Stargazing

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I miss your lips, that I’ve never kissed.
Remembering those words, I haven’t yet heard.
That look in your eyes, I am waiting to see.
Cologne on my clothes, I only imagine the scent.
Recalling your touch, I’ve never felt.
Reminiscing the memoirs of the future,
futuristic nostalgia.

– me

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Snooze

mumsmansleepingA common site in Mumbai… seeing people sleeping during the day around the city…like its something so normal to do. Many people would find it peculiar, but here office goers walk past those who nap, undisturbed by the busyness around them. Its quite inspiring, as it is the epitome of being unaffected by one’s surroundings.

Koyla aur Kapda

I wrote this poem, inspired by the Istriwalla we give our laundry to. He sees us and smiles. Bundles piling up behind him.

Koyla aur Kapda
istriwala
The smell of coal,
Lingers on my clothes,
Smoky scent of the covers,
Fills my cupboards,
Printed kurtas,
Pressed chadors,
Returned enfolded in colours.

Illustration by Vini Prasad – who does beautiful drawings of the people of Bombay
Browse through them on: http://www.vinipprasad.wordpress.com

A good city to fall in love

Walking out of  an art-deco cinema after watching a hero fight for his damsel, cuddly couples laughing in the last row behind me… Strolling at Marine drive to see passionate pairs all along the sea face, some on scooters cruising the bay.. how can you not be a romanticist in Mumbai?

A poem by blogger Neha Viswanathan, I enjoyed & want to share 🙂
http://www.withinandwithout.com
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Bombay is a good city to fall in
love. My lover lives eight train
stations and two full bus-stops
away. Ten rupees of distance
between us.

Courage comes easy. The city
pocked with couples, suspended
in amour. Wet monsoon shivers,
filling streetfood. Midday reads
to share.

Obstacles, like the sour smell
of suburban shit, humidity, the
crowded train. All defeated by
young love. Bombay, yes, is a
good city.

We spread handkerchiefs, sit
on them. One hand held, the
other, busy eating something.
By the sea, you explain, we can
sit forever.

But the beggars, and the sunset,
respective waiting rooms, dying
rush hour, ease us off the sand.
This is the restrained, timed love
of office-goers.

At Churchgate, I kept looking
at your growingly tiny face. My
local pulling out. I am already
fifty paisa away from you. Yes,
I love you.