March.

The venomous hiss of an inky black backdrop,

Spill over hunting skeletons in cautious attires.

The liberals and the orthodox,

Rant and pray and hunt.

For the twilight is never far,

And the hours are never countless,

Desire is never content.

These forlorn suggestive statures

In the middle of nowhere, at an awkward hour.

Coincidence?

A staged drama indeed,

Ending in ironies and tragedies.

These actors are protagonists, all of them.

The stories, Shakespearean in their narration.

Bombay , stained by sin, awaits a monsoon.

Love.

"Help me to love you"- he said. 

"How ?" 

"Just love me and be hopeful."

On The Go.

I saw five of them at Goregaon station

Three more got in at Andheri

By Bandra they had multiplied to 15 too many

Hurdled and aimed

An army of violaters, policing around.

So focused on breaking records.

Between Borivili  to Churchgate
How many men and how many stains ?

Counting Queers.

They are everywhere
Concealed and conspiring
Sometimes more opaque than the others
Animate and inanimate sometimes
But they are very much there.

These multi story buildings
I see them yonder
How many you say
Must there be my kind?
Some must be east facing, some west
Some under some and some on top.

These men around me
Headed to their homes
Some married and some to be
And some playing alive, dead.
How many of them must be
thinking what I'm thinking right now ?

Doing Mr.Khan

One of my affairs.

Longing, pain and suffering.

It was quite virtual,

But quite real indeed.

I was left unfulfilled and drained.

I was here, this side of the screen,

And Mr.Khan was dancing there.

The way he delivered,

That glint in the eye,

That curling of the lip,

That sly shy.

I’d immerse myself,

And reply before the heroine,

To his brewing magic and building emotions,

I’d reply with overflowing eyes.

Oh he was so good.

A perfect man to be.

Bounty in all values

And pretty like a cherry tree.

At one point I really thought

That we were meant to be

One for the other.

No inconsequence just pure glee.

In time I compromised,

And thought being a secret lover befitted,

For he was too important and known,

And I might cause him to crumble.

And so I let him be.

Instruction Manual for Local Travel.

May I have your attention please!

Passengers are requested

Not to travel on rooftops.

Tops and bottoms,

And the curious likes.

You are requested not to climb out,

Or even sit on the cerulean surfaces.

Just stand up and mingle in,

Near the doors and the passages,

Become a thick gelatinous smog,

Felt but never caught.

Be on the moving floor, juggling.

Aspire not for the high roof,

But the erect of these men.

Don’t reach out,

But lower down.

For there lies everything unachievable above,

And what’s worth life, love

Is below.

Sometime peeking sometime hidden.

The Demanding Messenger.

Morning made me reach down.

A familiar rigidity, demanding and irritating.

No mood of defiance,

And futile efforts to pacify it.

To suppress, to restrain and to repress,

Or to get done with it,

Nothing works.

For it is bored of me.

It demands guest hands and untried mouths.

In silent protests, it pulsates,

Irritating and embarrassing.

It is ever growing,

A slave rebellion for liberation.

It now rebukes in public places too.

Frail.

And when the night comes announced

I shall cover you up secure.

One shadow we shall cast in the moon,

Like a single canopy of a million leaves.

For they wont understand our love

And how deep we run.

Much like the sound of silence.

Much like nothingness.