forlorn pine tree,  float like a memory in breeze before riots began   another dkhar dies khasi brothers mourn the death of a december at Ballimaran rain floods the floor of a house lovers look away ice mirrors the

Crossing the street with my lover, some way off Flury’s, I see a man and a woman emerge from Moulin Rouge. The man wears a French cap and tweeds, and the woman, Dressed in a trench and pale stockings, Is

There are stories I steal from your memories,      and some from the stars. I steal them from the hole of your favorite jacket, from the oozing blood of your heart from the shadow of the street light and

  Where did Ilina go? From the cloistered spaces of amateur emancipations She walked with a man wearing a strange coat. Some sundry roles were played As the city swirled in urban smoke Oozing from their shared cigarettes. Pre-fornication conversation

Like in a gushing creek, that sways into trembling the tender florets on the shore. Hypnotising the mind with the eyes, into a dream with a lore. Ah! that reeling which lurches the feet, into a wobble that admonishes summer’s yore.

…we who become the emissaries of all the purloined letters which at least for a time remain in sufferance. (“Seminar on [Edgar Allan Poe’s]‘The Purloined Letter’,”                         Jacques Lacan). Initially

  brightness of a day fakes like a Bollywood movie old monk in my tea  at Irongmara July is on siesta only crows socialise tea pot falls on the wooden floor. does not break  ten nude mothers scream on a