mouth taste funny
And what about two men whose only dream in life
Is just a hall packed with kith and kin,
And an ice sculpture on a lifted stand
At the entrance; what should they lapse into,
As their bodies cave in to heart matter,
And became like two snowy white swans
Whose beaks and necks needed no
Introduction, but their bodies did,
Just like man and woman, no longer
Squatters, or trespassers, just defenders
Of the oldest union, which like
A carburetor mixes two elements,
Into combustion. And they say, there are
Trials of fire, when muscle cars cruise.

Time Trails

We are under no umbrella,
Only an Acacia tree.
Over here, the bricks called DNA, bear
No scars, this is just as natural
As a binary body, with equal poles,
Searching for an ampersand
To drift us together, to become
As naked as a bowed cupid, holding onto
The shifting momentum,
When we are just plain wrong, for those comfortable
With the familiar, and yet it still feels right for our bodies.
We are just, tumbling from then,
To now; time, a frothy dominion,
And we are children of a lesser god,
Building sand castles right at the edge of the beach,
Hoping for the day, they will
Stand out of reach, of time’s
Bogeyman lips.



Can I tell you a secret?
[A serial collection of asterisks] – (You)
Were the reason I was born,
Thrown out of my cocoon, my body,
When my lips could feel orbitals
Summoning like a magnetic pole,
And that secret is (asterisks – you)
Built a constellation just
For me, and laid them out like mythology
Does, but within my reach.
You’re now the wildfire inside my heart,
Lit by a falling star. I’m yours truly,
An asterisk – the wildcard –
Who wants to be your wild-thing.

Texting “I Love You” on a Friday Afternoon

Je T'aime

So I type a text message,
Thinking of my wife in the afternoon,
Wondering whether “I Love you”
Is just professing my affection
Or just twisting the moment to my advantage,
Of needing a communication.
Something to break the cold frothy waves,
All around me, in the silence of ghosts,
That appear through the salt.
The people before me who have
Occupied this room, ate their lunches
On the same desk, or composed
Text message of the same three words.
Three words that at that moment
Was an SOS, to save me from the
Sheer boredom, of being trapped
Inside a gas fortress, that like
A gas chamber crumbles you just enough,
When you lose the mojo in the fingers and toes,
While the full tummy keeps the churn,
Going on, solvating the starch and protein.
Friday afternoons, they are always like this
When you’re just a frank sketch of “Every man is an island”
Waiting for the clock to strike 4 PM,
To unburden from the slow deposit of time
Morhping out of the sedentary
To make “I Love You”, the pressing
Of different buttons, when the keyboard
Is a lot more supple and noisier, than that,
Of my Sony Ericson phone.

Becoming Asexual


There is a paradigm shift.
40, like thunder reminds you that
Your body doesn’t rain as much. 
Climate change you call it,
When you’re just an arid earth
On which nothing grows, bigger
Taller, fatter, even curvier,
When the man holds a basin
Out to catch the rain water,
The drizzle of the monsoon
That becomes just like a surprise
Or an epiphany, a rare event
Of simply holding the body out
Praying for a forecast of rain,
Not to open the flood gates,
Just to let a seed of memory germinate,
To remind the barren earth,
Of two long decades of pummeling rain
That at best, took me often to La La land
Singing Do Ra Me Fa Sol La Ti
And once again, Do.