Hospital Days

My body loves hospital beds,
Loves the white of sheets
A painful row of injured heads
Some ugly swollen feet.

The nurses have seen me naked
The Doctors smile a lot
Bless the water, for its sacred
And I lie on a sterilized cot.

My heart refuses to cooperate
And I throw my medicines away
A senior doctor wants to operate
Waking up means vomit and sway.

People visit and bring me gifts
My parents tell them all lies
The world inside me slowly shifts
As parts of me begin to die.

My last wish is to see a mime
I was always denied sanctuary
Tried my best to make it rhyme
This is my funniest obituary.

Secrets Under Wooden Floors

I

Scissored

Bleeds in a corner

My soul, my soul, my soul

And you sip warm tea

On an empty morning.

'Can't find Sahib anywhere, Memsahib'

'Can't find him anywhere....'

I am giving up

You can come out now

I will always lose at Hide and Seek

Always lose.

'Must we call the Police, Ram Singh?'

'Must we?'

I looked at you the first time

Last time I looked at you.

Were you born this pretty?

I have to ask your mother.

'Sahib was a good man'

'Make some tea, will you?'

II

I wanted to cradle you

Before I went away.

I wanted, I wanted and I wanted.

My memory with you.

The man with nobody

Lived with his family

Occasional friends

Spoke occasionally.

'He would never commit suicide, Memsahib.'

'He used to hunt after all.'

Struggle with me a bit

Lie next to me

Live my life for a moment or two

Hold my hand and make me weep.

'Bade Sahib is coming back from London'

'Make arrangements, and make some tea.'

Meet me tomorrow at seven

I have to kiss you

I have to tell you that I, poet extraordinaire, loves you

Loves you, loves you, loves you.

III

'My son, my son, what have ye done?'

Ladies and Gentlemen, a small hiatus for the dead

I bring you, 'Much Madness is divinest Sense' by Emily Dickinson

Much Madness is divinest Sense —

To a discerning Eye —

Much Sense — the starkest Madness —

’Tis the Majority

In this, as All, prevail —

Assent — and you are sane —

Demur — you’re straightway dangerous —

And handled with a Chain — 

'My son, my son, what have ye done?'

'Have some tea, Daddy ji, have it before it turns cold.'

I liked to twirl you hair

When you slept

We even had names

For two Daughters.

IV

I want you to call a Doctor

My memory, my memory, my memory

Betrays me.

And often, just like you.

'The world is not the same without him, Memsahib'

'Your loyalty shall be rewarded, I'm sure he's watching over you.'

I suspect that I love you more

Than you love me.

I don't mind, I honestly don't.

I just like to love you.

Ain't love a bitch?

How often you used to say that,

Especially when we made love quietly.

Not to wake my parents.

'Ram Singh, Ram Singh, where have you disappeared?'

'Where is everybody?'

'Why are all the lights off?'

'Why?'

Whimper, whimper, whimper.

The Nameless Monster

Monster, monster, monster- Tonight there is a monster
All my life there has been a monster,
It came not from my Father
And nor from my Mother
It came from elsewhere
It came, it came, it came
Only to come again and again.
Monster, monster, monster- Tonight there is a monster.
I am a nameless, faceless monster.
Monster, monster, monster.

A Simple Confession

In another world, in another time, you will be mine.
Apart no more, angry no more, scared no more.
I shall come for you and you shall meet me midway.
Customs, families, promises, rights and wrongs will disappear.
I shall love you and you will love me back.
I do not know if we will be able to love each other in this age.
Silently, as always, without the need for unnecessary words.
Our love is still there, silences do not shake my faith.
In simplest of words, I wanted to say that I still care.
My words are simple today, I love you and you love me back.
In another world, in another time, you will be mine.

There is a strong urge to give up writing, but it seems I have nothing else in my life. I wish I wasn't this weak where I had to depend on something so hungrily to find reasons in my life.

Prologue: Destruction

They have written tales about madness, about men
Lost in love giving up numbered breaths for the one
That brings them peace. They composed music, and
Wrote poetry, stench of an old malt and recently
Consumed cigarettes. Some have even lost their souls
In seedy brothels with an overdose of chillum, while some
Thrive on memories and creatively crested histories. I have
Seen it all. read it through and felt it turn me black. But for
You, I shall write blood stained libretti, blood darker than
Yours, for it will be mine.

Thicker than blood, colored with violence, rage and fury
Enveloped like lovers; a diaspora of your destruction.

You have blood stained thighs, I imagine them, rubbing
Mine.

Sadness Sadism

Perhaps memory has betrayed our love, for you
No longer remember my words
And I have carefully begun to forget yours.
There is a quiet method to the pains I inflict upon you,
A steady progression of scars.
The first scars were of love between our bodies,
Nails drawing blood from my back, as
I loved you until dawn. The cries of morning
Birds mingled with yours. I still savor
Memories in the dark.
Yours legs still ache, for we
Were taught by the Sutras.
I buried myself in the thick of your hair
You whispered secrets and nibbled my ear.
More scars followed,
As I broke your heart; for you also broke mine.
While you sought comfort in tears and memories,
I decided, solemnly,
To burn me only to give you another scar, until
All that remains is a tale;
Of a woman who lived by
And a man who had decided to die.

They Called Him Devdas.

Only if you were clearer in your mind, my lord, my sire;
Perhaps I would not burn myself every now and then.
Ambiguity and ambivalence may have fetched you
Literary accolades, gold coins and maybe even a besotted
Young maid, ready to be your Parvati or Chandramukhi, a whim
To your fantasies. But you ruined lives of many, Sire, lives of many.
They call you names, all beautiful, I shall call you Sarat Chandra Chattopadhay.

Chattopadhay, Chatopadhay, Chattopadhay; folklore says that chanting
Your name thrice will bring your spirit at my doorstep, only to listen to
My plight of sorrow and sorrow. Familiar territory for a man skilled
At creating pathos in lives of men enslaved to his words. My doorstep,
Reminds me of Parvati and the poor old man who died at her doorstep,
Unable to fight the golden nectar that ate his innards. You do the same to me,
Sarat, shall I call you Sarat? Of course I shall, I am your baby hamster and
Your courtesan.

You must oil my hair gently, caress it like a lover, for I make love to
Your words as they make rage to me. Who did the feeble old man love?
The whore that went by the name Parvati or was it the true romantic called
Chandramukhi, the world scoffs yet we both know better, don't we? You taught
Us that whores may dwell in the most peaceful of homes, gentle and homely,
Conning with false smiles and meaningless words. You did poetic justice when
Parvati got married. Widower was he, and he slowly taught her to ride him.
Splendid Sarat!

Parvati the whore, slowly learned the art of being on top, and making love
To a man who thought of his dead wife when he pushed. How he pushed!
I have a confession to make, I read your words in the language of the Queen,
The language of poetic flirtations, Bengali, and the language of sweat and economy,
Hindi, are both beyond my reach. Translators be blessed or you would not have found
Me Sarat. If I have made you angry then I shall make you smile too. I made love to
Your words unimaginably so. I devoured your words, I devoured them with hunger,
I devoured them with thirst.

Who did the feeble old man love anyway, or did he just love himself. I do not know
About my love for Parvati the whore or Chandramukhi the romantic, perhaps I, too,
Only love my own self. Maybe I should start drinking notoriously to forget them both.
Sarat, Sarat, Sarat, give me my answers, go on write my destiny, make me live before
I fade away, darker than black, ashes in a dirty river. Write something new, write, write,
Write. Add another chapter, let the vultures devour the feeble old man, let the whore
Ride her husband again. Let there be screams, let there be blood on wrinkled bed sheets.
Let the whore suffer.

Take care of Chandramukhi, give her a palace, give her some more words, give her a
Voice, a beautiful melodious voice. Let the feeble old man be forgotten, let him be a
Name for the dead, let him be me.

Post-Graduation

Them comes with charming post-graduate harlots,
Straight from mid-term exams concerning half-read
Theories of Saussure and Wittgenstein, mixed with
Choices of lingerie for the evening. Deftly taken off
In brief encounters within deserted corridors. Quoting
Cultural disambiguation while fellatio, causes slight discomfort,
As words are mixed with contractions. Post-graduate lovelies
Seem less worried about the results of examinations, rather
More so about bearing bastards at such youth ridden age. I
Grieve and comfort by suggesting eighteenth century abortions.
Them intention is not to ruin virgin wombs but to cause pain
Without making love. The results are out, my lovelies have made
Custard jam tarts, for no bastards are on their way. First class
Degrees have lost their meaning. I rest my case and my hands
Upon thee.

Moon

The moon changes its face everyday,
Standing on a planet known for its sins
You make calenders and anoint newborns.
Hindu wives pray for longevity of lives for
Shying cuckold husbands, their minds
Filled with images of lust from previous
Lovers.

Two romantics eroticize the moon together
Making promises never to be fulfilled, hormones
Fueling words and fantasies. The moon looks
Down quietly and sighs, its mind struggling
With decisions, cosmic ones, I assure you.
Poets come out too, tired after lengthy sessions
Of masturbation.

The moon becomes a backcloth for song filled
Rumors, also called films. It is humbled by the
orchestration of large scaled rioting. In lands far
From humanity; a sniper takes aim at unsuspecting,
buck-toothed villains. Watchdogs condemn such
Actions in the morning news while sipping hot tea
With biscuits.

The moon has has to father children, intermittently so.
Hermit crabs thrash around, sexing the night up;
Moonlight the only known stimulus for indifference.
Sailors are oft lost, ships sunk and dolphins amused
When the moon plays havoc with tides. Astronomers
Become linguists and crushes its eternal desire to be called
Planet.

The moon takes solace in the sun, lighting up the sky for
Those who are out of candles. The moon changes its face
Everyday, only for those on the planet of sins. For the
Universe at large, it is a silvery orb of absolute delight,
Gyrating maddeningly around the ample bosom of the planet
Ruined by us. Like black moths, dancing around slipppery
Flames.

Snippet v1.2

There is no silence between us,
Just a passing absence of words.
Like snow flakes melting midair,
We too shall find death together.