The Fuss About One’s Favorite Fruit

I never like them too soft,
melting with the first bite.
An occasional challenge,
yes, even with fruits-
those mute pleasers-
can prove quite healthy.
That first bite of rawness,
crunch silenced by flesh inside.
The reluctantly sweet taste,
eager in its hurry to leave.

There’s a delicate balance,
of surfaces and secrets,
of insides and outsides,
of defenses and welcomes,
of skins and seeds, to strike.
Like caramel eclairs.
Like a crusty sandwich.
Like biscuit and jam.
Like any other mundanely
analogous example.

A twisted little game,
a treacherous threesome:
Imperfect, uncared-for molars,
sly, careful tongue, and
difficult, puckish seeds.
A wicked dirty dance,
pushing and shoving,
dodging and side-stepping;
A battle ending in inevitability,
no winners on either side.

A single careless move,
thanks to the greedy mouth,
disturbs the players’ dynamics
and turns the game around.
A lone slippery seed
with a vendetta of its own,
preying on those poor molars,
makes itself a nice home.
No matter how much it’s coaxed,
it refuses to come unstuck.

The tongue tires of its trials
to extricate the stubborn imp.
The molars painfully impatient,
curse their fates and the game,
and the fruit, and ME!
As if it was all my doing!
And thus begins the charade again,
to promise and commit to and swear,
with fickle intensity and honesty,
that I will never eat a guava again!


At shut of evening flowers

>Florets of sinopia and xanthous,
On a bed of smaragdine.

Stains of solferino and ferruginous,
In a cyaneous sea.

Nankeen feathers on a columbine tail,
Aubergine blooms on lovat floor lie.

An aeneous blaze on a waking star,
Leads the son under a cerulean sky.

One Rainy Evening..

>The sun suffered a massive a stage fright,
And excused itself from our sight.

Shy fire, confused gray and a schizophrenic blue,
Cotton clouds, heavy and too full of hue.

Lightning threw a tantrum, thunder a fit,
Torrents after torrents, obligingly followed it.

Headlights blinked, traffic lights blinded,
Horns, yells and screeches, went unheeded.

The windows stared back, bleak and tired.
And back to their blinking screens, the ants returned.


>On a wooden park bench, brown,
they sat since the sun fell and fled.
Of Euripides and Aristophanes,
He spoke and she laughed.

Languages rolled on a heavy tongue.
Strangers from across three seas,
strolled under a coy sky. Between
fallen stars and shooting leaves.

Blackbirds and woodpeckers,
cold-blooded crickets and cicadas
Encore, one after another heard.
Music memorized, like math.

Blades of grass tickled the feet,
knuckles wrapped into a tackle.
Silences recalled, into a vacuum.
The lonely metal lamp shivered.

On a wooden park bench, brown,
they slept till the sun rose and bled.
Moons travelled into outer space.
He snored, and she sighed.

A Patchwork of Evening Fancies

>Straws glued together green,
brushing against cracked soles.
Slithering steps winding along
jungles of ants and rats.

Dried blossoms a few amongst
a field of yellow daffodils.
The scent spreads across excess
of flesh desired, and allowed.

Sixteen pale stars across a red sky,
Silver fern rising from beryl earth,
dancing violently on tender wrists,
pausing to sleep at the neck of a ring.

Lights changed colors, predictably.
Relief and rush mingled and crashed.
She blushed, glowed and sighed
and an eight rolled down with a click.

He chanced a hasty glance at the mirror,
catching an elusive whiff of tobacco.
Streets crossed, lanes changed by turn,
the coin given away by his time.

Scaling a dusty hundred and five steps,
crossed the bridge of no streetlamps.
A minute late and fifteen strides away, only.
But the books had already gone to sleep.


This is just to say,
that we may now do away
with the trouble of niceties.
Incapacity and a lessened
share of fancy shall suffice.

This is also to remind,
that we may now do away
with bothering about time.
Age and a book full of faces
shall let it pass unseen.

This is now to conclude,
that we have fully done away
with reality without the eye.
Hope and a few old spirits
shall keep us from bellyache.


>Songs that shall not be heard
for they bring a scent to mind.

Words that shall not be said
for fear the silence be stormed.

Sights that shall not be seen
for the memories that be piqued.

Eyes that shall not be closed
for fear they would dream.

All this, to not be reminded.
To face and turn things undone.

– The Un-Written Yet.

Dangling Conversations

>Quiet and empty terms
left hanging in mid-air.
The moment lingers, each
trying hard to prolong,
a second that calls for
an utterance from either.

The silence is awkward.
Like that of strangers’
first tryst, on chance.

And, those estranged ones
reuniting, their exchanges
heavy with past refrains.

Voices being cleared audibly,
a flurry of hand movements,
some coffee from the cup spilled,
or a metal fork drops,clanging.
Distractions notwithstanding,
the stillness still stays.

Glances and false starts,
some nervous little laugh,
on a pity of an old joke.

A discoure on the weather
and whether it will change,
jaded matter at the outset.

Each in their own thoughts,
trying too hard, too much
to ignore or to be involved.
Will deal with those demons
later in solitude, now dispense
with the tidings on hand.

The conversation haltingly begins,
faltering at places and pauses.
Sighs and relieved smiles on the side.

Episodes of small disomfiture
encroach slowly. Caught unawares,
the voices fall to a humming, tuneless.

The dialogue dips further down,
words refuse any refuge,
cunning allies of this quiet.

You flail and flounder oft
and yet fail at your attempts.
The conversation dangles yet,
you stay on, seeking sanctuary…

P.S : For Chetan, who didn’t know, what to do..