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 remorse 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.