Mumbai

This sight of falling leaves,
and odor of humid Mumbai afternoons;
Like the angst of unrequited love,
is undeserved devastation.

I court its sore truths,
marry the blue devils.
Anguish as capacious as the twilight sky,
takes away the I from me,
killing all hopes of thee.

This sight of slow passing clouds,
and sky that is devoid of colorful glory;
Like the yen of a parentless child,
is unreasonable devastation.

I give into its irritable reality,
succumb to the blindness of dark tunnels.
Self pity as abysmal as a Himalayan valley,
empties all the dreams of monsoon
closing the lid on Pandora’s Box.

--

Pune

I walk back to my home,
That houses temples and graves,
Back to meet the spirits of poets and sages.

I walk back home,
to my reserves of filter coffee,
to the pack of playing cards and poker chips,
to the set of old black & white photographs,
to the scribbled walls of poetry,
to dusty dairies that record my life scripts,
to souvenirs that safe keep nostalgia,
to a broken mirror that I believe will bring me luck,
to endearing gifts from my friends and lovers,
to a world of soothing philosophers ad story tellers,
and a silent neighbor that helps swallow gloomy noons;
drawing clear boundary lines between dreams and reality.

I walk back to my home,
That houses temples and graves.
That turns a weekend asylum for my hopeful friends.

I walk back to my home,
Where every brick nurtures a grand dream,
Dreams that help me breathe on dismal nights.