The Beginning

When her hand lay lifeless at the break of dawn
An unironed crease, she
Reminded me of a wave that
Returns to the ocean
Leaving the shore washed, clean and pure.

And as I remembered all the things
I’ve learnt to hold,
Wheels, nameless colours, names, stories and strings
They were your own, as
You are to me.

But tell me, for no one else will
Of a mother’s pain that gives life.
Sing to me the songs of harvest
Of the village you left behind.
Simple secrets, like a bird’s nest
A river
And cracks in our ceiling
Teach me how to speak with silence.

Teach me how to be the rain.

And more, for when the boy in me
Meets the man I will be tomorrow,
I remember

We began as we are,
Strangers to ourselves
Without roots or maps and lines

Scattered footsteps in the sand.

Vidharbha

My mother must die with my own two hands.
Here, we can turn
Death into gold.
But what will I do with this gold?

Shall I melt it and make it rain?
On this parched land of mine
Where every wishing well has dried
And promises are turning into cracks, like
Wrinkles on my forehead.

Should I crush it and plant it in the sand?
Watch it grow day by day
So that it may give me fruits, wood and shade
On this parched land of mine.
Where birds don’t sing in the morning
And at night, I have to
Find reasons to sleep.

Shall I beat it and throw it in a pot?
Cook it for my children
Who should never go hungry.
Who should run and play, for
It is their age.
On this parched land of mine
Where there is nowhere to hide.

Or shall I shape it into a sickle,
That my fathers used to yield?
And slice my own throat
On this parched land of mine
Where I can’t watch my wife
Repay the debt I owe to mother earth
With her own flesh.

Ordinary Day

An ordinary day began
When the sun rose the same.
And I didn’t believe the future
They try to sell me
With news I didn’t buy.

Because things written on paper
Do not last.

Prose

Oh, to write
A rhyme without a rhyme
And call it poetry.