TO MY MUSTARD YELLOW GIRL (II)

What if,
There are hundred other ways to love
Than you are taught
In the commercial school of love.
And what if I have loved you
In all those hundred ways
And you couldn't see.
What if lending you a book
And deliberately forgetting to take it back
(So that it sleeps in your crowded shelf
Along with your gloss and glasses)
Was one of the way.
What if you are as confused about love
As I was between Yellow and Mustard.

DUAL/DUEL (For Baudrillard and You)

Love, we can never meet.
We: the Me and the You
(Duality is the magic)
Love is a duel,
A divine Mobius strip.
Ghalib knew it -
The duel of life and death
And the being of beloved.
Let's not become one
Under some romantic mystical spell;
Let's be two as in a duel.
Let's kill each other so that we could live:
I will be Vogel, you be von Kleist.
If that's too brutal,
Let's be 23rd April
In some part of Spain.
You search a rose for me
I will search a book
And we will meet
Under dilapidated statue of Sant Jordi. 

To My Mustard Yellow Girl

A hue of lust and love
You wore it like soul
The pleats run through my skin
An emotion -
Mustard is not a color
After you

MOURNING DIARY

Someday Barthes
We will meet over a cup of tea
(coffees taste bitter after death)
Smoking your favourite
Havana cigars
Under Srinagar skies
(not Parisian)
And discuss
My Mourning Diary
That I never wrote

BAARISH

Door kahin aasman mein
Aansuon ka ped hai
Jis pe khizaan aayi hai...
Udaas dil
Kabhi Yeh bhi sochta hai

Voodoo

Rain definitely is magical:
Piercing transparent needles
In earth's body

Aaina e Zaat

Ujde baal
Sooji aankhein
Toote daant
Aaina e zaat tod diya hai
Meri tanhai
Bilkul mujh jaisi hai

UNTITLED

Sometimes
More than beloved's laugh
You need
The Shrill cry of her pain
To lessen the burden of life

Sometimes
More than futile breathing
You need
Asphyxiation
To tell you that you are alive

Sometimes
More than the loneliness of room
You need
A mad joyous crowd
To sing you your forlorn song

Sometimes
More than emptiness
You need
The softness of a woman’s bosom
To blunt the barbed lines of fate

PURSISH

Sach tou yeh hai ki
Tumhare Jane kay baad
Sab ne mujhse
Mera mizaj poocha hai,
Haal nahi!

LACK OF EVIDENCE

My heart is a crime scene:
One can still smell
The rusty blood
Of killed dreams
Murdered desires.
Because I never marked
The premises to save detritus,
Everyone walked in
As people walk into a crime scene
Changing everything
Changing nothing.
My heart is a crime scene:
Homicide now looks like suicide.