Metamorphosis

The larva eats like mad 

and withdraws itself 

into a cocoon.

Then it broods.

Each step guides

Every action or 

inaction towards a 

becoming.

Each bite coding a color.

Each utterance 

defining a flap. 

The intent is decided, 

noise is removed, 

action is streamlined.

and when it's time-

The wings are 

fluttered and boom-

the first flight. 

The butterfly must 

become a butterfly.

Not by chance.

No by miracle. 

But by outgrowing 

a noun it is to 

Become an attribute.

The butterflyness 

of it from every breath 

till a culmination-

The flight wasn't in

The wings.

It was in the intent.

Being Reduced to a Poem

Deep down I always

wanted to be a poem,

but no one wrote for me.

So I took things

in my own hands.

And the more I wrote

about myself,

the more of me

began to disappear.

It felt like admiring

my own skin-

then peeling it off,

layer by layer,

until I stood

on the carcass

of what I once was.

A strange spectacle-

this naked admiration

and quiet disgust,

coexisting without conflict.

I kept writing more.

Not to be understood,

but to see

how much of me

could be translated

before nothing remained.

And now, what’s left

doesn’t resemble a 

person-

Just lines. Fragments.

A voice that sounds 

like me but isn’t.

Maybe this is what

becoming a poem means.

Not being written,

but being reduced

to something that can 

only be read.

Existential Incarnation

It's sad that you don't exist. 

It's sad that I want to 

believe in your existence, 

but there aren't any hints. 

It's sad that innumerable 

people believe in you

despite wrong fallacies. 

And it's utterly sad that 

faith hasn't moved any 

mountains yet. 

It's sad we humans don't 

learn from history, 

and it's sad that we are 

Logical beings but aren't 

rational. 

It's sad we are doomed 

in our own heads. 

Oh, it's sad, we've been 

incarcerated this way.

But for what crimes? 

We demand a fair trial. 

Give us a battlefield outside 

our heads and see. 

See our defiance turn

into something holy.

See our souls dip in

glitter and outshine 

your immortality.

See us grow wings 

and fly away to offer 

you a spectacle that 

can compel our

Emancipation and 

your redemption.

Goldfish

Let us become parrots 

and feed on cashews 

of my nana's farm. 

Let us become the last 

sunshine of your village 

and kiss the same warmth 

on my coastline. 

We could become the 

small feet of our own 

childhood and run across 

every divide there is. 

Perhaps we can become 

blasphemous gods of 

two religions and have an

Illicit juicy affair. 

How about a validation 

machine for old men 

with daddy issues?

Maybe then, they can 

stop starting a war in 

their free time. 

I know you are somewhere 

and I am elsewhere, 

but let us pretend that we 

are two goldfishes in a bowl.

That goldfishes have a 

short memory and 

everytime we bump into 

each other-

The bubble we live in 

becomes a new illusion

to live by happily.

Embarassed out of Existence

This steady warmth 

that embraces quietly.

Just a softness

you refuse to name.

The caress that's not

a longing yet.

A longer pause in

a conversation.

A sentence that almost

says too much-

A silence that you hope 

this person would 

eventually comprehend.

Hidden in hints,

Sarcastically weaved

sentences and carefully 

dropped emojis-

A cautious glance not

ready to be caught.

An ambiguous distance 

that isn't ready to 

take chances--

But one day,

when this person asks 

about it upfront-

You feel exposed.

It's like a secret being 

dragged out in the open

before you barely 

admitted it to yourself-

So you laugh it off

and go into denial.

You're offended in a

weird way? or 

You feel guilty about 

the same?

You aren't ready for 

the mirror that's held

infront of you, are you?

Maybe you're afraid of

naming it.

Naming something 

makes it real.

And real things can be 

refused-

You wonder if fear of

rejection is acting up again.

Days pass. The hints stop.

The pauses shrink.

The softness dries up

as you retreat into yourself.

Somewhere between 

pride and fear,

A small unnamed love

dies quietly.

What could have grown

into a story is filed away as 

misunderstanding.

Not rejected,

Never confessed-

Just embarrassed

out of existence.

Citizenship

A woman in 20s

wraps her face

in a white sari because 

her husband died,

wipes out the tears,

and decides

to lead a life-

happy or sad,

doesn’t matter.

A kid limps

across a street

because a doctor

injected a wrong medicine.

No one cursed the doctor

or took the matter

to higher authorities.

He just accepted life.

Young men ride 

their bikes into a big 

potholes.

Entire locality drops

dead because 

Drinking water 

was contaminated.

It was all there fault.

This is life in its 

rawest sense-

death is routine,

suffering is private.

They adjust.

They normalize.

They move on.

They don’t 

Demand better.

Why should they?

When endurance is 

sold as national character

and jingoism is more

important than food

in the plate-

Compliant acceptance 

becomes a prerequisite 

for Citizenship.

We Almost Existed

The instances we didn't 

talk enough, and the way 

we haven't yet touched

each other.

The fact that our breaths 

haven't intermingled yet, 

and this place beside me

that already screams your 

absent presence-

A certain smell shall always 

reek of the forever distance 

between us and my un-kissed 

lips are gonna be forever 

hesitant to say your 

name aloud.

And the fact that we'll 

never meet and how I would 

be condemned to carry a 

certain silence in your shape-

Perhaps, I'm gonna press 

my ear against that 'quiet' 

every day, to hear,

every unanswered whisper 

that's gonna remind me-

"How we almost existed."

The Arc of History

The arc of history bends toward justice.

I think I believe it.

Liberal winds outlast conservative walls.

However tight the scripture, however loud the bigot, 

however sacred the redundancy-

Sati had to go. Widow remarriage had to come.

Feminism was inevitable. Equality and human dignity 

were always the aspiration.

Sometimes I suspect it isn’t morality at work-

Just market optimization, cruelty becomes inefficient 

and compassion scales better.

Reform, perhaps is capitalism discovering 

empathy is profitable. Still, even if the motive

is impure, the outcome inches forward-

It's a fair bet I guess.

See, I'm a cynic in the short term but an 

optimist in the long term. I see chains of 

slavery disappearing, feudalism subsuming 

into itself.

Customs that once called themselves eternal,

now survive as footnotes and we got better 

lives now, than any medieval king at his prime.

So yeah. It's fair to reiterate as the old gods

shrink, old chains rust, old certainties crack-

And though slow, reluctant. 

Rarely noble or perfect- the arc of history 

bends toward justice.

But you're condemned to study, find a job and

toil hard to feed your misery, so that some 

future generation can enjoy the amenities you're 

currently deprived of-

Then smirk from beyond the graves when 

they say the previous generation had it 

better.

Why do you wanna go?

I wanna hold you in 

my arms, but you say,

you have to go. 

Why do you have to go? 

I wanna drown in your eyes, 

but you withdraw and say, 

it's late, you gotta go. 

Why do you have to go? 

The sun hasn't painted 

the evening sky yet, and 

the moon hasn't 

conjured twilight.

The big black clocks 

want to stop for a bit

and even the road to

your home wants to lose 

your memory for a while,

so give it a rest.

The waves crashing in

the distance are yet to start 

an affair with the shore,

and the words stuck under 

my tongue want to 

compose you songs.

The secrets I wanna 

confide in your braids 

and a hundred pauses 

I wanna measure against 

your breath-

The redness of your 

cheeks needs to be

tended with kisses.

But you say, you gotta go.

Your fondness for my

bruised heart is at

work with hurt, 

But you say, you gotta go.

Why darling, why do you

have to go?

Fun Poem

My niece says she's fan

Of Mri's dressing sense.

I'm fan of her hair though.

The number of birds

That can nest in her curls-

She can revive two-three

endangered species.

For the English Teacher 

she is and The P.E.T teacher

who might object my interest-

I'm more afraid of her 

tendency to correct 

my grammar-

So she can't be my muse,

As she's a grammar nazi.

Jaison, my man, I wish

You were my homie-

The corporate coolie,

Who writes love poems 

for grannies-

I would teach you the tricks 

Of Laal Salaam and

The cocktails that come

When one is totally 

Unhinged-

But you can't me my muse

as you aren't a true comrade 

of God's own country.

And ohhh my dear bhanji.

Cylindrella, Dri.

The wannabe patakha,

But Lil Momta di.

I wanna rhyme you

The way you dance.

But you're too cute 

for the cruel world.

But keep practicing 

your witchcraft on

Dolls.

You can't be my muse

Because I'd be 

called Epstein.

Well..well. well- Aditi.

How are you still part

Of Brahmin community?

Our rants and joint

poetic blasphemy screams

 you're just perfect.

It's tempting to say 

Only if I were younger 

or you were older-

But that would be gay,

As I recognise in you

a potential weenie.

 

You could be my muse

despite that but

'Bulldozer', says CM Yogi.

I could go on about 

other but no one is

age appropriate.

I could say my muse 

is me but I'm ugly and

narcissistic.

So I shift the blame on

my Kumbh mein bichada bhai-

Yo nikamma admin,

add to the group,

A millennial babhi.

Thousand Times Over

Our eyes meet and 

they talk about rainy 

promises.

the blooming gardens 

and hidden colors in 

the skies. 

Our breaths reciprocate 

and they exchange 

heavenly wisdom of 

stars. 

Time, obviously, is 

slow here and light 

bends in the shape 

of our hearts. 

Our skins touch and 

the tingles carry 

vulnerability that even 

Gods are jealous of. 

Spirituality without a

carnal caress is an

eternal thirst they

haven't yet solved.

And this is how we 

complete each other-

The winter of my 

summers, 

breezy evenings of

my lazy nights.

I wouldn't choose you a 

thousand times over. 

One lifetime is enough. 

I'm sure we will live it a 

thousand more times 

in this one 

over and over again.

Sinking

You know you are 

no good. 

You know you can't 

do it. 

The judgment has 

been passed and 

you've accepted it. 

But you gotta try it

one more time.

You know it's for no

good but you conjure

that last ounce of energy 

and give it a try.

You do it with all the 

shame and disinterest. 

You do it, and you 

see it crumble again. 

You have seen this 

innumerable times before 

and this is no surprise. 

You anticipated this. 

You knew this is exactly 

how it was supposed 

to happen, and it did. 

And you are disappointed 

in yourself again. 

You trusted yourself, 

but can you, again? 

This is sad. 

This is a new fall, 

a new low, 

a deeper abyss you 

don't wanna stare at.

And then you smile. 

the hollowest smile 

in the world.

Only you know how

Hollow it is-

Even if the world 

conspired against odds,

All the light would be

subsumed there.

For the Age in Question

The longing of hesitant eyes,

The weight of unsaid words.

The language that fractures

before it becomes words-

and your gentle failure to 

read my compulsive intent.

The urge to drown in your 

arms, followed by the fear of 

being mocked for the same-

The desire to have all of you

dodged by the self-shame 

that gleams in mirrors--

Some stories dissipate 

like that. 

When speed itself is shamed,

and any thoughts in favour 

of anti-gravity are

branded as taboo-

Not everyone can garner 

escape velocity to reach the

moon you've become.

and for the age in question-

I'm seventy years too late

to become an astronaut.

and maybe seventy years 

too early to be compelled to

worship you from a distance.

So here are my redundant 

offerings- 

Prayers and wishes.

and if devotion is love enough-

I know you'll be considerate.

Old Graves

The scar I keep 

scratching has a 

memory from when 

it was a wound-

fresh, mushy.

Waltzing with pain 

and misery.

the vulnerability, 

abandonment, and 

other perks that 

came free with the 

suffering. 

It spoke in a language 

that I once spoke. 

It smelled like the air 

I once inhaled. 

It had a microcosm 

of its own- a brain, 

a heart, and a nervous 

system that spread 

like a fungal infection 

with intentions. 

But now, it's dead. 

It feels numb, like it has 

been left with no purpose.

It recapitulates like

an old man now.

It's almost nostalgic.

I'm tempted to scratch 

deeper-

It's tempting to be 

a victim again.

It's a sin to dig old

graves, they say.

But the necrophilic 

tendencies of mine 

do it anyway.

Cost of breathing

mistakes are marks 

of evidence to say 

things are still working.

and to err, to cuss.

to take chances despite 

innumerable setbacks.

to care, to hate, and 

to miserably embrace 

our own imperfections.

to lie, to swear.

to tumble down and

spectacularly fail,

but still be humane.

and to still love and long 

despite betrayals,

and to live through 

inevitability of death-

wounds in the flesh 

indicate something 

inside is still beating-

a tiny flicker has to be

left in the night sky to insist

dawn is still not a myth.

let pain be proof of

pulse and life be a

rebellion against 

indifference.

Reciprocation

The things I wanna say, 

steal them from my eyes. 

The things you wanna hear, 

translate them onto my skin.

The things you wanna say, 

place them on my lips.

And the things you may 

wanna hear-

They're are stashed in 

my heart, thrust your hand 

and savour them away.

For each of your khaki 

confessions, I shall make 

fluorescent promises-

Bright enough to blind

our hesitation.

Ask me if I have secrets, 

and I shall lay myself bare 

for an espionage of

of your interest. 

And if you have any, 

you should know-

I am good at pulling off 

a juicy heist. 

Interrogate my pulse.

Decode my breath.

leave your truths under

my tongue to 

obliterate distance.

Let the alibis collapse,

disguises melt.

Let our staged honesty

pass into submission

of love, even if it's

fake.

Weight

If you take a Y shaped 

wood and fit the two sides 

with strings of rubber.

You get a slingshot.

Everything becomes 

a target from there on.

Street bulbs, bottles.

Pigs, dogs and cattle.

You take aim at crow

eventually and it

falls down wriggling.

punctured breast.

oozing blood.

So much for a young

mind to process.

Twenty years down 

the line, every night 

it still caws in your 

dreams.

Tell me, if you kill a

bird and carry it's 

weight in you,

Did it die or started

living in you?

Tell me, when you

kill a bird, if your

soul dies too.

The caw caw in your 

head, tell me if it's 

kind of incarceration.

Witness

To feel the warmth 

of her skin and sculpt 

it on a stone.

To witness the fire 

in her eyes and burn 

the canvas with paint. 

Once I glanced into 

her heart and the 

way my guitar cried- 

the lullabies born 

cleansed my soul 

a thousand times. 

It took a lot of patience 

and impulsive spurts 

to understand her. 

The storms I hurled 

were calmed with her 

smile and the silence 

I hid was nursed with 

a satin touch that 

wreaked walls.

Her contradictions

are acts of love and 

my unguarded heart 

is a refugee in hers-

to witness a new

tomorrow every day 

like it's my birth right.

Fragrance

If you dive deep

inside someone and 

plant a flower.

perhaps a jasmine.

and if it stays and 

survives and endures 

the forces of longing 

on good or bad days-

a subtle fragrance 

emanates. 

a yearning stretched 

across time-

surviving delays, 

denials, and onslaught 

of non-reciprocation-

a thirst that doesn't 

seek relief or validation.

ohh! this scent in my

unguarded heart.

a wound that refuses

to close, to remind me

what once felt-

it talks with the gentle 

wind that blows from 

the west and 

settles deeper in

folds of memory like

quietude after a

heartfelt laughter.

The Ink Outlawed

My pen refuses to 

stay neutral. 

It refuses quietude, 

inertia, routine, or 

any emotional paralysis. 

It invokes rebellion 

against stillness and 

whispers songs of 

revolution in my ears. 

It's a beast in hibernation, 

fragrance in aestivation.

A calm before the storm, 

a tremor before an outcry.

It pushes me inward,

to bring up all of it in 

the open.

But Alas!  

The government has

banned ink and dyes.

And the stony silence 

lingers, searching rocks 

to inscribe.

But rocks are holy

and only meant for 

statues, says the mob.

So my pen grows teeth

to bruise the air-

The words, tethered,

shall blow over the skin 

to scar memories.

The ink, outlawed, 

shall paint in red the 

pages of history.