Well, I sorta figured with the help of friends that I write on Shiva and then few other things. So this is a series on Shiva. I have always been completely in love with Shiva, his blue skin. 

These poems are not neccesarily about Shiva but are prayers to Shiva, and sometimes they work as both.



your skin is the colour of night

when lovers meet, after a long absence,

more ink than black.


Your eyes are the colour of a poet’s cup

of coffee,

more black than brown.


Your voice is heavy ash

balanced on a cigarette’s edge

more grey than black.


At times, the sound of anklets

makes me search serpentine streets

for the glint of your nose-stud.


I’ve lingered in the flower

markets for days trying to find

the smell of your hair, your thick dreads.


Shiva, today, I’ll lick coconut

chutney from my fingers

and taste your skin.




poor Shiva is blue with penis envy,

holding his breath,

willing his blood to rush there

so he won’t blush

when he sees you in Kailasa, my love.




I’ve got a favour to ask

of you.

So, here goes.

I want to swallow

thoughts through my skin

so they would just sweat

themselves into words

because this need for men

that I love or love me

is tiring

and paper is never handy

which always makes me forget

the sliding tongues

and kneading knuckles

that I want to translate

into words.

I’m willing to sign

a contract Shiva 

for you to allow

this to happen.

This way I won’t be

able to break your heart.

But for the favour,

we have to fuck.

Because then there will be

words dripping from me,

heavy breathing will make

your back a car-window

and scratching fingers will write

words on your back,

saliva will scab these words

into Braille.

Now, here’s really the favour,

just shed your skin,

So I can transcribe

it with a pen.




I want a man with skin

like filigreed silver

with grooves and ridges

for me to hold on to

and climb from his

toes to his lips.

Fingers like bamboo reeds

with strength and flexibility

to reach into

my hard to reach places.

Legs like a coconut tree,

thick and a darker shade

at the thighs.

A tongue that is forked

so he can play

with my perineum and glans,

leave me brimming

and thirsty.

Lips that are like

thighs, so he can swallow

me, keep me and send

me out a born-again.



I want a man to love

he should be like

an ocean – large and all-holding,

so even if I drink

him whole, he will still give more.

I want to be his Lakshmi

and sprout from his navel

and know no other place.

I want to be Narashima

and reach into my belly, pull

out my heart and burn

his name on it.



What is poison, Shiva?

Ankets promised

in exchange for love?

Or is it other things?


Shiva whispered,

“It is blue and lives

in my throat,

I am Neelakantha, the blue-throated.”


But poison is footsteps,

purposeful, hands releasing

anklets and turning

out of the front door.





1 Response to “Shiva.”

  1. 1 yamini
    January 10, 2010 at 11:21 pm

    “Your voice is heavy ash balanced on a cigarette, more grey than black”. Beautiful.

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February 2009

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