THE TREE OF SEPARATION

If we ever happen to meet

ten decades after a decade

of separation,

under that tree

with twenty autumns inside it

assuming the shape of an eye

covered with wrinkles,

I have so many things to ask you.

Ask for example;

What happened to that tooth

hollowed by the cavity

akin to my heart?

Does it still throb with an aching pulse

Or did you fill it

with all the remorses of your life?

Did you ever adore yourself

with that sari that I gifted.

You must have missed the bindi

that still lies clinging

to the passport sized photo of you

inside my ragged wallet.

Did you finish that novel?

That soundtrack

Do you still listen to it?

That box

containing all the knick-knacks

and trinkets,

does it still smell Me?

Did you this and

did you that

about such and such things,

the list will go on

And the tree, our milestone of separation 

may see twenty autumns more.

But when you will arrive,

I know,

all these questions -

I will never be seasoned enough

to ask.

I know

It will only be about your eyes:

Did you ever go to that

opthalmology test that we booked together?

And you will look at me

with those eyes

squinting 

and I will have to acknowledge 

the power of your sight.

In all my nakedness

I will wilt

like a closed eyelid.

THE BIRD TRAPPED INSIDE

"Imagine a bird trapped inside

this classroom . . ." -

In those moments of lectures

when you feel trapped

you tell your students,

because you have hit a wall

of incognizance

from the other side.

In that fluttering instant

You catch a feather 

to make them fly

conjuring up a bird.

Imagine a bird trapped inside,

seeing the other side clearly

oblivious of the transparent glass

in-between

hitting with all its being.

They believe you are some magician.

You think they are the metaphor,

all the while relishing the thought

that the metaphor fits your life too well.

The poem starts here:

It will take us all

Infinite moments

spread over years and years of

spring, summer and fall

to realise that

the trap

was a portal to freedom

while the world outside

waits with feathered cages.

THE SHAPE OF THE EAR

Ridged,

irregular,

a dune in the desert of the body.

Silence in a foetal position.

It does not speak -

the irony

that it is in a relationship with lips!

Parched with wrinkles,

a crumpled paper,

coiled like a dead snake,

a half-blossomed rose -

it is the most solitary of the organs.

It is the lover

in waiting.

Waiting for the downpour 

from those lips

that have not spoken in ages.

ORIGAMI HEART

The day you straightened your hair

was the day I felt

all the creases leaving

the fabric of life,

it was the day

my origami heart

unfolded in its essence -

a spiral sheet of paper

ready to be slid in

that old typewriter

crumpled in a corner of your room

for a poem;

yet unwritten.

LIMERENCE (For the girl who insists that it's Love)

Resembling an act of divine meditation,

goats burn themselves,

in some rare cases,

throw themselves into fire,

play with flames.

This fiery fascination though

inspires no one in the animal kingdom

for even they know -

self-harm is no authentic healing.

Goats are hellish

and foolish,

humans say,

but are they?

Atleast they have some fur to burn

in order to get rid of lice and ticks

kissing them to death.

Human-goats in fire

burn their skin

and smoulder the soul.

The parasites keep digging 

deeper and deeper

until the breasts instead of milk

drip pus

and the tongue whispers smoke

instead of songs.

All the while

the goats believe

they have wings

and as light as moths

are rising upwards to the divine light.

SCRIBBLINGS (For Hummaid and Yusra)

A line somewhere on the wall,

an angel monstrous in shape, entangled.

A number here on the window frame 

whose multiplication partner-number

is written somewhere in the other room.

A clunker runs over this almirah

without tyres, on absolute trust.

A pink watch on my arm

with no hands

embracing an infinite time.

I even carried a dwarf giant on my cheek

for many days.

Lines, dots, doodles, smileys

numbers, cars, shapes -

the world is paper for children,

a single sheet folding out into

walls, frames, almirahs

wndows, surfaces, skin.

May they never grow to know

that walls are bricks and cement

meant for heads and hurts,

that windows are wooden 

opening to an indifferent world,

that cars run on oil and exploitation,

that skin is a bruised abyss,

that numbers are monetary,

that the adult world is a world

of razor tongues and rumours,

of pain and separation,

of sharp edges and gunpowder

with thousand ways of communication 

that we have chosen not to.

LIFE (For Mubashir)

Only the person, says our barber,

who sits in my working chair

is a customer. The rest,

who wait, can leave anytime.

Waiting seems like

an aqueous island between oceans,

an intertestice of infinite possibilities

between two accomplished impossibilities -

one can pace up and down,

one can go or call or chat,

smoke or have tea,

kill someone or kill oneself.

All those who wait

can never be customers,

he's right. In his waiting for people

how closely he

misses Life,

all the while keeping

three chairs

for one customer.