How,
you would have disapproved
drinking cappuccino
later in the day.

Perhaps this is -

Exactly at the moment when
you are composing a mail

about how
wonderfully free it feels
to hang by the Bandra fast local.

There is a woman next table
with a man; perhaps early days of
courtship or
an affair. I cant be sure.

She says to him: 8800
isn’t
as user friendly as 8820.

Blackberry obviously.

Perhaps

This is what it is.

Living.

A single template folded
into different unique shapes and
forms.

Infinitely.

You see, He was right.

Bloody Borges.

As if this be just a fine tuning it rains from nowhere a few tiny droplets for a very brief moment and then the masterly rendition is repeated with the rainbow as the violin.

On such afternoons, what else could one taste but the bitter froths of the pint: many a pints and many a barrels.

Play it again Sam?

Will ya? This is as near as we could get to the sun.

Summer Solistice

into a huge heap of one great
moment and carried it tenderly,
leaving behind — We watching
it sail away with hands held
and our eyes sparkling like
sapphires in tangerine sunlight, our
bellies still aching from laughters, our lengthy

shadows too close together
in the evening sun and
our hearts beating
as one.

"In this moment here, now-
I can only pity your despair.
All thought dear,
is a veneer, waiting to be
corroded by time;
all bonds are
‘basically’ built by bricks of emotion".

"Perhaps yes", I wonder
or pretend to,
and
fiddle with my glass;

In a brief silence,
I try to reach out to your pity
while you take out your cigarette.

I cant.

 
"Do you know, I ask, the difference
between a cake and a biscuit"?
"No",
" Both are ‘essentially’ made of same

ingredients; just , one gets harder

with time and the other softer".
I utter, lighting your cigarette.

I free your tresses from the
grip of a cheap plastic clip
and let them flow
over your shy eyes,
ivory shoulders, Hepburn neck;
I press your warm body, hard against mine
and between your chuckles, moans,
I wet your temporalis, maxilla,
zygoma,with my beer beaten tongue.

In a mad dance,
I sin you, you sin me,
not two sins,
Just One…
for a small history,
only for us.

Then after a Cigarette
and watching several turns

of the swirling fan blades,
I gaze at your Rodin head laid in my arms,
lost in deep soulful sleep,

I know it’s only now;
I can claim you as mine
and mine alone.

When you wake up
you would start about going
to a movie and shopping,
while I just want to
laze around reading ole books.

I did not
hate you when
you seduced me that night
and
dropped me like a fulfilled dream.

No!
I did not
hate you when
you pretended
to be busy
and
did not
return my calls

But,
I hated you
when
you spilt wine on my new skirt
and
tried to wipe it off with your tie,
Of all the things.

Buried hatchets within we carry
an ache, is not necessarily of a fissure
To stranger smiles we marry
a laugh, does not always belong to pleasure.

we are not just men of love
we are not just men of hate

Somewhere we are, also
those unspoken handshakes
of our hearts and minds;
Sometime we are, also
those incomplete deeds
we give in to, agreed and unagreed

On those summer nights ahead
when stars drop low by the open window
And we lay many a linens apart

Think of us; if you do
not just by the dark shadows
we hung by the selfish door
but as well by the colourful smiles
we spilled on the spotless floor.

Think of us; when you do
not just of what we held onto dearly so
but also of what we painfully let go….

 
All the contours in time’s laughter are swallowed
Into an ineffable void within;
Nothing subsists, until all rains are washed into oceans,
till
All is forgiven and forgotten,
Only the stream still remembers
The persistence of disintegration of time,
Because
The stream that flows only bends,
Neither turns nor returns…..