Palestine

The West inks red lines
filled with beheaded kids, 
of people peeled inside out,

And the rest of us hung dry. 

Will the winds turn?

If they do, what becomes of us?
If they don't, who are we? 

Moving on

I
Memory maps
unfold to let go a drifter.
A question lingers -
how do you nourish (without) your
sources of affection, Mister?

II
(A friend responds)

A question lingers,
do you have a yen to nurture?
If yes, how did your hard edges come about?
I have been told, guess his affection, when in doubt.

here and how

here, I inhabit my shame, 

wrapped in hurtful inadequacy

afraid to let go of words

that might tell you that.

how does a self-reliant woman

confess -

she erased her questions to nurture yours?

For You (By Arpita Gaidhane)

Words overflowed, overlapped, collided

Time warped itself into a liquid current

Laughter and pain, erratic, we shared

In no set pattern, just the rhythm of life

Life to be lived, to be loved, to be found

In the everyday nothings that were our own

No one else could give or take that life

I learned from patience, actions and words

Today a woman: confident, uncertain,

Will leave with a shadow of your spirit

Following your path, I make my own

Jumping off the cliff, to either fly or fall

Forevermore they will shield my wings

Those patience, actions and words you had

For meandering conversations, questions

and doubts, that forged a blade of strength

Forevermore I will look back, grateful

for the timeless words that said all and nil

Words that overflowed, overlapped, collided

To enter the warped liquid current of time

And in no pattern, the rhythm of our lives

continues softly, and the rest is silence.

retreat

seamlessly, easing out,
invisibly
in times that will now reminisce
of the time that passed by
strange pleasure in this
not knowing
not seeking
a collected self splintered now in multitudes
showing gravity its place
as i walk from this place to that
inside
outside
you were right
there are many forms of retreat
and mine began
while you were scribbling a discreet dream.

letters

letters
that i write for him
you write for her
and we read for each other.
letters
that never reach him
that never reach her
and we keep together.
letters
we close
to dispose someday
letters
that we now embrace.

nightmares and dreams

you were there
today,
weren't you?
when i walked past you at Trafalgar
banner in one hand
screams-'toris you must go'
the girl in blue pants tweeted on her blackberry
'come join us, for this is our story'
some played drums, others violin;
gliding gloriously, all of us in unison;
it was then that u turned;
as if; you were in a hurry;
as if; the ground beneath you was slippery;
and you wanted to take everyone into
the labyrinthine St' Paul's
choppers swirled by
you told us what occupation means
in the Westminster walls
i was right there;
behind you;
awaiting you to turn again,
for you to say once more;
'white paper- catch it, bin it, kill it'
to hold your eyes with mine;
and to tell you to count me in all your schemes,
for their nightmares are our dreams.

source: http://www.flickr.com/groups/student-protest-posters-and-placards/pool/show/

clip it!

she walked in,
cautious steps;
one at a time;
tears paused
on her lips; as
she looked at me;
and we smiled,
you know,
the unsaid code;
I-am-here-to-share-yet-another-episode.

she pointed at the orchid
'shouldn't you clip it?'
why?
'to tame it a bit'
does that help?
she looked away,
it's ok. love bites and bruises, i say.
'No. just clip it'
why ?
'to hold it tight and sturdy'
really?
she sighed,
''no wonder, you are single and thirty!'

Middle dichotomy

I have often wondered which is more free,
roots that explore the depths;
branches that explore the heights;
or is it the stem that anchors the two;
keeping both in sight?
Fuck, comes a friend's response
its your 'middle class' talking
not letting free and not letting go
but keeping the disguise quite!

Juggler's Act

some words of caution;
and bits of advise,
'love...its nature is abrupt', says akhil
anil says, "these are difficult times"
for; between the two what is it,
that would suffice?
that must survive fire and
cut through ice?
looking for a vise;
I juggle,
when I want to speak about love;
I write about struggle.

If only

you were
an imaginary dot,
redeeming me from
the whiff of
what and whatnot;
veiling the contours
that outline
distraught dreams
and 'mull over' diaries'
reveling not in hindsight
but in my forethought;
and imbibing the unsaid
code for survival
between delicate dandelions
and not so delicate trees,
if only you were
an imaginary dot;
i could have made
peace with my memories.

The Republic and the Third Spectacle

let me repeat what i just read,

"Indians celebrated a

peaceful 61st Republic Day...

undaunted by terror threats,

Maoist shutdowns,

separatist boycotts or

even the morning fog

that blanketed New Delhi"

and the day was marked by;

'a solemn start of

a colourful spectacle'

by the coming together of

our President, Prime Minister,

and the President of South Korea.

Few minutes ago,

I met yet another outlander

cornered by the elite agora;

cringing, humiliated

having lost its steel to Posco,

which possibly is vying to be

the new UNESCO,

Indian Republic then, a victim of symbolic violence

now, a victim of real vehemence

quickly handed me 
the news report, the film

and a t-shirt that appealed

'Save me from operation Green Hunt'

with a look both

apprehensive and affront,

it is precisely then that

I had the 'goose flesh moment'

designed by

the State and the market economy

when I found

Debord's Third Spectacle

laughing at me!

The Newsreport

On Posco and Struggle in Orissa
For Debord and Spectacle

Audience decry

in times now

We the people;

have goose bumps,

as you play devil's advocate

in the big fight between

state and people;

Some hard talk,

is all; what you assume

audience find adequate;

and as the verdict unfolds,

we see you grappal

with drama and conflict;

staging a trial

for one amongst us

who dared to be the convict.

bringing; your side of the story;

in your language; through

your lens; enacting public debate.

We see your zest

and the swell of your chest

at each smart line that

market-media-state define

but, as the plot thickens

you sign off;

blurring the might of the ethics

with ethics of the might;

and,we wonder if

you would, for once, allow us

to sing our very own song; titled,

'why did you think,

Nandigram was the experiment that went wrong?'

Check out: Karan Thapar in conversation with Dr. Binayak Sen
and a response, 'Dialogue of the deaf' by Sevanti Ninan

Also, see: 'The economics, politics and ethics of non violence' by Radha D'Souza

Green Hunt

who are these maoists
whose heart carry the fire
of a soul ripped out;
and hands hold the embers;
of life beyond doubt,
when gold is mined out;
and half of us
wage an operation
on the other half
like;
goa, mehdiganj, plachimara;
narmada, bhopal, chengara;
feeding into the voices
drowned by slogan 'development'
like;
kashipur, srinagar, tehri,
singur, nandigram, niyamgiri,
pushing the walls against
might and money,
who are these maoists
also nicknamed naxalites
is he one, many or few?
and why to them is
Green Hunt dedicated;
do they love this land
more than we do?

real heroines and masculine spirits

i hear the chime

dreams lidded eyes

my heart docile

'i believe in you'

with don williams,

i hummed meanwhile

but now i

see through this mime;

with a green light on

i saw you were still typing

and it had been

a long long time;

i confer gtalk too inherits

your masculine spirits

so; my dear

as you weigh your choices

to standby love or without

like real heroines

I sign out.

lullaby

o, lovers of the world
sing me a lullaby
that; I may rise and shine,
forgo what was once mine
and; unlike our lot
not rebound,
to ruin yet another page in a rhyme!

Bhopal, tell me how do you feel at 25?

Oh Bhopal

Tell me, how do you feel at 25;

when the youth doesn't kick in

and the years don't add to age;

when the wisdom u gain

make u renew your vows;

and hope in vain

perhaps; this would be the year

when thousands,

won't be betrayed all over again;

Perhaps; this would be the year

with no March to Delhi;

no wilful release of toxics in body;

no hunger strikes;

and no rally.

Bhopal

Tell me, how do you feel at 25;

when you already fathered kids

who look as old and weak as you

embittered;

disillusioned

with their own land and law

challenging the human element of Dow

seemingly; no one to turn to;

and nowhere to go

yet, they,not the stillborns

and theirs,not the aborted woe

with umbilical cord

held tight in their hands

to not despair;

to not let go...

sheltered now in their hope and struggle

Oh, Bhopal

Tell me, how do you feel at 25?

a bit random

In a random mood
when u come to me
and sit still
holding the words in a queue,
biding your time;
you don't notice
I am merged in
some far away point;
embracing your gaze
without much ado.
You look ahead
at the future we can make;
and, i re live the past
we built together,
moments gone
in the spur of moments;
and so,
like the final act of a play
as you take my hand in yours;
and tell me how magical this bliss is
i wonder if this togetherness is here to stay.

Be Friends with...

Friends i adore you,

you held my bits and pieces

like the warmth enveloped in folded sheets

Yet, I wonder

where are you now

as i run in these narrow streets,

to tell you the truth;

it comes much as a surprise

how you see my strengths,

and hear none of my cries.

you label me in colorful confines,

i wish i had a better language

to paint futility of such public tag lines;

possibly the crisis you see in me is true

perhaps in my vulnerability

i disappoint you in ways i can never outdo

yet i hope that some day you will hear my plea

and be friends with the most mediocre in me!

seduction

in each of my heartbeat

i live your tantrums

with each of my heartaches

i re-live them

amidst much salsa and jazz

i dance to be sane

while,

infinite possibilities

between the two

seduce me all over again