Under the spreading of a java plum

I thought of her,
lying there,
under the spreading of a java plum.
Its warmth had my nano’s scent.
Slender branches resonated her arms.

She planted it as a young girl,
my mother once said.
It grew with her,
aging as the seasons passed.

I plucked a fruit;
staining my palm crimson
and tasted its bitter sweetness.

A picture flashed before my eyes.
A woman with a timeworn face
and tattered clothes
lulling a baby to sleep.

And I wondered,
how trees could be so mysterious.
Silently watching as
the years passed.
And with them, lives.


Words soften into
a mumble,
Your demeanour—volatile;
opinion flattened
to fit the shallow cabinets of others’ minds.

Dreams lay bare inside of you.
They wake and roam through the night while—
You rot in sheathing
during the day and
choke on their malignant folds.

I don’t know you—I only
remember how you once were.
An eager fixation with life.
An autonomous lover,
fierce and unapologetic.


Jacarandas bloom again

I step out from the dark swamp
into purple haze,
where the long wait ends.

With eyes shut, arms drawn;
I breathe sun’s warmth and converse
with the wind,
in a language —only two of us

And I too— feel the urge to shed all my leaves
and grow utterly


They walk pass me,
All of them
blending into each other,
their shadows endlessly stretched.

A double-shot long black in hand.
Extra focus is needed today,
it’s a God forsaken Monday morning!
They move in and spread out,
mindlessly following the trails.
A pack of scurrying ants.

I come to a sudden halt.
Does no one notice the amber colour man on the sidewalk?

With his head held low,
hair brushing the ground.
‘You’re invisible to them.’
I say to him.
But he doesn’t look up.

‘it’s a nice day’ I try again,
a little louder this time.
A shot in the dark.

He lifts his head, taking all the time he wishes.
And mumble a few words.
I rush closer, afraid that I’d miss them
and he wouldn’t repeat.

“Am I invisible to you too?”


Had I not seen you,
I wouldn’t have believed.

That men with sturdy hearts and
acid tongue often have
kindness concealed.

That their voice –although crude
have softness around the edge.
That they too mourn their dead wives
tearlessly, and often
confide in their children.
And clutching a pillow in the dark,
they too hope for forgiveness.

If I hadn’t known you,
I would fear men with erected moustache
and sickly tobacco scent.
I would mock their medals
and self-recited tales of bravery.

And finally, I’d fail to understand,
that they too have a soul
that surges to rise,
out of its capacity.
But quietly dies with a whimper.

Thursday morning encounter

Its a Thursday morning.
People are hurrying
like ants.
All in motion,
trying to get somewhere.
Probably their non-desirable nine to fives.
Heads buried in flimsy screens,
ears plugged.
Seeming focused.
Ignoring their kind.
March rain falls quietly.
Seated at last, I notice
a child of four
beside me.
With his mud brown skin,
Face pressed against the glass,
counting the drops on the window
or trees in interminable distance.
I can’t tell.
Occasionally breaking the silence
with loud abrupt noises;
unafraid of attention.
His curiosity grows and spreads
beyond the passing sceneries.
He’s so unlike human.
I can’t relate to him.
I sense a peculiar space between us.
Like he’s close enough for me to touch,
yet light years away.