Skyfall in a Saree

 

Departure

 It's been a month

you went away.
You have gone before,
many times for weeks
at stretch.
Returning
with bags full
of sweets and snacks
myriad knick knacks.
Often you had traveled
without a return ticket,
keeping room
for change in plans.
Insisting I keep looking
for dip in flight fares.
But,
the flight you took this time
is too expensive, too far
I cannot buy a return ticket .
The plans are frozen.
You will not return,
but remain.

Absence

 The household runs in clockwork precision

Hot and fresh breakfast, lunch, dinner
on the table, on time.
Every recipe measured and perfect
Each one served to their tastes.
School, office, groceries
Everything is on schedule
Maid, gardener, driver
all show up,
not punctual
but not too late.
Washing, ironing, arranging
clothes defy the slightest crease.
I have allowed nothing to cease.
The house you left behind
is filled with activities.
It is the home that's in chaos.
Forlorn.
Quiet.
Soulless.
Empty of your presence,
wrapped in uncertain, unease.
The life goes on.
Grief is transient
everyone will survive.
The household will keep breathing,
but the home won't be alive.

Last Rite

You flow in the Ganges,
formless, fearless, free.
I take a tentative dip,
alienated, afraid, alone.
I hold the breath,
closing eyes to wet grief.
You are weightless.
You dance on gentle waves,
basking in the golden sun.
I am weighed down
with vague uncertainty.
Not knowing how to swim,
afraid of drowning,
I rush back
to humid, crowded shore.

When Breathe Has No Air

 The gasps get louder

The grasp gets tighter

The knuckles are white

Eyes open wide

Searching, seeking

The windows are left ajar

The stillness moving

The sole palm, 

spread out, 

Standing at guard

The noise is deafening

The screams silent

Gasp, gasp, 

Gasp gets louder

The grasp gets tighter

Relax, 

See, the lanky leaves

See, there is a wisp

Of breeze

Breathe

Breathe in, breathe out

Gasp, gasp,

Gasp gets shrill, piercing

The breath fans the face

Bent over

Breathe in breathe out

Breathe in,

Gasp, gasp 

The grasp is slack

The breath is released.

A Wanderer Who Lost Directions

 not every door is bolted

nor every window hinged

it is not the dust on the glass

or fog outside

the cold metal of a latch

or the rust on the rails

speak aloud

in a room full of damp spirits

croaking their protest 

seeking the touch of hands

curled in fists

nails digging in the soft flesh

of palms unrelenting 

holding the destiny captive

What does it take to exhale?

Does it make breaths taken in, disappear?

The fear

of being lost torments

the soul, 

always wandering in search.

Aborted Womb of Memories

 

The skin is tight, plump, 

no creases, no lines

no dark shadows.

The years went by

it stood steadfast

as semblance of eternity-

never fading

never shrinking

distant but constant,

a presence

felt than seen

I have been

living in the cusp- 

at the dusk 

of the days 

long set,

holding against the night.

And thus,

a new day was never born

from the aborted womb 

of memories.