Unbracketed

The number on the painted house

Still remains a single digit.

And there are a hundred more to cross.

On the blessed cycle of old times.

Small rooms with big appetites

Holding onto whatnot

Running into each other, canoodling.

From North to West,

Where the sun is about to set

The mother of daffodils

Sings temporal songs.

And the plants tell you stories

Of distant cousins. And xenophobes.

Of Gloria and James.

Of echoes. And castles.

Of treasure hunts. And treacherous hunts.

And snowflakes.

I come hither,

From the city of lost art

To deliver my radiant heart.

At the doorstep of adventure.

The group of friends beside the

Wooden fence

Remind me of my own two friends

Who perhaps lie high

Somewhere in the city lights.

For me

A bucket of lemonade will do.

To travel from the city of New Orleans

To Jakarta.

To some place unknown.

That Probable New Low

You know the anticipation

A silent March night brings

When you’re upstairs, alone

Throwing stars at the black sky

And the nonchalant leaves –

Of the Neem tree that covers

A fourth of your terrace –

Dance in a festive mood.

You breathe in the musky scent

Probably it rained somewhere

But the sudden pain in the chest

The right side, specifically,

Alerts you

And brings you back to

Breathing again.

Deeply.

Diagnosing now

You stretch your arms

And bend backwards and forwards

Left, then right.

No. 

You weren’t imagining

That bastard of a pain.

It was

Just like last year

Before it had started getting worse.

A recurrence, is this?

Of that ugly, boring disease

Called tuberculosis?

Where you are neither pitied

Nor reprimanded

Where you are neither too weak

Nor too strong

Where you are that useless

Prick that earns nothing

And spends the fortune

Not on fun, but on medicines

That make him sweat like a pig.

Where you are to be away from

Anything harmful

For your immunity 

Is compromised.

There is the danger 

of that shameless bacterium,

That occupies a corner in your lung

And a piece of your dignity,

To invite more of his comrades.

Perhaps the rifampicin

And the isoniazid

Will mind being bothered 

Again

For those drug-resistant retards.

Toodles to friends and hellos to cough

Fever, pills, pain, injections,

Odd looks, and stupid questions

Journals and depression.

Shortness of breath

And loss of appetite.

Wow.

A second time in two years

Should officially

Proclaim you

Unfit

Old

D     e     a     d.

On a long, long night

When forevers finally become clichéd

And the domes are outmoded

I will stick my legs out on the lawn

Maybe count the stars

And talk to the moon

Spot a constellation, perhaps

That might be a home to some gentle folks

Or just empty space

That’d employ nothing but mystery

And slyly

An angel up there

Would trick the Gods

And cut away the plastic sky

To be friends with a lunatic

Lost in thoughts...

Maybe as vulnerable as she

While I stay on the ground

Facing the dead sky

Probably asleep.

– Vaishali

Advices

Try being ill

For a day

And you’ll find

Everyone’s a doctor.

Try making a mistake

Just once

And you’ll see

Everyone’s a teacher,

A preacher.

Damn it.

Advices.

Don’t we all

Love ‘em?

Love giving them,

I mean.

Taking advices?

Bullshit.

I am

My own boss.


– Vaishali