‘To mark my home within the luminescence of poetry’: Poems from a new book on the self in the city

To own a home

To own a home is to ingest it
and hope the concrete doesn’t
reverse track. It is to pray
the apartment breaks
down into paste in the entrails —
a process that takes as long
as final possession. It is to serve
the carpet area with a side of dadi’s
pickle (which the broker enjoys)
while the builder consumes seventy per cent
in cash, deep fried, and the rest
via bank transfer. (No salad.)

It is to feel lime-washed walls
slide down the throat with deceptive
sweetness and swirl in the abdomen
along with years of EMIs.
It is to brace for the acidity
of loan interests, corrosion of the inner
lining, lacerations and leakage.

It is to tackle complaints from neighbours,
which involves too much caffeine.
It is to watch the ceiling
peel, which is nobody’s concern
but yours. It is to devour meals
on the sly like a sleep-eater.
It is to decorate each room with care
and diabetic sugar, hoping everything
dissolves easily into bile. It is to feel
as if you have swallowed a rock,
though others are quick
to assure you this is normal
for property ownership and crucial
for a comfortable life.

Coastal road

The coastal road curves above the diamonds
of the Arabian Sea like an armful of edelweiss.
We drive towards its hologram
of urbanity, watching it expand like a promise,
noting how it links dreams to the soul.
My father marvels...

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