Ghazal for Goregaon & Other Poems


When my friends left the country,

one by one, I ate and drank and sang

at their farewells, talking of how true friendships last

across the tunnel of distance.

Goodbyes glittering in those terminal summers.

The last coffees, jam sessions, the jokes nobody understood

but us. The inadequacy of reason

made no difference in my Bombay.

We were playing the cards we were dealt.

The lanes in the old colony are now absent:

Sooty faces squirming their way

up the light that never went off.

Our houses thinning like a departing aircraft.

It may never snow in this city.

Alone is rather unromantic.

Face to Face

Her eyes leak the terrible secrets

of our destined fall.

In the concupiscent hall

of our lip-marked closure

logic dodges the unobvious.

And our hearts imitate irrational numbers.

The touch-and-go decimal

that we found in our abysmal

arithmetic of the in-between.

Like two nihilists

Abandoning a time machine.

Ghazal for Goregaon

Someone’s going astray in Goregaon.
We’re all lost halfway in Goregaon.

A junkie writes a song of despair
and then listens to reggae in Goregaon.

Varun could have played for India someday.
His failure is already a cliche in Goregaon.

He who drowned at the Ganpati Visarjan
was declared lucky next Monday in Goregaon.

A woman is eager in the Westin lobby.
Who is she about to betray in Goregaon?

Oberoi International charges six lakhs a year.
How affordable is a school day in Goregaon!

Carbon’s forming compounds in the air.
And people will destroy Aarey in Goregaon.

What is upsetting mothers these days?
So many died last May in Goregaon.

Flyovers disagree with my life’s path.
But Mihir is here to stay in Goregaon.


You see the shooting of Orion’s invisible arrow

as in the story you read before physics and poetry

ruined your life.

A Gangs of Wasseypur song jars you out of unreal time.

Somewhere, Ashwatthama is walking with a death wish.


You have all the answers now

but no question is relevant anymore.


Deep pockets, high-jackets, skyrockets.

The Bandra of your FYJC is floating in midair –

its pubs and prawns and low-cost shararas.

Our gray grungy sky of think smoke and weak metaphors

looming over a diatribe against fidelity.

Somewhere, she must be laughing at the joke I never cracked.


You don’t believe in ghosts. But that is not the point.

Whose ghost is most likely to bother you is.

Think of all those who died while you lived on.

Aubrey, the just-engaged senior from college

who died in a bike accident on New Years’.

Uddhav, the childhood neighbour

you played Chor-Police with

and showed off magic tricks to.

Mother’s brother who died

thirty-three years before you were born.

Friend’s friend who collapsed in a bath.

The grandmother who screeched

through your ear; the grandfather

who invokes the Mahabharata

he once read out to you.

Or the watchman who was reduced to a dusty cloth;

the shopkeeper who disappeared on a Sunday.

Or the father whose body was stiff

like the G. I. Joes he bought you

before you broke the door open.

They died their way without you.

And the dead don’t even think about you.

Leaving a Job

With a line based on a line by Varun Grover:

“Ulta karke dekh sake toh

Ambar bhi hai gehri khai”

The street outside the house is mostly empty.

The last batch of construction workers at Oberoi,

walking back in pairs, holding hands, sharing a beedi.

Outside the makeshift cobbler shop

a pair of dissimilar shoes hangs across the road.

You look at the moon expectantly and look down again

to see if it changes your world view – it doesn’t.

A light from the far end exposes the hour.

Somebody at Westin must be working over the weekend,

waiting for their boss to approve the revised PPT

so that they can drop that girl home

or at least grab a drink with a colleague.

You darken the dotted lines of experience

and deduce the scenario.

It’s your last two weeks at the job.

Two and a half years pencil the horizon.

From awards to compliments to friends –

you think of all things you’ve won along the way.

But the one thing that you didn’t stabs your heart.

That one and only regret of yours wrecks the hour.

You shut the window and go down for a walk

seeking lucidity in the confessional dark.

You are not the first person to leave a job.

And leaving is not all that bad after all.

How ordinary would be the act of entering

if nobody ever left.

You’ve seen the holes in empty spaces,

egresses to unrequited dreams.

The colony of old laughs

interlaid with the street’s expanse

collapses like a city in American sci-fi.

How many more partings before you die?

The night cooks slowly in a clay oven.

You look up to give the world a miss.

The sky, too, is an inverted abyss.

Photograph collected from mid-day

About author

Mihir Chitre
Mihir Chitre 1 posts

Mihir is the author of Hyphenated (Sahitya Akademi: 2014).

You might also like

The Tree: Ritwik Ghatak

Once, a banyan tree had leaned over a tiny river flowing through some distance away from a village. As a tree, there was nothing special about it. The tree was

Why Not A full Fledged One

I begin to offload. Not mere  clothes but  more . . . those  thoughts  hanging  about heavily. Stubbornly unmoving, intruding even now whilst I  am  trying to  cover this nakedness.

Resignation & Other Poems: Ángel Guinda

Ángel Guinda (Zaragoza, 1948) received the Premio de las Letras Argonesas in 2010. He is the author of poetry books Vida ávida, La llegada del mal tiempo, Biografia de la


The representation of women and its evolution with time, has played a significant role in Bengali celluloid. During the 1960s when films like Mahanagar (1965) were shaping up, there were

This letter won’t be long…

“But we, by a love so much refined, That ourselves know not what it is, Inter-assured of the mind, Care less, eyes, lips, and hands to miss.” – Chapter 10,

Seven Haiku

1. My dream globe encompasses Your rain-cries, summer-wrath And broken-heart yellow leaves. 2. Your silent song fills the air. It takes away my soul Into a tranquil dark world. 3.

The Chemistry-Lover who doesn’t have a Nuclear Sense

As we returned from the proposed nuclear power plant, we carried a pamphlet with us. When we reached back our village, the electricity had stopped. I ran to the room

Zen poems

1) These rain drops Fresh and full Drenched in the Touch of sky Come dancing Like a naughty child   2) A kite   Looks like a swinging dot At

Dreaming of Freedom: Palestinian Child Prisoners Speak: Yousef M. Aljamal

Shadi Farrah was just 12 years old when he was arrested in November 2015 with his friend Ahmad alZataari. They were held for over a year until January 2017 when

Wind-script, Trigger Happy & Other Poems

1. Walk into the eerie; and sense who drills thy tomb with the wind-stone. 2. The propeller turns as a maze. On whose flesh that maroon nightgown murmurs? Oh human-toy!

The Letters by Laura Pugno

Laura Pugno was born in 1970 in Rome, Italy. Her publications include four novels, “La caccia” (Ponte alle Gra­­zie 2012), “Antartide“ (Minimum Fax 2011), Quando verrai” (Minimum Fax 2009) and

Heartcage v/s Sealedlips, Shuteye: A Reaction on Reading Tanvir Ratul’s Bawkkhopinjawr Bawnam OshThho aar Chokhbawndher Kobita

Tanvir Ratul first started writing when he was at the end of his high school. Over the time, the list of his published books grew to a considerable number along

The « Silent Nature » of Odilon Redon: Konstantina Moschou

As part of the national celebrations for the 100th anniversary of his death, the Bordeaux Fine Arts Museum proposed to pay tribute to the painter Odilon Redon by producing an

Silver-tongued Goddess & Other poems

Expressions    My verses are born in the silence where Zebras play with their colts. After a long expedition, I’ve found a page marker, an intense negation and the shadow

Diaspora, Critical Theories, and Death of Language: Ahmed Shams’ analysis

Avik Gangopadhyay has both critical and creative writings to his credit published in esteemed journals and leading newspapers. A post-Graduate in English Language and Literature from Jadavpur University, Kolkata. He

POEMS OF SHYAMAL SINGHA: Nilabja Chakrabarti Transcreates

Shyamal Singha was born in 1949. Died in 2003. Very strange. Born on Children’s Day (14th November) and expired on the over-commercial love-day (14th February). In spite of writing throughout

Sikkimizing & Other Poems

The Dawn Half the globe is played by the children And the rest gem-studded on rich man’s hat A poultry befitting into this little earth where morning starts with a

Thatcher’s Final Wash: Aaron Murdoch

You have no idea how much I shivered at stepping into this bath. It was under a bath that the bomb was hidden. It was the Brighton bomb. All the

La Revolution

The Yanks kill and me I read Mao Mao The jester is king and me I sing Mao Mao The bombs go off and me I scoff Mao Mao Girls

Throne of a Sinking Mind & Other Poems

March   Embryo of death will bloom   I am being lost like a madman Observe my struggle Month of March is lagging behind this journey   These rocks define


No Comments Yet!

You can be first to comment this post!

Leave a Reply