Once upon a time , in a land beyond it.

In a dark corner ,
A weaver of tales lay ,
His stories forged alone ,
Of never being alone ,
Voices sang at the lyre,
All that filtered through were words ,
To fly without wings ,
Is how we come to fall ;

In the loneliest corners of night  ,
Resides brightest light ,
To be found without ever knowing to search ,
Is how prayer finds a god .

In a dark corner ,
Two weavers of tales lay,
Riding dragons ,

finding windmills to slay .

-MMK

When do we get to see Ghalib's Delhi?

That city is a wonderland
A portkey to history
Walled cities and cities within cities
Eco's maps as Polo and Great Khan
on balmy nights over brews talked

Every stone wall breathes here
Lest we stayed indoors fearing time's sprint
or a hasty cappuccino which put a shroud around
As museums for each other
With memories of the waves
The smell of the rains
And conversations of a night bygone
'Let us see history another day'

Truth at the Dholpur house

For as long as I can remember, this was to be it. Families would gather around dinner and talk about life , or the absence of it , mine would always find itself embedded in the civil service . There were always promotions and postings , and to spice things up maybe even a retirement . Rooted in every story was a remarkable man, someone I thought everyone wanted to be, and if the flesh was found wanting, at least look up to . Being his son was to know , life would never be something unwritten .

I bumble about life, much like a bee finds fleeting fancy in every new flower I presume . As long as I remember , my only passion was to be passionate . All the things I'd learn came from outside of those meant to teach me, 13 years of being let down in every school , of which I'd changed as many as 9 , could do that to you . Unashamedly , the closest friends I'd kept were a set of encyclopedias that still remain warm to the touch , every withered page a memory of a warm evening spent together. For an age I knew to wander , knowing that the discipline of life wasn't where my heart lay.
It was this heart that suffered the UPSC .

Some of us grow in the shadow of those that made us , I was born into reflected glory . There was nothing more to be , than the son of a benighted family . I began in red , knowing this was how I would try to repay the insurmountable debt in love my parents have willed me . Life had lessons in store .

I lasted 20 minutes in my first class for this exam. The master procrastinator in me told me I could do this faster by myself , went home , never touched a book for months , figured I was smart and smart was all it took . A lifetime of curiosity helped , cleared the prelims , felt like I was the chosen one . 18 hours of written tests and a 45 minute interview later I'd made it to the realm of pity . 'oh you're in the railways ? What's Mr khan's son doing there , tch , it's okay child , life will get better ' People have an amazing way of helping you so very kindly discover another depth of self loathing in yourself .

But hey , if no effort got you this far , all it'd take this time around was a month or so right ? Another year , I was yet again anointed as the chosen one within the confines of my mind . Failed . Cried in ways I never thought humanly possible , shattered . The exam wasn't just an exam anymore , it was a validation of my right to exist. So began the rabbit hole .

Year 3 , to be strong you need to appear to be strong .  'Why do we fall Bruce?' . There's a good reason batman dwells in his books , out here we fall because we do . No great story there , no epic background score . Took the exam again , went off to the railway academy in the interim . This was my year , I just knew it , every fibre in me resonated with the will of the universe .
Failed . Give up already , I told myself . I'd let my family down , the legacy ended with how unworthy I'd become . Not just ordinary unworthy , UPSC certified unworthy . Funny thing is , I'd stopped being sad at this point, drained of every emotion I was just a walking shell of a man , a long , long while ago I had a life and maybe even dreams , but who could even remember .This was done , and I was resigned to a life of settling .

Year 4 , even the worst form of self inflicted abuse has a rhythmic routine to it . I sat in those same chairs because at this point they were the only true friends I had , I stared at pieces of paper with longing familiarity . I walked back into dholpur house knowing every wall there and entered halls with such a painful degree of familiarity . Walking out after the interview I knew this had to end , I had to get out because dying trying was a very real possibility . Plan B was formulated , and then a plan C and a D , anything to end this horrible cycle .

Then I see a familiar name on the list , Muzammil Khan , rank 22 .

God damn , life , you're insane

Here's where I am now , I happened upon the love of my life at the last place I wanted or knew to look . This isn't a saccharine sweet ending , it's an honest one . Things happen , period . No reason , no story . If this is what you want , try until you break . If you're smart about it , find a passion , an actual passion and use it to distract yourself from your own pointlessness . Life will end regardless of how many letters you have next to your name , live , beyond being judged .

Sailor Moon

Staring into the unending ,
Possesed wanderers both ,
These lights have always been ,
Their illumination new ,
Sail away ,
Upon every coast I wait ,
Those found call it the horizon ,
Others lost ,
Promises kept .

MMK

Deepti

A best friend in a chick flick rendition would read as someone who is a jovial person in a kickass mode, partying with you keeping the nights long enough, bunking classes to hangout in coffee shops or may be help you royally bully others. Sometimes or mostly all the time, it is very confusing like the chicken and egg question, do movies precede society and its actions and drama or is it the other way around! As Brecht said it is always better to alienate yourself from the effect of in house pop culture and visual media debauchery. This according to me will help you understand the elements one is made of, the tender, intimate part of oneself included. 

This convoluted introduction is a circumvented way to come to the point I am trying to make. It is basically about being extremely blessed. Out of the hundreds of douchy people one witnesses on a real time basis, waiting to spill your blood, there are a few who make your life worth living. The boundary between living and surviving is drawn just here. 

Deepti, she is a calm breeze in the sand storm of a world. Parts of my life have drawn life from the strength she gave me. With a heart as large as that, may be she was giving me lessons on how to be a better person, a selfless friend. 

Again I am digressing. So this is about this gift she gave me on a small party where Muzzu and I were celebrating with friends. It is a drawing of a bench, in the backdrop of a colonial kind of building overlooking rolling hills of green. The moment I unwrapped it I knew that this wasn’t just a picture bought from any store, but something she has given her soul into crafting, an invaluable piece of art where she spent some of her mortal time and above and beyond her love for me and the beautiful person I am with. 

The picture of LBSNAA, Mussoorie where Muzzu and I spent our initial days of togetherness, unravelling and drawing close to each other, with stolen moments, conversations over coffee and devouring musty pages of books read and unread. Flowers falling and his first poem to me amidst it is surreal. To absorb what we had and describe it to her friend Rupika, to draw a life size rendition of that, only a friend can do. Only a friend can gift another friend art, not from a store, but from her heart. 

Deepti, this is for you, for every day after I have known you was a relief, to know of people so pure, rare as they are. You should know this! Had I told this in your face or on Whatsapp, I could have never completed. You would cut me by saying ‘onnu po Hamna.’ Here you hardly have any choice! 

Falling in

In breaking , revealed ,
Fragmented forms unknown ,
Strangers in mirrors ,
More us than us ,
Why must we know ,
When these edges jagged ,
Are but parts of this puzzle ,
Made whole ,
Beyond beautiful ,
Be .

'These spaces between my fingers are right where yours fit perfectly '.

MMK

The windowpanes colored white

A silver patch, for a silver coin

When summer is still a moment in waiting

rubs to enter a word of 

may be memories that never fade

every breath a memory made 

a room filled. 

Here laburnum in golden yellow 

a necklace on Delhi’s dust storm

And there the mist falls, 

settling on the glass 

as the signs come true

the vestiges of hands held 

dreams drawn 

as the trees swayed behind hail stones.

When spring is summer's bosom friend

Goodbye , goodnight.

Sky set ablaze in dying light,

Through these woods shared,

learning to love, returning unto innocence,

laid bare being clothed in intimacy known,

fingers clasped,mirrored pools in our hearts,

every space speaks the tale,only the insane truly hear,

this used to be a coffin , black, 

now the night,

twinkling songs of you.

There was once a dream,a wish, maybe even hope.Would life be more,perhaps kind, maybe even worth the living.

Time knew to seep into this destruction, taking everything to return nought.

Find the island, we know of eternity here.In passing, lay by me,immortal.

(Leaving behind the first home we ever shared.

LBSNAA -Mussourie)

To the Lover on Another Mountain in the Himalayas

Blossoms of violets
As far as the eyes could see
rarity in 'coketowns' of the world,
in 'magnetic mountains of shadowy wo[men]


The breeze in its moist swish
gives each petal a flick
A jar of pollens in the air
rub strands of hair

Smudges the kohl of his eyes
in my memories' paradise.


(Written in Lachung, Sikkim for a flower in the hills of Mussoorie)

Epithalamium - and a tiny prayer -

In a distant isle weaved

God’s  secret tarot card 

 A tale of colors rare 

of two peas in a pod. 

Born in sync yet out of time. 

Parchments’ best friends 

Moths of old torn pages

'All the world is a stage'

Cafes of cities big and small; masked faces; 

carnival of a different species.

The last tune of the time’s lyre

to all my world from a stage. 

 ‘I have measured my life in coffee spoons’ he said

Rubbed Arabica, musk and life 

like the fragrance of sandal on a shrub. 

Every sundew, snow and rain
The waters of the world, pacific waves

The stars in the night sky

The ghosts of the past

Turned colors bright, tuned mellifluous

To live this life, ephemeral I fear

Every moment by his side

‘In sonnets pretty room ‘ 

Not even death to do us apart. 

Amen

(We needed poetry to be a part of our wedding card, and I penned (typed it on notes) this one down on a beautiful evening sitting in a ferry on the way from Havelock island to Port Blair. It was blue waters beyond the eyes could see. This one is a tribute to the waters and my muse in him. )