Vigil

You can cover your face
With a scarf outside but
The walls have keen eyes
And they have seen it all.

You whisper your secrets
Into the ears of a vague statue
Of an unknown God.
But even the devotion in

Your fickle heart has holes
That can amplify lies.
And for long, you fixate over
The possibility of

Deafness in your lord.
But fate is playing
The game of chess with you.
And it's all tactical-

Lets you beat the queen
And bishops of the black but
That one insignificant pawn
Has been waiting with a plan.

You tie your shoe loose
Thinking it's all right and
When the vigil is gone-
A checkmate from the pawn.

You'll be done in a battle
You never fought.

Dharwad Rain

It was too much heat and
It became cloudy.
Suddenly there was lightning,
Thunderstorm and rain.

It rained over and across
The roads of Jubilee circle
On the metal head of
The Ambedkar statue.

The tin roofs of the Chigri bus,
Got the hammering from
The silver nails too.
Sending rhythmic tones

To whoever sat within it.
It rained on the dusty old scooter
Unveiling its name to the world
"Bajaj Chetak"- like it was a fossil.

The kids in the white shirt and
Blue shorts ran around to collect
The ice cubes of the hail.
It rained on their tiny heads.

Over the tripling college boys
On their Splendor Plus and
Over the empty Kingfisher bottles
To mock the chill out of the beer.

It rained on hospital signboards
That said 'do not honk.'
It rained over a punctured tyre
That just wanted to burn in fire.

Over the pigeons and the crows
And the maize feed that they
Wanted to eat- that's how
Their hot meal turned cold.

It wanted to rain on Elliot's
Wastelands too and Silvia's
Pig tree before it could even
Branch out more.

Even on Bukowski's whores
And wine and on that
Frost's road not taken and its
Fresh grass; till one could-

No longer tell the difference
From the other one.
But it strictly wanted to be local,
For some reason.

So it let Karim Mulla's grave
Drench and Chakkadi Balya's
Thirst quench.
By the smell of Mirchi Girmit
It let the crowd elate.

And one of those tractors
To pass playing a Janapad song
On full blast- It let itself
Loosen up a bit to have-

A little fun for a while and
Dance in Tappanguchi style.



Mirchi Girmit- local food prepared from puffed rice
Janapad song- Songs in local slang often played in tractors

Tappanguchi- local free style dance

What If

In another life, we would have
Ended up in the same house
Maybe the green or the blue
House of our school hostel and

Fought over, the toilet duties,
To carry over the sourness
Throughout the school life.
Or maybe you would have been-

That friend of mine back then,
Who gifted me a Reynolds-Gel-Pen
Every Bday and had lunch with
My family on parents' day.

Who eventually victimized
Himself, blaming the system
And lost in touch after school.

Even worse, the part-time
Bully of our class would have
Shown interest in philosophy
And poetry and like a nerd

Explained those juniors about
The stars and the night sky.
Eventually listening to too
Many songs to lend his playlist-

To hitch me on conversations
We now go and go on and on.

I would have completed the
Spiti circuit on his bike you know
And you from your own
Bystander life would have-

Laughed at us for being so gay.
As you wouldn't have had
Anything other than that to
Get at us in one of those

Trolling sessions of our
School reunions.

Simulation

Canary, a yellow sparrow-like
Bird sacrificed in the coal mines
To test the levels of carbon monoxide.
Rats in our laboratories of course
As tin cans to test fire our
Experimental medicines.

Haven't the dogs been our
Long-standing first line of defence
Against those heavyweight carnivores?
And the cattle of course
Butchered into meat to satiate our
Not-so-starving needs.

Have we been held hostage in
This ranch called Earth too?
By some higher civilization-
To test against the level of
Oxygen and temperature rise?

To derive a formula for optimal 

Resource allocation through

A false means of fair competition?

Who are you sitting above in
A surveillance room studying our
Simulated lives?
Can you please delete the footage?

From the previous night.

I wasn't supposed to pee standing up,

I accidentally identify myself as male.

Carrom Coin

By the bench in the park,

Found a carrom coin this morning.

My math teacher would've liked 

To know the probability of getting-

A white coin, only a black coin 

Or the one other than the pink coin-

The simplest answer to that 

Question is 'one' and the coin

I found was the Queen.

Somewhere on a tattered board 

Her black soldiers and the white ones

Might have been waiting for her tirelessly

And the striker might have already-

Slipped into existential questions

Of why or for whose sake it must 

Strike purposelessly.

And the four jobless blokes 

Sitting around the board

For an afternoon session,

With talc powder in hand-

Might be considering the option of

Elevating ranks of one the

White soldiers temporarily

By painting it in pink or otherwise.

The Queen meanwhile sits here

On my table offering me 

A chance of revenge over all those,

Childhood bullies-

Who never let me win 

In a fair game.

Raqeeb- The rival in love

He plays the flute
Standing on an old
Telephone booth to ask
The wind often, if 'she' can
Hear him play.

He plays it like a smooth
Refuge of warmth on a
Winter night. He plays it like
Slide of a water drop
From molten ice.

He plays it like capitalism
Wanna stop running and
Catch up some
Music lessons ASAP.
And he plays it like-

The dustbin nearby
May wanna fall asleep.
But the plastic wrappers
Inside don't let it
As they wanna dance.

The dogs have heard it.
The birds have admired.
The dragonflies have given up
Their flight to listen him 

Play all night.

Not bothering with anyone's pleas.
The wind swirls deaf.
When asked 'why' it says-

It has been in love with the same
Moonlight-soaked beauty-
The boy wants to send 

His song to.

And the tune is so good,
Out of jealousy-
To her, even out of mistake
It can't convey the song.

Prank

The sunset on the horizon
Turned out to be a LED bulb
With faulty wiring that mislead
Many insects into hiding.

What looked like hunger was
Just an erection in the pants that
Just wanted to sexualize everything
With the hump in a shiny attire.

The crude romance was just
A free hitchhike,
She left the pillion when her
Luxury bus arrived.

What looked like a dog was
Just a boy who had changed
His pronouns and now he has
Learnt to bark.

The blue mountain in the distance
Was just Diwali smoke flirting with
The fog- just like that friendship
That felt like a prank -

Done with two rupees
Plastic lizard.

What seemed like a dream
Was a stink of reality-
The water park experience of
Me wetting the bed by morn.

Removing Tropes

This time, the hero will not
Come running and jumping,
Thrashing a couple of
Local gundas-

There is no entry scene
Planned.

The heroine will be clothed
Normally. She doesn't have to
Reveal her mammary glands or
Adipose of her thighs.

There is no item number or
Rape scenes thrust.
No need of any social commentary
Or political philosophy.

No one is gonna come to diffuse
The bomb in the temple.
The lovers in the climax will not
Be able to marry this time.

The fallen hero will not wake up
To the wail of his lover.
Things somewhere got real
Real and he had to die.

The boy who read in the streetlight
Couldn't make it big and the
Patriotic don couldn't defeat
The evil Mafia lord-

All the stories dried up by
The time the tropes were removed.

And Basanti danced out of her
Free will to marry Gabbar and
The hand pumps stood in protest
For unnecessarily portraying,

Them as weapons.

Real, Inverted

A convex lens casts a real
Inverted image on a screen-

A pointy skyscraper can
Look like a ball pen.
A large Banyan tree, like
A buds of broccoli.

Women walking in skirts
Turned upside down but
Why hasn't it revealed
Any pale parts?

A God-man who passed by
Looked virtuous through it.
But you should imagine how
Distort his reality might be right?

A biker on the go seemed
Like having an anal with
The bike, clearly
The bike was winning.

And maybe someone
Looking at your eye from
The other side may get
Surprised at the strange-

Genitalia with lashes
Fluttering on the vulva.

Novembers

Novembers are the monsoons
Passing the baton to the winters-
One leg on the boat that sailed
And the other that's poised to leave.

Novembers are the sleeveless T-shirts
Inviting the cozy sweaters for
Their brief retirement party,
While you keep tuning-

The right speed of the fan, cursing
The technology for not figuring
Out a regulator with a speed notch
Between two and three.

Autumn would have taken out
The horses out of stables by now,
To hitch a ride to conquer
The lush greens of the trees.

Meanwhile,
The Novembers become
The oceans that refuse to lend
Any water to the winds.

And the angry air blows dry-
To beat the land with its cold.

The Novembers finally turn as
The agents caution.
One has to store the fire-wood,
And the requirements of food.

Some may start carving for
That one lost person and
Some might start getting closer
To the one beside them-

As the Novembers turn out to be
The agents of longing too.

Quick Gun Murugan

Two cats stand face to face,

In the empty passage,
Of the neighboring alley.

Roaring at each other from
A distance.
They stare at each other
In fury.

It's a western in slow-mo
In my head by now-

Both, ready to pull out
Their revolvers from the
Holsters to take out
The other first.

Somehow it feels like
The other one would be
Quick and Clint Eastwood
Would die in this duel.

Broom-Sweep-Punch

Ten-Thousand hours is
What it takes they say.
Beethoven did it to perfect
His symphonies.

So did Picasso. Maybe,
Even Modiji.

I can't help but to think
About my grandmother.
Who lived for over a
Hundred years.

Her meticulous morning
Routine of sweeping
The front and the backyard.
And then the cattle-shed and
Disposing the cow-dung.

Her daily grind with the broom,
Would have crossed her
Ten thousand mark,
Long ago I suppose.

If her broom were a guitar,
She would have been
A bassist maybe with
The Pink Floyd.

If it were a paintbrush,
Maybe the Italian Renaissance
Would have spread around
My village.

And Thank God it wasn't
A potential weapon.
She would have fought
Alongside her mother to
Defeat the British Raj.

And sometimes when I
Overthink about the whole
Scenario, I can't help
But imagine that terrified
Face of Bruce Lee-

When he first heard about this
Bent-Torso-Straight-Leg
Broom-Sweep-Punch.
The one 'Ten-Thousand times'
Practiced move-
He wanted to be afraid of.

Nudes

Searching for her
Fuckable body in the poems
She writes,
You slide in her DM-
Literature as your pretext.

Persistent in your intent-
Leaving hints in the usual
Conversations,
A peek behind her dress is
All you need-

Everything else is just
Pretense.

Out of pity or respect.
Maybe she was in it too
Or she wanted to make a
Statement out of sheer
Disgust.

When the image of her
Bare bust glares on your
Screen with a missing breast.
Sneaking past the edges of

Your own guilt-

The reflection of your face
On the black mirror-
Shriveled the same way,
Your erect meat in your
Right-hand did.

Uncertain

From somewhere, the age-old
Conquest of rust will get to
The brakes of your bike and you'll
Forget to have it serviced
Before the next trip.

A bullet with your name written
All over it will somehow
Remain in the magazine,
Despite hours of practice
In the firing range.

Against your good fortune,
Another virus from a
Chinese lab is gonna find you
In a pin-pointed stroke of
Fate.

And despite all the precautions
And planning and those hefty
Insurance claims- A bee will sting
Your ear on the wrong side of
The state highway.

And that's it my friend,
Thirty years of your life will
Flash before your eyes in just
Three seconds and all those
Beers you're supposed drink-

Will be in luck, if they find
A refuge in the belly of your
Best friend- who might toast
Every year in loving memory of
The time you guys spent.

Able Form Of Expression

I didn't cry when my
Grandpa died. I couldn't,
Even when Grandma passed
Away Infront of my eyes.

Tears like frozen packs
Of ice and dead expanse
Of desert refuse to
Yield any water.

The consolations, though
Take off from the bottom of
My stomach, often they
Dry down in my throat.

The dark clouds of this
Unexpressed grief refuse to
Pour down on the aridity
Of my cheeks and the brittle-

Strands of my beard still
Find solace in flaunting
My masculinity- which screams
For help each day-

Without finding an able
Form of expression for
The condolences that
Rot in my belly.

Remembering You

Tomorrow when I sit at
A South Goa beach after
Taking the Karwar route
On my not-so-good bike.

I'll weave together strands
Of my longing into a shack,
To sit and relax around to
Write about-

The texture of the sand,
Angular gravel, soft seashells.
Birds other than seagulls
That haven't yet gotten-

Bored of sad lovers.
And about how the wind
Smells of salt though
It doesn't.

And about how I whispered
Your name in a couple of
Empty bottles that echoed
Your address and-

If a letter- written on a
Banana leaf-ever finds you,
With the stink of cheap beer,
Know that,

Even in the bustle of
Vanities offered by this city,
I managed to scratch a
Couple of old wounds-

To remember you.

Itch

This urge to scratch the
Itch on the other hand,
Bite nails and chew the
Hardened skin around them.

The itch on the thighs, and
Around the groin and the ass.
The itch around my head,
Because of too much hair
And entangled thoughts.

The urge to scribble on the
Margins of books because
Of the itch in my mind
That just keeps saying
"Why not?"

The itch of lust hiding in
The pretense of love and
The want for love that
Wants to scratch but never
Gets a chance.

And the itch of the
Stomach of course that's
Not confined to the usual
Roti-Kapada-Makan.

And then the itch of bigger
Ambitions that have
Tentacles spread across
Far-fetched horizons
To have it all-

Like the one to dig tunnels
In search of a meaningless
Light and when found at
The end of it.

Sit there waiting for the
Moths to test the validity
Of it, as there's also a itch
That thinks it might just

Be a mirage.

Boy becomes his Father

Out of dread for those
Serious eyes, bold beards
Heavy moustaches and
The dictating voices-

Every boy, who hides
Behind his mother's saree
Is revolutionary.

Feeling his mother's grief
In the feeble variations of
Taste of daal- very resolute
To change the precedent-

Wanting to throw stones
At the village altars and
Clean shave before even
Adolescence hits hard.

Then as the the fierce
Command of manhood
Takes over his face,
Mind and groin-

And by the time he brings
Himself a wife-
Yelling at her from the bathroom
For not giving him Chaddi
And banyan in time-

His father and grandpa
Smile from the mirror
In total approval of the
Man, he has become.

While his kid in the hall hides
Himself in the saree of
This woman who had just
Become his mother.

Union

The broken lover, 

Out of grief sits scribbling,

Her name on the beach-

Persistent, till the sea

Remembers who she is.

In the middle of the ocean,

From around, another

Part of the world.

Another lonely name,

Finds this one and now

There's a new affair.

The onslaught of the

Saline water that often

Subsumes things-

Has made an exception

To write a new story

And named it as rain.

Watchful Gaze

Your image flashes in my mind,
Constantly like fluttering of eyelids.
It's almost, as if, you're
Watching me from within myself.

And under your watchful gaze
I have become conscious of my
Day-to-day things.

So when I wake up and stand
In front of the mirror to brush.
I don't spit it all over the sink.
It's as if you're standing beside to

Guide me through the process,
Like a high school math teacher.

My hands reach my back properly,
While taking a bath.
Rinse my hair thoroughly while
Applying coconut oil.

The maroon shirt goes tucked in
The Light-grey trouser with a
Tie that's purple or blue. And then
The bike with a helmet always to
Protect my not-so-important head.

Sometimes,
A wishful urge comes along,
To do things differently, messy-
Like I always do--Unkempt hair.
Dirty socks. Unwashed dishes-

Deliberately, I spill some milk on
The breakfast table,
Thinking, that you would come
To tease me into a correction.

But it almost, always, never happens.
Your murky angry face,
Never takes things in hand and like
Always the next day resumes again-

As it should-
With the jeans going along
The right shoes and eating rice in
The lunch with a spoon.

Hunger

In the noon while I strolled in my
Backyard, a roti fell from the sky.
I looked up in wonder and there was
A crow cawing- must have slipped
From its grasp.

My father immediately asked me to
Rush back inside the house,
Mom joined him to say how-
Lord Shani might change his position
To haunt my astro-profile.

And from a distance, precariously as
I watched, wth a quick dive, the crow
Picked up the roti to fly away.
The emotion of hunger there was
That simple.

Crude as coal and pure as gold.
Devoid of any dubious morals or deceit-
Hunger often is the shortest distance
Between the stomach and the food.

A compulsive affair of desperation
And hope on repeat.

Dogma

Belly crushed, insides
Exposed- you lie there.
Wriggling and grappling
For life.

Just beside you, I stand
Cursing the driver for
Not even bothering to
Look at his mishap.

Despite all the turmoil-
Out of sheer repulsion.
I fail to reach you and
Choose to pass by.

Maybe my gut would have
Churned a bit more,
If you were a cute little dog.
Or a sparrow or a pigeon
With a broken leg.

But who cares for a
Piglet right?

The empathy in my heart,
Seems, it can only be bought
With gold-plated tears.
And it goes unsold today-

Making even your blood
Worthless- over the dogma
That comes with you
In my surroundings.

Temporary Relief

The clock in the train station
has an itch in its back.
Rock-paper-scissor between
The second-minute-hour hands-

As to who shall scratch it
This time. And just for a while,
Everywhere- time has stopped
Past midnight.

No one is partying,
Making out or cursing their
Bosses or waiting for the
Next weekend.

None is hungry for a while.
Or depressed or dying
Out of shame. Or trying
Hard to fit in somewhere.

No power change, no war or
A threat of a nuclear attack.

It's just quiet- insects have
Found a comfortable niche.
Dogs free of leashes and the
Mountains, don't want to slide.

And before it could have
Gotten any better,
An abrupt streak of light
Appears in the dark sky.

This time, the minute-hand
Lost it, it seems,
Now that the back has been
Scratched-

Suddenly,
There are forest fires.

Wishfull

Tomorrow I will be past thirty.
That's four hundred dog years
Of age someone said.
Maybe I can wear a collar,
Tie myself to a leash and walk
By the garden to play fetch.

If we start putting it that way
Maybe I'm twenty tortoise
Years old I suppose.
Should I invite the rabbit for
A race again?

How about the six hundred
Rabbit years of age? I can
Already see the irony in that.
For the phrase, 'Fuck like rabbits'
I'm such a virgin.

Maybe I should count myself
With the old Banyan tree-
Only a couple of years old.
Maybe I would just stand and
Stare all day to observe and
Judge them all.

The comparison anyway has
Far-fetched by now, that I
Want to a Siberian Crane of
Age whatever I don't know.
I fancy flying over all those
Mountains each year to the
Sweet warmth of my village-

To tell a thing or two about
flight, to all the kids who are
New to flying kites.

Hopeless Quest

Sitting alone in the
Restaurants battling
With the spoons and a
Bowl of Idli-chutney.
Catching your lonely image
In the window glass and
Searching for yourself
In the cracks.

In movie theatres- early
Morning shows,
Sleeping there without
Any care for the plot
Or action and later on
Drawing philosophy over
Discarded condoms and
The spilled popcorns
In the last row.

Locking yourself in the dark
Of your room. Not wanting
Slightest of light.
And cursing that hole in
The window with no courage
To close it or let it
Fully distract.

These half-hearted efforts
To find yourself.
Asking deep questions to
End up falling in made-up
Dungeons-- to give
Over-thought meanings
To your shallow life.

The kind of facades,
You put up--
Masks you steal and
The identities you assume.
All for what?

To sit by the road again,
To paint yourself a
Self-portrait by copying
The faces of all the
Strangers that pass by?

Making Tea

First, you put half a cup of water
And leave it on the flame.
While you add two spoons of
Tea powder. Maybe a half more.

Then the same amount of sugar,
A bit less maybe.
Then you watch, till the bubbles
Show up with signs of boiling.

Now comes the milk, almost
The equal quantity of water.
Don't pour more thinking it'll

Taste better. This is not coffee.

As you pour milk and it mixes
With the decoction, you should
Observe the way it mixes like
Some mystical painting.

And as the color turns from
Black to pale and from creamy
To brown- the waft of aroma,
That elates your head-

You know the quality of it
Before even tasting.

And when you strain it in a cup,
The tip of your tongue already
Dancing over the moist fumes.
The first sip sends your soul-

Into the space. You'll have to
Pull it back after sipping one more.
And one more and more till
Your astral self makes peace

With your actual one.

The Misplaced Tile

The misplaced tile in the
Newly laid footpath.
It bothers me.
Who in their right mind
Could do that?

Did the Masons think
It was okay to put it in there
Without any thought?
Or the engineer deliberately
Planned it, to mess with
The passersby?

The red and black tiles
That alternate throughout
In perfect harmony-
Now, have a sudden ebb
Of surprise.

An older couple on the
Evening stroll might
Suffer a stroke by
The shock of that sight.

The conspicuous oddity
Of a red tile in place
Of the black can even
Attract aliens who admire,
Geometric maladies.

I'm more worried about
That one over-aged man-
Who might after years,
Become a child for a while-
And decide to walk only
On the black tiles.

And before he could
Smile over his little feat,
Step on the Red one
For no fault of his,
To have his day ruined.

Greener Grass

A boy sits astride the
High fence to make it to
The other side.
A girl is buried in books
Studying all morning,
To do the same.

Holding a yellow umbrella,
A vendor sits in the rain
On his vegetable cart,
Maybe dreaming about
Adding more colors to
His life.

Aren't we all the same?
Trying and dreaming
Of an unknown sea,
With better greens.

Like a nun who found her
Salvation by riding a
Bicycle through the
Crowded street full of
Ogling eyes.

A violinist finds it
While playing his music
To an indifferent crowd.

And maybe someone
Is chasing it by praying in
His single room all day long.

And some other-

In a medieval Egyptian
Brothel by having
Exorcist hymns whispered
In his ears in the name
Of nude massage.

Pronouns

An earthen pot and
A plastic bucket sit,
Side by side thinking
If they should start a
Family.

Maybe one will be
Called a plastic-pot.
The other, as the
Earthern-bucket.

And if there's a
Third one claiming
It's gender fluid,
Then it can be used-

As a dustbin.

I don't know what

The dry moss between
The tiles spread like a maze
On the terrace-
Little black ants obsessively
Follow the trail to solve-
I don't know what.

Strands of cobwebs across
The railings shine against
The rising sun.
The redundant Dish-TV-plate
Poking its concavity to harness-
I don't know what.

If it wasn't for the dirty
Underwear on its shoulder,
The clothesline across the
Rear windows would have
Eloped with the laundry basket
Long ago---

Like the chair left there,,

Facing the lake on the balcony,
Constantly thinking of
Jumping off in the water
Just for the sake of it.
Something holds it back-

I don't know what.

This Love

This love, sometimes-
It's just a blip.
Waiting in the corners
To make a point and
Then, not able to
Escape the cobwebs
It's been caught.

And sometimes,
It's just an elaborately
Woven novel with layers
Unveiling the plot lines
And finally waltzing

In a public library to

Find itself a fancy

Bookshelf to sit 

Haughtily all day long.

It has been a loosely
Edited Tarantino movie
Most of the time-
A heist gone wrong,
Murders, blood and
With the police involved-

Sometimes you're guilty,
Sometimes it's me.
The blame like a
Fire-ball passed on to
One another's peril-
To push each other
To the gallows ultimately.

And as the noose tightens
Around our necks,
Amoursly making out again,
Without any regard for
The hangman or our

Mutual unrest.

Unaddressed Issues

Who's gonna talk about
Those retired guitars,
Torn-out shoes and
The redundant lanterns,
That still want to glow?

And the broken bicycles,
Forgotten recipes.
Stopped watches that
Still want another chance.

The cold bowl of soup,
The lost lots of souls and
The shattered pieces of
The mirror that still
Want to reflect?

Rust-eaten door keys,
Dust-ridden rooms,
The dried leaves that
Scream about how
Brown is still a color.

The silly sisters,
The lonely mothers,
Angry brothers and
The hopeless fathers-
Who may just want a hug
Or a decent talk--

People that haven't yet
Gone mad,
Friends that haven't
Yet died and yourself,
Who still wanna give it
One last try-

Who's gonna talk about
Opening that room?
To pull yourself out of
The head of yours,
Where you often brood.

We Men

We men, we don't do
Sadness.

We often learn to
Hammer nails in our eyes
To stop tears from
Making it out alive.

Nail by nail, the emotional
Rapport with self that dies
And the attitude to fix
Everything by hiding it-

Good at erecting walls
Around our emotions
And vulnerabilities.
Brick by brick-

A seven-storied building,
That learns to smile.

Knowing each other's
Conditioned compulsions-
The son and father,
Unable to hug each other.

Unable to console a friend,
Unable to help mom in
The kitchen.
Unable to understand
My brother's depression.

We, with clenched hearts,
Closed minds.
Who can fix your broken
Bikes or leaky taps-

But unable to soothe
Your ailing hearts.

We who can laugh loud and
Argue ourselves to death.
But fail to look at the mirrors
And talk to ourselves.

This distance between
You and us, and the
Deep trench-like emptiness,
That keeps on sinking,
Within for generations.

It has set a precedent for
A supposed masculinity.

A bear with muscles,
Moustache and beard.
Dictating constantly
About how-

There's a manly glory in 

Being a corpse than 

A teary-eyed pussy.

The Bubble

What about the bubble on
The water? What if
It starts to ask questions,
About its existence?

Can it though? Does it
Have enough time?
Enough life?

Born in a blink and faded
In the next.
Is it what living in the
Present means?

Vanishing away before
Even the past makes
An effort to talk to an
Instance of future.

What if we're that bubble?
Just alive for an instance
In the astronomical time-lapse?
Vanishing away before-

The giant-eyed God
Closes his eyes.

Whose blink of an eye
Stretched maybe for over
An eon or an epoch-
And while his children

Play in the evening with
The soap water.
Blowing the bubbles and
Clapping when

Floating little humans
Burst open.

There goes a century
Of our expectancy in
An instance and our

Obsession with living

In the present.

What was the question
Again? A lifetime in
An instance or an instance
Containing a lifetime?

A bubble as a man or
Man, himself being
A bubble on the water
Of space-time?

Co-Passengers

Whenever I enter a bus,

There's always a person with

His bags on the seat.

Sniffing suspicion off anyone 

Who stands in his proximity-

He doesn't give away

The spare seat unless

The conductor hails upon

Him with authority.

A turban-clad old man 

With a coarse voice. 

Behaves like he has figured 

It all out. Politicians in his 

Pockets like spare coins-

Preaching morality to

Young people.

He expects everyone to

Fall in line.

Another typo who always 

Runs out of change and

Counters the conductor

With his anger over the 

The potholes on the road.

For his own mistakes, he

Has to always blame the 

Government.

The woman, past forties,

Protesting for her missed stop 

Or sometimes getting

On the wrong bus.

She always has to reduce 

Her son's age by a decade 

To get the ticket for half.

The dude with his earphones,

Always lost in his phone.

Looking at the GPS for his stops.

Needs to be shouted back to

Reality- to have him pay for ticket,

Before he jumps off in angst.

The kid who always has

His parents scream for his

Nature's call- maybe his bowels 

Only get triggered by the 

Wobble of this tin-box.

Then there are these 

College nibbas who have to

Stand by the door to pass 

Random comments.

Though I've done that in my days,

Seems like a nuisance now.

And there's someone 

Like me. In fact, that's me.

Always standing 

Without having a seat- 

Waiting for someone to get up.

I wait like a mantis to

To hold on to the empty seats.

All these strangers,

Having become quite familiar

Over time.

Some I hate without reason,

Some I despise.

Some are just irksome-

Without whom the feel of the 

Journey seems incomplete. 

And of the only few people I like. 

The considerate conductor,

Reasonable driver and maybe

The old lady standing there

Like rock without any ruckus.

And you of course, always in 

A chudi or jeans- just of

Right height and hairstyle.

You look like 'her' from

The back-

Please don't turn back

And catch my eyes.

I just want to look at you

As long as I can,

To keep the illusion of her

In you intact.

Faded

A postcard- maybe a

Twenty years old or more.

Faded ink; the lines stutter 

With missing words.

A dried flower in the diary,

A bit of fragrance and the rest-

Smelling away like soot of

Burnt paper.

In the same dark room,

An unrecognisable voice of

Someone from the past- 

Singing in whispers.

It's strange how memories,

Stick around-

Songs without a voice. 

Flowers without fragrance. 

The pics in the old closets-

Some with their faces 

Scratched off. Others

Beneath the fingernails-

As edgy bits that still 

Manage to feebly live on.

The Jar

End of every year,
I sit on the beach,
Get hold of a
Fistful of sand.

I press as hard as I till
Much of it slips away
From the gaps between
My fingers.

Whatever remains in
In the palms.
I put it aside in a jar.

I do this on repeat,
Till the jar is full of
The sand grains that
Chose to stick around.

Years have rolled down,
Decades have passed.
The grip has weakened
Yet what I retain keeps
Coming down.

Keeping up with old friends
Is a laborious task.
Now it takes more time
To fill the jar.

Remembrance

Sleeping with head outside

The window to catch

The dreams the winds carry.

Drinking tea under the sea

To have a taste of all the

Stories the rivers bring.

Soaked in wet paint to

Strand in different perspectives.

It's awesome to get to know

Unknown people.

Then there's always basking

In the mellow light of the

Setting sun- The departing birds

Have a thing or two to say.

I kiss your fading image by

The sea- those half-written

Stories and incomplete verses-

They get a meaning.

Suddenly, a thought grows wings,

To fly off as a seagull-

For your feeble remembrance

Nothing could have been 

A better allegory than that

I suppose.

Scapegoat

My landlord invited me to
Ganapati Pooja.
Giving the final touch to the
Decorations in the mandap-

He aligns the position of
The statue one last time,
To declare, Bappa can't be
Moved till the fifth day.

Incense sticks were lit,
Aarti was brought, camphor
Was burnt on a coconut and
His daughter started singing.

She shouldn't have but
She did. Even the lord
Seemed pretty scared.
Maybe he wanted to run-

But he was bound by a
Coarse voice's command.

I stood there hands folded,
Imagining situations in
My head. Trying to control
My laugh.

But the laugh as it
Hammers on the wall of
My mouth- unable to
Find an exit-

Rams on my nose with
Heavy cough and drool.
And laugh of course.

The song stopped,
She cried, everyone
Hated me for what
I did.

The Lord wanted to
Rescue himself from the
Whole act- to which he
Sacrificed me like a lamb.

Exhilaration

A spark from within 

Grows shoulders and 

Hands. And out in all 

Excitement, it leaps to

Grab it all.

Stretching itself, as it

Extends to the sky.

What it could have is

Only a drop.

Without slightest of

Disappointment.

It says- all right! 

Probably, next time.

And the meaning of 

Exhilaration, I suppose

Is that's all- giving it

Heck of a try and still-

Keep the inherent 

Fire intact.

Gender

From tree to tree the

Monkeys that hopped,

Have suddenly remembered

What it's like to fly.

Some weaved 

Themselves wings. 

Some had to steal from 

The birds instead.

The birds now have 

Forgotten the art of flight.

So they've imprisoned

Themselves in cages-

To feed on crumbs 

Thrown by men who

Think flying should be 

Banned.

Weirdest Headlines

The fresh dead bodies,
In white robes have taken
The night off to dance it off,
In a distant resort.

The lady of Led Zeppelin,
Eventually couldn't afford
The stairway. Had to actually
Die to make it to heaven.

Elsewhere, someone opened
The gates of the sky,
The pigeons in angst had to
Take refuge in the cages.

The girl who cried daily
To conjure evenings, suddenly
Stopped to check it out
If it had been morning.

Skin wrinkled and cracked,
A man grew old overnight.
Repeated past in head is
Living too much, one can-

Age thrice as fast.

A farmer in the countryside,

Has gone mad anyway.

It's said he had to use an axe 

To read between the lines-

The book that caused it was

The Prophet by Khalil Gibran.

Luxury of Grief

She, a mother at the

Age of eighteen-

Lost her son to 

Pneumonia last week.

Husband in a local brawl 

A few months ago.

In-laws in a bus crash

And her widowed-

Mother to asthma,

The year before.

Autumn hovering

Over her life,

People falling off like

Yellow neem leaves.

Her tears dry down,

Before even they

Could make it out

Of lashes.

Goodbyes, tired like

Worn-out feet of

Women fetching water 

In Lathur.

The weak roof on

her head, out of pity-

Has decided not to 

Collapse-

To let her have a

Discretion over her

Grief at least-

Not anytime soon.

Idle

A man by the roadside
With his broken car,
Instead of fixing it,
Tuning his guitar.

Fisherman, instead of
Baiting the fish,
Trying to tame the ocean
With fish-nets for what?

A rat in a painting is
Now homeless by
Eating up the canvas in
The night.

A fence in the locality
Has turned jobless again,
By grazing up the only
Apple farm.

A terrorist became
Kind after listening
To Sufi songs and a
Nazi with sore feet,
Has failed to trample
Fresh thoughts.

Like a monkey with
No lice to pick on-

Characters like these
With no closure,
Sit idle, wasted in
My stories-

The way I do with
A pen in my hand,
Instead of a broom to
Clean my dirty room.

Distance

We keep coming back

To each other.

To sit on park benches 

At an arm's distance.

To count all the roses

We couldn't have.

At train stops, temples,

Hills, tea stalls.

Sunsets and long walks.

To grow some more

Distance each time.

This time at different 

Ends of an aisle.

Ten empty chairs apart.

A caste, a few lakhs,

And a doused flicker of

Longing as divide.

Confused Mornings

Dreams like
Water balloons,
Burst open with
Wake of my eyes.

A worrisome thought,
Often filled with
Nostalgia and a
Little guilt..

Seeps down my
Bones wondering..

If I freed them
Or just kill.

Inaction

A pirate with both of his
Eyes intact.
His ship still safe at
The shores.
Sings about wretched
Winds at the edge of
The world.

Not standing the irony.
His compasses-
They give themselves
Away to the daily-rust.
In an attempt to find
Their deprived glory,

In death.

Confusion

A swordsman in
Shiny clothes,
Who fancies poetry
Wonders-

If he could write
With blood and
Sometimes,
If he could sever
Heads with verses-

Papers like empty
Battlefields, wait
For a taint and the
Swords at least
For some red paint-

As he sits idle

Doing neither.

Aura

Some people have a
Lit up face,
A mysterious aura
Oozing off them-

You can't take your
Eyes off their persona.

With a dead expression
And sullen smile.
Some, however upbeat,
Look just bland.

I don't know, in which
Category I fall in.
No one is gonna tell me
That to my face.

But if you think
I'm of the first kind,
Don't be fooled.
If you think, I'm of the
Second kind.
Don't be fooled.

I just might be a man
With a gun to my
Temple or yours.
Or maybe I'm the

One with flowers,
Out of goodwill or
Waiting for more
And more funerals.

Fortune Tellers

Of all the bustle 

There was at the footpath
Adjacent to Azad Park-
Of the hawkers, cobblers

Old-book sellers and
The beggars.
Only the fortune tellers,
Remain.

Sitting aloof, without
Shuffling their tarot cards.
Making no efforts to appeal
To the passers-by.

I don't know what happened
To all those seekers who
Wanted their hands read,
All the time.

Did everyone who sought
Got their fortunes,
And forgot this emissary
Of the lord?

What's the thickness of
Poverty to have them
Believe in astrology? I ask
With my eyes as I pass.

He vents a puff from the
Unlit bidi to point me,
At his parrot-less cage

And empty pockets-

To say that he was the
Only believer left.

Lonely introspection

A TV running blank in the 

Empty house and the 

Incandescent bulb burning

Without purpose.

There's a stool. Two shoes,

That avoid eye contact.

An old telephone hanging

In the air by the spring-cord.

A man past his fifties has

Cut his face in half, holds it,

Like bowl of soup- to search 

Meaning of life with a spoon.

When the only conversation

All day has been a dry fart

In response to a cold sigh.

The loneliness like a-

Drop of sweat goes down

The trails of his spine to talk

To someone- only to get

Choked in the ass. 

Alas! Hips. 

Why can't you talk?

The Hand

My hand moves without

My cues like it has got a brain.

Its itch often hops on to scratch-

A compulsive habit of exploration.

It browses my back, brushes 

My hair. Reaches my groin,

Just check if everything is

Alright.

Duels with fingers of the 

Other hand, picks on the nails.

Sometimes reaches the foot

To dig into the toenails.

The pinky finger loves mining

It seems. A couple of times daily,

It has to dive in my ear to dig

Into the wax, which eventually-

Is rubbed off to the chair,

Wall, windowpane, or the table.

The other digits are no less.

The thumb and the forefinger,

Form an alliance to reach my nose,

Like a search party for missing 

Ammunition.

The booger that's found is rolled

Into a wad to be catapulted 

Towards the distal wall. 

And it coincidentally to hit,

A Housefly-

The entire species must have

Slipped into an illusion that 

They're on the movie sets of 

The director Rajamouli sir.

Lost Curiosity

The moon no longer
Follows me while I
Travel at night.
The rooms that lead
One from the other,
The curiosity is
Long gone and
These days, I don't
Get lost.

The trails on my
Palm, that often
Grew like a forest to
Build cities full of
Castles, chokes
Out of weariness.
Like the paper planes
Forgetting to fly.

Often not giving
What was asked,

Imagination like
Broken street lights-
Sulks in the confines
Of the blinders
Of the past and
These days I don't
Believe the fact
That I'm a spy from
The planet Mars.

Cat

My ex, she sneaks in,
Like a deceptive cat.
To pamper me and
Talk for a while.

With an emotional
Stirr of hopelessness.
I keep on asking her,
Why?

The conflict therein,
She lacking answers
To my questions.
My denial to face the
Reality- to hold back
Onto charred fantasies.
Which light up upon
Her instance.

This to and fro
Toxic communication,
In spurts.
Stretched well over
Three years.
Pervades my iron walls
Every time.

These days instead
Of shooing her all night.
I've decided to let
My rats bell the cat.

Though she makes
Noise. My rats know,
Where to hide.

Critics

I sit on the floor to
Mindlessly scribble.
The mosquitoes attack
Me like puny critics.

It's like a preventive
Attack by state agents,
To control supposed
Damage in the future.

Instead of putting my
Pen to work.
I keep flapping my
Notebook to crush
Them, between pages.

The blood splatter
And black pigment
Of the gut,
Smudge of their
Bodies..
Spread on paper-

Almost looks like
Unintended piece
Of painting.
Like modern art,
The meaning of which
Only the artist knows.

The abstract of it
Screaming, at me-
To take vows of
Silence and
Give up any form
Of expression.

But something in me
Waits for more colors to 

Draw better allegories.

And just then I see
A housefly come flying
Towards me.

Corporatization of a poem

The streetlights, 

Have replaced the place

Reserved for the moon
In my poems.

The gentle wind in the
Second-stanza had to be
Put to some use-
So the windmills been
Put up to generate 

A side income.

And in the groove of 

This verse you wanna 

Fall in-

The roads aren't tattered,
Reveries are marked
And named.
The question of getting
Lost had to be a
Guided miscalculation.

The straight trees are cut
To floor homes with
Safe bunkers-
The insecurities in
The penultimate stanza
Had to be eliminated.

The real estate boom
In the following stanzas-
The humble homes have
Been replaced by lonely
Apartment rooms.

The corporatization of 
This poem inflated the
Price per carpet area of
The words anyway.

So the predatory-loans
From China, that had

To be borrowed, are 
Gonna whisper Mandarin,
In the space between
These lines henceforth.

And if you're gonna put
Efforts to decipher
The metaphors,
You shall be called
A commie, to be put up
In a house arrest.

Helmet

To all my fellow bike riders,
Who have made an effort
To point out my poking,
Side stand.

Who, while coming from
The other side, warned
With passing glances,
The presence of the police.

The ones of help when
The tire was flat.
Gave a lift despite the
Trouble of a triple ride.

Even more to those who
Managed to hitch a ride,
By pushing it by one leg,
When petrol was out.

You guys deserve a
Place in heaven.
Like me who rode the
Bike without helmet.

Abandoned House

Door mats with no footsteps 

Laid for over a decade.
The thresholds deprived
Of the touch of any feet.

The doors that haven't
Lead anyone to any room.
The air, stuck in a corner,
Running out of breath.

The knives in the kitchen
Rusting away without the
Final taste of onions.
The taps, thirsty without-

The slake of water.
The furniture, with lost limbs,
The bells that refuse to sing
And the broken window sills.

Life is being eaten away
In this dust-laden slavery.
The half-life of this
Abandoned house is

Being measured by
Cobwebs, per square inch.

The audacity

The audacity of periwinkles

Growing up from the cracks
In the concrete walls.

The audacity of rats cutting,
The wires of ultrasonic repellent,
For the very purpose, it was brought.

The audacity of dogs barking,
Bulls openly mating and crows
Stealing rotis without our notice.

The audacity of the pigeon crossing,
The barbed wires to poop on
The fuelled up tanks.

The audacity of yourself in the
Mirror. The nation is in a crisis.
How dare you smile?

Whole

When I ride the bike,

At 60kmph in the rain,
I'm the head in the
Confinement of the
Helmet.

While I walk throwing
My steps against the
Blackness of the asphalt.
I'm the insignificant force
Per square feet.

As I hold this pen,
Trying to gather thoughts
To ram them against
This martyred sheet
Of trees..

I'm the illegible trace
Of the lines.

Coming up with heavy
Steps, tired.
Becoming the thud of
The door.
Spreading myself by
Becoming the bed.
Then the coldness of
The slow-rotating fan.

The mind goes numb,
The eyes slowly close.
The exquisite comfort of
The sleep invades-

Now, I'm anybody,
Everybody and nobody.
Only in the existential
Nothingness of slumber-

I'm complete. 

I'm whole.

Russian Chirps

All night he moans out

Of pain, my ailing father.

Then in the morning,

Stands in the backyard,

On his crippled leg..

Waiting for the 

Yellow-backed sparrows.

How he tells everyone

Who comes to meet him.

That the little ones

Visit him every September,

All the way from Russia.

He references his inference

To planetary motion and 

An ancient number theory.

But who cares from where

Or how they come right?

As he stands there 

Grappling with whatever

Life he is left with.

Forgetting pain with

A bag full of feed for

The migratory birds.

Maybe they talk to

Him in Russian.

Narrating the stories

Of Chekhov, Tolstoy 

Or Orwell.

For all the time he

Has served in the army,

Driving Russian tanks.

Even if he thinks,

This daily respite as

A therapy sanctioned

By Vladimir Putin.

There's nothing wrong.

Demise

In the final hour,

Her breath cracked like
An un-oiled machine,
Summoning strength to
Give it a final try.

Her eyes rolled around,
To look at whoever was
Present. Maybe she
Acknowledged everyone
One last time.

Then, I who sat, rubbing
Her right foot.
It suddenly turned cold.
When I saw her leg,
The otherwise brown-

Had turned yellow.
The kind of yellow,
You can't imagine but
When see, you know the
Horror of that paleness.

One of my aunts burst
Into a huge cry.
What was lingering in
Everyone's head was
A manifested reality.

The proper noun 

Grandma was, moments ago-
Laid there lifeless as
A body waiting to become
Fading memory.

On the third day when
The crows fed on the
Food offerings of Tithi,
It was as if a permission
Was granted to take her,

"Off our conscience."
So that we could comfortably
Push her to the realm
Of forgetfulness for the
Slow assault of time.

Surveillance

The wet stink of dog skin, 

Fresh ooze of crimson red,
Mixed in half-burnt soot
Of human hair.

The pitch dark of the
Night that hides the
Dry stare of imminent
Death.

The fear that creeps in
The thigh bones, the terror
Seeping into the nose
Through the thicked air.

Walking upright is an
Achievement.
Our Survival demands
Silence..

The bullets, as they hail
Detecting even a bit of
Louder thoughts.
Take these gags-

Suppress the muffling
Of those ideas.
We don't want you to
Die in this regime.

Heels

The pink sandals 

With heels-

Every time I run down

The stairs.

There's something about

The pair.

The beauty, the curiosity,

The sheer deception

As they neatly sit there

Intimidating me.

After weeks of familiarity.

The imagery, takes shape

Of a fetishized face.

A fantasy around them 

Grows a pair.

Then the fancy meets,

The reality one day when,

My landlord's girl,

Opened the gate.

Ahh! The disappointment.

Never meet your idols

They say. The reality of a

Fantasy is often a 

Disgrace.

Poet

The old photo frames,

With their tattered
Black and whites, still
Try to be relevant.

The fake plastic trees,
That sit in the showcase,
Mock the houseflies,
In an attempt to ooze life.

Dust ridden trophies
Looking down on the
Broken toys still seem
To be haughty and proud.

The dried flowers,
Stripped off of all fragrance,
Still peeking from the corner,
To lure the bees in vain.

And I'm sitting here,
Judging them all,
Trying to gather up all
Ill-fated words to prove..

That I'm a goddamn
Poet at last.

Best Letters

The words that hitch

A ride with the
Immediate simmer
Of thoughts.

Blown out from the
Rush of blood,
Illegibly traced on
Loose papers.

The words that readily
Manifest out of angst,
Without reasonable
Considerations.

The ones cursed
To brood in long drafts,
Often deprived of an
Address they're destined.

The best letters
Are often unsent.

Sometimes in closets,
Sometimes in bins and
In unopened envelopes..
The best letters are-

Often unread.

They linger in you,
Then in the air.
Then turn into shreds,
Of memories.

To live in you as a
After-taste of a
Long-lasting grief.

Sacked City

The empty jhulas swing back and forth,
Above the cold embers of half-doused fire.

The sunsets today seem to smother,
The whiteness of the lilies that want to be born.

The stony silence of the resolute men,
Melt away hopes of the little ones and

The grief of mothers pit against the
Distant peaks like wingless butterflies..
In an attempt to assuage the injured kids.

A vast expanse of dusk covers the torsos,
Searching for their severed heads and
The silence that covers is so terrible-

Even hyenas are shedding real tears for
Their inability to feed on the human Caracas.

And to the onslaught of plundering savages-
The God's beseech for forgiveness from the dead,
For not being able to carry out the final rites.

The dark is so deep, amidst the unlit pyres,
There might not be a dawn to the demised tale-

Of this midnight.

Apathy and Devotion

With the glut of prayers,
Temples are crowded.
The walls of the
Sanctum are tired.

The bells having worked,
Without respite, want to
Shed their weight,
On someone's shoulder.

But atheists are not
Allowed to be involved.

So every time, someone
Rings the bells to offer
Prayers to the lord-
Before they reach him,

They're being absorbed
By the walls.

Nauseated by the soot
Of the oil lamps,
The Lord hides in the dark,
Like a deaf commander-

In seek of rest from his
Seekers' relentless asks.

Intellectual Orgasam

As you unveil the face of

Another poem to me.

The warmth of opening lines, 

Hit me where they have to.

Your well-thought words

And metaphors, falling

In sync with my already,

Fired up dopamine.

As I'm through the

Third paragraph,

A sensuous little prick,

In my poetic mind and 

Frankly in all good intentions,

It's a little turn-on.

The symbolism, 

Evoking the memory of

Your beguiling smile.

The penta-tones,

Picturing your stout 

Bust and bosom..

While fondling with 

The softness of the philosophy,

The way it gets to the end.

It boggles me-

It boggles me but pardon

My language when I say-

How I want to fuck you,

From the back,

In that last paragraph.

Maybe

In a distant city, 

On a rainy day.

When you get down 

From an auto 

To find a cafe.. and 

Stride on the margins,

To avoid the flash of

Street water-

Like two strangers 

Passing by with the 

Accidental exchange 

Of glances..

May our eyes 

Meet again.

I'll act like I saw 

Someone who looked 

Like you and

Turn past the corner 

Before one of us realizes 

What happened.

Guising in the shade 

Of the past, if any thought,

Crosses your mind..

To color your imagination,

and pull you back..

And if you 

Coincidentally, 

Glide around to 

Look out for something 

You forgot-

There, in the corner,

Buried in a pretense 

Of a magazine, I stand..

Hello! 

Familiar stranger.

Damn! It'll be hard 

Not to smile.

Imagination

As I sit here in my room,

Listening to Indian classical
Fusion on low volume.

I can't help but notice,
The swish of wind and chirp of
Birds, just outside the window.

Little away, maybe be in
The backyard, someone is
Washing the clothes.

Further away,
As I consciously make
An effort to listen.

There's a drill running and
Sound of running vehicles
And honking.

Beyond that, I hear nothing.
It's as if I'm deaf.

Then I look out of the window.
Stretch of houses, shrubs,
Trees, and a distant factory.

The hill meets the sky
Maybe some faint clouds,
And then there's nothing.

This deafness after some
Meters and blindness after
A couple of kilometers..

That's the limit.

Then there's imagination,
To mend, bend, and redefine
The existing reality.

There, only there I think
We're infinite.

Fate

I kicked a stone on
An empty road.
It rolled around tumbling
And disappeared on
The sidelines.

I kicked another that
Rolled to the wheels of
Approaching car.
The driver threw at
Me a fiery look.

I took one more in
The line of action.
Upon a kick it,
Took off to hit my
Friend in the head.

Now he's on the
Hospital bed.
Who I am? He asks.
I smile awkwardly
To hide my deed.

Years and years later,
When he realised
It was me. To return
The favor, he kicked
A stone at me..

Which bounced off
A running truck and
Hit his head again.
Who he is? He asks.
Looking at him, I smile.

His pending revenge,
It might take a couple
Of years again..
While another stone,
Might be waiting for him-

With his name written
All over it.

Poetry in handcuffs

When you force out the

Words from the ghetto of

Your rigid mind.

And they slide down

Perching, through the

Labyrinth of mutilated

Thoughts.

The life out of it losing

All objectivity and

The objectivity having

Squeezed out of life..

As they cascade down

Via the pretense of

A verbose pen to spread

On the charade of a paper.

The reader has to tie

It up to a chair to beat a

Confession out it, 

For some meaning..

Only to give up in dejection,

To flush it down into

Forgetfulness; in search of

A better meaning to life..

Than this tragedy 

Called poetry.

Symphony

In the good old backyard
Of mine in the village.
Nothing is in order.

Things lying around,
In their own emptiness,
Try to ooze life somehow.

The swish of wind,
Clips on the cloth line dangle.
To which the yellow
Marigolds rhyme in sync.

Crows caw from the
Eucalyptus.
Torn saree stuck in
The fence flutter and
The the periwinkles
Dance in style.

A broken chair and
Handicapped cot observe
This from where they sit.

The water pipe unevenly folded
Lies around with the broom
Like they're on a blind date,
To this concert.

Then there's a wooden log,
Paint-can, coconut husk and
A gunny bag full of trash.

A big water tank,
Then the water cans
And buckets.
Joining in as a family.

Washing brush, surf,
A dishwasher and a small
Stool on the marble slab.
The coterie glancing around
Enjoying the dusky sky.

In a shocking sort of awe
A hornbill comes hooting to
Relax in the crown of
The tamarind tree.

And like hell, the broken
Bicycle in the corner must be
Wishing for a bit more life to
Enjoy this evening's..

Symphony.

Role Change

Abusive fathers

Have turned to

Doodling and

Caring mothers

Are looking for

Amends by cooking

Really bad food. 

All the uncles 

Have stopped

Giving free advice.

Aunties have 

Stopped poking

Noses in personal

Lives.

The grandmas

Are forcing up

Sugar-free diet.

The site grandpa

Bought for 5k is

Over a crore now.

Friends have all

Turned decent and 

Stopped drinking.

Winds of change

Has gotten to me too.

I'm not masturbating.

The Coup

I sleeplessly flutter my eyes

To the long howling bark

Of my landlord's dog.

Is it her unanimous pledge

To the distant cry of others 

Of her kind? or,

Tonight, like every other,

They're celebrating the 

Delusion of dead humans?

Sometimes, I like to fancy this,

As a battle cry for an attack 

To overthrow our subjugation.

But then out of sheer loathe

Towards this bitch downstairs,

I would like to think of her-

As a petty snitch.

Who has been sent here to 

Spy upon us. 

To the lure of food and

Shelter.. or her own

Stockholm syndrome.

She seems to have betrayed 

Her tribe. To howl now, 

At this hour; for a display of-

Her fake allegiance to

Her lost comrades, who,

Hopelessly wait for her cues,

For a coup.

Chappal

Made of rough fabric,

Brown, size eight.

Off the main road,

By the Banyan tree,

A chappal sits, sullen.

In misery.

Thrown out off the 

Temple yard, kicked out 

To the sidelines, don't know

By how many.

A tramp in rags,

Picks up the discarded,

Measuring her against 

His foot.

And the kids laugh

As he walks, wearing,

An unsuitable match.

That's how it is,

Recycling, is bad 

For capitalism anyway.

For the religion,

It's widow remarriage.

Kaudi- The blanket

In her last years, Nani spent

All her time stitching Kaudi.

She did tens of them and gave

Them away to her loved ones.

She would gather all the

Old clothes, cut them up,

Stitch them in patches on

Stretch of old sarees.

These blankets she stitched 

So meticulously, almost

Every hour of every day,

Looked like her biography.

All the childhood memories,

Scattered in the red patches.

Her teenage days in the

Checkered yellow ones..

In the glittery embroidery

On the borders. 

Maybe about her first love 

Or a crush if there was one.

I got the last one of 

Her final work.

One of the nights,

The green patches in mine,

Told me all about the raw guavas 

In her father's backyard.

Now that I keep thinking 

About those violet, brown 

And the pink patches that 

Haven't yet talked..

Maybe that's where the rest

Of the world's libraries hide.

Man's Oldest Friend

So we grab you when 

You're just a puppy. 

We feed you, nurse you. 

Cuddle and sometimes clean 

Your shit. Then let you be in

Our family portraits.

We put on a leash, to let you

Roam at our will.

So you can jump, run and

Drag us to heaven and hell.

And when you have urges and

In seek of a mate, if you

Go on smelling genitals in

The streets. How dare you?

How dare you, 

Hop on the females? 

How dare you,

Publicly display affection?

Your sex drive doesn't 

Suit our morals you silly.

You need to comply to

Fall in our norms.

Here's what we shall do,

Let's sterilize or castrate you.

Even if you wanna procreate 

To take further your lines.

Then let's choose the best,

To engineer the cute ones..

When we say, 

Selective breeding is the best.

You should believe us as we've 

Always catered to your interests.

After all, you're humankind's

Earliest friend.

Weapon

In the first year,

He pees a trajectory.

That hits his father's

Nose.

At age five, he takes

Aim at a street bulb.

Hits it accurately,

With a stone.

When he turns ten,

Shoots off an arrow to

Damage a pig's eye,

From a wooden bow.

Then he fancies a

Slingshot at the turn,

Of fifteen. Off the roof

A pigeon shortly falls.

Now that he turns

Twenty-five, and

Stands holding a gun

In front of the mirror..

Unable to pull the trigger,

'Phew-phew-phew' 

He says..

He doesn't know why.

His tongue can be a 

Better weapon, 

Its agility Over the years

He has realized.

And in the thirties, 

He has but a big mouth,

To repeat lies and

Hack minds..

Weapons bring you

Victims. With words,

The victims become

Your weapons.

Propaganda works

That way.

Words are deadlier

Than bullets.

These days that's why 

He's fully engaged..

In political debates.

Sublime Story

Ever since I was a kid,

Each year this girl came

To the temple outside

The village for special Pooja.

We too went as a family,

On to seek Hanuman.

After many encounters,

A precedent was set.

I looked at her, she at me.

Our eyes met.

The permanence of this

Connection was limited

To recognizing each

Others' existence.

Only in fleeting glances,

We existed.

Then one year, she

Didn't come.

Then the following year

And a couple more.

Must have been married off.

To think about the worst,

The concern was not 

Beyond usual curiosity.

This year when I sensed 

A couple of eyes upon me.

With no usual ponies, 

Skirt or chudi..with a kid 

In hand, she stood there, 

Wearing a beautiful saree.

When I caught her eyes,

She smiled before looking 

Away. Then she went on

Her way and I, on mine.

So almost every year,

I met this girl.

In fleeting glances we

Recognised our existence.

Then she was on her way

And I returned to mine.

Some stories are feeble enough 

To be simple and sublime.

Tired Fragrances

The wafted smell of jasmines,
While he passed the street yesterday.
Took him to the days when
His mother still fancied them
In her braid.

How his father brought her wreaths
From The local markets.
How even she herself,
Stood arguing with hawkers,
For an extra inch of the wreath..

But now she doesn't wear any.

While his father passed away
And in what forsaken book
It must have been etched,
About the husband-less women,
And the flowers she fancies.

And if the natural order is just
And beauty and desire are
True measure of existence..

Then in every market,
In the every hawker's wickers,
A handful of Jasmines that
Ought to be in a mother's braid..
Wither in tired fragrances.

And in all glory, when they
Waft past the noses of all the over-aged
Sons, they slap them awake to
The loneliness of their widowed
Mothers.

Hypocrisy

Every time a male

Figurine pops up,

You pull up the ghungat 

To cover your face.

That's how women

Uphold family pride.

You go to the kitchen,

Whenever you're sad.

Sit down alone with a

Knife and an onion.

That's how dear,

A lady should cry.

You hide your panties,

Under a T-shirt on the

Cloth-line. Don't forget 

To clip them tight.

That's how female the

Underwears are dried.

And as you brood there,

Connecting the dots,

Back to the hypocrisy 

Of the tears and

The panties in disguise..

You may as well 

Consider the possibility

Of climbing up the ego

Of patriarchy to jump

Down to our self-respect..

As that's how your gender 

Should commit suicide.

Dissolve

Out here, upon this hillock.

As the tiny lavenders ruffle,

To the brush of my palms.

Little grasshoppers run

Awry and birds flutter their

Wings in a hurry.

Across the horizon, the clouds,

As they gather and bring

Upon the blessings of rain.

It occurs to me..

Right here. Right now. 

How I could just melt away,

Dissolve in the rain, and

Run down the muddy stream,

Flow through the city,

Join a river and then the sea.

Swim along the coastal shelf,

Mock them little fishes and

Freeze off to the dread of sharks.

It occurs to me, how beauty

And feeble gestures of nature,

Fills these hollow spaces in us..

Soften our edges to make us

Aware of our own existence,

Individuality and imagination.

Simplicity

Grandma said we

Hiccup when someone 

Really close misses

And remembers us.

The spasms of 

Diaphragm or uneven 

Flow of air to lungs 

Doesn't matter to her.

Likewise, to hell with 

Nebula, supernova or

Any of those 

Star-forming events.

She says, whenever

A loved one dies,

They appear in the

Sky as stars.

Now that she's dead

And I sulk on this

Terrace alone with

A beer in hand..

Looking up at the

Night sky at the

Stroke of midnight.

I wish, my fucked up

Life could cascade 

Down a little to that

Level of simplicity.

So that I could believe,

In the possibility that

The twinkling of the

Star in west-horizon,

Is because of

My dead grandma's

Hiccups.

Remembering and Forgetting

Reveries thrust

In beer bottles

Before discarding. 

Memories stashed 

In cigarette butts

After forcefully 

Forgetting. 

Any subtle trace

Of poetry that

Arises in my head.

I squish it with

My fingers and

Wipe out the stains

With masturbation.

Maybe I've 

Developed a liking 

To punish myself

This way. 

Dopamine works 

In a strange way. 

This repeated effort,

To remember and

Forget has formed 

Rough striations in

My brains. 

And whenever I rub 

My thoughts

Against it, the tones

That finds me..

Cascade down like

Sharp thrust of a

Needle down my 

Bones and I can't

Complain.

Incompetence of Language

In a language-less world,

When all the sharp objects,

Fail to capture human 

Desperation on rocks.

The quills stutter on the

Rough patches of parch

With the ink that's absorbed 

Across the surface.

I would want to sit staring

At the depth of your eyes,

Till a civilization falls at

Your feet, pleading to

Evolve itself a language,

That could fleet across

Our unwavering sight,

Only to declare,

Its helplessness to

Capture the dimensions

Of this one passing 

Moment.

So that then, I could 

Calmly explain, even in 

A verbose world, 

How incompetent I am, 

To describe our feeble 

Connection.

Begin Again

Each time 

The world tends

To end around me.

I rub my eyes.

Colors, flashes and

Swirl of starlight 

Gets to me.

My soul soaks in 

The Greek mythical river

That washes off

All the suffering.

Head pokes into

Into the sky of

Renaissance Italy.

Human creativity 

Is unbound.

A brief moment of

Belongingness 

Gets to me. 

Kind of nostalgia 

For unknown things..

Craving for that 

House that's not yet built.

To a place I haven't

Set my feet.

On the streets of

Ancient China,

Our eyes briefly

Meet..

We exchange a

Tiniest measurable

Human connection.

And that's where my

World ends.

So I rub my eyes

Again.

Swirls, colors and 

Bizarre series of

Accidents bring

Me here..

To meet you as

A stranger again.

OCD

Sometimes, it feels like 

My chair has a set of eyes.

That it creepily stares at me

To suck all my dreams.

It feels like the wall clock,

Has a pair of ears.

Makes me uncomfortable,

Thinking if it knows my secrets.

I wonder if the gas-cylinder 

Has a nose that sniffs off

My stink and snorts up 

Whatever ambition I'm left with. 

The metal-lock, perfume-bottle. 

The helmet, the iron-box.

The more I look at them and

Think, the more creepy they become.

I freaked out one day and

Accidentally came in front of

The mirror..

My eyes were a pair of chairs.

Two clocks in place of ears.

I sneezed out of shock and

The gas off my nose caught fire. 

Withering Fantasies

My focus goes 

On the eyes first.

Sharp nose next. 

Chubby cheeks, 

Juicy lips,

Waist that brings 

Out the bust. 

Breasts square root 

Of her butts. 

Unbuttoning, 

Her elegance in

A red dress, to

Eat away the

Desire hidden 

In her chest. 

She has been

Far away from

So long. Ahh! 

Disappointment 

Gets me each time

In the guts. 

Cacophony of

This rush. 

How to contain 

Four inches of 

This lust? 

Simply jerking 

Myself off, to

These withering

Fantasies isn't 

Just.

Give away

Open your palm 

And slowly clench it. 

You may wanna

Catch the wind.

Look at the moon,

And slowly close 

Your eyes. 

You may wanna 

Preserve that light. 

As you sit there,

Reclined. A leg, 

Upon another..

And as you lift one 

Ass-cheek..

To comfortably,

Exhale, from 

The other vent-

Hold your breath. 

You owe the

Moment to others.

Let them have an

Opportunity,

To rinse their noses

With primordial 

Gas of your belly

That's scented with 

Hydrogen sulfide.

Pain

The leeches, 

That slither down

Our skin.

The vermins that

Eat over the 

Leftover sleep.

We're not afraid

Of the devil, 

That pays a visit

In our dreams.

The wounds, 

Inflicted this way 

Can eventually

Be healed. 

The worst kind

Of pain has certain,

Hidden softness

About it. Like-

The rose petals

That slit open

Our veins..but

We've been happy

About the smell

That has stayed. 

The bygones,

Who left a memory 

Without care and

The nostalgia, 

Has been ruining

Our days in vain. 

Prison is a bad

Place anyway.

But when we,

Romanticize, 

We scratch open

The scars again.