Debasish Parashar

Debasish Parashar

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Debasish Parashar is a Multilingual Poet, Creative Entrepreneur, Singer/Musician and Lyricist based in New Delhi, India. He is an Assistant Professor of English literature at the University of Delhi. Parashar is the Founder & Editor-in-Chief of Advaitam Speaks Literary journal and is associated with the World Poetry Movement. With his debut song ‘Pamaru Mana’ (2018), Debasish became the first Indian singer/composer who dared to experiment with the idea of fusing 600-years-old Borgeets of Assam with Western Orchestral music (with layered violins, pianos, snares & vocals), challenging the religious and ritualistic conventions of the Satras. His debut Music Video ‘Shillong’ from his debut EP ‘Project Advaitam’ released in the month of September 2018. He has sung for Raag, In Search of God, MUSOC XXV and elsewhere.

His write-up on Majuli has been listed amongst top 100 online #worldheritagesites stories globally in May 2016 by Agilience Authority Index.

His literary works have appeared in Kweli (New York), Sentinel Literary Quarterly (London), Voices de la Luna (USA), Contemporary Literary Review India, Enclave/Entropy (USA), Buenos Aires Literary (Argentina/Spanish), La Experiencia De La Libertad (Mexico/Spanish), Expound (Africa), Asian Signature, Kitob Dunyosi (Uzbek), SETU, Five2One (USA), Moonchild (USA) and elsewhere. Debasish’s works are featured in international anthologies such as World Poetry Almanac 2017-18, Epiphanies and Late Realizations of Love (USA), ‘Where Are You From ?’ (New York), ‘Apple Fruits of An Old Oak’ (U.S.A),‘22 Wagons’ (Serbian) and ‘Flowers of the Present’(the Netherlands) among others.

Debasish has received invitations to participate in various national and international literary events/festivals including the 12 th International Writers Meeting organized by UNESCO affiliated Writers and Artists Union of Tarija (Bolivia), 12 International Writers’ Festival-India by India Inter-Continental Cultural Association (India) and The 3 rd Edition of Festival Itinerante in Colombia among others.

Debasish Parashar has received an Honourary Diploma (Diploma de Honor) signed by the Consul of Isla Negra, Chile for the International organization Movimiento Poetas Del Mundo (Movement of Poets of the World). The World Institute for Peace, Africa, offered him to receive the honour of A World Icon of Peace in 2019. He could not receive the honour due to personal differences.

The Indonesian translations of some of his poems by A.S.Rijal were included in the English Poetry Appreciation syllabus of Makassar Islamic University, Indonesia for the year 2017-18. Parashar has been/is getting translated into more than 30 world languages including Russian, Dutch, Spanish, Czech, French, Romanian, Serbian, Albanian, Persian, Afrikaans, Indonesian and Arabic. His poetry has been featured in 10 different books/anthologies from renowned publishing houses in the USA, Russia, the Netherlands, Serbia and Mongolia. Overall, his poetry has appeared in more than 30 countries of the world.

4 delhis

my existential plane of experience and the extended floodplains of Yamuna
create an angle
inversely proportional to my house rent.
4 delhis.

if there is a car on the street
the car on the street is cars
can be edited like a video clip.
4 delhis.

there is a wedding on the second floor
and here i am, a stranger happy like a voyeur without a convincing reason
living can be like passive smoking.
4 delhis.

i can climb this city like a lizard against gravity
i can roll this city like old photographic films
i can read and deconstruct this city.
4 delhis.

I was born in a house without a house number. I just knew that house
just like the sounds of my mother’s bangles. Just knew it.
Now i live in a multiple city multiplying vertically into a complex matrix of numbers.
4 delhis.

(Originally appeared in the bilingual Anglo-Persian anthology ‘Where are You From ?’, New York.)

This Evening Is Not For Love Poems

This evening is not for love poems
We can just sit quiet and indifferent
You know what I mean?
You know I know
It is fine even if you don’t

I still remember that sweet December
You sitting by my side
Life was so beautiful
I still remember you holding a green umbrella against a sophist sky
grey with tales
And your eyes rainy with words
It did rain that evening
It really rained
This evening is not for love poems

This evening is not for love poems
This evening is political
This red river of blood that separates us

and unites You and Me is a political triumph
This indifference is strategic
A Panopticon of hope
Still imprisons me

like the bronze statue from Harappa buried for ages
Just to be alive

This evening
Let us rather dream
Like they do in love
Let us be rebels for a cause
Like they do in love
Let us doubt, disagree and deny
Like they do in love
Conflict is a hungry chameleon dancing wild in a puritan carnival
And a carnival is true
This evening is not for sweet love poems
This evening is too many and too much

(Originally appeared in Praxis magazine)

Roots of Nirvana

Artwork : ‘Great Minds’-30X30-Acrylic-Textured Acrylic–Mysti S. Milwee

There is a city inside your body

There is a city inside your body
noisy, cloudy and ancient

Just that
I have inhabited its ghettos to fill up 
its silences

I have lived its margins like a dangerous supplement
resisting and fighting
the blue hours
scattered around your eyes

               There is a city inside your body.
I have inhabited the corners of that city
clumsy 
               and rain-clad 
gathering roots of nirvana.

How lovely 
                 the way 
                       you spread your city skies and I embrace its moon 
dimmed by the light-holes of your citylights !

Very often than not I steal 
stars from your skies.


I bury them in

moidams of memory with legends of dead kings

and local heroes for them to transcend spaces of memory and life.

Stars stolen from your therapeutic skies can paint hues of

trivanga times.

Fuck You, Pundit Bukowski !

(To Charles Bukowski)

You wrote so much so soon
Fertile as always in days not of poetry.
Your publisher probably said
Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.
Pundit Bukowski.

You taught us the art of not giving a fuck.
A hotel room

huffed and puffed with cathowls and sweat. A dreamer was drunk and doubly displaced from the market.
Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.
Pundit Bukowski.

You called them whores, not sex workers.
Silken thighs. Handcuffed desires. Drunken battles. Vernacular bedsheets.

Rosebud eyes. Folded blindness. Foetal thrusts.
Fuck you.Fuck you.Fuck you.
Pundit Bukowski.

An uncensored self is Editors’ nightmare.
You stripped them with your uncensored wit. Mocked them. Tickled them. You do what you do. Your bonemarow is real. 
Fuck you man.
Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.
Pundit Bukowski.

(Originally appeared in the Ramingo’s Porch, Italy)

Drunken Selfies

I am little drunk right now
as if I am naked and shot at point blank

for a ban

Drunk as if smitten by this 
night lazily

femme fatale with disheveled cloths in her boudoir

Kamayani

This night is a crazy melancholy with eyes of longing
A pair of eyes with viraha can be so attractive

All puzzles are

I am so drunk that I can see
I can hear clouds killing birds with a tipsy sun and I can smell the sun breathe
I wish birds were a republic of sentiments
could fly a bachata

sensual and sexy
could fly like a frizzy piece of jazz cutting Van Gough’s ear into pieces

Darshana is drishti

I am drunk right now

Really drunk

Sometimes my nights are full of dualities and paradoxes like drunken selfies

Sometimes erotic like a lazy husky voice

An oasis a plateau a carnivore a serpent
a prarthana an idiom a circle a kiss
a mrityu a confession
a moksha an apology
a shringara a trivanga
a karma an apasmara
a lihaaf a doha and what not


My nights have many faces
but not a ban

I wish I could fear death more than I fear formalities

(Originally appeared in Kwelli Journal, New York.)

Perfumed Gossamer

I love the way
You look at me

In odd seasons of the year
You deserve to kill 
beautifully

I start
like poppies dried in sunshine

your hair 
wet
yesteryears of monsoon

your skin
a perfumed gossamer
draped in scented tears 
becoming poppies

In odd seasons of the year
you look beautiful
and 
you look at me
with those 
black unsolicited eyes
making yourself 
more inevitably believable

that
I die at the end of that gaze of yours

like always

just to reborn
like seeds becoming sunflowers
in a field after tillage
insanely yellow
stupidly hopeful.

History of love is a history of inarticulation.

(Appeared in Spanish Translation in Liberoamerica)

The way I SUBSCRIBE

All in a maze of more-than-emotions
I clicked SUBSCRIBE. Yes, all capital letters. Yes, I saw them.

Letters are funny beings.
They still combine to create meanings, gang-up to control my mind
and build bridges all around.
Bridges between selves are built with stimuli and I walk across worlds.

A figment of semantics is a culpable homicide and I walk across worlds.
I walk inside against gravity 
I SUBSCRIBE all in a maze of more-than-emotions
I disagree with you if you say
emotions build bridges and reason burns 
reason actually strengthens bridges
hyper-reason SUBSCRIBES
or hyper-emotion ?

SUBSCRIBE is a second from my self
a proxy for the nano-humanity that stands with the world.

SUBSCRIBE is that more-than-real I always desired to inhabit.
Desires are a river shaped by its valley
and the valley is a negation of itself.
What is desire if I always get it ?

And I SUBSCRIBE.

(Originally appeared in SETU magazine)

Roots Are Sticky


I come from a place where flowering of bamboos and
unnatural deaths are supposed to be bad
a migrating place whose time coordinates are trapped inside
a trapezium stuffed with bamboo shoot pickles and slices of Dominos Pizza
reconciliation. Is it?
 
doped into a dialect of disassociation
the small place of my birth feels ticklish and sneezes
even its sneezes come in packages these days
 
I come from a place that has no brothels no night life
its days are hungry beasts caressing nights
in cars, multiplexes and parks. Mood is on but shy
 
from honor to gossips
inter-caste marriages have covered a tedious journey
in my small town for heterosexuals
 
confession is a form of protest
and my people have started talking, sharing, confessing
on TV, Facebook, Insta, Twitter, blogs, etc. etc.
a migrating place
migration is a form of liberty a protest in itself
and my place is migrating with sticky roots.

(Originally appeared in Scarlet Leaf Review, Canada)

A Bunch of Chaos

Chaos 1:

when the gloomy sunlight

falls upon the broken shadows

my heart unleashes its madness

and I become a prayer

lying flat like an open highway…

Chaos 2:

I’ve known what this huge outcry means to the crowd

‘coz it rapes a thousand miles of silence

‘coz it plagiarizes a rendezvous of doubts

‘coz it merges with U and it merges with me

in this virtual world of broken agony

U become a link yourself

to link with a thousand links…

Chaos 3:

the smoke rings that smell like sounds

the quantums of my thoughts that break like thunderstorms

with dewdrops of silence that unbreak U of my heart

memory becomes a revealing with mighty shrieks

Chaos 4:

laughter that cries out pain

let’s speak words that unspeak them not

these wasted hours

drop down through my fingers like sandstone

that drop and gather and mock me like an affidavit

quite like the varnished wood of my sofa

I look new

yet I sob aloud and I sob aloud…

Apocalypse:

endless hopes of sordid rain

infinite lines of resurrection

why should you think o wild heart

mixture of dry water in spices is a gamble??

(Originally appeared in Visual Verse)

Infinity is Finite

He asked her ,”Who are you young lady?”
She said, “I am a stargazer. I can love you all night ! I can stay awake for nights without dreaming, waiting for blue supernovas to blush tamarind skies.
I am a stargazer. I can love you all night !”
He said, “There is no point in waiting for blue supernovas to blush when our hearts are not blue “
She said with a smile, “blood is blue. Love bleeds. I wish I could jump into a black hole till a point of no return.”
He said, “Infinity is finite. I can sense that.”
She asked “Are we even talking ?”
He said, “Till a point of no return !”
She asked, “Have you ever thought about becoming a stargazer ? When your eyes become your body ? “
He said, “I am unbecoming !”
She said with a smile, “If you were impressed by the supernovas, you were awake.”
He said, ” I must not know. Infinity is finite. I can think that.”
She said, “I am truly surprised ! Surprised like a bird !”
He said, “Surprises are full of lies. I don’t really remember where I have lost my surprises !”

(Originally appeared in the Contemporary Literary Review India)

Love In the Times of Demonetisation

Our eyes met after so long 
The only valid logic behind the same was
demonetization
I was standing at the long queue as always and you too
money was now the only necessity
Money can’t buy everything
but makes us do so many things
in so many unexpected ways
in such unexpected places

Our eyes met after so long
and the queue was long
Even through the foggy fudgy chit chat of people you were too visible
and then our eyes met
We exchanged glances
and I was trying to find meanings
like a reader responding to a text
multiple, polyglot and multilayered
There was demonetization in those black bored eyes

and anger against the government
You looked differently calm though
May be you had become 
libtard and sickular too
in the mela of demonetization

Money can’t buy everything
but there are so many things money can snatch away
demonetization did
like my routine cup of tea in the evening

or my self-respect when somebody shouted at me

while I was trying to use 2 Debit Cards

to withdraw some more money
And there you were
smiling as always and our eyes met
and there was a sudden whole new world where I felt 
demonetization meant you
and you, demonetization.

Your Words are a Continent

your words are a continent
the ripples of my experience

submerge


transcending caste
pure impure
acceptance and refusal

I plunge deep
into your solid continent 
where Othello cried

on a topsy-turvy night
and screamed

into the vanishing skies
with sweat drops shining on his dark body
like an armory of stars


you know what ?

not all rituals started with the Public Bath 
nor drowning in the ruins of Mohenjo-Daro

the history of drowning is a history of metaphors

Of Sanskriti and Prajñā

The tipsy town topsy-turvy
tamarind flavoured hunted a pair of eyes

Prakṛiti and purusha hand-in-hand
handcuffed hornbills striving for a flight
across turmeric skies. What looks toppled 
from above is not always a sanskriti. And a

sanskriti needs not always to be wise.

what Prajñā is after all ?

Folding your trousers when you are half submerged in flood?

Standing in a queue when no one is around?

To become a sleepwalker to escape insomnia?

Now that I stand on top and look down
to find the sanskriti

tipsy, topsy-turvy and tilted
in grief of its unheard screams

I think I know what Prajñā is.

Prajñā is
the samskara of playing songs in a loop,
listening lovingly to the songs of your choice

from a playlist not always set by you. Prajñā is
not leaving a cow alone in a desert to 
survive its karma. Prajñā is to look inside to make sense of the continuous

tussle between sura and asura. What is good is not always bad.

The purusha is not always the Prakṛiti.

One is two at times and two are one at other times.

Prajñā was. Prajñā is.

Love in Less

I had never believed

love

could be expressed

in a haiku

or a short poem

precise

like a wink

social

like senses

multiple

like a word

then I loved

and

thank god

I realized

no need

for love

to be a gaze

if profound

like a glimpse.

(Originally appeared in Enclave, Entropy).

Keep a Vigil With the Corpses

(In recent times, there has been a sudden spike in the number of dead bodies found in the Sutlej in Punjab, India. There has been a simultaneous rise in the number of farmer suicides in Punjab’s Green revolution belt.)

Keep a vigil over the corpses

Kisans of Malwa

Stripped of time

Mutilated by dogs

Swim along blue Satluj

Trapped and checked

By sluicegates of progress

And hopes of Bhakra

Bhakra of dams and dreams!

Keep a vigil over the corpses.

Bulla Shah weeps in silence

Writes a chronicle of horror

On the corpses

And pleads

To keep a vigil for the corpses

Punjab of five Nadiya

My newfound love!

Oh Punjab! How green you were!

Hopes for the hungry

Bullets for others

Blossomed with a Green revolution

Food, fertility and foreign relations

Then why?

Why the blue turns red with the Green?

I know it all

On a windy Punjab night

Moonlit and blue

A corpse (or a Kisan?) from Malwa

Confessed volumes of your infidelity!

You know what?

Keep a vigil over the corpses.

I have heard

Chronicles of many corpses

some living, some dead

with meager land

Jobless vagabonds

Futile labor

Small and marginal

Debt-ridden

Jumped into blue Sutlej

(To atleast generate some hydropower!)

Stuck at the sluicegates

Not even suicides

Their transparent bodies

Faithless

Undetected by underwater cameras

Spoke of Rights and wrongs and…?

You know what?

Keep a vigil over the corpses

Technology is inadequate

Just for a change

Keep a vigil with the corpses

Keep a vigil for the corpses.

 (Kisan-Farmer, Nadiya-Rivers)

(Originally appeared in Indiana Voice Journal)

Of Promises, Markets and Memories 

1.

Better not try

To impress

With your sorrows

Life has few hollows

To be empty

2.

 Your promises are leaves

In a forest deciduous

Fertile in fall

Otherwise green

3.

 If memories were governed

By demand and supply

Market forces I mean

All geniuses could be ordinary

All histories linear

since they are not

Meanings can be metaphors.

Neo-random Thoughts 1

All of a sudden

wi-fi signals

are low

(The modem, a moron !)

I am now worried

we may not

communicate

our wishes, dreams and fantasies

to each other

or

you might think

I am despicably slow!

Manikarnika Ghat

Along floating ghats

And a burning river

The morning naked and spread-eagled

Like twilight

With temples grey like ashes

Half-burnt Goldflakes

The Ganges and drops of Old Monk

Balance teardrops

Absorb the world

Exhale the same

A hydrostatic paradox…

The Ganges

Mirrors and my reflection

Amidst a Chinese package of sunshine

Zombie strippers from Somalia

And frozen memories

I see myself

My soul split like Kashmir

Craves for the forgotten

Then

With a silent spasm

“Eureka, eureka”

The ghat of Manikarnika.

Here I come from Palmyra

From BTAD

From Telangana

Here I come from everywhere

Everywhere

Searching for the lost remains of Gauri

To pacify Shiva’s rage

Here I come to unburden my soul

My small boat is not enough

To carry the weight of a civilization

I want to come again

Here I see old men sitting in inertia

Aghoris and necrophilia

White clothes and smell of incense burning

Just to mock the city of Banaras

There I hear

Bells toll from a temple far away

Oars on water

And a tune resonates

From the flute of a blind beggar

Sitting by a burning pyre

“O Majhi re…”

(Manikarnika Ghat: one of the many ghats (river bank) in Banaras, associated with Lord Shiva’s curse that the place where his dead wife goddess Gauri’s earrings fall (Mani-gems,Karnika-ears) will face the burden of funeral pyres burning at every moment of time.

BTAD: Bodoland Territorial Area District

Aghoris: Mystic saints of a particular sect associated with supra-human powers

“O Majhi re…”: a popular tune dedicated to boatmen (majhi))

Neo-random Thoughts : On Media

1.

The eternal contest

who can eat less

to talk more

2.

You said, we believe

We said, I believe

What about the trial ?

3.

You need more

We need often

Let us grab and produce

4.

You say you are free

They think you are free

Are you free?

5.

On 29th February in 232 B.C

King Ashoka was bitten by a mosquito

How do you remember it?

6.

It is interesting

when a pillar

becomes a keystone

Secular?

He wears

the sacred thread

Chants occasionally

Loves to eat

Biryani

Hyderabadi Haleem

Sends heartfelt wishes

on Janmashthami

Has visited

Jama Masjid

chasing

rainbows of Old Delhi

Does not buy

new clothes

on Eid

out of habits

(socially formed may be ! )

Now he is worried…

or confused

if he is

religious

or secular?

A fool

wise like a river

advised

“You are so silly !

Don’t think that much

wait for the Circular

spectacular

secular ”

On Habits

Potassium Bromate

is carcinogenic

As if habits are not !

Thinking the thought

Sinking the sought

Linking the dots

God damn what not !

Apocalyptus 1


in strange mornings
when rivers turn into roots of memory
and skies into an orange pool of taboo
I often think about                      meeting you
like strangers                               across rooftops
sundances clouded by leaves of red spring
will not even stop us
from sharing glances                  across rooftops
how strangely you drape           my pashmina mornings
around your naked breasts
how strongly I feel
I know
my strangers                                 across rooftops
in a Bhupali morning like this
we shall meet each other
like strangers
more intimate                                than lovers

I am a sage by profession!

I’m a sage by profession

I’m a sage

I mean, by profession

I’m the essence

And I’ m the element

I’m order

I’m faith

I’m the world of supernatural

Unsatisfied with the one I live

Looking forward to the next

I’m Columbus

I’m Odysseus

What to chose and what not to!

A voyage or a sunburn?

A Pathankot or a Lahore?

A Beta House or a Guantanamo bay?

I won’t say

It is a naughty American daydream

I love it so much!

I’m insane

Insane or transcendental?

You ask me

“Where are you going

To the churchyard or to the graveyard?

Is there a backdoor?”

I reply,

“The world is parabolic

Go on, play with hyperboles

You need a point of reference

No need to worry

I’m just standing here.”

If I Were A Palmist

If I
were a palmist
I could have read how
the lines on your palm
merge with the borders
and defines
India
not merely of maps and geography
but
a geosophy

just reading your palm
I could have predicted,
“You will find a new love
in your late sixties
a give and take !”

could have warned you
flicker of your eyebrows
would mean so much
for so many !

I must tell you
your lines are curved so deep
anytime
they can bleed…
irony is
I am not a palmist
but I dream.

Vermin Drabbles of Disquiet

Like a monsoon

Drifting on the Aegean sea

You made promises of love

A winter rainy

Spellbound in life’s Sahara

You made promises of love

My Banjara evenings

Drowned in tea cups

Made no noise

Vermin drabbles of disquiet

Had no poise

Getting dry in spells of rain

Is your old habit

I know

Measures of your laughter

Amphibious

Never mine you know?

There are times when you love to love the times

A cliché

Tired of times

I wonder

If time had two dimensions

Could have drawn a perfect circle

On a perfect plane

With two centers

(A realist you know!)

But dimensions are three

And you!

These wasted hours

Could have fetched the best prices

If traded like commodities

In Futures market

I wish !

But I can’t

Dear love…

Like a monsoon drowned in The Aegean sea

You made promises of love

Of love, monsoons and recollections.

(Originally appeared in Indian Periodical)

Peaceful Storm Within

Peaceful storm within
Hush, hush, hush!
Peaceful storm within the doors
Locked and knocked and closed
By an invalid apparition of faith
Colorblind yet red
Like bedsheets in display with honor-stains
Shut, shut, shut
The doors of time
And feel
The peaceful storm within.

Iago is awake…
Smiles and threats
Blinks and beats
Oh Lucifer!
Let God be free
From the grasp of skeptics and politicians
And let Faustus live
Let Milton’s but blind
Cry in the prisons of law
Psalms and heroic couplets in un-free verse
The Tree of Knowledge
Leave it forbidden!
You talk of evidence?
Evidence?
Evidence we don’t need
Truth we don’t see
But from one dimension
The closer we move
The more we move away
Let us have sweet Hemlock
Let us burn in icy fire and redeem…

Be silent and watch
The Prince in his progress
With a peaceful storm within?

Of Masks and Neverending Greens

God said “Let there be light, and there was light”

let there be as much light which doesn’t pollute !

sprawling, crawling,  strangulating 
spiraling snake charmers of this noisy city
caste their spells on my city skies
my city is a light hole now 
absorbing stars
stolen from redundant skies
its nights are epiphanies
I ruffle through these nights unclasping tresses of memory
searching lost mountains, hills and rivers
and more often than not
my lush, ardent and never-ending greens

with my rattling ruffles what fall down
are long synapses of culturescapes 
culturescapes of time, hope, despair, food, nudity, love and loss

now a days
my city is a city of musketeers
a city of masks
a city of musk-wearing snake-charmers
a city of saviors-cum- saved
a city of charmers-cum-charmed
a city of snakes-cum-snaked
now a days
my city is a snake with excessive glitter
a noisy light hole
compelling its snake-charmers to wear shades

even at nights

Fundamental Right to Dream

imagine you are a little weird
and you dream of yellow rivers 
gathering tea leaves to the tune of ardent Erhu music 
in the heart of a Syrian child
imagine you believe her tears,
flying samurais,
can flood rice fields of gold
transform into maritime Silk-routes
ancient as hope
through Silk-routes of tear you sail on a tiny boat

from Kunming to Mediterranean shores
kissing continents of solitude
will you be wrong ?
no, not at all
because you have a fundamental right to dream
a natural right to dream

Imagine you are listening to a relaxing
composition of Spanish guitars
lying on your bed of windows
lights off and fog outside
you sleep down the slippery melodies of 
a candle-lit evening from the 90’s
you feel strongly you could still live that innocence
will you be wrong ?
no, not at all
because you have a fundamental right to dream
an inalienable right to dream

Imagine it’s a stormy night
and you are sailing through the Silk-routes of tear on your tiny boat
you come across a dream-seller carrying fallen leaves
you ask for a dream and he offers his palms instead
you hold his hands and cry
will you be wrong ?
no, not at all
because, without sweat and blood and tears
there is no right to dream

as a three-year old
I used to scream seeing butterflies in my dreams
I could not tolerate those intense dreams
I used to wake up in tears, tired and terrified 
I have seen dreams growing to words
and butterflies shaped into swords
butterflies with edges of sword can cut you into doubles
my dreams have been weird
your dream will be different
no matter what
you have a fundamental right to dream a different dream
an inalienable and a natural right to dream
just like your right to breathe
you have a right to dream

15 Minutes Out of Town

15 minutes out of town
is a festival
and you know 
how much I love to sing aloud
I used to

15 minutes out of town
is a whole new world
where we can freely breathe 
and get cosy 
like winds kissing monsoon showers

15 minutes out of town
we can drive away
to see
the highway meeting the green fields
like the corner of your eyes
till a point
when curiosity kills insomnia
like a lantern killing a night

15 minutes out of town
we can dream again
the dream we always dreamed
of being two yet one
Away from the tinsel world of 
overhyped romance and flawless intimacy
we can fight aloud like cats again

15 minutes out of town
there is a river dying
On its banks 
I can confess my love for you again
It will not be a selfie
good enough to be uploaded 
on social media you know
but at least we can fall in love again

Mea Culpa

you looked familiar yesterday
as if the C major chord in my guitar
although I play rarely these days
my fingers are burnt with dahlias
picked from your garden
I have planted their seeds in my eyes
for my future sons and daughters to learn
how strange it is to be unfamiliar
with your roots
how strange the C major sounds in seasons not of love
you looked familiar yesterday

imagine you looked like a stranger
I would have said hello
you would have said nothing
just your eyebrows would have sung 
years if unkempt sopranos
in a disheveled choir of nostalgia 
and I would have fantasized in my deep baritone voice of a forgotten world of hills and rivers in your kisses

imagine how strange it could be to be strange like strangers 
after sipping each other’s salt
clutching each other’s ribs
tasting each other’s tears and bleeding together in veins gardened by stars of love
yesterdays are waves you know
because you look so familiar then than now
but it is true
you looked familiar yesterday

imagine if I keep your silences
(because the only things you spoke were dahlias from your garden !)
potpourri in a glass jar in my living room
for a thousand lazy winters 
imagine if I promise 
to keep them fresh even after my death
for years to come
will it sound strange ?
not more than you
but it is true
you looked familiar yesterday

Liberal?

She is
A vegetarian
Wears heavy make-up
A believer
Religious
Speaks rarely in public
Does not find all government schemes faulty
(May be a nationalist!)
Looks cheerful
Wears sarees
And shiny shawls of her choice
Sings Carnatic classical
A mother of three by chance
She is still liberal.

trainstorms in opium garden

life is high in a garden of trance
hash, trash and blue
now I am sophomore deciphering streetlights
concave beams permeating through a city of crimes and chaos
unthinking

sociology of streetlights is complex
“I think therefore I am”
“I think therefore I am”
“I think therefore I am”
what a farce

I don’t even think often through the streetlights nor the dark streets
where laughters often get fossilized to screams
desires bent into horror
lust into blood and men into beasts
consent reduced into thrusts
what a farce

I am even though I don’t think
I were even though I didn’t think
I shall be even though
even..?
unthinking

this city of crimes and chaos is a city of traffic
this city is a wagon of poppies with square wheels
trainstorms in its traffic of vast life is a carnival of dust
a carnival of dust and disquiet

in this carnival how easily I forget the dark gullies of shame in

inertia
hash, trash and blue
hash, trash and blue

there HE stands with a social contract in his hands
witnessing modern Draupadis
bleeding red into a garden of trance
yet she rises and rises to mock HIS fractions of deaf conscience
scattered across the gullies without streetlights

oh god
this traffic has grown too much
inside me into me from me
I am high on this traffic
is indifference the name of sanity?
what a shame
what a shame
I am therefore I don’t think
you are therefore you don’t think
trainstorms hitting these streetlights like an explosion
strangling a garden of opium
that’s what I am
hash,trash and blue
three.two.one.GREEN

Apocalyptus 2

let me take you

to a land

of sweet Decembers

you will sit by my side

holding your opium umbrella

against

a sophist blue sky

together

we will count

nomadic evenings

slipping

through your fingers

like raindrops

on a pregnant earth

life will be so beautiful

and it will rain

like never before

on that day

we will born

like twilight

drenched in the perfume of sweat

mingled with the smell of earth

heralding new sunshine

Saaz Libre

Your body is a barkhan

diminishing

at the tip of my fingers

I thought

but,

you become more than a body

In the process I age myself

as a raaga Hamsadhwani mutates into a Bhairavi

cuddling in a garden of whispers

aarohs and avarohs

through death and dreams

and faith and whims

I become you

you sit at the tip of my fingers

bathing in red ink you bend my fingertips

dismantling hierarchies

you dig your teeth deep

into the arteries of time

that my soporific body is

blood trickles out

through a hole wider than dementia

to speak of indomitable angry soliloquies

on unequal battles,witchcraft,

burnt Queens and bald widows,

zenanas and feeble whispers

you strip this nocturnal chaos

passion strips patriarchy

bit by bit

for a new dawn

dismantling hierarchies

(Raaga:Special melodic modes used in traditional South Asian music genres like Indian classical music and qawwali.Hamsadhwani and Bhairavi are respectively evening and morning raagas.

Aaroh and Avaroh: Ascending and descending notations in a musical composition like a Raaga.

Zenana: The inner chamber of a house for the seclusion of women in India and Iran)

(Albanian Translation got published in Gazeta Nacional in Albania)

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