It rains

It rain it rains it rains On my mind from the skies  It rains. Crocheted into the day Slyly into the night  It rains. Droplets of joy  Drops of indignation  It rains Nothing dries I wipe the tear soaked face Hug the dog his fur is damp Still, it rains. 

I’m here

Quiet. My words are quiet.  Breaking through the soft beeps Of the machines Telling me that life Carries on in other worlds In other worlds  Where you walk The wind a balmy breath Upon the pond  As it shimmers  In a tarnished white glow The edges smoothed to whisper In my ear,  “I’m here.”

A Sunday evening walk in the city

The sidewalks are taken by hawkers brewing pakoras and tea the smell of smoke cigarettes, kerosene, open fires, the smog of tiredness like a  dirty chadar on the hands of the beggar lady forever turned upwards. Petrol fumes… of course how could I miss that? “take shallow breaths,” I tell myself, as a horn blares in…

“Life is for the living.”

“Life is for the living,” my father used to say. I never really understood what he meant. Oh, I was familiar with death. I was never shielded from it and as a young teen, often accompanied my father on his occasional trips to the crematorium or graveyard. Later, on the way home, I would I…