Erosion

When it rains
in the mountains
all night
the water
carries trees and homes
with it.

When the ice melts
it flows
creating sudden streams
gushing out of nowhere.

I wonder if
I will get the time
to call you
when I am dying.

October 5, 2007

So you were saying...

Despite the splits
in my personality
I am just one man.

But, I object.
Because, I am plural.
But, when I wish to be.

I know you will
bring a therapist
or a doctor
they will say,
or one of them will say,
it is a sickness.
Some wise one will say
it’s the pot I smoke.

No it is not a sickness
and I am no angel
but I don’t smoke pot.
Of course,
I smoke pot.

I have my own addictions
because I nurture these
Addictions.

Yes, I can go on
the way I wish to
and want to
with these habits.

I can change
or drop the habits
altogether
But why should I?

I don’t need you
I mean I need you
as much as you need me
but I don’t need you
because you are a habit
or an addiction
or a friend
or my companion

I need you
because I do.

I feel strange
about the conversations
we have
with each other
and with others

I feel pushed to the corner
like a serial cartoonist
who must deliver a punch
at the end
and in the middle
after those silly intervals
that the newsprint manager decides.

These silly digressions
can be avoided
but then,
What is the point of having
a conversation?

Ah so, where was I?
Where were we?


August 25, 2007

Lake-view apartments

Stagnation is
living by a man-made lake
for years.

Growing up
under the shadow
of trees by a pond
and climbing them
is part of being a child.
Smoking and coughing
under those trees is part of
going out like a tired flame.

Between these two states
the pond can
just be a teacher.

Those who grow up by the river
are capable of choosing
between
being still or boisterous.

Those by the still, placid lake
are somewhat repressed.

But, to live by a sad river
is even sadder.

August 5, 2007.

Once upon a time

Once upon a time,
when cars in the city
would stop
for pedestrians on the road,

Big houses
had big lawns
to grow
Mangoes
and for failed attempts at growing plums.

I was young
and loved the shriveled plums
just for variety.

I don’t push my pedal bike
by those houses anymore.

When I do pass that way
I see the trees have made space
for more people and their houses.


But I don’t get sad,
the way I would’ve
when I was young.

But, that was many worries
and many kilos ago.


© Jatin Gandhi, July 8, 2007.

The hero’s last action

I had a strange dream last night.

My friend and I
Were speeding in a car
And he decided
Not to stop at a police barricade.

The police followed us
In fast cars with blaring
Sirens.

But, we were faster.

Then they started shooting at us.

From nowhere suddenly
We had guns too.

But I did not shoot.
Instead, I cried and pleaded with my friend
To stop the car.

In the morning,
I went down the elevator
And shouted at the security guards

For not being careful
With my newspapers.


July 2, 2007.

Untitled

I want my friends
To meet me
But, once every ten years.

I want them to write
Letters
But never write back
When I write to them.

© Jatin Gandhi, June 15, 2007

Dementia

Maria, I have stared,

at the Four black pigeons and one albino,

for many months now.

And, also, at the several dead men

in the background

of the hero’s portrait.

I have wondered long enough

Why that book on the shelf

called ‘Unpopular Essays’

was read and re-read by people.

I have been thinking

and looking for connections

between people buried in history

and books and

the noisy roads below.

I am not sure Marie,

I have the answers.

Do you suspect,

I am not posing the right questions?

Or, is it

That times are changing?

© Jatin Gandhi, May 8, 2007

Addict

I am not up to it.
I can’t give up
this psychotropic fondness
For you.

Don’t try to
wean me away
with anything.

I
don’t want
anything else.

Not even You.

I don’t like the word rehab.
I am not up to it.
I can get up,
stand on my feet
and walk out.

If I am too stoned
to stand up,
or too sick to walk
you can keep the body.

Not, the wandering soul.

© Jatin Gandhi, May 6, 2007

The City

In the city,
On every street
There are thousands of heads
Every morning.

It’s a city that despises walkers
Their paths are blocked.
But each morning
Thousands of walkers
Tread the streets.

Each head in the city
Carries its cities
Within.

A morose man,
Walks with me on one such street.

That is not the only street I walk.
I change lanes and I cross streets.
And, I don’t mind who walks with me
As long as the cities in their heads
Do not spill on to the street.

(c) Jatin Gandhi, May 3, 2007

Untitled

it's this mingling
of the bodies
night after night
every night
and in the mind
day by day
all day
thats running
in my veins,
your veins.
ours.
i wait for
the night
the souls merge
to leave you I
and I, you.

Jatin Gandhi
April 18, 2005

Untitled

His mother died last night.
He’ll burn her and grow older.
He was a young man last year
when his father died
and even after he lit the pyre.

But, now he’s old
He couldn’t leave home like
Siddhartha
or become Budhha

She left before he could renounce
the world

He cannot leave home.

Men, whose mothers are
dead,
don’t make heroes.

They only grow old
and carry their homes
along.

© Jatin Gandhi, November 2, 1999.

Partition

In a colony
of one hundred and fifty refugees,
they marry
only among themselves
giving birth to deformed children.

Weddings and cremations
take place
side by side.

A refugee's son
looks for his roots
elsewhere.

(C) Jatin Gandhi
April 19, 2000