I live in liminal spaces,
Gliding down corridors between myth and memory.
Reality is a deserted metro rail at midnight,
And I…
I am smoke rising from a coffee cup left out on the countertop.
My body is but papier-mâché…
Toy clay in rainbow colours waiting to be moulded by a child’s hands.
I hear my mind call from far away
Like a radio left on in another room.
Who is this that works my hand?
Who is this that moves my pen?
Touch is a beetle creeping on this foreign thing
That wears my body like an evening.
My words run into tunnels,
Playing hide and seek with the waking mind.
All of me is a kaleidoscope of fairy lights on Diwali evening.
I am a pot of stew simmering on mother’s hearth
Bubbling away until all my senses grow soft and watery and white.
I am the dreamer
I am the dream
Shouting commands through the fog
At unruly children.
My legs, my arms, my face
Run helter-skelter in the rain
Until the mutiny cracks me open like ripe mangoes felled by a summer storm.
The coup seems to be strong
Blood will be shed.