I Am Naked

I had painted myself in blue
When I swam across the ocean
They saw my skin

I was naked

I had painted myself in yellow
When I walked through the field of daffodils
They saw my skin
I was naked again

I had coloured myself in black
When I slept deep in the darkness of night
But they saw me
I was strangled in the dark
I bled and puked my life out

Once I met a man
He was everyone
he could possibly be
A lover, a friend, a feminist
A loser, a man, a communist
A liar, a bastard, a capitalist

He spoke like the man
Upon the steepest mountain
Who could taste blood
When he stood under the fountain
But he saw my skin
As I had shed my clothes
For a bath in a pool
Of the dreams that he showed to me
I was a naked girl again
Then a spear pierced me
I drowned in tears of my crying

The travelers are deaf and blind
If the road runs against weakness and helplessness.

"All men are equal"
Why men not women?
Or is it like this:
"All women are slaves
and born to give birth to men"

Now I have nothing to speak of
Except the silence of intolerance
Yes, I am naked
Look at me,

Look at my skin

Feel the curves
Get on my nerves
If I am not wrong
You enjoy your mother.

A Silent Night's Sketch Of Summer

silent night silent memories
gradually grab the darkness
and leads me to a highway
Of rainy days
On the beach of an Ocean
where pink is the slippers
where blue is the water
where yellow is the sky
where flowers bloom in her hair
I forget I am colorblind
indeed I am not
indeed I see the colors
of things that i have not seen
earlier when i was crazier!!
my windows opening
against the darkness
the yellow curtains
that i washed once
on the new year eve
waving in the air
making me realize
i am nowhere on a highway
but inside my room
Silent cries
of the babies in their sleep
the roaring air cooler
the woman sleeping in the balcony
opposite to mine
not caring of her wayward blouse
as the sun still reminds
how hot the day will be
and the night is followed
by the husband's rebukes.
summer here is different
night here is not silent and still
might sound to you like a lie
but the flowers would have withered
by now if you were here
without an umbrella
One more thing
i want to tell you
mornings are incomplete
without the silent alarm
of your touch to wake me up
by your hands with the black mole
you know i am not colorblind
because i blindly look at the colors
and chose the one i had once
here April is ending
but it is where T S Elliot
starts his Wasteland
Oh! i just dragged him in
to make it poetic
because i have a habit
of making things sound poetic
even i will leave this world poetic
even i will drown poetic
Even i cry poetic
i see things like i am reciting a poem
the crowded markets the roadside romeos
the beggars the winters the autumn
all things are poetic to me
even the dirtiest politics
of the men in the chair are poetic to me

they say i am crazy
she said i use my poems to attract
the girls in pink
to follow me and fall together
into the category of stupidity
but i know who loves my poem
and who does not
Once i was told
"i am like this"
yes I am like this
i have been living for seven years
in a place called Sunlight Colony
where the Sun never bothers to shine
but the heat waves strike
in every summer
not a summer i missed
not a drop of sweat i left untasted
not a song of Bob Dylan
not a word of his protest
i missed
whether it is summer or winter
everything is poetic to me
even the Russian language
sounds to be rhymed
even if i don't know
when it does not snow in Moscow
Oh! Summer nights are poetic
Oh i can keep on writing
without an end
like the vastness of your blue sky
like the never ending dreams
of the dying old man
Like an orphan
i can narrate you the darker side
of the father daughter relation
like a river
i can keep streaming my ink
forget to tell you
about the children in summer
Oh! they are lovely
but dirty and stink
they love to have sugarcane juice
the juice of the poor
they love to play cricket
every kid here is Sehwag
when power goes off
the streets are filled with balls and bats
bigger and longer than the kids
they sweat they sweat
till they faint till the power comes
for another Bollywood calling.
yesterday a small girl in her panty
bearing the heat with her running nose
asked me, "Are you a Sardar?"
i said, "no."
then she asked, "why do you tie your hair
why do you have long hair and pony tail"
I just smiled with my small slanted eyes
made even smaller than ever in a childish way
my Hindi ran out before I could reply
even if i would have known proper Hindi
i would have been blank
still i have no answers..
where was I
where Am I now
i just do not know.
But Everything is poetic
but i know thats why i survive

Tapan's Flutes which i brought from Pune..

What shall i do with your flutes?
Should i give it to those communists
Whose voices have not been heard anywhere?
Or should i make a whistle blower out of it
For the silent Indian trains
which carry the outlaws, the rapist, the theives?
Or should I take it home to Imphal
Where the Green men rule and make us crawl
Under the Unkind Sun?
Or should I give it to Dr. M Sami
As the last gift from your side
For showing you those Mughal styled Biryani
With flies all over it
In the crowded market of Okhla?
Or should i leave it too a bengali sweet shop
to collect it by a Bong who pretends to love art
And who talks of rabindra sangeet and revolution.
Or should I come to Howrah or Coffe House
To play my distorted tune
Of Pather Panchali (song of the little road)
Tell me before its too late
or you are on the way to take it back
I am leaving this capital soon
This city is dirty and shitty
I hate being dirt
And had too much of flirts
With these north Indian girls
Who have round eyes and pointed nose
Home is calling me
Neither I can wait for the another dawn
Nor i can come to Howrah
Nor i will play anything
I am just going Home!!