Home

Nowadays, teaching means you have to raise your voice
Louder than the taking-off- planes or screeching trains;
Roaming around the campus looking at the strange trees,
Wondering at what strange names they must be having. 

It often means finding that perfect selfie under the trees,
Feeling at home in the canteen with a book in my hand,
Trying to remember what made you leave this place once,
While looking around the tomes in the neatly kept library.

It means singing that old monsoon raga to watch if it rains,
Where the eyes that focus on you are lost in hunger or love
Where the kids worship you like an amazon warrior of old,
All amidst the noises of the sea that beckons from nearby.

This coming home might not have been an accident at all, 
To have come back once again under the same ancient trees.

Love

Wherever I go, I see your face in the vast crowds,

In the face of strangers, on the walls, on the pages,

While I try my best to keep you away day and night

Keep your thoughts that come like chorus in a song.

You come back in the rain and in the bright sunshine,

In the ochre light of early dawn or the purple sunset,

Your voice that trails across the miles to bring a smile,

While you remain a memory that I try hard to erase.

It brings back a much forgotten era of bright sunshine,

When we were both young under the same supermoon,

When our voices that commingled could bring friends,

From far and wide just to listen to the merriment seen.

But now, this heart wants to build a strong fortress,

To keep you from making me a slave of your love.