Offended of sorts.

This rapist and that molester

This corrupt politician, that suppressive leader.

Them, these men and women of the unethical-

They are after me.

A fragile flower admirer.

A jovial children lover

A worshipper of women

A helping hand for the incapable

A helper of sorts

I, a gay man,

A confused man.

A half man, a “more than a man”- man.

I a criminal?

I a sinner?

What I see today is a beautiful reflection.

A beautiful creation, in its flaws.

Not sexual but physical.

It’s me, now a criminal.

In a lands of hypocrisy and the unaware

In a land torn between irony and injustice.

In a land that is now ceasing to be.

In a land that seems no longer my own.

Detached.

Altitude twists attitudes.

High floors brews philosophers.

There is something about these hanging balconies,

You can look away and beyond-

Far from the reality.

Once in a while I do give in to this temptation.

I sit too, in my balcony of a high apartment.

At night when the sounds are less, and light specks many.

A game of lego, only illuminated.

Block on blocks, blocks following blocks

Dazzled in patterns of black and yellow.

At night everything is one

No rich and no poor

That blue of the cheap plastic that coats the slum tops

That matt of the stone surface that adorns the beautiful ones

All submerge into one black, just yellow showy crystals.

But in this height, air deprived

I feel detached.

I feel removed.

No bodies to be seen.

No hands to be brushed against.

Eyes disappeared into the dark.

No glints, no hopes.

I’d rather be a thriving loafer,

Than a lonesome philosopher.

So I climb down

To collect another story
To fashion another poem.

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.