Tuesday, October 18, 2016


में जन्मा,
मतलब पूरा
पाकिस्तानी, कोई
बटवारे से पहले का
नहीं कि किसी भी तरह
उसको अपना बता लें। पर
दिक्कत ये है, कि उन सब शामों
को कैसे मिटायें, जब, नौजवानी में
हम उसकी आवाज़ में घुलते जाते थे,
"आफ़रीं आफ़रीं" सुनके, तब नहीं पता था

नुसरत हैं उनके।

He was born in 1948, so he's

straight-up Pakistani, not some
pre-Partition guy we can claim
as our own. Now the trouble is,
how do I wipe clean all those
evenings, growing up, when
drunk on his voice, we heard
"Afreen Afreen", losing all our
cares, not knowing Nusrat was theirs.

Friday, October 14, 2016

A friend from Beirut

tells me I have a way
of moving my head that
is neither a yes or a no.

He says it's an Indian thing.

"It means ok," I tell him,
"It means I get you."

We are here only
for three months
in this city which must
be the obverse of Beirut.

The first time
you'd held my hand here,
autumn had melted into fingers,
and all that was unwished for years
was wished again.

That night,
the river refused its course
and rushed into my veins,
dislodging grief in its way.

Who knew October was
for wishfulness,

a season of gestures
keeping time at bay.

Next month,
when you will leave,
the river will return and
the past will colour the book again,

do you think then, I will
be either a yes or a no,
or realizing, again,
to understand is to be
somewhere between.

Tuesday, October 11, 2016

You turned out to be just like us

tr. from Fahmida Riaz's 'Tum bilkul ham jaise nikle'

(from Pakistan with love)

You turned out to be just like us,
where were you hiding all this while?
The same foolishness, the same fuss,
which made us waste a century
now knocks at your door, don't you see?
Well done sir, really. Well done.

Bogeymen of faith loom around.
Really, you'll set up Hindu Raj?
Spoil every thing at large,
and darken your own skies.
Will you too sit and devise
(seems like you're all too ready)
who is Hindu, who is not,
you too will issue fatwas.
Here too, life will be fraught,
here too, you'll sweat & hum &
haw & somehow pass the days,
suffocated, sick, in daze.
Till recently I was saddened
by all this but now I find it funny
- you turned out to be just like us,
we are one people after all, honey.

Let education go rot. We'll
make a virtue out of not knowing.
So what if the road ahead is potholed,
backward's the only way we're going.
If we only practice harder,
we'll get to go back farther.
We won't think of anything else
except look backwards, again
and again, and say it loud,
again and again -
How strong and great was Bharat!
What an epic State was Bharat!
It will be then that you will surely
reach - surely reach the paradise.
See, we are already here,
you must now find time for us -
from the hell you are in, my boo,
keep on sending a letter or two.

Fahmida Riaz

Saturday, October 8, 2016

Wednesday, October 5, 2016

To gay men who can 'pass'

get your head out of your arse,
just 'coz in your school, they
called you names, filled you with
shame, and with fear, year after
year, doesn't mean you get to
turn around and project, those
years of anger and regret, onto
other gay men for being 'girly',
onto trans* folks for being sure-
footed, onto women you thought
were 'crooked'; we all have just one
thing to say, sexism isn't any shinier
or forgiveable just 'coz you're gay.

Friday, September 30, 2016

In Dubardha village

in District Ballia, U.P.,
the family of Lance Naik Rajesh Kumar Yadav
had erected barricades on the road that
"lead to our house to ensure that
no media-person or any relative
could reach there and talk of
Rajesh's death to his
mother and wife."

In stopping the news,
did they hope the truth would turn,
or that Parvati, Rajesh's wife,
eight months pregnant, would grit,
in the meanwhile, her fingers on
the impossible arm of resolve.

"We stopped everyone from visiting
our house," he said, "but, somehow,
some journalists, they found a way from
the other side of the road, reached our home
late that afternoon, and told Parvati about the death,"
Vikesh, the Lance Naik's brother, said.
He farms a 3-bigah piece of land in the village.

Who owns the news
of the death of a soldier?
Who has the right to hold it in their hands
as it stuns courage into disbelief
at what its always asked to do? In Satara,
the father of a killed soldier, only twenty-seven,
is afraid of putting this land of the courageous in the docks,
he asks the journalist, "Am I wrong in saying
that I want my two other sons to be safe"?

Should the news of the soldier's passing
not stun our ears into the shape of disbelief,
not make us refuse the leaden article of
the country, not turn us into rain, or should it

run in tickers till blood runs dry?

Far away, seated outside her house,
in Gangasagar, 24 Paraganas in Bengal - "the road
to their house had no light" - the 20-year old Bulti Ghorai,
sister of late Sepoy Biswajit Ghorai, who now lives only in
the country of loss, tells the journalist, resolve now held so tight
in her fingers it cannot breathe, "I will never let any member
of my family join the Army again," and asks them to believe.

(thanks to Sweety Kumari and Manish Sahu)

Thursday, September 29, 2016

Jas suna ki us aashiq ne - Agha Shahid Ali

I had to choose

between a squirrel and a war;
I chose the squirrel and let the war go.

This choice was crucial for our humanity,

the squirrel trembles at the very mention of war
but no war has ever thought of the squirrels.

tr. from Pratyush Pushkar's 'Mujhe Chunna Pada'

Pratyush Pushkar

Wednesday, September 28, 2016

बुढ़ापे पर एक मॉनसून नोट

tr. from Agha Shahid Ali's A Monsoon Note on Old Age

ये पचास साल बाद की बात है, मैं
अपने सामने बैठा हुआ हूँ, मॉनसून के
पसीने में तह लगा हुआ, मेरी खाल

मुरझाई सी, थका सा ख़ुसरा, सिर्फ
एक गैरमौजूदगी से आगाह;

                                        खिड़की की छड़ें
मुझपर कैदखाने का नक़्शा बनाती हैं;

                                        मैं तारों को फेंटता हूँ
पुराने ताश की गड्डी;

                                        रात फिर से बारिश सी
बनावट हासिल कर लेती है। मैं तुम्हारी फोटो
को ज़्यादा ही धुप दिखा रहा हूँ; मौत

के दूर-दराज़ देश से धुल उड़ा रहा हूँ।                       

Agha Shahid Ali

Sunday, September 25, 2016

आँखें तस्करी

हँसी मसखरी
देखे तो जाती है जान
निगाह रसभरी
बलम केसरी
पधारो फवाद खान

آکھیں تسکری
حسی مسخری
دیکھ تو جاتی ہے جان
نگاہ رسبہری
بلم کیسری
پدھارو فواد خان

Thursday, September 22, 2016


After the check-out,
with my strolley behind me,
I set out walking in this city
that was strange
only till this morning
meant for leaving
made its streets familiar
with the colours of cities past.

The light had just
settled on the concrete
and filled it with other evenings
from other places.

A square with a fountain,
a parking lot bathed in rust,
and the purple that refused
to leave the downtown sky even
after the night had left, marked
only places that had come before.

At the Washington Park red-light,
I turned into memory,
slipping tokens of the last decade
into the cracks;

at West Delaware Place,
my hands were again heavy with touch;

and near Lassalle Street,
those old steps upto an apartment,
flanked by iron, and petunias, on either side,
made me climb them,
wait a little,

and the idea of you opened the door
and the idea of you said "What took you so long?"
as the purple left the sky
slowly behind me.

Saturday, September 17, 2016

Identity Card

Name: Nasir Shafi
D.O.B: 13-Jan-2005
School: Greenlight Higher Secondary
Class: VII
Resident Of: New Theed Harwan, Srinagar
Father's Name: “More than 300 pellets pierced my son’s body.”
Mother's Name: “He was tall and looked much older for his age."
"...distinction holder..."
"...ace footballer..."
"...wanted to be an engineer..."
"...had promised us he will take mummy and papa on Haj..."
Last Seen: "...boys were throwing stones at government forces near the Theed bus stand. Around 5 pm, or later, the forces surrounded the spot from all sides. I saw Rakshak jeeps speeding towards us...We ran towards the Dachigam Park forest...As we reached near the Hapatghar, the bear cage, the police were already there...some of us tried to hide behind bushes and trees, others ran towards the saraband, the reservoir...I climbed a tree to save myself...I saw the SHO order his men to catch the boys...then I saw Nasir alone in the Saraband. A group of five policemen went towards him...one among them pointed his gun towards him and fired...he fell down instantly..."

Date of Death: 17-Sept-2016
Cause of Death according to local Police: Killed by a Bear.

Meaning of Name: Nasir, 'Protector', 'Helper', 'The one who will bring victory'

(thanks to Ubeer Naqushbandi, Junaid Nabi Bazaz, Abir Bashir, Faisal Khan and Jehangir Ali)

Friday, September 16, 2016

Nobody said it

but we all knew
that if you cannot cry at will,
you're not a good actor.

This was the reason why, in those years,
I found myself landing 'bubbly roles'

as if only make-believe tears
throttle us into our depths.

That was the first time
since I began theatre in college,
that I realized the stage
is always upto something.

A few years later, in Delhi,
after we'd spent hours in his house,
and the evening had grown on us,
I remember my boyfriend told me -

'I challenge you
to hold back tears on this one,'
and played a concert of Lauryn Hill
on his laptop.

It trumped me,
but I was sincere in my efforts,
and Hill really helped by tearing up herself
as she sang in the video,

but it wasn't working;

I thought of the hardest days
I could, and the saddest moments I'd had,
and managed, I think, by the end of it,
half a tear.

I don't know whether
he figured out it was fake.

(In the past, he had cried many times
seeing Hill sing that song.)

We broke up
a few months later. No, not because of this,
but I should have read the writing on the wall.

To cry on the same things
is to live the same sorrows,

and if your sorrows do not match
no late evening play-acting will do.

Earlier this year, one night,
as I scrolled down my Facebook feed,
Aylan Kurdi washed up ashore
on the Turkish coast of Bodrum,

red shirt, blue shorts,
as if asleep on the sand,

the three-year old from Syria
told me, that a whole world lies between Turkey and Greece,
a world of our making,
that if the men had wanted,
the Aegean could have been a little stream,

but the men have made
this Aegean bigger than the Pacific.

A journalist asked his father, through an interpreter,
"What do you hope to do now?"

His reply, though between tears, was certain
"Now all I want to do is sit next
to the grave of my wife and children."

Tears interpret
the certainties of our loss,

tears interpret
the long night of the sea.

How can anyone
bring them at will?

How can anyone
stage them,

they also dry up.

Days later, as Omran,
another boy from Syria,
sat in an ambulance seat too big for him,
stunned by his own blood,
his hand feeling for certainty in the crowning dust, and

the whole world watching
Aleppo fall around him,

I realized
my tears had already
hardened like rubble in my eyes,

and really, for this to happen,
and for the world to still 'debate' a 'migration crisis'
as Aylan sits next to his father, whose world now
will always be sea,
must be make-believe,
must be staged, must be unwilled,

for what else will it take,
what else can tear our sky
more than this, what else
can make us certain.

(co-written with Mallika Taneja)

Saturday, September 10, 2016


the 6th century Hun of Kashmir
was so known for his cruelty

that "people could tell of
the approach of his armies by
the vultures and crows that flew ahead of them."

Kalhana wrote in his Rajatarangini,
that the Hun was "a terrible enemy of mankind,
who had no pity for children,
no compassion for women,
no respect for the aged."

Mihirgulla's reign,
all Kashmiris remember,
was a long night of massacre
that they thought would never end.

Does India know that, finally,
as one more spring was sharpening Jehlum's air,
the Hun took his own life?

(thanks to Prem Nath Bazaz)

Sunday, August 28, 2016

First week in Iowa City

On the sixth day,
a white graduate student tells me
my English is strong.

I meant to say, that's just as well,
I'm an English teacher,

but didn't, because why the hell
should English still be the gold standard
to measure race relations,
and worth.

On the second day,
they took us grocery shopping.

There was a McDonalds outside
the store. And outside McDonalds
were two flags - the bright yellow 'M'
flying a little higher than Stars & Stripes.

Even America wraps itself up in cliche sometimes.

On the fourth day,
I was watching a Youtube video
of a press conference,
where the Indian Home Minister,
in the seventh week of the curfew in Kashmir,
said that the use of pellet guns caused 'least damage'.

I am beginning to think words
change their meanings in Kashmir.

I am trying to square 'least damage'
with hundreds of children blinded, with
the paramilitary forces' own admission that
they used 1.3 million pellets in over four weeks.

'Least' is the last word
to change its meaning in Kashmir,
in the long line of words,
that includes 'Childhood', and also

On the third day,
I meet a poet who writes of
the missing children of her homeland,
those no longer on the swings,
those no longer on the beaches.

Those eclipsed like
meanings from words.

The map tells me that
from Iowa City to Palestine
is 6327 miles, and
that from Iowa City to Kashmir
is 7127 miles.

I realize how close
Kashmir is to Palestine.

On the fifth day,
we go to a house party
and I find out what sort of houses
University professors can afford to live in in Iowa.

I don't compare.

On the first day,
later, as the evening swept the sky,
we drove from Cedar Rapids airport to our hotel,
and the one thing that I gasped at
- and I did not think I'd gasp at anything in a small town -
was the size of the moon.

It seemed the highway held a moon
ten times bigger than I'd ever seen back home.

This was a beginning,
I told myself,

and if the moon can multiply its size,
what is not possible, then, here?

Wednesday, August 24, 2016

On seeing a 1944 American Mid-Western Musical, Or,


How much pains it takes
to preserve itself.
How much efforts it puts
to keep others out.
How much history it refuses,
how many tales.

How badly it fails.

Saturday, August 13, 2016

What song of bravery knows

that martyrs too, though
flowers at their feet, and
paens in their sky, still, for
their own homes, really die.

What song of bravery knows
that mother, who, when she
sees him pick up the gun,
says "Don't come back a hero,
just come back as my son."

(For Ghazala Khan)

Wednesday, August 10, 2016

Kids used marbles,

pebbles, pieces of
clay, to begin counting
back in the day, but
now, in that country,
he told me, "...well it's,
an X-Ray of pellets."

Sunday, August 7, 2016

They were lucky

those who counted love as work,
or those who fell in love with the work
they did. All my life, I've been busy;
I've loved a little, worked a little.
Love always got caught up in work,
work always stepped on love's feet.
I gave up, finally; left both incomplete.

tr. from Faiz Ahmed Faiz's Kuch Ishq Kiya, Kuch Kaam Kiya

tr. with help from Anindita Biswas

Faiz Ahmed Faiz

Sunday, July 31, 2016

Kaanwariyas are good for the night-life of Delhi.

Don't you think so? Around mid-night at ISBT
Kashmere Gate, which otherwise would have fallen
silent, they set up stalls and play red & orange songs.

Boys distribute water to those who are carrying holier
water on their shoulders. (Does holy water weigh more
than regular water?) Even I, on my cycle, am offered a pouch.

There are more than usual police-men at ISBT, going in
and out of urinals, perhaps because there is more than usual
cruising, because a festival is doing the rounds of the night.

Around 1am at Malkaganj Chowk, which is dressed in lights,
in boys dancing, in groups of women sitting out late night,
a kaanwar stops me and asks me the way to Gurgaon.

(Does Shiva reside in Gurgaon?) A little away from all this,
near the old ice-factory, a few kaanwars open the dikky of their
scooter & bring out the rum, and then I guess, bol bam bam.

Many kaanwars are running a relay race, passing the Ganga
water like a baton. They are jogging with knee pads, looking out
for each other. It is, if you don't look around it, all pretty admirable.

The dance, the boys, the women. The late-night-ness of it.
But there is one thing this year which I've never seen before. On
their bikes, their tempos, their trucks, apart from the saffron flag,

this time there is also the tri-colour. Racing in the air. Why does a
God need a tricolour? Why does the lord of destruction need a flag?
Why is a flag of a country on a pilgrimage in the hands of little boys?

Friday, July 29, 2016

Do you have Facebook addiction?

Do you keep trying to leave it
but lack conviction
and keep coming back?

No sweat, I've got a hack.

Just say anything about Kashmir
that's even remotely true.

Then sit back,
they'll deactivate it for you.

Sunday, July 24, 2016


they say, are made to be broken,
but only promises kept end the night,
like love, true to all it betokened,
like from the jaws of years, plebiscite.


Sunday, July 17, 2016

कृपया मोल-तोल न करें

मुझे मालूम है कि दिल्ली हाट में
कश्मीर स्टाल पर मोल-तोल करने का कोई फायदा नहीं;
उनके रेट फिक्स्ड हैं।
क्या खूब चीज़ है न इतना यकीन होना 
कि आपकी क्या कीमत है,
कि आपको क्या चाहिए,
क्या बिलकुल नहीं चाहिए --
औरों के लिए 
कितना सरदर्द है।  

tr. from Ankita Anand's 'No bargaining please' 
अंकिता आनंद

Thursday, July 14, 2016

The lake

is silver.

The mountains
are filigreed with snow.

The shikara breaks
the water into chords.

Cops throw tear-gas shells
in Emergency Wards.

Sunday, July 10, 2016


a resonant word,
a tear-gas-shell of a word,
written on stones, flung on streets,
a twelve-young-men-killed-in-a-day word,

as hard as the bones
of the young they cannot kill

like that other word:

Thursday, July 7, 2016

My friends've gone dancing

and I am sitting blue,
& what I feared would happen
is all coming true.

The room's too small for me,
the small heart is cleft,
for those who'll do the leaving
& those who already left.

Saturday, July 2, 2016

"मिनिस्क्युल माइनॉरिटी"? "मिनिस्क्युल माइनॉरिटी"?

जज साहब,
लगता है आपको समझाना पड़ेगा,

किसी संडे शाम
आपको पालिका पार्क ले जाना पड़ेगा।

Friday, July 1, 2016

Spring Cleaning

Old shirts.

Some don't fit,
some are faded,
some out of style.

They say parting
with gifts from old lovers
can be difficult.

Try making a pile!

Tuesday, June 28, 2016

"My man's here," she said,

her voice
was rocked by the waves,

her eyes were pearls,

there is love enough
in this word to save us - 'mine'

if only once in our lives
we get to say it
- all our pain, lying still, in the word -

then nothing
is incomplete, nothing, in all our years,
is left behind.

tr. from an extract from Ismat Chughtai's 'Hindustan Chod Do'

Ismat Chughtai

Mom and dad insisted we go to Shirdi

I first resisted, then went.
The lines of devotees made me dizzy
but thankfully Shirdi Grindr was busy,
so all in all time well spent.

Andheri Local

The sea gets in,
brushes the sand off his hair,

wrings his wet shirt
and hangs it on the steel,

a friend, younger,
holds him by his waist

as brown as desire.

As we pass Santacruz,
I crush shells under my feet.

Monday, June 20, 2016

The therapist says dig, dig, dig,

but my ocean's way too blue & big, so
when he looks at me, all Meryl Streep,
I become two milimeters deep.

Windmills on

the Western Ghats,
the collar bone of the earth,

white turbines
threshing the sky into cirrus

like foremothers of the hills

who know power
is always summoned
out of thin air.

Wednesday, June 15, 2016

To live

is to find measureless pain, 
is to hide it from others, to feign
a smile and somehow still mean
when pain's edge is keen.
translated from Sunita Katyal's 'To live'
Sunita Katyal


The margins fall off.
The ink is red.
He smiles and says
"The investigation is on."

tr. from Rahul Rai's 'Vyapam'

Rahul Rai

Saturday, June 11, 2016

Ghodbunder Road

(Mira Bhayandar to Thane)

All through the way, we keep speaking,
raising the stakes, little by little,
every night creates possibilities, which
the morning breaks, little by little.

What will remain of this night, years from
now, is only an abstract wish,
his head on my arms, his hair in my fingers
- desire slakes, little by little.

Mario had told me the Portugese traded
Arabian horses here at the creek,
'Ghod' 'Bunder' - the port of the horses -
how history wakes, little by little.

On the radio, as Ananyaa sang, she pestled
the moon, dissolved the stars,
take heed, Akhil, she sings of our lives, it
gives and it takes, little by little.

Thursday, June 2, 2016

In Shimla

it always rains twice,
once, from the sky,
then, when the pines drip.

The same with you, Lalita,
once, when you went,
then, as it hit.

Wednesday, May 25, 2016

टूटा हर चीज़ का आकार है

जैसे बीता हुआ कल
जैसे याद

ये अब
इतना बड़ा है,

ये अब
हर जगह है:
हम उसके टुकड़े करते हैं,
यही रहते हैं हमारे पास

बस यही हम आने वाले कल को दे पाते हैं

जो है हर चीज़ का आकार।

tr. from Kei Miller's 'Broken is the shape of everything'

Kei Miller

Monday, May 23, 2016

Nishit Saran

Half way down the Lodhi Road,
the first day of rain,

those who come here often must
be held by you, and pain,

and memory must, like memory does,
hold them in its skein,

remembering you, like always, with
the summer in your veins.

Saturday, May 21, 2016

From the TOI report, concerning "Africans in Delhi" -

"'It's been trouble since
they've been around,'
one Delhi local fears."

Jamal-ud-Din Yaqut,
Razia Sultan's lover
be like, "Trouble? For
eight hundred years?"

Tuesday, May 17, 2016

Saturday, May 14, 2016

Things you discover on the first day of cycling in Delhi

Cars are beasts.

You are tiny.

But sometimes, near red-lights,
you can outrun the best of them.

Cycle-lanes change everything.

The Ring-Road takes almost ten seconds to cross,
width-wise, and a life-time to go round.

Working class cycles do not have helmets and lights
and their main purpose is not 'exercise'.

From the Def Col nallah
to the under-the-flyover Saheli office,
is a slight dhalaan you hadn't noticed before,
now it comes as a welcome surprise,

you find out the inclinations of your city,
where it nods, where it raises an eyebrow,

that from the ITO metro station to the Medical College
is a slight chadhaai. You always pay for a dhalaan,
with a chadhaai somewhere else.

Things slows down, as you cycle,
you see different things, notice punture shops near your home,
one opposite DPS Mathura Road, one at the railway tracks
at the Lajpat station.

With this time, you look at things closely,
at Modi posters, at the Madame-Tussauds-trimmed beard,
at funeral processions, at bathing men,
at hypno-Kejriwal.

Rickshaw-pullers ask you
to move it.

Near Pragati Maidan, a boy looks out his school bus, and asks
with a cocky-class-3A-sort-of-smile -
"Uncle, aapke paas bike nahin hai?" ("You don't have a bike?")
"Isme gears nahin hain?"
"Haan," and looks somewhere between disappointed,
amused and pitiful, till an older boy
pulls him down.

Bus drivers that let you pass
deserve a place in heaven.

At 11 Ashoka Road, in the giant party posters,
Atal Bihari Vajpayee and L.K. Advani, though top-left,
feel like bottom-right, and remember the old days,

you cycle past them
as the Lutyens trees open their arms.

Wednesday, April 27, 2016

Nizamuddin Dargah

Khusro dariya patriarchy ka, ulti wa ki dhaar,
Mard karein sajda andar, aurat karein baahr.

Tuesday, April 19, 2016

Two memories, Delhi


Laxmi Nagar, Delhi

I must have been twelve
when a grand-uncle was discovered
during a vacation in Delhi,

you don't know him? we'd told you, he's

nani's eldest brother,
(also from Sargodha, Pakistan)
I'd never met a grand-uncle.

In his Jamuna-paar house, he looked so frail
in his drawing-room that my twelve-year-oldness
was afraid to go near him.

He could not see. And, for me, then, his could-not-seeness
had sat in the middle of the room
but no one would mention it.

He spoke to us and I followed his closed eyelids
that kept egg-whites beneath them.

I tried to measure how much 
he could see of the snacks on the table,
of my fingers, of all of us talking,
of his own speaking-about-us-without-knowing-us,
as if of course I know you, you're my sister's grand...

After a while,
he asked Pinki (my mother's name
for those who knew her longer than I)
to let him see us.

We were made to get up and
stand in front of him.

I walked slowly, my bones
shaped like awkwardness.

He touched my face with his fingers,
frailness, moved them lightly over my nose,
my eyes (should I keep them closed? or open?)
and said, he's "nice-looking" in English,
and then let me go.

I bundled back
to my edge of the sofa,
to the edge of my mother,
near her, asking her to keep me
from her people, those who knew her
longer than I, grand-uncles whose egg-whites
roamed on walls and who saw people through fingers.


Jangpura Extension, Delhi

Rohit, it has been about six years
since you left, and of-course-this-is-very-little-time,
but I thank my stars that sometimes I find it
difficult to remember
your face

It is surprising how much six years
without a facebook-friendship can do,
how they can blur the edges of cheek-bones,
make the nose go was-it-like-this?
and eyes, were-they-dark-brown-or-black?

Around the third year,
when this slow forgetting had started,
I found these little slipping-away's of details
to be a form of betrayal, like the final warrant of
now-nothing-can-start-again, like the final final, like
even his face now...

but when your going sunk in through the years,
this slipperiness of memory felt kinder,
this inability to remember no longer argued with me,
it sat on my lap and let me stroke
its chin, and loved me back,
if even his face can go, then surely...

but, sometimes, near the hours
that are no-longer-night an' not-yet-dawn,
when I lie just on this side of sleep, sometimes

not always, my hand takes the shape as if it is
holding you from the back,

and the fingers still hold the gossamer air
of the bedroom as if they touched your cheeks,

as if the small slant of your nose was there,
the graze of the stubble, the lemonness of hair,
the soft drip of your ear,

as if rememberance was a game
played by fingers on gossamer fields,

and, in those nights, I didn't need
memory's ability to see, I touched, and without
saying it to you, meant, like in
those nights, "nice-looking",

and saying it held off dawn, it held off the claim
of the next day, it held off who-told-you-to-go,
why-did-you-have-to-go, it held off

Sunday, April 17, 2016

Kashmiri: We want azadi.
Indian: We'll give you development.
Kashmiri: We want azadi.
Indian: We'll give you jobs.
Kashmiri: We want azadi.
Indian: You'll survive without us? How?
Kashmiri: As against now?

Tuesday, April 12, 2016

'Gurgaon' is now 'Gurugram'

'Gurgaon' is now 'Gurugram'
   The idea is BJP's
They say it's for Guru Dronacharya
   Eklavya be like "Bitch please!"

Friday, April 8, 2016

तुम याद आते हो

जैसे नाईट-ड्यूटी पर नींद आती है,
बिन बुलाए, हमेशा।

Monday, April 4, 2016

We ain't buyin' what's on sale

We ain't goin' to concede 'em
They think we'll stop at bail
We ain't stoppin' till freedom

Sunday, April 3, 2016

Friday, March 25, 2016

दुआ, इन दिनों

सोच में आज़ादी हो,
प्लेट पर खाना हो,
किस्म-किस्म के लोगों
का आना-जाना हो,
बात-चीत हो बहस में,
प्रेम हो, क्रोध हो, जिज्ञासा
हो हर रहस्य में, नाचना हो,
गाना हो, पन्नों में लिपटा हर
ख़याल हो पुस्तकालय में,
विश्व हो विश्वविद्यालय में

(एच.सी.यू के लिए)

Sunday, March 20, 2016

जेनेरल साहब - Bertolt Brecht

tr. Bertolt Brecht's 'General, Dein Tank ist ein starker Wagen'

जेनेरल साहब,
आपका ये टैंक बड़ा ही शक्तिशाली है,
जंगलों को रौंद देता है
सौ-सौ आदमियों को कुचल देता है,
पर इसमें एक दोष है -
इसे एक ड्राइवर की जरूरत पड़ती है

जेनेरल साहब,
आपका ये बॉम्बर बड़ा ही शक्तिशाली है,
हाथी जितना बोझ लिए भी तूफ़ान से तेज़ उड़ता है,
पर इसमें भी एक दोष है -
इसे एक मैकैनिक की जरूरत पड़ती है

जेनेरल साहब,
इंसान बहुत काम की चीज़ है,
वो उड़ सकता है, वो मार भी सकता है,
पर उसमें एक दोष है -
वो सोच भी सकता है

Bertolt Brecht

Friday, March 18, 2016

I am grass

tr. from Pash's 'ਮੈਂ ਘਾਹ ਹਾਂ'

I am grass,
I will grow back, no matter what you do,

whether you bomb a university,
whether you bulldoze a hostel,
or whether you burn our rooms -

what will you do to me
What can you do to me?
I am grass, I will grow back, on everything.

Go, burn up our towns,
wipe out Sangroor,
turn Ludhiyana to dust,
my green will do its work even then,
after two years, after ten years...
passengers will again ask the conductor -
"What place is this?
Will you drop me off at Barnala,
where there's a forest of green grass."

I am grass,
I will do my work,
I will grow back on everything
that you try to do to me.

(For Umar and Anirban)

Sunday, March 13, 2016

जाओ, शिक्षा पाओ - Savitribai Phule

tr. from Sunil Sardar and Victor Paul's English tr. 'Go, Get Education' by Savitribai Phule

जाओ, शिक्षा पाओ

आत्म-निर्भर बनो, मेहनत में रम जाओ
काम करो, ज्ञान और धन बटोरो

ज्ञान के बिना सब कुछ खो जाता है
ज्ञान के बिना इंसान जानवर हो जाता है

ऐसे न बैठो, जाओ, शिक्षा पाओ,
पीड़ितों का, पिछड़ों का दुख मिटाओ

जाओ, सीखने का सुनहरा मौका है ये
सीखो, और तोड़ दो जाती की जंजीरों को
फैक दो उस ब्राह्मण के शास्त्रों को,
उसकी किताबों को, उसकी लकीरों को

Savitribai Phule (1831-97)

ब्राह्मण-राज मिटटी में मिले है

tr. excerpt from Sunil Sardar and Victor Paul's English tr. 'Mother English' of Savitribai Phule's Marathi poem

"ब्राह्मण-राज मिटटी में मिले है
जो अंग्रेज़ ने चाबुक चलाया है

गरीब की भलाई इसी में तो है -
अंग्रेजी के सामने, मनु सकपकाया है"

Savitribai Phule (1831-97)

Saturday, March 12, 2016

तुम्हारे बारे में सोचना - Nazim Hikmet

tr. from Nazim Hikmet's 'Thinking of you'

तुम्हारे बारे में सोचना
    मुझे सुन्दर लगता है, मुझे दिलासा देता है,
लगता है जैसे दुनिया का सबसे सुन्दर गाना
    सबसे सुन्दर आवाज़ में सुन रहा हूँ

पर अब दिलासा मेरे लिए काफी नहीं है
    मैं अब और गाने नहीं सुनना चाहता
मैं गाना चाहता हूँ

Nazim Hikmet

Ghazal by Gauhar Raza

tr. from Urdu-Hindi

Love for the nation gift-wrapped in faith; farce, that's how it'll be
Flowers, dried-up, gardens, gone, autumn, yellowed, that's how it'll be.

That savagery, once felt, still keeps Europe trembling in fear,
That savagery, will it now burn my land? Is that how it'll be?

Those gas chambers of the past still carry the stench of blood,
What else does blind love for nations do? What else will'it be?

It is true that in dark wells, utter lies, like boats, carry on,
but soon, the light of our truth will sink 'em, that's how it will be.

Those who've grown up on hatred, who've played with it like a toy,
in the days to come, what will hatred make them do? How will it be?

They ask the artists, the writers, why have you returned the honours?
Ask, how many sit quiet? Will shame knock on their doors? Will it be?

Do not eat this, do not wear that, do not, for God's sake, ever love,
The 'anti-national' stamp hovers in the air, that is how it'll be.

Do not forget, the young, the generations after us, are lit embers,
You play with fire an' think the sparks won't reach you; that's not how it'll be.

Gauhar Raza

Tuesday, March 8, 2016

तुम आये हो या

पल्स खाते-खाते ज़ुबान पर
नमक आया है?

Saturday, February 27, 2016


Dr. Siras,
In those nights,
you must have felt loneliness like a drip.

The walls of your room
would’ve been held apart only by a faint song,

and memory must have sat by you all night
combing the hours.

In your Marathi poem, Dr. Siras, the one about the ‘beloved moon,’
the one in which you somehow eke dawn from the dark sky,
I read it last night on the terrace,
it held me, it held my hands,
it let grass grow under my feet.

In this house that I have lived in for three years in Delhi, Dr. Siras,
the windows open onto a Palash tree.

I was 27 when I had rented it,
and at 27, the landlord had not spent too much time on the word ‘bachelor’
he had only asked if I had ‘too many parties’,
I didn’t, and I had got the house.

But next time, Dr. Siras, when I will try and look for a place in this city,
I will be older and they will pause at "but marriage?"
and I will try to eke out respect from a right surname,
from saying ‘Teacher’
from telling my birth-place,
and will try and hide my feeling small under my feet.

What had you said, Dr. Siras,
when you looked for that house in Durga Wadi?
What had you said for the neighbourhood, ‘Teacher’, ‘Professor’,

What gives us this respect, Dr. Siras, this contract with water?

In those nights,
weighing this word in your hands,
you must have felt weak, like the sun at dusk,
you must have closed the window to keep out the evening,
you must have looked back, and hung the song in the air
between refusal and letting go.

(thanks to Apurva M Asrani and Ishani Banerjee)

Sunday, February 21, 2016

            भी तुम्हें लग जाए 

Monday, February 15, 2016


You can chew the sun here & spit it out,
You can make the mighty eat dust,
It is a university that we're talking about,
Not a king's court where we must.

Thursday, February 11, 2016

To the soldier in Siachen

Come back,
the snow is treacherous,
come back,
they are making you fight a treacherous war,
you were not born in snow,
you do not know snow, come back,
I do not want you to fight that war in our name,
I want you to rest, I want you to be able to feel your fingers,
I want the snow in your veins to give way,
for you to be able to breathe, to melt
into a corner,
to sleep.

Come back.

Go home.

Go home to Dharwad,
Go home to Madurai, go home to
Vellore, Satara, Mysore, do not stay in the snow,
go home to Ranchi, that war is not for you to fight, that war
is not for us to give to you to fight, let not our name be ice,
let it not heave on your shoulders, do not let us steal your breath,
the people there, the people of the snow do not need us,
they do not need you to fight, come back,
you were not born to snow,
you do not know the treachery of the snow,

go home,
to rest, go home to the sun, to water,
go home to the nights of your village,
go home to the sweltering market-place,
to the noise of family-homes, to the sweat of the Ghats,
to the dust of the plains, go home,

may you never
have to see white ever again like that,
may you never have to see
a colour become death in your very palm.

Monday, February 8, 2016

That night in Mumbai when Brandt asked 'Are you good with speed?' and I said 'Yes'

it was as if
I pillion rode the moon
on the Western Express Highway,

and every mile we raced on his bike
we reclaimed from the sea,

the Goregaon high-rises passed us by
like longing measured on a Richter scale,

and the sky, window-lit at Malad, tripped
onto us,

at Kandivali, the fortieth floors spun out
into the night till the sky was only staircases,

and when he dropped me
by those black mountains of Borivali,
I realized I had held onto my seat
like the black holds onto basalt,
like the skin holds onto bones,
like Mumbai holds onto sea.

Monday, January 18, 2016

इंसान की कीमत कितनी कम लगाई जाती है - रोहित वेमुला

इंसान की कीमत
कितनी कम लगाई जाती है

बस एक छोटी सी पहचान दी जाती है
फिर जिसका जितना काम निकल आये -
कभी एक वोट,
कभी एक आंकड़ा,
कभी एक खोखली सी चीज़

कभी माना ही नहीं जाता कि इंसान
आखिर एक जीवंत मन है

एक अद्भुत सी चीज़ है
जिसे तारों की धूल से गढ़ा गया है

चाहे किताबों में देख लो, चाहे सड़कों पर,
चाहे उसे लड़ते हुए देख लो,
चाहे जीते-मरते हुए देख लो

रोहित वेमुला

Sunday, January 17, 2016

For Rohith Vemula

They might have rope enough
for his body,

have they rope enough
for star dust?

Wednesday, January 13, 2016

Saturday, January 9, 2016

The Poem said to the Doggerel

you'll never be like me,
you don't shatter the heart,
you don't burn into skin,
your canvas is small
& your themes are thin,
whoever reads me touches
the skies by the time I'm done,

The Doggerel replied: but I'm fun.

Monday, December 28, 2015

For someone who'll read this

500 years from now

How are you?
I am sure a lot has changed

between my time and yours,
but we're not very different,

you have only one thing on me -

I have all these questions for you:
Do cars fly now?

Is Mumbai still standing by the sea?
How do you folks manage without ozone?

Have the aliens come yet?
Who is still remembered from my century?

How long did India and Pakistan last?
When did Kashmir become free?

It must be surprising for you
looking at our time,

our things must seem so strange to you,
our wars so little,

our toilets for 'men' and 'women'
must make you laugh

our cutting down of trees
would be listed in your 'Early Causes'

our poetry in which the moon is still
a thing far away

must make you wonder, both for that moon
and for the poetry.

You must be baffled,
that we couldn't even imagine

the things you now take for granted.
But let that be,

would you do me a favour,
for 'old time's sake'?

Would you go to the Humayun's Tomb
in what used to be Delhi

and just as you're climbing the front staircase,
near the fourth rung, I have cut into

the stone wall to your left -
'Akhil loves Rohit'

Will you go and see it?
Just that, go see it.

Monday, December 21, 2015

When Farida Khanum

sings now,

she does not hide the age
in her voice,

she wraps it in paisleys,
and for a moment
holds it in both of her hands,

she drowns it in our sky.

When she sings now,
she knows

that at the end of that note
when her voice breaks
like a wishbone,

he will stay.

Saturday, December 19, 2015

Who're the ones marching that day?

What does the headline next day decide?
To call it 'Gay Pride'

Thursday, December 17, 2015


You're still glued to the bus-stop seat,
I pull you off it, "91 is here."

On Gray's Inn Road,
you again call the houses "so miniature,"
holding them between your finger and thumb.

On the double-decker,
you're still dozing off on the back seat,
asking me to wake you up when we get there.

As we get out, I'm still telling you to
"wrap yourself well, it's always colder
near the river."

As we walk below the Waterloo Bridge
and you turn to look at me, I am still
one-part longing, one-part fear,

wishing, tonight, that you were here.

(thanks to Daniel Titz and Dorian Lebh)

Wednesday, December 16, 2015

He sees me. I see him.

"You're a little chubby,"
"I guess you're a little dim,"
we part ways, he's not gettin'
sharper, I'm not getting thin.

Monday, December 14, 2015

December Poets

To melt the winter sun, partially,
  and hold it in a glass,
    Agha Shahid Ali,

to love, count to ten,
  then at last
    to grieve,

then, cussedly, leave
  to tread on something
      Rene Sharanya Verma,

to lose, again,
  reach that place, unknown,
      Dorothy Parker.

Thursday, December 3, 2015

All those years we dated,

it remained 'complicated,'
so what I don't get is this -
why do I remember them as 'bliss'.

Tuesday, December 1, 2015

The Barakhamba Road/Tolstoy Marg Crossing

An odd, white handkerchief tied on his arm,
    he gets onto the metro at Vishwavidyalaya.

With a stuffed back-pack on her shoulder,
    she boards the bus at Shahdara.

In his grey track pants,
    he hails an Ola from Saket,

With her phone in her back-pocket,
    she climbs onto a Haryana Roadways bus.


The red glass bangles he'd bought yesterday
    reflect the winter sun; his fingers dance.

She pulls out a crumpled rainbow muffler
    and waves it to her from across the road.

He sees a small tear in the stockings as he
    pulls down the track pants but doesn't care.

At that Crossing she knows from the map, she
    sees a big crowd - and turns her phone to silent.

Saturday, November 28, 2015

Both of them liked being out on Delhi roads

at dawn.

As they reached the DND flyover from Sarai Kale Khan
they could see a red sun over Okhla,

and as they went down towards Ashram, she said -
if only this Yamuna had a little life in it, no?

He got a little bothered
at this sudden, pretentious love for nature -

I have come all the way from Yamuna Vihar,
the petrol's almost gone,
and you're thinking of the river.

How many cities
will we move in this one city

to look for a place.

Tr. from Ravish Kumar's लप्रेक ८

Ravish Kumar

Friday, November 27, 2015

To escape the rain

tr. from Ravish Kumar's लप्रेक १२

To escape the rain,
he parked the scooter
under the Moolchand flyover.

They were so lost in each other
they didn't even notice
all the other scooters
waiting around them
for the rain to end.

For no reason at all,
he kept on trying
to become her umbrella,

and she felt good
under an umbrella she didn't need
below a flyover.

All the people around them
stared as if they were a
leftover cloud.

Ravish Kumar

Thursday, November 26, 2015

I have that small town feeling today

tr. from Ravish Kumar's लप्रेक १

I have that small town feeling today...
    and I feel like metro.

You know, whenever you pass by South Ex, I feel like Karawal Nagar.
    Shut up, you're crazy. In Delhi, everyone feels like Delhi.

That's not how it is. Not every one in Delhi is Delhi. Just like
everyone doesn't have love in their eyes...
    okay, but then how am I South Ex?

Just like I am Karawal Nagar.
    You're right...

you know, if this Barahpula flyover wasn't there, then the distance
between South Ex and Sarai Kale Khan would've been too much.
    Are you in love with me or with the city?

With the city; because my city is you.

Ravish Kumar

Wednesday, November 25, 2015


tr. from Ashok Vajpeyi's 'आओ'

like darkness comes near darkness,
like water runs into water,
like light dissolves in light,

come, wear me,
like a tree wears the bark,
like a mud-path wears the grass,

take me,
like the darkness takes the roots,
like water takes the moon,
like the infinite takes time.

Tuesday, November 17, 2015

You walk in

and my eyes catch fire, you touch
me and my skin's live wire,
and no matter tonight
how much I deny
her, I think I
am going
to die of

Friday, November 6, 2015

In Delhi, last winter,

we needed a photograph
for the poster of your talk,
so you suggested -

"Take any from my FB album
in which I am wearing enough clothes
and not making a face,"

which left my choice, from among hundreds,
to about two.

Finally, we chose you in purple,
smiling, and sitting against a wall
in what looks like JNU,

you are wearing a silver hoop in your ear

and after looking at this photograph many times over,
I know why your name meant 'loved,'
I know why this memory is silver, I know
why this memory will now always be silver.

("Kaush, pack your best clothes,
Thanga would have hated if any of us
are badly dressed for the funeral.")

Thanga, I have two winters,
and terrace nights, and songs with you,
I have a midnight dance with you,
and because you thought we 'Indian fuckers'
were 'too dramatic,' I will, for your sake,
keep safe in my hands, all the evenings
that won't let you go.

(for Priya Thangarajah)

Tuesday, November 3, 2015

कि कुछ तो असर हो जाए

कि कुछ तो असर हो जाए
बस वो रात बसर हो जाए
कविता से उतना ही होता है

कि उस रात की पौ तो फटी
जैसे भी हो, रात तो कटी 
खैर मनाओ
कविता से इतना तो होता है

(नताशा के लिए)

Sunday, November 1, 2015


कुछ तेरह दिन हुए
आई.टी.ओ पर रात ही नहीं हुई

छात्र अपने थैलों में
मुट्ठी भर उजाला जो लाएं हैं

Tuesday, October 27, 2015

Desperate, a man sat down,

I didn't know him,
    I knew desperation,

so I went close to him
    and reached out my hand -

holding it, he stood up,
    he didn't know me, he knew

my reaching out the hand,
    from there, we walked together,

neither of us knew the other -
    both knew walking together.

tr. from Vinod Kumar Shukla's 'Hatasha se ek vyakti baith gaya'

Vinod Kumar Shukla


Sunday, October 25, 2015

"Miniscule minority" "Miniscule minority"

- the judges kept on barking,
clearly they've never been
on a Sunday evening to the
park above the Palika parking.

Tuesday, October 20, 2015

You fear

tr. from Gorakh Pandey's 'तुम्हें डर है'

Their anger is a thousand years old,
their hate is a thousand years old,
I only give
some rhyme to their
scattered words, to their desire,
and you fear that
I'm stoking fire. 

Sunday, October 18, 2015

White truth

tr. from Munawwar Rana's 'Safed Sach'

always tell
the truth -- he
trusts them, shows
them off, every once in
a while, as we talk, he kisses
them lightly, one day, not knowing
better, he kept his fingers on my lips,
now they've started lying ever so slightly.

[After Munawwar Rana's return of the Sahitya Akademi award, Oct '15]

Saturday, October 17, 2015

A Language of Forgetting

tr. from Rajesh Joshi's 'भूलने की भाषा'

A river brushed against me
in the language of water,

and suddenly, in the language
of flight, the birds
moved below the clouds,

on trees written in a hieroglyphic script,
leaves stirred together, and in their movement
was the language of rustling -

it felt as if you are somewhere close,
drawing near in the language of the body

and whispering a language of forgetting
to those you could not.

Sunday, October 11, 2015

I want to believe

tr. from Ashok Vajpeyi's 'विश्वास करना चाहता हूँ'

I want to believe that
after my defeat in love
when I mourn in the utter loneliness of a poem,
then, somewhere at least a leaf will tremble for me,
that somewhere a bird will resent that her world is, despite everything, so green,
that, for a moment, a planet will slow down somewhere in the universe
and in some invisible vein of the earth, the lava will cool a little,
that the ancestors spread over centuries will try an' give solace to each other,
and the tears of gods will fall in untimely rain;
that I will cry
and through the whole universe
will run a cry of sorrow,
I want to believe that in my defeat, and in my grief,
the world will not leave me alone.

Grief surrounds me as if
now that is the only body I have to live in and die in
as if that is the real colour of living
which has become visible to me only just now.

I want to believe that
when I'll try and find my way through
pain's long corridors
then, the light at the end of that tunnel will be of grief,
that the window from which a hand will show me the way, will be grief's window,
and the house, whose porch I'll rest in, to gather strength to keep on going,
will be the house where grief lives.

I want to believe that
just like the other name of laughter is often kids or flowers,
just like the other name of hope is poetry,
like that, the other name of love will be grief.

Saturday, October 10, 2015

He doesn't say - Ashok Vajpeyi

tr. from Ashok Vajpeyi's 'वह नहीं कहती'

He says
he has only a little heart,
like sunrays say
they have a little light
fire says
it has a little warmth --

sunrays don't say they have the universe
fire doesn't say it has those flames
he doesn't say he has his body.

[after Ashok Vajpeyi's return of the Sahitya Akademi Award, Oct '15]

Thursday, October 8, 2015

मुझे मालूम है पिंजरे का पंछी क्यों गाता है - Maya Angelou

tr. from Maya Angelou's 'I know why the caged bird sings'

आज़ाद पंछी
  तो हवा की पीठ पर बैठ कर
नदी के संग तैरता है
  और जहाँ धारा थमती है
वहां अपने पंख हलके से
  सूरज की किरणों में डुबाता है
और सारे आसमान को अपना बताता है

लेकिन जो पंछी
  अपने पिंजरे में ही सरकता है,
वो शायद ही देख पाता हो
  अपने गुस्से की सलाखों के पार,
उसके पंख यूँ कतरे हुए हैं, पैर यूँ बंधे हुए हैं,
  पर उसकी जुबां पर गाना है तैयार    

उसका गला कंपकपाता है
  फिर भी पिंजरे का पंछी गाता है
अंजान-सी चीज़ों के बारे में  
  जिनको वो रह-रह चाहता है   
और उसकी धुन सुनने में आती है
  दूर नदी-पहाड़े में
क्यूंकि पिंजरे का पंछी गाता है
  आज़ादी के बारे में 

आज़ाद पंछी तो सोचता है
  सिर्फ हलकी हवा का, जो पेड़ों में सर-सराये
लॉन के केचुओं का, जो उसी की आस लगाएं
  और फिर सारे आसमान को अपना बताता है 

लेकिन पिंजरे का पंछी तो खड़ा है
  अपने ही सपनो की मज़ारों पर,
उसकी परछाई तक चिल्लाती है
  बुरे ख्वाबों की बहती धारों पर
उसके पंख यूँ कतरे हुए हैं, पैर यूँ बंधे हुए हैं,
  पर उसकी जुबां पर गाना है तैयार

उसका गला कंपकपाता है
  फिर भी पिंजरे का पंछी गाता है
अंजान-सी चीज़ों के बारे में  
  जिनको वो रह-रह चाहता है   
और उसकी धुन सुनने में आती है
  दूर नदी-पहाड़े में
क्यूंकि पिंजरे का पंछी गाता है
  आज़ादी के बारे में 

Saturday, September 26, 2015

Dehradun, 1990

As a kid I used to confuse my d's
with my g's, and that bit of dyslexia

didn't really become a problem till
I once spelt 'God' wrong. That day,

the teacher wrote a strictly worded
letter to my parents, and asked me

to behave myself. Also, as a kid,
I could not pronounce the letter 'r,'

so till I was sent to some summer
vacation speech correction classes

at age 5, I used to say, "Aam ji ki
jai," "Aam ji ki jai," -- then a teacher

taught me to hold my tongue against the
ceiling of my mouth and then throw it out

quivering, 'R,' 'Rrrr,' she wrenched it
out of me, over many sessions, "Ram,"

until then, I did not know God was so
much effort, till they made him tremble

on the tip of my tongue, God was only
a little joke about mangoes.

Thursday, September 24, 2015

MarxistLoveNotes #1

I will love you
for as long as it takes
for Trickledown Economics to work.

Monday, September 7, 2015

किसी को राजा पसंद है, किसी को रानी,

अच्छा है मुझे दोनों पसंद है, पर है इक
परेशानी, कभी सोचता हूँ कि ये झूलम-
-झूला मुनासिब है या नहीं, तो कभी ये
कि शायद मेरी दोहरी नज़र इक इशारा है,
कि मैं जमने वाला नहीं, कि मन आवारा है - 
यूँ अलग-अलग टोलियां हैं, गे और स्ट्रेट,
इनमें मैं कौन हूँ (पता नहीं!) स्ट्रे? या ग्रेट?

tr. from Vikram Seth's 'Dubious'

विक्रम सेठ

Sunday, August 30, 2015

'धनक' और 'हार्मलेस हग्स' के लिए

सुबह सुर्ख आएगी, बस रात चलती रहे,
बहस होती हो तो हो, बस बात चलती रहे

Thursday, August 27, 2015

Near Eros Cinema, Jangpura Extension,

the woman from Cameroon
       greets three white girls in
              French, I hear "deux ans, vous?"

The rickshaw-guy from
       Darbhanga asks the Lajpat
             aunty to pay more, she makes a मूंह.

The house broker from
       Jhung, who's been here sixty
              years, finds landlords for all the new

lawyers from Lucknow or
       Chennai, or Philly or Austin.
              The shop-cleaner from Muzzafarpur,

watches the bill-board with
       a 50 year old hero and a 20
              year old heroine that he will woo.

The taxi-guy from Greater-
       -Noida is trying to find M
              Block at midnight and cursing U-

-BER. And I am walking with his
       hands in mine, feelin' here-&-now
              and also a no-where-in-particular.