The unnamed You can get lost trying to  get back to the exit at the Vatican Museum. 

Tea breaks, the perks of a bike ride.

"The ghosts still sing in Shantinagar" is one of the winning entries for our Halloween themed writing contest, 'Spooktober: Bhooter Adda'

Whose bell rings in the temple tonight? Whose hymn rises from the Gospel's heart? And in the call of Esha, does the muezzin still implore— "Come, come toward salvation"? Across the purified valley of night, from the world's scattered prayers,

Do you remember the sunset on the 18th of July? What colour was it?

And I realised: / even in the line to hell, / waiting for punishment, / we'd still reach for chanachur. / We'd still find comfort / in the crunch of survival

It would rain in the rains / And the rest of this poem would be written by someone else

There’s a purgatorial break between these stretches …flaxen against the lights

I am not a single name. Not a single wound.

Grey chips of rough cement  Rust rubble all around,

This was the way it ended: not with fire, But carried quietly under sleep-beds,

I cannot tell you that I want to be intoxicated, inebriated, and stashed away for the rest of eternity while holding your hand at the mediocre fair in the middle of the crowd of ill-mannered school-children who grew up too soon

It said, 'You've brought a return ticket with you friend / Remember, people are not meant to be held onto.'

The mind craves to fly far away. / In the guise of a beggar, eyes wet with tears

The moon is a cheeseball,  Cratered, yellow, and huge like your eyeballs 

Moving mindlessly and / Etching every alley along the way / With verses devoted to you

You thought you had escaped, didn't you? / Outran everything that weighed you down

A quiet, seniority in its touch, / A tenderness that feels like it's meant to last

Li’l Del is walking all alone Li’l Del wants to find her way home.

Sometimes at early dawn / You overpower my eyelids / And won’t let me wake up