Painting by Sri Mahadeb

The Winged Marauders

He lay in hospital bed
pale
too fatigued
to love me
to discuss finer aspects of art

It was all so basic
fever readings
hunger and its lack
as we waited for platelet count
to rise
like water levels on dry bed in times of drought

Those mosquitoes from our parts of the world
rising like dirty secrets born in squalor,
tiny phantoms of a world, overlooked.
One of them brought him harm.
Now I hate them all!

This urge to squash them sans discrimination
male and female
those who have never harmed me
never will

Mercy has no place left in my heart

I want to end the species
rationality has clearly lost the battle here
like the wars being waged in the world outside

At that Altitude

(Written during a fight, very soon after the Tragic Air India Plane crash in June 2025)

At that Altitude
all that is pressing
wanting your attention
is too far behind
sick parent
kove life
presentation at work

Outside of the aeroplane window
it is an unending blue
without variation
something so uniform
gives you very little
or in excess
to contemplate.

Someone will trespass
this moment of silence
asking you the most obvious questions:
Where do you live?
Married?
Job?

Strangers will temporarily fill those gaps
between your fingers,
gaps that would let wounds fester,
gaps that would never narrow down
as images of previous crashes lingered.
Had the wings opened and closed with ease,
were the fuels purer than pure,
did taxiing take longer than usual?

The skies will remain,
long after you disembark,
where they always belong,
witness to the diminutive wars below.

It’s a Midnight Hotel

Flickering neon lights
alternating between dark and light
between a yes and a no
like women in seedy bars
if my mind
giving strange come-hither signs

The elevator groans
This once giant beast
now tired and old
I stare vacantly at each floor
on which we land
I watch the numbers on display
such seductive ennui in this game

I look around my room
for right red lipstick stains
on the pillows
I find none

That’s the beauty of these times
How it’s all hidden with flair
Secrets that lovers whispered
in corridors
dreams lost at dawn

Something dazzles on the streets
carnivals and festivals
candy floss shaped hope
that hearts carry with them

Inside the hotel
It’s more familiar terrain
A soul drained out
like the empty minibar
I open and shut
a hundred times