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I carve the days

Out of the Sun.

My eyes gleam.

I hack the nights

Out of the Moon.

My heart cools

I squeeze all the rain

out of June.

I drink

Your memory.

I choke.

I die.

This is how

I live.

Aeroplanes in our Mind

An inscrutable buzz envelopes the mist

as planes descend and leave this city

It's almost the last week of December

People talk in loud shrilly voices

Another new year approaching

Another reason to be happy

I savor the warmth of the sun on my scruff

And I think about those winters

When we stood in huddles

warming up the air with our banter

Forgetting, it's almost the end of another year

But that was then, now

maybe you too are tuned into the buzz 

of planes against a misty sky

Listening to loud shrilly voices

of hope taking flight

Maybe this new year could

just be the reason to be happy

Who knows.

Carnivore

The next time you come to this city, just remember it
is Mumbai , now it always will be. And if you
take that road again, remember to forget.This road
is not the same and if you come across unfamiliar shadows at night;

you will see them this time, don’t fear, they won’t mock

when you swing from
the left to the
                     right to the
left to the
                 right to the
left.

Ticking like a pendulum, for when the time comes

to leave, I know you will remember all that you

gobbled up and left behind not too long long ago.

The Ruins

Against the fading light of eastern skies. And

all the stories winter speaks. Hush the lips

like dry river beds. Tears are frozen

shiny beads. Trees wear a shade of

withered brown. The once taut skin

is peeling off. Eyes are hollow empty

sockets. The air it reeks of your

sin. I gasp for breath and angels

weep. Now this town has lost

its sleep. The larks have flown

to a distant shore. Love

 doesn't live here anymore

Our Mountain

                                                           The 
                                                       night is a 
                                                    cold murmur. 
                                                Our breaths heavy 
                                            dizzy sentences, can’t
                                          make much  of them. The 
                                       world is at a distance from the 
                                     coordinates of where we trudge to
                                  slowly. Careful, one wrong step and we 
                      spiral back to become places that don't exist anymore.

Death of a Poet

A poet died one moon

night. On the august streets

of  Colaba. There was no blood

only a splattering of verses

like a staccato against the

lit tar. A BMW hit him

just when he was pinning

an image to earth. Lay bare

for the world to see. Finally he

got published. Till the morning

Vultures arrived and picked 

the streets clean.

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10,216 lines of
conversations on Gtalk later 
when they finally met, their
hands still did all the talking