cold winter evening

hot coffee and freshly toasted biscuits

my mum with her accounts

and I with my books

occupying two ends

of the same blanket

old habits and a new beginning

—this is the moment of infinity.


31st December

Another year ends, look back—the past tense,

sitting under a quiet evening sky,

remembering fag ends of happy days and sad,

the colours of Holi now a little brown

with heartbreak, new friends, love lost, luck found,

a long scorching summer followed by thundering rain,

the hypnotic boom of dhak, our ten-armed visitant,

faraway places, the scent of the universe in open skies,

feeling the pulse of the mountains in its streams,

long walks and longer daydreams,

a few hurried birthdays, a cousin’s wedding,

lots of reading,

Christmas in a pagan house, homemade wine

and a fruitcake wanting zest.

my earphones blaring music at midnight and movies

all spun into one fabric,

smelling of old newsprint in a damp building

rolled into empty joints and set to fire,

a false high with people, some of who truly care.


When tonight spills in through my window, popping into distant sparks

I’ll say my goodbye and wish parts of you don’t come by, again.


23:59 December 31st.



You won’t understand.

Tell me this—

would you be a part of it?

my life:

an archaeological site of silences,

brush away those cobwebs in corners

and you’ll find absences,

and fissures

which hold no answers.



If you’re looking for a clue, there’s none to be understood.



You ask,

how maps can take me away across seas

and give me wings;


don’t understand,

that words do travel—fill the crevasses of my mind and invent kingdoms.


don’t understand,

and you never will: that our inventions are as different

as sepia-toned nostalgia and brightly coloured daydreams.



cannot understand,

I only want to be free of all of you,

because you

refuse to understand,

that dull shades of grief sometimes do appear

and none of it is supposed to cohere.

Of what I left behind

—the place where

I let the weight of the city slip out of my body,

left my soul to float, tied only to the trees,

let my mind be whisked away, free, by the clouds,

and returned having:

filled myself with all the air I could breathe,

wearing the scent of those mountains—a scent like that of water bursting upon mossy rocks and disappearing between one hundred year old trees;

filled my ear with the sound of those gurgling—whispering streams

So the next time you ask me where I’ve been—

—away, away, up and upwards where the clouds are disentangled by mountains,

where the sky turns purple and crimson and golden all at once and whose silence heals your soul,

there, just there

I have been set free.