Nowhere to hide

Children think
They know
The best places
To hide.
Wnen it turns out

They do not

They want you to pretend
You can't find them
And go around helpless
Calling their names
Ignoring the giggles
Coming from under the bed
Or from behind the door.
How lovely, like the moon
Emerging from the clouds
Or like a chick hatching
To see them peep
Or come running out
Happy to have hidden

Happier to be found.
It is not long before
The game ends
And you drag them out
From under the bed
Or behind the door
To send them to school.

A dream house

Is one you can
Only dream of
Never dream of
Should never dream of.

2
Where before you
Go to sleep can order
Dreams with happy endings
Dreams you don't remember
Tantalising ones you wish you would.

3
Is one
If it is foreclosed
You always dream of.

4
Where if you know
How to look
Can see the walls
Plastered with the dreams
Of those who build houses
For others to dream in.

Nameless

No one calls me by name, anymore
The postman, yes, but that's official
(I get hardly any mail these days)
My parents, playmates, close colleagues,
I've survived them all ---
Standing on this 80-plus dizzy peak
Is not a feat I'm proud of
Does the summiteer know
The vanity of conquest?
Or if he knows
Does he admit it?
I am afraid
I'll forget my name, soon
If no one uses it
I might even think
It is someone else they're calling
(That is, as long as I can hear)
Just to avert that possibility, (keep this confidential)
I look at the mirror, every morning
Greet myself, loudly
"Hello, Ambi, how are you!"
"I'm fine, thank you!"
I smile and nod at my hang-dog image
I tell him
"Be a companion unto yourself!"
However, I would rather, someone else
Came calling my name, soon
"Ambi, your time is up.!"
Would I not go bounding
Like a dog to his master?

Nothing

From inside the locked wooden cupboard
Our landlord had abandoned
In a corner of the hall
Right against the wall
Everyone often heard
Something sinister
Sometimes a whisper,
A scrape, a sniffle, a him or her
Especially on a cold night or a deserted hour.
All who were called in, well
Had a story to tell
"Must be the landlady's sister's spirit!
The one who hanged herself, desperate!"
An elderly lady said, as if with envy.
Children hoped aloud for a genie
That would fetch them, grateful
The dark shop halwa, by the plateful
Before they would let it fly
With a reluctant goodbye
Like they did the dotted butterfly
They caught the other day
As it lay drunk or dreaming on a flower.
"Let's open it and find out, what's in there!"
The curiosity getting the better of fear
The key was fetched and someone flung the double doors open
Older children standing guard with raised makeshift weapon ---
Younger ones, ready to run, by the door ---
What a blow! What a letdown!Nothing was there! Nothing but air!
Not even a note with a curse
Leave alone an imp or spirit or worse.
And worse --- the noise stopped abruptly after
It was heard no more
Though we wished we could, once more
And kept our ears open
Wanting to be shaken
Out of our wits, again.
Though we begged the cupboard to speak
Wanted it to squeak
Implored it didn't look right
It didn't budge, just stood quiet.
Somehow, it didn't seem fair
That the cupboard was bare
That someone didn't care.

Gadfly

When I struggled
Out of the wreckage of my nightmare
On the wall was spread out
The sun
Deliciously golden, warm and edible
The crow happily cawed
As if it had found something to eat
The leaves wet with rain
Shivered with delight
At the touch of the breeze
One was just happy to be awake and alive
Quite at home with the clutter
Of a house lived in
It was almost like heaven
Before the gadfly came in

Talking to myself

Everytime, inside the bus
Full of strangers
I keep looking for
Known faces
Someone I could
Lighten the journey with
Trading inanities
On life's Sisyphean grind
Or trumpeting new acquisitions
Aware of sounding like the serpent
Selling the forbidden fruit
Even while saying it
All the time both
Hiding the pain in lies
Pretending to be swimming
When being swept away
Living the same servile lives
Yet assuming sovereign airs
As the bus lurches, sways and surges
And I trade old words
With him, I often feel
I'm talking to myself
In a dream I've already had.
(Published in Kavya Bharati)

Down to earth

At the public tap
The mother does not see
The moons floating in the pots
Full and waiting to be fetched home
The child thinks they have fallen in
And whispers conspiratorially
She will rescue them
When no one is looking.
To grow up
Is not to see the moon in the pot
When you heft it to your hip