Unchanged Odds

In a world where they
Ask the right questions in
The wrong time and the wrong
Ones at the right time.

I ask the right question
At the right time and
You don't agree to meet
Me over a coffee.

So I shift to a world where
Things are reversed.
To ask you the right questions
At the wrong time and

The wrong question at
A right time. Only to get
Rejected twice.

And in a world where
The questions and the
Answers are banned.
I bottle my emotions to
Sell them in your street.

For years no one buys
Anything. At the distal
End of an apocalypse.
When everyone starved,

And thirsty for love.
I sought you thinking,
You might need something.
Even then you chose to be

A vile bitch, who thought
She could figure it all out,
But ended up dying of
Dehydration by a creek.

My Name

I'm named after T-90
Russian military tank.
Ajay means, undefeatable.

My father must have thought
Of unsung heroes of his
Battalion before pledging their
Valour in my name.

But the warrior in me gave
Up a long ago.
The sword was no more
Thirsty of blood.
My battlefield, no longer
Hungry for death.

But my words are as angry,
And as sharp. As volatile
And as strong.
Ohh poems are not weapons
You may say and my kind-
Not worthy warriors of a
Bloodshed.

But wait, "Yankee Doodle" to
To "La Marseillaise".
"Arab Spring" to
"Bolshevik revolution"-

All the weapons lied idle,
Till the songs of turmoil
Hammered boiling blood out
Of sleeping citizens..

So I'd say, "Say..My..Name.."
Though it doesn't rhyme
With Heisenberg, but You'd 

Still be goddamn right.

Mom's Teenage Photo

Wearing a black top and skirt. 

Standing beside her mom. 

The teenage photo of my mother, 

From an old album- 

Her gleaming eyes with dreams, 

Boats and untamed seas. 

It breaks me when I see her in 

The kitchen now. 

Maybe it is the story of all 

The moms. They capsize their 

Boats. Erase their seas. 

Forget it all for a compromise.

They should all gather in a 

Place one day. To stare at this

Singularity called society. 

Stare long enough till

All of us could understand. 

Leave understanding, 

At least acknowledge.

Stare enough till the guilt in us

Oozes out like an angry river. 

The guilt of confining them, 

The guilt of hiding their teenage

Photos from themselves. 

Guilt of killing their dreams and 

Guilt of how it has been a

Systematic genocide.

Recommending Songs

The songs I tell you about.
How the lyrics go, how the bass
Feels against a changing weather.

How the particular tone of it has
Soaked in a memory of mine
To become a fragrance.

I can smell it now. 'Rehai' playing
Against the soothe of her face,
Trying to absolve me from a
Confined place..

My soul comes out of the body
To stand on a table to guide me
Through a cosmic dance.

Then it screams about
My performance,
To an invisible audience.

And when I recommend you
That song and you can't talk about
It with the same euphoria..

I'd point you to my best friend to
Convey, how he'd exactly react.
I know you may call us gay,
But that's all right.

I just hope, you really listen to it
One more time. We need a
Third wheel you see and that's

The only screening we felt apt.

Old Dharwad

I feel like I met you in

Old Dharwad, where

Cement hasn't smothered 

The roads yet.

Your face gleaming with

Rusty shops and hints

Of raw literature that

Runs in the streets.

We sit in a forgotten 

Restaurant to have 

Haap-Cha and Girmit,

And you appreciate it

Using the only cuss word 

I've taught you.

You ask the meaning again,

It's just a superlative I say-

That's too much cultural 

Exchange for a day.

Your Punjabi soaked in

Kannada, our story 

Like a redundant name

Of a Hindustani song-

We walk from Railway station 

To my college, like

Postman carrying a letter,

From 1950s to the present.

Gothic Bitch

A woke who identifies 

With spectrum of genders..

Yet she doesn't get laid.

A fascist who enslaves 

Low borns but even they,

Detest her to say nay.

She can do anything to 

Get laid, this Vixen is a

Sex addict and is ready to

Be anyone's bae.

She tried to seduce the Devil 

Once but he said he's gay.

So she pulled out a weenie 

By identifying herself as male.

That too ended up in

Disappointment. So she sold

Herself to Bengali baba,

To become an enchantress.

But that came with a condition,

She can never be straight.

She's this type of lesbian now,

Who cuts male genitals to 

Use them for her scissoring 

Sessions. That's the best 

Revenge she says..to hunt

Men who don't respond to 

The nudes she sends.

Transitions

The smell of one city
Before it gets lost in the
Newness of another.

The nostalgia of the previous
House before it gets
Consumed by the aura of
The next.

The late night's hangover
Of a Sunday brushing its
Madness on the face of
Monday.

Failed resolutions of
This year trying to coexist
With new ones in the first
Week of next year.

Transitions are fleeting
Dungeons, where a little bit
Of both sides exists in
Peace for a brief while.

Like the warmth of palms
On one another after a
Shake-hand and the hints
Of your face on hers-

Before I kissed her.
The poems I once wrote you,
Show a way to new ones
And how I wanna write her

A hundred more now.

Deprivation

We love where we've
Come from and we're
Thankful. A square meal
A day at least..and..

The rags we think of as
Clothes for some
Harmless warmth.
And to breathe clean air,

Taste some neat daal
And maybe some roti.
Life today smells like
Eye full of sleep.

The bright morning
Hasn't come at our peril.
The night had no
Surprises that could kill.

There's a blip in our
Fate it seems. Someone
Has skipped work in our
Tormenter's office.

So much worse could
Have happened,
But we're lucky to
Another day's laugh.

A swoon of gratitude
Towards everyone,
For letting us have
Another day's life.

Could Have Been Gangster

While he and I played under 

The tree- we four years olds.

A dispute arose around 

A toy we found.

The little conflict turned 

Serious when he ran to

His kitchen to fetch a knife,

I to mine, to grab one for me.

In the next five minutes,

We stood staring at

Each other in the street, 

Ready to stab.

His mom came out in time

To bash up both.

What a waste, ruined a

Chance of me growing up

In a remand home to pick up 

A little broken Spanish..

To utter 'Que pasa..' in 

Marathi accent before stabbing 

The final goon, in a future 

Gang war.

The Childishness We've Outgrown

To have us feel 

Each other's breath, 

You inhale a chunk of air 

To exhale it steadily on  

My belly.

You ask me to do 

The same. I think you're 

Crazy but I do it anyway..

The warmth creeps under 

Our skin..it tickles.

It's a bit of an innocent kink,

Makes us foolishly 

Giggle.

When did this fragrance 

In us lost its way?

We love, like dark strokes

In shades of grey 

These days..

The lost revolt of colors 

In the dark..

Two drooped flowers,

Not even excited about 

The morning sunshine.

You say 'I love you '

From the other end..

And I don't instinctively 

Conjure my wit to 

Flirtfuly say..'and lust..?'

Inheritance of Trauma

You storm the inspection area
Your dad had prepared.
You ransack it with your gang.

In a fury, he sells you off to a ship,
That sails to unknown lands.
Holding the same grudge, you

Excel in your chores, teach
Yourself cooking. Find love,
Make children and eventually

Become a world-known chef
Of the hopeless ship that
Heads almost nowhere.

One of those big days, when
Queen of England was hosted
You were in charge-

Of the big feast. Your son topples
The buffet table on the guests
And you turn seasick..

The higher-ups ask you to throw
Him in the sea but you roast him
To feed him to the delegates.

Your deceased father is horrified
By the scene. So he travels back
In time to not sell you in angst.

But time travel doesn't exist
Does it? And all the un-addressed
Trauma never gets fixed.

So all the metaphorical suffering,
Is transferred to all the symbolic
Victims. Molehills of parents

As mountains on children's
Shoulders- a dynamite underneath,
With a trigger, God knows what.

We're Dust

We're dust that never settles.
The winter wind carries and
That of summer keeps it afloat.

Stays in the sky no matter what.

Bouncing off the fluttering
Wings of birds and frequencies
Of the dragon files.

Reflecting the sunbeams and
Keeping the earth cool,
The patterns of Tyndall...

Painting the sky red and in
Other shades. We're sunrise,
And the sunset. A blip of

Aesthetics in the mundane.
We seem to be harmless and
Not a matter of concern..

Till we get into your eye or
Maybe even the nose,
To assert our presence.

That's how Dinosaurs vanished
Right? Dust occupied the
Sky and there was a long winter.

Wishful Mirage

Your nimble fingers run over

The bare skin of yours sometimes.

They complain about this

Sack of a husband of yours.

Then you drool over the ghost of 

The dead relationship of ours,

And fail to force yourself to

Look down upon me..

Do you remember me?

Creating scenarios in your head

To break it all for once..

To run away to this place I once 

Confided you with..

You'd still find me there, 

Building castles in the air. 

Standing close, looking at me 

With your filled-up eyes to say..

How this and everything esle

Was my frigging mistake.

But I understand your frustration 

And let my long gaze convey

It all. To once again meet

You in a mirage.

Acknowledgement

Broke, lonely. Stuck in

The summer of Delhi.

The fan stops working 

That night.

Mosquitoes invade.

Irritated and sweaty. 

You sleeplessly roll around.

After an hour-

The electricity is back,

The slow soothe of rotating 

Fan makes you realize about 

The companion you were 

Really missing.

Until his absence was 

Felt, you didn't know the 

Importance of his existence.

The next day, you clean 

Him up with a cloth.

Somewhere you knew,

Gratitude is one of the best 

Way of acknowledging 

A friendship.

Boundless

The songs of the languages 

I don't understand..

I don't want to thrust words

To this feeling.

I want music to cut my

Sanity, frequencies to

Suspend my vanity.

I want hands of this illusion-

To reach my belly to churn

My realities to make me align

With whatever isn't discernible 

And is not in boundaries.

Too much awareness is

Weighing me down.

I want unicorns to invade

Earth and for them fireflies 

To enslave us. If somehow 

Sparrows fall in love..

With the Periwinkles that 

Learn to fly..

Take me there and wake

Me up.

Feather

Undress yourself, stand stout 

Like there's no burden on 

Your shoulders.

Peel yourself wound by wound 

In front of the mirrors.

Conquer what's left of you.

Layer by layer grow thin..

Light as a feather and

Fly to the cues wind.

Stop when it doesn't blow.

Rise when it does and 

Sour when it tries to rush 

Itself to new highs.

Wind is life. Don't expect

Too much as there isn't.

Laugh when it makes you 

And weep when it 

Wants you to be sad.

Stay quiet and accept the

Things as they are.

But don't take your leg off

The accelerator, as 

Shortly there's gonna be

An opportunity to fly.

A period of calm might 

As well be a pullback to 

Set you in an vigourous path.

Ancient Wounds

It occurs to me in a 

Sudden rush of angst and 

Excitement that I should 

Just text you. 

Talk to you about all the 

Places I have been..

And in all those places, 

How I've missed you 

Deliberately, to stamp 

Your face, in the high of 

The mountains, rivers and 

The slow betrayal 

Of the evenings.

On a hidden beach, 

Watching the waves crash 

And ships fade on the horizon. 

I wait for a bottle that 

Carries a letter from the 

Other side..

This knack for nostalgia 

And the reasons
You give to scar myself..
I scratch them in rhythms 

You know..

To listen to music that 

Screams your name in 

My ancient wounds.

Four Hundred Eighteenth Time

I imagine your face while
You refused to meet me.
Your hateful gloomy eyes
That shed for me the last
Drop of tear..

I imagine yourself wrapped
In an ornate saree to
Give yourself away to a
Husband, for what mistake
Of mine?

I imagine you hiding me
In the syllable of your
Second child's name, after
The regret of not doing that
With the first one, as you
Still had some hate left.

I imagine you feel a
Pair of eyes on yourself
When you visit the Shani
Temple every Saturday..
Searching for the stalker
In me in the crowd.

But I slide in time avoiding
Your gaze.. the successful
Four hundred eighteenth
Time, since your marriage.

The Romantics

Someone among the lot,

Would send an SMS

To watch the moon..

Good days back then.

Sun rose beautifully and

Even in the sunstes,

We had our hearts.

We, four-five romantics,

Sharing books and poems.

Good songs and talking 

Like everything would 

Remain the same.

We wrote, posted letters

To each other. Sometimes 

Met one another before 

The letter could reach.

Where's that craze gone? 

The grit of life we could feel 

Under our noses like we 

Breathed a special air..

It's been cloudy lately,

The moon has been 

Masked by a haze. 

The desire to reach out to 

Each other is so shallow..

That the longing to walk 

Barefoot often meets with 

The complaints of the lawn 

Being damp with 

The dewdrops.

Science Guy

Your grandpa claimed to have
Seen ghosts when he spent
The night in the farm.

Your uncle claims the same.
And your father asserts it
With one of his encounters
In a Himalayan jungle.

Hallucinations, too much
Alcohol and schizophrenia.
You come up with an explanation,
As you're a science guy.

But the voices in your room,
Still persist. How do you
Explain that?

A guy in Reddit claims,
Carbon Monoxide can cause
Delusional manifestations.

You buy a meter to measure
Monoxide levels. In that part
Of the corner, where the
Levels are high...

'Hola Grandson,
Fuck your science' says a
A shadow cast on the wall.

You get hold of the Hanuman
Statue in angst, that you
Had as a backup.

Snake Bites the Tail

I look you in the eyes 

And you look in mine. 

For a while each question 

Stands answered and 

Each puzzle solved.

Our lips quiver and we

Explode in a fire of desire.

But love still asks 

Un-answerable questions,

Beautiful or not.

But the answers do not 

Matter when we subsume

Ourselves in one another..

The questions and answers 

Shake hands now.

The snake bites its tail and 

We become a paradox.

Hungry Graveyard

You take your father on a

Bike ride, over-speed and

Lose control over a hill.

Fall off a cliff, he dies 

And you survive.

You're in the streets of

Old Hubli now witnessing 

The funeral procession 

Of your friend's dad you

Couldn't attend before.

Your brother is hit on duty,

The minister who was 

Supposed to inaugurate 

A hospital in your hometown 

Gets killed.

Your subconscious seems

To have become a hungry

Graveyard that feeds on

Simulated demise of

Close ones...

This one time you couldn't 

Kill yourself and you 

Enslaved your best friend 

To do the favors.

But he refuses.

To assert command,

You yell, 'Who's your Daddy?'

'Ain't no gay' he says and

Kills himself instead.

Boundaries

A wasp goes astray,
Stinging my insides.
Bombards around wild
To find a vent out.

I clench my belly,
Pour out my lungs.
Heart pounds like it's
Stuck in my nose.

Sweat finds way out
Of my skin, but then
The feet turn cold.
Caught between the

Embargo of fight or flee
The legs quiver like
They've seen
Wolverine's zombie.

But can you escape
Yourself? The boundaries
Of yourself in your
Third eye?

Can you ever be free?

These inner revolts that
Are always squished...
Zombie apocalypse with
A happy ending.

For better or worse,
We always end in ourselves.
The Self is a dictator
Of third degree.

Father-Son

Your father is hospitalized
When you're on a trip.
You head back readily to
Assist your mom.

The resentment you had
About him melts in the
Background and a sense
Of gratitude fills you up.

The urge to utter that
Last 'thanks' gets stuck
In the clutter of paying
For the medical bills.

He recovers anyway.
Only to abuse your mom,
The way he always did.
You translate your gratitude

Into an unapologetic elegy
That doesn't materialize.
But this isn't the first time
This has happened, right?

Maybe that's how this
Father and son thing is.
This relationship,
Always dissipates-

Between the gratitude
You can't express and
The hateful elegies
You almost wrote.

Abortion Receipt

In the top right compartment
Of the old store room,
She has stashed an
Abortion receipt.

Numbered 79, guilty of
Not even bothering to think
Of a name for the fetus
She had shed.

Smiles at her 10 years old
Sometimes. Trying hard
Not to tear up to
The fact that,

The would have been
Eldest kid was the curse
Of a rapist, whom she was
Compelled to marry.

Un-dated

September 2011, fresh out of
School. The journey I took to
Allahabad for an interview..

The train and 'Teri Meri' song
Playing against the flashes of
Your face...

Took a detour to Mumbai while
I returned. Met you outside
Kurla station past 11 pm.

So brief, could only have
A plate of Pani Puri in haste.

Sneaking past the railings
While I climbed the staircase
Of the platform.

I remember your fading
Image as you swayed your
Hand to bid me a goodbye.

The love and longing that was
Budding that didn't go
Beyond a dead friendship..

I rejoice that moment with a
Wishful thinking now. About
The 11 pm Butterfly that might

Just be alive, waiting in a limbo,
Outside Kurla station, on every
Un-dated September night.

Sneezable Sneezes

This euphoria doesn't
Subside. Sticks like
It would never end.

Heart beats fast.
Blood rushes to head.
I can feel it thump my

Scalp from below.
It feels something
May breakout aloud.

But it doesn't.
It's like a sneeze
Poised to rush out

But sticks in the nose.
You conjure all strength
To get it out but

It dissipates.
The moment is gone.
Now you're tired.

The big event you
Conjured your energy for..
The sneezable Sneezes

That go unsneezed.
The un-ceremonious exits
Hurt the most.

When You Truly Arrive

There should be a hill outside
Your village. A narrow,
Walkable path up to the top.

There should be rocks, a lake
Fruit Laden trees and incessant
Rains to complain all season.

There should be an abandoned
Temple with names of lovers
Who didn't marry each other.

The old men and the young
Should talk about a vague ghost
That comes alive every new moon..

The adamant rusty hearts of boys
Who play cricket in such places
To prove them otherwise.

The grannies making papads,
Daughters going to schools.
Memories of making kites.

And years later when you
Return from a distant city..

The smell of crushed flowers
In wet tar, tickling your memories.
There should be a feeble heart

Blessed in you, that screams
Butterflies when you truly arrive,
To this place, you belong.

Love is Blind

Love me like a madhouse that
Hates that one sane person,
Who thinks we're just statistics
Of a sample size.

Love me like a thief who stood
Still for the national anthem,
Than figuring out his escape
In time.

The madness and passion
Crossing that fine line of
Sanity.. I tried to love you like
A drunkard, high on stories.

But you forgot our beginnings
And the end. Crumpled what was
There in the middle saying
You didn't know how to stab..

Then you did.

I bleed holding your name in
My mouth and a knife in the back.
A laugh in my heart and a prayer..
That chants, love me like a

Tormenter who loves her whips,
And the sheep that sang praises
For his butcher before succumbing
To the itch of his stomach.

Where Irfan meets Ila

I just wrote a poem for you.
Apprehensive. Little afraid.

In the world where Irfan
Doesn't look in the mirror
To feel the weight of his age.

And reveals himself to Ila in
The restaurant that day.
There-

There, these unapologetic
Poems of romance blossom.
Hundreds of them.

Eventually, you turn them
Into a giant airplane and
We fly to Bhutan.

For a Teen in 30s

I've sliced a part of my
Heart and given it away
To you in apprehension.

It stays bitten between
Your teeth. Bleeding a bit..
Little salty, and tasty.

Waiting for a place in your
Eyes, the other pieces,
Await... Not knowing

Whether to heal or stay
Bruised.

And the knives of your
Lips that try not to kill,
Yet twist inside my gut...

Ahh! what can I say,
Falling in love with a teen,
In the early thirties..

It isn't easy. The knees
Creak and my back hurts.
Mirrors scream self-pity..

I shy away a little. But yes..
I've decided to preserve
The periwinkles that have

Already blossomed.
The cracks they've left in
My enclosed walls.

Things are visible now..
There's light. Colours.
I want to paint.

Sins

The first time I saw the sea,

Set foot against the incoming 

Wave that washed my feet-

I didn't know until the freshness 

Hit me that I too had sins

That needed to be cleaned.

When the waves touch me

To recede. Constantly inviting

Me to erase my footprints,

That lead upto the castle of  

Humiliation and defeat. 

I comply. But not fully.

I manage to preserve that

One footprint, which only 

I could see. An untouched sin..

More like a memory. A hole

In my Soul that needs my

Body to make it complete..

The need for an immoral act,

To keep the prayers alive

And have this life going.

Usual Day

Half of me loves the other half,
But the other doesn't even bother
To shake my extended hand.

This one-sided affair that hangs
In air and fights for the divide
In my breath.

Introspection is a war waged
On chaos of my brain,
The clarity I've now is a stink of  

A gutter after good rains.

The inevitability of the stench
Being dealt with the left hand on
My nose-

A usual day is my confused state,
Of sunshine and shade.
It's a lazy refuge, where..

I overthink about having coffee
With milk or just the black.
Only to end up having chai.

Fad

A story-burning ritual fell in
The groove of popular fads.
In a decided venue,
Everyone Interested would

Surround to throw theirs
In a bonfire.

Stories of those who couldn't
See made a lots of noise.
The one who couldn't talk
Amplified the fiery light.

You threw yours and now
The world is on fire.
One-half of you ran for water
And the other half..

Starved before it died.

Laadu

When her daughter comes
To the festive of Panchami.
Her mother doesn't ask
"Where's her husband?"

She knows how to read
Her veiled smile.

All night, both prepare
Laadu for the occasion and
Talk about the Jhulas and
Coconut Barfi of the old days.

The way they went to the
Farm to have lunch under
The neem tree, when
The Oldman was alive.

For a while, she thought of
Just asking, and the daughter
Too longed to tell all about her
Broken marriage..

But both know about the leaky
Roof above, which can't handle
The pour down of two people
At once.

So they gulp down their tears
By pretending to taste the
Laadus... For what use are
The sweets of a festive if not

To assuage salty grief?

Infertility

This woman who can't bear
Children, treated like an
Orphan by her own mother.

The others who don't let
Her shadow to be cast on
Newlywed brides and children.

Prayers to Gods of fertility.
Payments to similar places
Occupied by doctors.

A forsaken child seems to be
An answer to all her problems.

Not any, but her own. Though-

The orphanages fill the other side.
And this side, the bigots we're
In our homes.. we wait for..

Science to come up with an
Explanation on How silhouettes
Can induce infertility in others.

Landscapes

Soak me in the rains of
Western Ghats. Sew me sweaters
Of Nilgiris in no man's land.

I need winds of Rajasthan
To take to me to the worn-out
Mountains in Gilgit-Baltistan.

Bake me a plate of Kashmir,
Pour me a cup of Chandratal.

Legs chained to solitude,
I'm drowsy again. Slap me awake
To my primal instincts-

Make me fall, drown, and fly.
Serve me those landscapes-

I want to feast on forests
Of Chota Nagpur and
The blackwaters of Nicobar.

Levitation

Three good days this week,
Seventeen okay and ten
Good years and counting.

Four hundred rupee notes
In the wallet as you descend
Down like a king watching her face.

You forget the count of steps,
That you skipped to leap..
A good smile is enough to

Make you question reality.
Levitation is a subtle art,
Taught by the eyes that are

Intoxicating.

AI

The only virtuous man tied
A rock to his soul to drown
It down the village pond.

The fish fed on it to cry fire.
And day there was a
Serious drought.

That only happens in
Dystopian movies.
The kids in the street laughed.

'And Cut' said the director.
For the movie written for bots,
To surpass the captcha.

Unshaved Tonsure

Joined the Army at seventeen,
Salaried young bloke, High on
Confidence and hormones.

Married her briefly, and
You impregnated her readily.

The night of the early nineties,
Drunk cycling in cantonment,
Your pregnant lady on pillion-

You skid and fall, nothing serious,
But your Son has a misshaped,
Wobbly head later on.

To hide his geoid full of
Mountains and valleys-

Adamant to trim the foliage,
Maintains a profuse hairstyle
To preserve himself of shame.

You keep respawning in your 

Deathbed after every major incident,
Lord Yama asks what's the secret,

You look at your son's head and
The hustler Lord, to meet his
Monthly targets.

He has been training himself
To be a barber first, while you lie
Farting again on a hospital bed.

Tamed Mountain

The hillock that once adorned
The name of lovers on its rocks,
Has been invaded by an
Insecure Lord, who throws

Stones at young couples,
He's supposed to hate romance.

The college love that should
Have screamed wild songs,
Now replaced by monotones
Of pretentious chants.

The incels who celebrate this
Shared euphoria are proud to
Inherit this madness from a
Generation that forced him into

Celibacy to hail him as
Fertility God.

The name of his other half
Defaced, overwhelmed by
The relentless offerings, he has
Forgotten his age-old love,

That had blossomed when
This hillock was still a mountain.

Ajar

Sticking a foot at the door,
A story stands.
Not ready to come in.
Not ready to go away for good.

Life has been ajar this way.

The words that want to go out
Get caught in the wheez of
A bad cough.

The ones that wish to come in
Hitch to the juicy affairs of
The wind to fly away.

The roads always take long detours
Before reaching a place. Exhausted,
You ask 'What's the point?'

The many letters you wrote,
Invisible was the ink and
The one they were addressed to

Never believed in the silence
That could speak.

Praise to Despise

The dark grips you and cold
Seeps down to the grit of bones.
And buried in your palms you'll
Pray for the Lord of Warmth.

At the break of dawn, the first
Stroke of warmth on your face,
Paints you orange and you can't
Be thankful enough.

But by noon, he gets overhead
To hail upon your skin to bow
You down in a sweaty submission.
What was a prayer once, turns

Into a curse and at what you
Beseech for now is what you had
Despised a while ago.

Greener Grass

You descend down the stairs
Looking at the unpaid electricity bill.
Slip off the last step and your
Thigh lands hard on the edge.

It's swollen now. It wouldn't have
Mattered five years ago..but..

The soul that leaves the body
For a while in each fall..
Seems, it hesitates to return to
Your dilapidated bones now.

The age that's hailing down, even on
Your mind- What if the astral self,
Decides not to return to the hut when
It takes a nice little walk in the night?

Lured by the empty castle of a
Bodybuilder, who died yesterday,
Writing poems, the next day in the gym.
It's leg day says the instructor-

"Calves on fire, frozen knee, sweaty feet,
Welcome to this ambulatory demise,
A funeral hosted in my thighs" recited
Instead of a hundred squats.

A Ride in Rain

Your hesitation to get drenched
While you ride- drizzle, stop, ride,
Repeat on the highway.
Seeking random shelters gets
Strenuous after a while.

It starts to rain shortly.
The anterior soaks. Your thighs,
Chest and belly feel the cold first.
A bit of the wetness seeps into
Your undies from the front.

The droplets that trickle down
The helmet, get through the collar,
Drench the back, along
The backbone.

By this time, the only warmth
You're left with is around your ass.
And you distinctively feel
The last drop that invades your
Preserved abode.

It redeems you-
Like a homeless man not hesitating
To commit a crime.
You're not afraid of the rain anymore.
There's no home left to protect.

All your restraints fall off and
Soaking suddenly turns out to be
A pleasure.

Troy

Every time your mother tried to
Tame your wilderness as a kid.
You ran away with your cycle tire
And sat all day, at a potter's home.

Looking at his fingers mending
The puddle, on a rotating wheel-

The way he mixed the water in
The mud brought from the dried-up
Pond, mixing it up and shaping it out-
Must give him immense power to

Create something out of nothing.
A whole tribe of pots might hail him
As their Lord, who in his own way
Must have said..'Let there be light".

You felt something off about a
Red plastic mug among the lot,
Which was used to pour water.

Years later it occurs to you that
The little mug was a Trojan Horse
Sent to destroy a Civilization of Soil,
That can be deemed now as Troy.

Too Much Self-awareness

You self-diagnose your symptoms
And you think you're in a depression.
Then far-fetch the counterfactuals
To hit the edge of deniability.

You're hesitant to talk about it to
The only friend you've got.
You fear losing him and avoid a
Good cry that could reset your mind.

Worried about the weight, worried
About your face- your personality
Seems a fuck up and you think you're not
Worthy of even the things you deserve.

However much you try to occupy
Your mind, the emptiness shrills
Against the incoming wind like it's
A shell of conc on a beach.

Waves crashing hard on your shores,
And you giving away a slice of sanity
To each slosh.
You thought you had strong shoulders

But too much self-awareness, acts
For your own peril. Mind seems to
Have become an unbearable rock
That wants you to perish.

Sugar Daddy

Your thoughts explode into
Flowers, you fly through a
Haze of fragrance.
A deep dive in the sea to
Sail among the corals.

You ride a shark and meet
The Lord of Atlantis who
Made his mermaids twerk for
You, he wanted you to be
His friend.

You're in the Himalayas now
Somehow. Slide down on
The snow, barefoot.
You look at yourself in awe,
Your bondages peeled off-

No baggage on your shoulders
Or trauma to process.

You were given a chance
To be a feather for a day by
God knows how and you
Defied the laws of Newton, like
You're his Glucose Guardian.

Gratification

You run and run,
You run from your friends,
You run from your family.
Your guardians, well-wishers
And from yourself.

Chained to a chair, you
Run in your head.
Legs tied to a post, you
Run from wars that haven't
Yet begun.

You re-imagine possibilities
To run from the past.
Hold on to dystopias to
Take your mind off the future.

Can't talk to anyone openly
Fearing exposal of your
Vulnerabilities, in a denial
Mode constantly - winning
Arguments with yourself
That are imaginary.

You thought you wrote for
The love of it. But sometimes 

You sink in a condemnation that 

Screams a fake sense of

Achievement that comes with 

Writing.

Which you need for 

The gratification of the 'self'

That seems to be dying.

An Arm's Distance

After doing the honors of staying apart,
I stalk her secretly to read her poetry.
Happy to know that she exists and
Happy to know that she still writes.

She did the same to me earlier.
I hope she still does.

The things between us have been
Ruined to the extent that there can
Be no peace. Our volatile personalities
Clashing for no reason and disturbing

Whatever there isn't.

Better to be at an arm's distance like
Soldiers of different platoons.
We needn't be friends or enemies.
Just sticking to the blinders to

Glide forward in the campaign-
Each poem is a kill towards victory.
And we thumbs up and greet and move
On our way to conquer different hills.

When You Fall in Love

It rains when you fall in love.
It should rain.
There should be a cool breeze
Brushing against your cheeks.

The sky should paint itself in
Colours you can't name.
And in a Saree she should
Walk in slow motion.

The heart should pace up
And mind, go numb.
The bones should lose density
To skip the early phase of evolution-

So that you can have wings
To defy gravity. And you'll not be
The same once you're back to
The ground reality-

The memory of a flight is
Enough to bind you to the sky.
And an instance of her face
To create an ebb for once..

You're done for life.

Wife

Your father's wife is the one

Who supposedly said 

"Let there be light".

But your son's mother is 

Just a wife?

Seventh Day

He sits in the hall with a
Bottle of Old-Monk,
Demanding half-fried omelets
And bhindi fry-
Seventh time this week.

She oils the pan. Tries to keep
The yolk intact while sprinkling
Chilly powder and salt.

After the fourth peg or the fifth?
She waits there in anticipation
Of beatings from him.

With a fake smile as armor
That's never enough.
Just the Seventh day of the week.
Tomorrow, the first again.

What's the Taste of Blood?

What's the taste of blood
The hooded Satan demands.
And you wake up to the noises
In the kitchen--

Your dad screaming at your mom.
You stare at him in rage and
He smashes his whisky glass
On the wall behind.

His hand bleeds, unable to bear
The sight, your mom faints.
You dress him up in a fowl
Mood.

As you washed yourself,
The frozen reflection of you,
Catches your gaze in the bathroom
Mirror. In a fixation-

You lick the blood off your finger
And collapse.
'Ashy, metallic' says your reflection
And wickedly smiles, as

The hooded Satan appears
In the background in approval.

Deception

The Oldman sits on the embankment
Under the neem tree to ask
The sparrows if they have any stories.

Of the winds or the oceans or
Of the skies or of the lands
The sparrow asks.

Of you feeble-hearted. Of your
Wings and the the flight.
Of your mates and children and
The nest. Says the old man.

It chirps and picks on the grains,
And talks of her songs composed
In vain. And the flights that didn't
Fetch her any grains.

Of the rains that assured no gains
And mates who betrayed her in
Games that were together to
Be played.

He brushes it's neck and grabs
After a deception saying,
Someone didn't learn from her

Last lesson.

Gratitude of a Pet

The cat coughs and walks with
No life left. You've seen this in a
Couple of dogs before they died.

You feed him well with the hope
Of recovery and put aside the
Thought of taking him to a doctor.

You've seen human care stretch
Into leashes and neck collars.
Love get out of hand to mutilate

Their genitals, in order to prevent
Their random mating encounters.
So the only favour you could have

Done to this little beast is to feed
The left-out chicken from your plate and
Let him roam around in free lanes.

And when he meets his friends
From the city in heaven, complaining
About their deprivations.

He can have a little erection of
Gratitude for all those juicy rats,
Wild fights and unhinged mating

That you didn't deprive him of
In the streets of your dirty locality.

Gaslighting

She'll axe your chest to name
A color after your insides.
Try to pull you apart to claim
It was just to check if you were
Tensile.

She'll crumple and trample over
To patronizingly say,
A currency note doesn't change
Its worth no matter what.

But what if it burns and chars
Your core? Your ashes flushed down
Like a fistful of dirt? The feeling
Of dejection after all the endurance-

Time to hold your tits, to grow an
Attitude mate. Act like hoes come
And go daily. And leave her to her
Pimps as business is booming.

Seeded Subconscious,

Your BFF invites you to a
Ramzan feast and the friends
From school are all present.

That's when the cylinder on
The terrace blasts and his niece
Points at the culprit- her mother.

Before the shit could hit the fan,
His brother screams,
"Cut and convert the Kafirs".

Hell breaks loose and you all run
For life. Mostly save your cocks.
Your friend's fidelity occupies

Your head, while his cousin
Saves you from entering into another
Muslim locality for one last time.

You're redirected mysteriously
Into a bus stand of present-day
Hyderabad, God knows how.

You're relieved to find a familiar
Friend in the bus headed to
Your native. He smiles wickedly-

To pull up his skull-cap and you
Wake up in horror, hating yourself-
Over the propaganda that's been

Seeded in your subconscious,
By the incumbent government.

Evolutionary Serendipity

More often than not, I've thought
About the inevitability of death.
The ultimate degeneration and
Decay and sheer apathy that
Runs through the brutal expanse
Of the universe.

But the possibility of life.
In fact, the impossibility of it.
The rarity of it.
A tiny little insignificance blown
Into a walking, talking entity-

Having a corner in the world and
Loving, and caring for each other.
And almost forgetting the crushing
Indifference thrown at us by
The universe.

If life hasn't amazed us...
The sheer breathing and existing
Exercise that's offered to explore,
Further possibilities can open up-
If it hasn't amazed us..
What will?

Immolation

He has been captivated and
Castrated by the Sultan to
Induct him into the team of 

Eunuchs, that guard his Begums.

He meets his un-dead wife, who 

Survived Sati- serving as a maid
For the emperor's other wives.
Both exchange silent glances-

After months of these muffled
Reciprocations, he signals if
They can cohabit and restart
Their life all over again.

Her eyes mistakenly fixate over
His groin. All songs of longing in
His heart took part in their
Mass immolation that night.

Traps

A rat gets spotted in the room,
And five of you virgins get a
Purpose for the evening.

You close doors, seal burrows,
Guard corners with sticks,
Brooms and shoes.
Then you chase it for hours.

Someone brings up a gunny bag,
To increase the surface area
Of the trap and you nab it down
And click a selfie with it.

The nerd among the lot couldn't
Shut the fuck up, says- what if in our
Next lives, rats surround us to
Hunt us down, like we did?

All of you sit in contemplation,
To find ways to shut the loop
That you'd just left open.
The same way-

The rats above you did, after
Enslaving you all in a lab for
Human trials.

Persecution

Why the blue has abandoned 

The sky. Why the birds, 

Gone home without a goodbye?

Why the clouds been subsumed

In the dewdrops and

Why the dreams hung on 

Cloth lines, have taken the fall?

Why the legs relentlessly run,

When the destination is long dead.

Why does hope even dare to sprout 

Even in this war-torn land?

But you shouldn't ask such 

Questions, you're still a kid. 

With the next incoming missile

You'll also be killed.

Why challenge the authority 

When the ill fate is fixed?

Let's die first, if there's a

God in heaven, we'll ask him 

If he stood witness to the 

Ground reality or went into hiding,

Fearing his own persecution, 

In the hands the men- 

Who didn't spare, even 

The kids.

Cuck

She slams hard those doors
Every time she leaves,
Imprisoning me in the incomplete
Conservation we previously had.

I sit measuring the degrees of
The crime I might have committed
Against the punishment she
Has me sentenced.

She comes back guilt-ridden
Sometimes to console me but
Leaves the same way she came,
Making me feel more apologetic.

After seeking pardon and writing
Pleas to please her, I've lost hopes
Of my redemption and wait for
My fateful days at the gallows.

But it seems my condemnation was
Never to the crushing discretion
Of a noose. Her intention was to
Romance the hangman in my presence.

And after each of such un-dead
Fateful nights, 'Cuck' written
On my forehead, I wake up to the
Torment of another dawn.

Apocalyptic reminiscing

In the first conversation after
Ghosting for months,
"What would you do if I die?"
She asks. 

You withdraw yourself
From the talk and sink back
In torment,

Only to see a part of yourself
Silently placing flowers at
All the conversations you've had.

Starting with the 31st of August
When you first met and how it
Ate up all the roses you brought.

By the time you reached your
First fight, all the flowers on
Earth were done with and you..

Sat converting all possible things
Into flowers. The hills, stones,
Trees, the oceans, and fishes.

Only you were left after the
Apocalyptic reminiscing trance.

And you sat mending yourself into
A jasmine that matched the scent
Of her skin that you still held on.

Fear Of Loss

Your grandma passes away
While you massaged her foot.
The sudden rush of cold paleness,
Sticks to your palms.

The stingy shudder every time
You shake someone's hand-
A heightened suggestibility for
The fear of loss.

It's hard for you to look someone
In the eyes now.

Six feet graves in their names
With epitaphs on foreheads.
Crows start feeding on their
Funeral food, whenever you think
Of getting closer to someone.

You get past the barrier sometimes
But your girlfriend doesn't know
How many times she had to die in
Your head, before she could sit with
You to drink chai.

The Obvious

You say it's obvious.

Obvious like what? The trees
Shedding leaves in winter?
The cliche of silence before the
Cyclone in summer?

The farmers praying for rain,
Sailors cursing the same?
Children killed in war and fresh
Absence of a father when he dies?

The torment of life getting to me
And my self-inflicted wounds
Screaming even when there's
No pain?

True or false. Obvious or not.
When you say it in a condescending
Tone. Your patronizing words
Hammer my head down, and

I squeak like a slut, enslaved
To give you a hard-on.

The Ocean

The rains are failed love letters
From the sky. The earth despises
The rivers and banished them
That's why.

So every stream cries and
In solidarity, they join the ocean
To mourn each other's loss.

The waves are repeated apologies
On their behalf to the land.
But they fall short of their plea
Every time they try to reach out.

The sky curses the Ocean for
Being apologetic for its love and
The ocean is forced to feed the
Clouds now.

Not bored of its repeated efforts as
A messenger of this unrequited love.
Stretched between two angry lovers,
The ocean is Sisyphus at heart,

Who carries the burden of
Cyclical Inevitability of life.

The First Sedantary

Your great-grandpa's grandma
Was made to walk bare-chested
Against the levy of a breast tax.

Her son had to walk tying a broom
To his waist to erase the shadow
He cast in the elite streets.

The great-grandma could at least
Offer prayers to the village goddess
By standing afar.

Your grandfather was given access
To the village pond and your mother
Could file a nomination in an election.

In the long line of untouchability and
Trauma of your caste, your achievement
Was a little high level of blood sugar.

And when your community celebrated
It for an increased standard of living.
This lifestyle disease became a

Political statement. As the generational
Hard labour and abuse, took a sigh of
Relief in your diabetes.

Male line Inheritance

Every Sunday, your wife tries
To prepare Kheer, just like
Your mom once did.
It falls short of something
Every time.

Your face assumes the same
Stroke of disappointment
Your father's did, when
Your mom failed to recreate
Your Grandma's kheer.

You think of breaking the loop
After such a realization.
But after looking at your son
Enjoying the same Kheer,
You let him have the opportunity-

Of learning the art of gaslighting
That runs patriarchy.

A Perfect Transition

Triple riding, one beer to drink
At the empty real estate by
The highway.
The papadi, pickle sachet
And other cheap snacks
And lots of laugh in the
Dead of the night.

Light drizzle, and then food
At Rajasthan dhaba.
Meaningless talks, euphoric
Recollection of memories
In a loud voice.

Heading back at 2 am with a
Backache, tired eyes and
Sweaty disgust of summer.
Hating your steamed-up little
Room, spreading a mat on
The terrace in haste and falling
Asleep in the moonlight.

That sounds like a perfect
Transition of the evening into
Night.

Giving it back

Your father beats you up for
Getting beaten up by the bullies
In the school.
He advises you to throw stones
At anyone who bothers you.

It begins with dogs at first.
The pigs, cattle, and cows.
Not the bullies yet but other
Meek ones, as you wanted to
Be a bully yourself.

The harmless teacher gets
This one time. And your
Aunt gets it over a sarcastic
Comment.

The insecurity in the head gets
Manifestated in hand forever,
The supposed 'give it back'
Becomes an act of expression,
To cause unnecessary harm.

You're past the 'eye for an eye'
Thing, as everyone now is blind.
But the empty hand and your
Devil's Workshop, are compelled
To turn inward..

But who gouged your eyes?

Apparition

Your mother works in a dingy

Brothel of Kamathipura.

And each morning calls you by

The name of her previous client.

The day she uttered your 

Real name, you stood in front 

Of the mirror, to embrace yourself

Unapologetically.

And while you looked yourself 

In the eyes, the fickle alleys 

Forced into you a question-

'Who really was the client?'

Cycle

There's no secret but to wait.

Till the sand-dial settles grain by grain,
And is turned up upside down to
Do it all over again.

Drop by drop, the lake fills itself
And dries up to repeat the process.
Time is a sculptor in pursuit of an
Angel stuck in a rock.

Time is a musician trying to hear
His own patience for a serendipitous life.
So the way forward is always wearing
Tearing and rebuilding again.

Time is a ruthless, unbiased invader.
Painful for someone and a pleasure
For someone else and within a
Short while it'll reverse the roles again.

Like tearing down a mountain into
A plain somewhere and elsewhere
Gets beneath a valley to
Punch it up again.

Time fancies a rollercoaster ride,
The repeated ebbs and flows in
The fabric of space, screaming births
And deaths like bursting balloons

In a birthday party of a kid.

My empty rooms

My own empty rooms, I'm unable to
See. Unable to stick a broom to clean.
Flickers of light that refuse to reach
And I never know what's there or
What's not lurking?

Someone comes along sometimes
To open a couple of them,
Switch on the lights and sweep them
Clean and ask for matchsticks to
Prepare tea.

Years back there was a late-night party
In a couple of them.
The smokey smell of a campfire
Still remains but has been left
Unattained ever since.

These places without people are
Handicapped geographical coordinates
It seems. The numbness here grows
Shouting the absence of human touch,
So that no ship and compass
Can ever reach.

But the dried-up rivers show up to
Salvage their tragedies somehow.
And return in pity after seeing
The cataclysm that's already brewing.

Overlooking

The tree of longing that I
Watered, all these years.
Stout, lush green, supposed 

To bear fruits.

When it sulked without flowers.
The wait seemed strenuous and
I had to axe it up into bits to
Burn it piece by piece.

Now I celebrate the smoke
That's stuck around,
The pungence, the cough,
Irritation in the eyes.

But I somehow expect the songs
Of the birds that once nested
In the green shoots.

I hear and see some things that
Seep in from the cracks.
Overlooking the fact that
It's just a mirage.

Shitty Faces

They take us to an old age home
As a part of the college curriculum.
Some girls sing and make them play
Merry games. Tell them how great
They're and blah blah blah.

They must see plenty of jokers
Like us who visit them daily to
Feel good about oneself.
Maybe the oldies all gather up in
The evening to rate our shitty faces.

The best one is kept in mind
For manifestation when they're
Constipated the next morning.

Two stars

The night that you were born,
'Two stars died'. Your grandpa said
That repeatedly over the years.

The counterfactuals you learn
As you grow old.
The twinkling phenomenon,
The nebula, supernova and
The light-year distance.

On the day of his demise,
You approach his stout body
While women sat around crying.
You touch his feet for one
Last time to pay homage.

And whisper in the ears,
"Guess two stars are born tonight".
It seemed like his lips realigned
Into a crooked smile in approval.

And the stars far away in the
Distance said WTF in their language
And farted together in a fury,
Which lasted longer than
Human history.

Freedom of Confines

Hate this room, hate this life.

Need a final escape-
Emancipation for good.
So the chair that warmed your ass,
Facilitates one final climb and doesn't
Hesitate to topple this time.

The noose tightens around
Your neck. Eyeballs pop out,
Tongue sticks between the teeth
And the drool off your mouth
Greases the rusty ribs, so that

The soul could escape without grate.

The legs sway rapidly, and
The hands try to conjure help for
One last time but the feather-like
Beast, your soul, is already on
Its maiden flight- Only to get stuck in
The cobwebs in the upper right
Corner of your room.

'One prison' pushing you into another.
'The beyond' you sought now
Stares at the chair you had toppled.

And the ass-less soul misses
Its cozy warmth and the freedom
That was within the walls.

Gap in Your Name

Your parents fought hard to
Settle on a common name for you
After your birth.

As a compromise your dad
Prefixed you secretly after his ex.
Coincidentally your mom was

Relieved to know that the suffix
Rhymed with the one she once
Crushed on in school.

So you have two nicknames now
That are distinctively uttered by a
Male and a female in your home.

And the syllable that holds together
The divide in your name sits
Overstretched in silence, and that

Pretty much sums up
The life you've had till now.

Orphan?

What if you were born as a girl and
Your father abandoned your mom
For not birthing a boy?

She couldn't return to her maiden home
Out of shame and left you at a
Temple door to jump in a well.

The childless priest raises you as his
Own and years later when you wash
The stairs of the temple, as a morning ritual..

You feed a hungry old man who was
Kicked out of his home by his son.
A thought crosses your mind to make you

Wonder if you're an adopted orphan..
Then the temple bell rings after the aarti
To bring you back to your senses.

Shudra

The usual dogs go barking in
A condescending tone.
The fat zamindar walks around
Staring, to detest our shadows
In front of his home.

Most refuse to offer us water
And even the virtuous ones serve,
Low-grade beverages in discarded
Cups that are kept outside their
Thresholds, which scream-

Our untouchability, as we're born
Out of the feet of the same God
They worship.
So much hate for a little foot fetish,
That the roads of our streets are..

Deliberately bent away from all the
Temples in the village, to protect
Their religious sanctity.

The intention of our thirst is questioned
At every pond and borewell too.
And even the nature of protein in our food
Comes out as a national issue.

Then the silent gag on our mouths,
The voice stuck like a wad in our throats..

We try to put warm-salt-water to
Gargle it out every election.
But all we can muster up is a
Bad cough that is often syruped down
By luring our votes for money and alcohol.

The Caged Bird

You'll be convinced that flying is an

Illness to be pushed in a cage.

Your songs will be beaten into submission 

Saying singing is a sinful disgrace.

Your dreams will be kept for display as

Ceramic cups to serve tea to guests.

Aspirations will be caged in a Saree,

In the name of a makeover.

They'll come at you one by one,

They'll be invited in fact to rate your gait.

And your body will be judged to be

Traded like a slave.

The forehead will be used as an 

Estate to flaunt ownership in Red.

You'll be awarded a uniform that's 

Widely recognised as a gown, to

Condemn you to a kitchen.

Cutting vegetables, preparing rotis.

Only after the third whistle of the cooker, 

Your presence will be felt.

The caged bird in our country, 

Can't even sing you see, she can just cook.

You either die as a Sanskari wife or 

Live long enough to be aborted in the womb.

Between the two, if you dare to grow 

Wings, you'll be deemed as a curse. 

And If you're 'manly' enough to fly, 

It can get worse.

Aging

Chaos in my head is a complex
Network of drains intermingled so
Haphazardly that, I never know what
Comes in and what goes out.

It's like a slime mold spreading
Across a substratum, feeding and
Growing at the same time and occupying
Space to become one with the host.

It's a riot really. An angry mob in
Search of free will and my
Conscious self, a dictator who wants
To bring order.

And every time there's a police firing
There's a hairafall.
Use of water canons- there goes
Another wrinkle on the face.

Childhood was unhinged democracy
An experiment to figure out what's
Right, what's not.
Adulthood seems to be an autocracy,
The rebellion for change goes for
A toss to accommodate self-acceptance.

Old age is holding the free bird by
The neck to clip its wings and
The funeral of a flight trickles down
The bald head like it was a chain of
Command from someone above.

Roaches

Your warm breath erases my
Love letters written on cold,
Foggy windows... The sea waves
Mock the sand castles and
Take back what's rightfully theirs.

My longing rises like ash from
A funeral pyre but the bruises
Of waiting all day long don't
Douse or die.

The unwounded skin screams
For attention and all I have
Are empty rivers and it hasn't
Rained here in a while.

The only intimacy I've had with
Myself, is a stress-driven streak of
Nail biting and hopeless visibility of
Fallen hair on the floor for
Disappointment, each morning.

I sweep it every night with the broom
To forget. But what can be done
With the dust that sticks to the broom?
The nightmares are roaches that
Choose to stick.

Self-Loathing-Cannibalistic-Vegan

From childhood, I was warned
Against biting my nails saying
They would germinate in my belly to
Grow as a giant try to feed on me.

Though that gave me nightmares
Somehow, my fingers find my
The famished mouth even now.

So that's me, savoring the
Forbidden kingdom of dirt beneath
My fingernails. Sometimes even
The hardened skin around the edges-
I'm a giant who eats himself.

That's a low-key introduction of
Myself for the role of a side villain
In Tolkien's novel. What can that be
Called in a modern lingo?
A self-loathing-cannibalistic-vegan?

The vegan part is kept to trigger
A wokist dispute for that time in
The future where eating plant-based
Stuff would be cruel and you gotta eat
Yourself or your progeny, to not get
Cancelled.

Eventuality..

The fresh absence when a
Father dies,
Loudness of the vacuum..
No one wants to sit on his
Chair.

The air tries to occupy
The void after a few days.
Muffled sounds and feeble
Brush of music.

The first sweets prepared
After his demise, and
For the first time your mother
Hesitantly smiles.

One afternoon, your son would
Sit on that chair and
Years later, his grandson
Shall forget his
Great grandfather's name.

Third Whistle

It's ten past seven in the evening,

Her weary sandals take a hesitant 

Refuge besides the stingy shoes.

The saree retires to the wardrobe,

And the withered jasmines,

Part ways from her braids.

Her body is transferred to

Another uniform- a gown.

Then the vegetables are cut,

Rotis are prepared and only when 

The third whistle of the cooker 

Screams to the appeals of

The hungry stomachs..

For a brief while, everyone feels,

Her presence.

Why shouldn't it Rain?

She dances in the crowd holding
Her skirt and I feel teased.
She's like hope of rain in my desert
Of solitude and for the fleeting desires
In my heart, why shouldn't it rain?

For the last leaf that flirts with
Unfinished hopes, and the overbearing
Clouds that want to pour down.
For the earth that needs to be ploughed
And the hunger that needs to be fed.

For a longing unquenched and
Songs unsung. For the wayfarer
That hasn't reached and the night
Un-spent waiting. For the unfulfilled
Waves of the sea and premature
Death of some beliefs.

Why shouldn't it rain to reassure
The worthiness of the wait and
Sweetness of the quench when
The water has been scarce.

Man-childs

It all starts with some hopeless
Idealism when you're a teen.
Then you together read
'Motorcycle Diaries' and dream big.

But life isn't a movie like ZNMD,
Not sure who was gonna be Kabir
But you eventually turn out to be Irfan
With damnation of poetry.

The two of you lose that third-wheel
And get condemned to be just two.
The dream of forming a band is
Still incomplete, a business at least
In the near future, seems just an
Utopian wish.

But the supposed low-key Arjun
Buys a bike and you get to travel
Across Himalayas. Only that
Happens to have some meaning
In your half-baked life.

You go on a drinking frenzy one night
With this more than a friend
And less than wife nigga, thinking
That's how you end it like you're
In a Tarantino tragedy.

But your goodbyes are somehow
Saved like renewed man-child characters
In another Imtiaz Ali movie.

Necrosis

Yes, we lack purpose, hate loving.
Despise living and love the dark,
Against all social norms.
But don't call us dead yet.

The heart might not be beating in
Lieu with your scales.
Breath might not be in and out
In accordance with your cues,
As we're not slaves.

The wings flutter erratically
The thoughts derange and paths
Often change. But we're trying..

Lips are a few inches wider,
If that's what you call a smiling.
There's a small bulb light always
These days as you're afraid of me
In the dark.

I'm trying to die a little less these days.
The mutilated nose is growing back,
And the twisted feet are turning around.
Necrosis is failing and my friends in
Hell smell the stink of betrayal.

Goodbye Chester, Goodbye Willis,

Goodbye you son of a gun, Hemingway.

 
The golden drop of life still seems
To be waiting for me she says.
So I refuse to die this evening per se.

Self-

The self wanders, takes a walk,
Goes on hikes and on rainy days
Hops on untrodden paths to
Get lost for good.

Gets twisted, and stabbed in all gore.
Obliterated to dust and ash.
And each night after work,
You gotta pray, conjure and
Force it down in the confines of
Yourself to love, hate and abuse
It to keep it around.

It needs coaxing, cajoling and
Appeasing and lots of pampering.
Self is a cougar who thinks she's
In a teenage body. A gigolo who
Assumes he's a warrior's daddy.

It fleets without fidelity and
Decays fast to the cues of inevitability.
The self can become a drunken sailor
Who gambles his fate for a
Cheap bottle of rum to sink the ship
Where there's no water..

So you need to be at the helm

As a captain always, like Jack Sparrow.

Though drunk and losing control but

Playfully enough to keep the heart intact 

Even when you're lost.

Living at an Edge

We scrape our dirt, store it
In a jar and wait for it, hoping
It doesn't rot.
Poems are pickles, a decay
Used to our advantage.
A breath of life added to
Something that's dying or dead.

Incense sticks in a dirty
Dark rooms that haven't felt
Touch of a broom.
Broken chairs before anyone
Could reach to the noose.

Empty roads engaging in a
Small talks instead of losing
Track of their path and
Suicide notes deciding to
Forget it all by becoming
Paper crafts.

The drowned, saved by a
Lady's mouth to mouth.
And the ants dancing in blood
To leave a script that occupies
Your boggled head.

Looking back at the abyss
When it stares at you,
Bouncing back from the pushed
Borderlines is what gives you wings.
A breath of life to what's
Dying or dead, art comes to you
Only if you live off an edge.

First Mango of the Season

When the mango trees flower
By the start of April.
The taste buds on the tongue start
A revolt to have a taste of
The first ripened mango of
The season and they don't
Let you wait.

You pluck those tiny-bud-like
Mangoes in pursuit of your
Craving and you keep doing that
Compulsively till you find that
Final emancipating taste.

You go climbing trees and
Hitting private farms in summer
Holidays with all your harmless
Childish face but the owner
Chases you away.

You collect unripe mangoes from
The roadside to keep them for
Fruition in the paddy husk and
You don't have the patience to leave
Them to the forces of nature.

So you press them a couple of
Times a day to see if they're
Magically ripe and sometimes
The squishy pulp of the unripe ones
Makes you believe that it's ready,
Before it explodes its foul taste
In your mouth as a cold revenge.

But that's the grind right?
You chase around restlessly,
For that one over-aged ovary.
And when you find one, you peel
The skin and lick it well first.
Feed on the pulp and suck on
The stone till it's core is visible
And then play all day with the fibers
That get stuck in your teeth.

The Widow Maker

She breaks the bangles of women
Who's husbands die.
She rubs their vermillion-laden
Maang and wraps around them
A white saree like it's a shroud
To condemn them for life.

She herself is a widow,
She can't look someone in the eye.
Her shadow is forbidden on the kids
And they don't let her walk around
When the newlywed couples arrive.

In the seventh house on the fourth
Street of the village, she too
Has a humble life.
The smell of her sambar makes it
The streets daily twice,
There's hope in the bright eyes of
Her only child.

But more often than not, everyone
Tries to remind her of the closed
Paths to her maiden home and the
Jasmines in the backyard she can
Never have.

The last soft touch of her deceased
Husband crosses her mind sometimes,
Only to grip her with the cold
Hesitant hands of another woman,
Who wrapped what's left of her life in
A white saree, to make her a mere

Body of the walking dead.

One that's Supposed to come

Where's the one that's supposed
To come before it's late?
Where's the one 'I would know'
Upon her arrival and by now,
It seems it's too late.

Wide awake, I wait, for this wayfarer,
Sometimes questioning the sanctity
Of my eyes, and sometimes
The intentions of the paths that
Lead up to my house.

Sometimes stability of the lamp
That keeps flickering to the deceptions
Of the winds, and sometimes 

The sanity of clouds that keep 

Masking the polestar.

I re-oil the lamp, pray for kinder
Paths and prostrate before the
Winds invoking ancient chants.
But there haven't been any signs..

The Lotus I brought droops and
Retires to forests and the songs of
The Sparrows dissolve in the air
For it didn't find a beholder.

Seasons are tired, decades have
Passed. Lamps have made way to
The LED lights and the warfarers now
Are vloggers with Google Maps.

Yet, there haven't been any omens
But the wait hasn't stopped.

The heart seems condemned to be
Unfulfilled, like an unplayed guitar.
But the urge to compose songs renews
Each day like periwinkles in an old
Cement wall.

We're are all Bukowski's Poems

We're all Bukowski's poems,
Stolen from the rawness of stingy
Beer bottles and crotches of whores
Bedding his sadness.

The illegible bloodshed on tissue,
Left unread beneath a park bench and
The one lost to chance while he typed
On inkless ribbons.

We're all Bukowski's poems escaped
For good when he poured rum on his
Bluebird to keep it hidden in his ribs
And goodbye to his broken car,
Sent prematurely to salvage.

Fifty miles from nowhere at Twelve past
Twelve and coffee mixed taste of a cigar.
A twenty-year-old with a 9 mm waiting
To reconsider his options for one last time.

Sleep wanting a cigarette break-
Life coming alive in the dead of the night.
Swollen fingers compulsively pressing
The keys of the typewriter in an
Attempt to erase his suicide letters.

We're all Bukowski's poems, blamed
For crudity and lack of aesthetics-
'Burning in water and drowning in flame.'
Trying to stay relevant in specific niches,
Like 'Love being a Dog from hell.'

Urge

I wish I could walk past that
Dungeon but this urge to jump
Because she's beautiful..
The mole on her right cheek
And the blush that goes with
The shine of her eyes.

I'm already a slave of the swish
Of wind that's blowing past.
There's a winter crawling under
My skin and a cherry blossom in
The aridity of my heart.

I know in my head that this is
Just a hormonal act but there's
This desire to get myself stabbed..
Smash open my smothering walls
And take a plunge to give away
Everything to chance..

I bet many chose better wars.
Wet paint, guns, and fast cars.
And there are other ways to die
But this urge to drown in her eyes..🤌

Discerniblity of Time

Time passes, grain by grain like
Cooked rice in a baby's mouth.
Then it turns discernible tick of a clock
In night to hail upon sleepy senses.

You don't realize how you grew tall
And wrinkles on Grandpa's face
Progressively increased. Then,
Grandma dies leaving a void in
The family of seven.

Father's command over his gait
Changes, mother's saree starts to
Shed bright colors. Your brother's
Pants passed over to you fall short
And you grow a bit of hair on
The face and a lot, elsewhere.

Time then starts leaving marks,
And scars, claiming a couple of
Friends- one to marriage, one to
Unbearable debts and another to
A highway on a rainy day.

What once hailed upon you
At night, eventually gets to you
In the morning as you sit alone
Staring at the empty cups.
The ticks turn into threads of
Loneliness strewn across your
Coffin-like walls.

You count them initially but now
It doesn't really matter.

Smile

His face on the other side 

Of the foggy window,

Making faces, trying to make

You laugh.

You're not sure, whether

To laugh at him or this

Questionable reality.

But you know, people

Managed to have time for

Dinner in a war?

Some even managed to

Write songs about the snow

And how it covers the dead.

It's funny how a man laboring

In a wheat mill can take his

Happy siesta on sacs of grain

And go without any food 

On the plate by night.

People laugh clenching the weight 

Of hunger in their stomach.

Children build castles with

Empty bombshells and 

Thank God for the makeshift roof

He has provided.

Sometimes it's necessary to

Carve your lips wide with even a 

Blunt knife to force-feed smile 

To the gloom-ridden teeth.

The touch of all emotions is

A basic human need.

And especially when there's

Someone outside the window to

Witness your smile, bless 

The poor lad.

Passing Precedents

They break and bend the joints.

Bathe the body and tie the neck

Against the wall to make it sit

On a wooden cot.

Women cry their hearts out.

They have to.

Men can't, they've to pretend

To attend to other chores.

Some gather bamboo to make

'Sidagi', some warm their drums

For a loud announcement.

Some wait for the alcohol.

Kids from the sidelines wonder 

About everyone's mixed behavior.

They're hungry but gotta tolerate it.

By this late in the noon, they too-

Understand that food can't be

Cooked in their house of the dead.

Sidagi- a carrier for dead body till the graveyard