Category: Poems

Remember what you hear today.
This waiting hall for grievances
Of people to the Government.
Remember stories that they share
With anger, anguish, helplessness,
Of how they live contingent on
The strokes of disinterested pens.

Remember what you heard those days
In waiting halls of hospitals.
Remember stories that they shared
With anger, anguish, helplessness,
Of how a life’s contingent on
The strokes of disinterested Luck.

At least, your life is not so bad.
You’re not as burdened by such debts,
Both social and financial.
At least, you have alternatives.
You’ve wealth enough to start again.
You’ve health enough to dare to start.
Be grateful for the luck you have.
At least, it isn’t quite so bad.

My journal is for me to write,
For me to read, reflect, revise.
For you, I’ll write a memoir.
For you to dig, digest, despise.
For me, I’ll keep the journal, thanks.
For me, that is, for only me.

My journal is religion.
It’s ritualistic, rigorous.
An act of faith, submissive faith,
That writing it will heal today.
That writing it will clarify,
And keep me grounded.
Right on track.
It takes, on faith, some causal links
That normally I would not take:
Recording brings in Discipline.
With Discipline, it’s Meaningful.
With Meaning comes Maturity.
Maturity makes one Reflect.
Reflection genders Gratitude.
And Gratitude dispels Regret.

This means my journal’s quite a mess.
It’s full of things I do and don’t.
And full of things I feel and don’t.
It’s pick-me-ups and put-me-downs,
Hurrays, but also whining sounds.
Reminders writ repeatedly.
In free hand quite illegibly.
A peek into a state of mind
Too wounded for you to unwind.

You want anecdotes, gossip tales,
Unburdened by the tedium.
My journal will not give you that.
It has the parts, but not the sum.
For you, I’ll write a memoir:
The more readable medium.
Until then, let my journal be.
Or else, your hair, my bubblegum.

I crush my ego with the beans
And offer it in tablespoons.
Baptising in a steaming stream,
I count the drip as rosary.
I sense the scent of strong incense
And taste nirvana on my lips.
Enlightenment. Awakening.
The penance of the aftertaste.
No need for Soma of the Gods.
No need for blood of Holy Grails.
The Devil’s Drink’s my poison picked.

These scripted marbles make our case.
We weren’t rich, we weren’t great,
And yet we were considerable.
We meant something to someone else.
Enough to be a marble’s worth.

A daughter lost in childbirth.
A father in an accident.
A brother in the naval trade.
A wife enduring secret pain.
A son exploring taboo acts.
A friend in need of friendly touch.

Though many cannot read the script,
And those who can don’t care for names
Or dates or pithy epigrams,
We matter even underfoot.
We matter though we’re trampled on.
And even now we’re useful still.
We cool the path to Gods within.

Remember what we spoke about
That time we sat to speak about
A thing that meant something to me,
Something to you, unequally?

You found it hard to speak aloud
And chose to send me WhatsApp texts
And I replied in audio notes –
You couldn’t wrap me in my quotes.

You said I’ll act responsibly
But you will never get to see
As only your despaired demise
Would wake in me the worldly wise.

I disagreed, I said I was
Responsible the way I was,
It’s only that it doesn’t look
Like you maintaining ledger books.

And look at me now forwarding
Receipts of bills paid, groceries,
And every other thing you tracked
On files, in folders, neatly packed.

It pinches when the ticks stay gray,
When dashes show under their “Seen”.
It’s not that I’m responsible.
I wish you’ll see it’s possible.

While yours is loving, crazy, fun,
Mine’s a seething vipers’ nest.
When yours is gathered, it’s a feast.
When mine is gathered, it’s a test.

You play the Game of Life in team.
We play a game of empty thrones.
So, if you walk into my ken,
I urge you keep your caution close.

And if your bloodhound nose reports
Unwholesomeness in welcome words,
I urge you spare no wit expense,
For they are generous to curse.

By the time I reach my paper and pen
The line inside has slithered again.

Replacing, sleep arrives and turns
The minute hand another ten.

A dream dissolves my will to write
I strain and tire myself in vain.

Until I curdle up the dream
Around the rings of coffee stains.

O Mister Happy Misra ji,
A poet needs a pinch of pain.

I pause before I type “Diwali”.
Just so “Happy” this Diwali.

It’s not new clothes or new mithaai.
Just sweet laughter this Diwali.

In mourning white, I’m colourfully
Decked in Uno this Diwali.

Gigantic balls of pasted chaawal
Help me swallow this Diwali.

The little one, still struggling with words,
Shows me how to mean “Diwali.”

Go, Misra, build your life again.
You’ve found your Happy this Diwali.

The half-an-hour waiting times,
The red lines on the Google Maps,
The AC vents that blow no air,
(Or blow too cold even at one)
The clanking trunk of CNG,
The luggage in the shotgun seat,
The honking in the toll gate lanes,
The always unwashed window panes,
The joy as destinations near –
O how I’ve missed the Ubers here.

His eyes are always open wide.
Always awonder. Always shocked.
A cup of misti doi alarms.
A crunching water bottle jolts.
He blinks and he is scared of it.
The world around him disappears.
He sighs relieved the world is back.
It’s just a blink. But every blink.
His parents keep him close, caressed.
He stares at everyone who stares.
And then he stares outside the train,
Afraid of blurry wire poles
That pass so close their shadows hurt.
He cries aloud with shooting finger
Pointing at a rising crane,
Whose payload seems about to fall.
The silver khainga mullet fish
Escapes the beak and plops below.
He fists, applauds the shimmer splash.
His eyes relax on Chilika.