Why does she arrive?

She comes in a tonga cart
smelling like shit
wearing tattered old clothes;
made from old bedsheets
and crown made of used paper bags.

The princess come right
onto my desk
taking a dip in my
fabulously new pool
of dark blue liquid.

But why can’t she be adorned in flowers
or decked in jwellery?
making me a pauper.

Um. Ahem.. Cough. It hurts.
A series of life-sustaining noises
creep out of this carefully sealed jar.

I can’t even find rice
to paste this envelope
like my mother used to.


Bare bones

Shall I uncover myself?
and reveal
the juciy,fleshy, red muscles
strung tightly to
a casket of bones.

Bones that will one day
kill me, turn brittle and fade,
disperse into the air
like an withered rose.

You said love is uncovering.
You said love is shedding.
But i knew, you just wanted me
to manscape. Or trim my hair.
The rotten insides
scares away oesteroporsis.

I remember my mother’s old visits
to an old, dingy clinic
and to the giant conglomerate;
All of them wanted to poke
injections into her bones.
They said she is weak.
Doctor says she could die by
just withering away.

So, they injected her with calcium
made her eat calcium tablets
She now has a big plastic box
labelled ‘medicines’.
Still, she complains of leg pain and back-aches.

Uncovering is a painful exercise:
tugging at the skin
pulling the skin hair
baring the muscles
to a world of microbes and UV-light


a nest of empty voices.


Eternal Grind

Peeking through the thin curtain

the ones with the polka dots,

I can see my mother

lifting and dragging

the dough along the sides

of the stone mortar.


She is cutting onions

into thin rings

along with the chillies

her eyes watering.

Or is she crying?


The window left open

drags into ebbs

onto freshly swept floor.

The phenol is over.

Why is the floor so shiny?


Dad has left the groceries

on the dinning table

Squashed tomatoes. Unpeeled onions. Tiny garlic.

He has switched on the TV

and is laughing. At something.


.The exhaust fan is black

covered in grim and soot

the cooker is shooting rings of steam

the milk is spilling over

and the lighter is wet.


It’s the evening.


Dinner over dirty tables,

time-tables and lesson plans

milk with horlicks for me.



The night in the kitchen is out.

Yet the moon still shines,

so she won’t get fired from her job.




Letter moulds

I read. I write

In your words

from the books you read

Casted in your mould

my brain grew; words that spew fire

Words that crush weak souls

I watch as I pee

Drowning along with the shower water

Making pale attempts at staying awake;

At staying alone

I lean to watch.

The very first breast touch

Soft and perky

Made seem every other one inferior

Fresh milk pouring from pinching pain

I sucked life into my throat

Suckling on your ripe youth

I brought time closer to death


It as if,

you and I grew into each other,

each responsible for the mischief by another.

One part inseparable. One part dead,

without the other

We read. We read

The worlds were casted in your mould.