My Lover Wears a Pink sari
As she strips off,
I see her tattooed thighs
like those of an ancient goddess -
lusty, ungodly and devil-like.
I crawl into her bed.
I suck her breasts like a baby,
unable to grasp the theatricality of words.
I look for meaning between her thighs,
but see a vast pool of darkness instead.
In the folds of her pink Sari,
my lover holds a curse.
I Wanted To Steal Fire
That day, when the evening sun faded into the horizon,
I tried to read the faces of my people in dark, and translate madness into words.
They had warned me against writing madness,
So, I hid gunshots and blood in a crumpled piece of paper and went to look out for spring.
But the old lady told me that winter had just set in, and I would need fire.
I walked along broken streets, where wives spilled half-kept secrets into their husbands' ears,
And children learnt the art of silence.
I wanted to steal fire, but stole silence instead -
Silence that spoke of pain, pleasure and poverty.
In the distance, a mother gave birth to a child, and a wolf howled.
An old man breathed his last when a forbidden history Found refuge in pen, paper and ink.
My bitter enemy is the mirror
hanging on the wall.
I despise it.
I keep abstinence.
Nevertheless, I face it again.
With much deterrence.
Not once or twice. Everyday.
It speaks to me of a truth, that shadows
the impotence of my manly existence.
But why do I fear?
I am not a coward.
I crush the mirror in sheer contempt.
Only to see the broken parts -
tipping off at something.
I realise the war has begun.
Not outside, but within me.