” You can not shake hands with clenched fists – Indira Gandhi ”

Anger is stubborn like love or pride

Triggered by one word

Dissolves in tears or in

fist fight with walls

Deaf ears seldom hear

The silent rhythm of the calling hands

when they receive the rain by the darkened sky

filled with heavy clouds that have come together



moistening the earth , all her depressions and elevations

are fully  requited…….


Watery edges sometimes overflow
Dry corn in a hot oven
Pops like a noisy flower
in anger

When to speak?
How early is early waters?
Wet bed of little sister
Wet paper boats in friendless waters
Wet pillows of dreamless beds
Contained faith of silent growth
Walls of a stable home
Why oceans don’t sleep?
They wake up with moon rise
Sleep in sunshine
Lunar calendar of reversed cycle
They are discarded pieces
of the blue sky lying low

Now , may be we use the tongue
Wounds are wiped clean
In the saline water for years
They are almost dry

Secrets should be secreted
They should flow
Like music
Like prayers
Like a wet dream of man
Like menstrual blood
A little sticky
A little human stink

It is a demand of the male universe
It is crucial evidence
It is honest
It is open
It is erect
It is public

It is like tearing the hymen
in public
Kindness of the penis
It may resemble rape
But it is disclosure…….


She had argued with her paediatrician once over the existence of god. He was her friend, “How can you do integral calculus without the assumption of infinity? First you have to assume, only then you can prove.” He would merely smile, but after that she saw an empty photo frame in his clinic, with a bunch of incense sticks, dropping fragrant ash. She had asked him “Who was your mother’s favourite God?” He did not give her an immediate answer. He knew she would have some trick, to play. “Three fourth of this planet has water, it looks blue, so many oceans, cloud has water, well has water, this baby in your clinic has a drop of water in the eye, it can assume any shape, when I need I put it in a bottle to drink, so I put God in a shape, which is familiar to me, like my parents, I did not create them, they created me”

The next time she visited him she saw his dead son’s photograph on the wall. When he first met her in his clinic, she thought she was dying.  The summer left her with breathless lungs, a mouth that would gasp. The respiratory system did not want to expire, the carbon dioxide was being retained, and she was anxious, unable to sleep, walk, and talk, a thin frame, two small fleshy outgrowths from a spiny body. Two big pools of fear, contained in black rings, the kitten purred furiously in her chest, everyone heard her cries, even through a silent mouth. That was when he had smiled at her, after listening to her mother’s righteous indignant complaints against God, who was not healing her child. He asked her “Who created god?” Madhu was surprised, god created us, is this man nuts? He saw the small flush of the believer’s child “I think your mother and many mothers like her created god” Madhu liked him in that minute. It was a sweet idea, it made god human, some one who could obey her, listen to her, some one she could scold. Then he looked in to her eyes, said, “See my eyes, are as big as yours, my nose is only a little longer” she relaxed. He explained, breathing is both a voluntary and involuntary activity, you don’t want to be at the mercy of your body, you can control it through the mind.

He gave the analogy of cycle riding, at first you have to think about the riding , later it becomes automatic, now we relearn to breathe, with that he started to command her to breathe in slowly deeply, breathe out slowly deeply, he kept massaging her back, he kept on at it for what seemed to be an eternity. Somewhere her lungs started to obey him, respiratory rate, slowed down, a kind of tired sleep of a child, inviting the angels to reenter her body ensued, and she slept for hours in his clinic. Her parents were overjoyed, Madhu slowly learnt to control her breathing, she trusted, him as a friend, philosopher, sleeping pill, compass needle. He had given her a god, when she most needed him.


I cant escape from you

the door key was lost

from the moment you walked in

I searched for kisses

and caresses in all the corners

But cobwebs of memories

are being cleaned forever

Did he kiss you ?

Did you climb the mountains with him ?

Was this the same lake where you

went boating together albeit in a group ?

I hated history back in school

Battles of Panipat I , II, or III

Who lost or won , who cares ?

Many died that is all

Yesterday’s newspaper

Never sells today

But it lives on in your mind

Lies hurt me , truths hurt you

Truth or dare I have lost interest in both

I smell your perfume on my wounds

You are searching desperately for the keys too

Once you do , you may also become the past.


Why did you learn so many languages

You learnt so many languages

You had no time to speak

You only spoke in silence.

I spoke in a language

I had no time to learn

Because I had so much to speak

I was speaking all those things

That are silently simmering in you

I spoke so I didn’t listen

Did you listen so you didn’t have to speak

Did you listen too much and couldn’t speak ?

Will you speak for me and silence me with

your speech ?

Your own new language

A language that can heal the wounds inflicted

in all other languages….





You scheme to convey

That I am unimportant….

As though it is so hard to ignore me

Sometimes you conspire to

Seem like I am important

As though it is impossible for me

to be important on my own

I rather be conspicuously absent

Than be forcibly present

Why don’t you let me go

like an unwanted breeze

that half opened

your unwilling window…?

Merely because I saw

you as a victim

You have shown me

all the myriad ways of

an abuser.

As though if you abused me

You would no longer

Be a victim

Now I accept that you

Are a victim turned abuser.

This is an assault on my


But there,

You are a pick pocketer

Of humanity.

(Not all victims become abusive. Many are most human)