Car Memoirs


Bitter Lemon afternoons,

While you drove us home,

Back when I first started school;

I take sips, feigning to be brave,

All but childish.


I dropped my soy ice cream once,

On the car-carpet, I was ten,

Sulked in silence; terrified,

You merely laughed,

Bought me one, all new.


Half a decade later,

The hybrids had clogged Lanka!

We talked cars, stuck in the traffic,

For me, it was always the Beetle,

You teased me to no end.


Then began the boisterous debates,

Over generations of music,

War crimes and whatnot,

Whom to cast my first vote,

I was turning twenty.


Two years down the line,

I stare at the lamp posts, grocery stores,

From every day;

You stare ahead, intrigued,

By the Marutis in the traffic.


Between us, chilled air. Silence.

Except for my “hmm”s and nods,

To your mandatory queries;

A head-turn, a single, “Thattha”,

Would revive the ashened conversations,


But we lag on,

Me, squashed with the guilt of the confused,

The massive disappointer,

You, burdened with remorse,

Of being a failure.


The Friend

The friend,

Who was meant to stand,

Right next to you,

On doomsday;

The friend,

Whom you’d heat needles with,

Stitch up each other’s wounds,

Through the blood and the tears;

The friend,

Whom you’d sit with,

In a bar, drinking away,

The battle scars;

The friend,

Who’d hold you,

In a steady embrace

Your safe haven, during quakes;

The friend,

Whose happiness

You’d have killed for,

Ripped out your lungs for;

The friend,

Who stabbed you,

In fear, of you, meaning to him,

As much as him to you.



4 days.

Since the last fix.

Throat parched,

Thirst unquenchable.

Food tastes of ashes,

On a cracked tongue.

Limbs shiver,

Craving for a dose,

Breathing uneven;

Vision blurred,

I feel the world revolve,

All too well.



For a parasite,

I loathe to my gut,

An illusionist,

Who tampers my reality,

A snake,

That poisons my hope,

A dagger,

That bled me countless,

A leech,

Who sucks joy out of me,

A quake,

That shakes the ground beneath me,


To consume again,

Would be killing myself,

Come to contact again,

Will maim what’s left of me.

Yet my veins dangle,

Yearning for a glimpse,

A sign that you exist;

Some tiding,

To console my empty vessel,

That you are not entirely

Of my mind’s concoction.

And remind myself,

Of what hell’s fire it was.


As History Repeats…

On a Saturday evening,

On a black couch,

History repeated.


It was the same couch,

Around the same time,

The same you,


Except in my place,

Wasn’t me,

But one reformed than me.


Behind a glass,

With a heart-lost chest,

Was I.


Standing there,

Watching the smiles,

Screaming tears.


You wouldn’t turn back,

You couldn’t see me,

Or sense beyond your rainbows.


Where I was,

Was dark.

Noisy. Crowded with shadows.


Where I was,

Was a place in between

Your past and my present.


Where I was,

Was a groundless marsh,

Between memories and reality.


Where I was,

Was a wavy ocean,

Of stark choice and ambivalence.


Where I was,

I couldn’t break the glass,

And enter the past,


Where I am,

I dare not walk in,

Through the shattered glass.

The Option


I’m his option,

The one he opts from,

But never opts to;


He’ll exhaust

Of the blithering crowds,

At the movies,

The deafening sounds,

Of the games,

The insipid flow,

Of the television;


Then maybe,

He’ll remember me –

A heavy hardbound book,

Once opened,

Skimmed through,

But never read through-

Wipe away the dust,

Straddling over me,

Then maybe,

He’ll smile;


To see

Something familiar,

To keep him company,

On a drizzly evening;

Maybe he’ll reopen me,

Maybe he’ll devour me,


And for once maybe,

I’d have made him smile.