Misplaced word for Devotion

The days I don’t

talk to you-

I fill stardust in

the gaps left by the 

stars that died.

and you wink.

I make crafts out

of clouds, and

it rains rhyming

your shape.

I whisper your name

to the sparrows,

and their songs feel

personal now.

I trace your silence

on window fog,

watch it fade into

a fragrance-

It reminds me of a 

place only we know.

The days I don’t

talk to you- the sun 

looks overworked.

the day turns dull 

and by night-

on the ripples of 

my sleep, I write 

your name with the

Moonlight-

and when I fold my 

loneliness into

paper boats of memory,

to let them drift

towards your dreams-

only if you could look

at the sky once-

You’d know that 

distance is just a 

polite word misplaced

for devotion, and silence, 

a language we both 

still speak.

Sleep

“One more client,”

says the pimp.

“No,” says the half-awake

sack of a body.

“You should" 

he insists.

“No,” she retorts.

The heated argument

turns physical.

Her tired body,

aching for sleep-

The scuffle slips

out of hand.

She hits him

with a vase.

Then she sleeps-

sleep is important

than a killing.

'n' number of things

can happen in 

the morning.

But right now,

closing eyes

is everything.

Banishment

Eventually, we get married,

travel, have kids,

drop them to school daily,

and eat the best meals in 

the world.

We make love,

laugh, fight,

and nurse each other’s

angry hearts

like it’s our seventh life.

Slow walks in the park

in old age,

proud of the children’s

small victories-

then a quick, painless death,

as if we manifested it all

in our previous lives.

Then we are reborn again,

at different corners of 

the world.

We bump into each other

in China- only to realise 

It's is our eighth life.

By then, we would be

Bored and, as an act of love,

We decide to auction 

Each other on the dark web.

Maybe a cosmic lord

Would bid high and realise 

How he made his ninth

Mistake in a row with 

the same couple.

We'd laugh at his foolish 

Face again, and he would 

Banish us again to earth.

We'd meet again to fall

In the same cycle-

Ohh how addicted he's 

To the story we've 

become.

How to Civilize a Nation

Enter a country

in the name of trade.

Find holes in their social fabric

and take over the authority

eventually.

Find gaps in their learnings,

thrust English

into the possibilities

of their dialect.

Tell them how uncivilized they are,

and keep repeating

how you’re their saviour

till they forget

their history.

Build railways for their labour,

schools for your propaganda,

and churches for your guilt.

Call it development.

Call it destiny.

Call it discovery-

till the robbed start

thanking the robber.

Leave monuments

that bear your names,

and minds

that bear your accent.

Teach them to bow

at invisible crowns,

to measure their worth

in imported manners.

Then leave-

but don’t really leave.

Stay inside their textbooks,

their grammar,

their corporate meetings

and dating apps.

Let your empire

live rent-free

in their metaphors.

When they rise again,

apologize formally-

with hashtags,

Netflix documentaries,

and guilt-washed accents.

Rename your conquest

as connection,

your looting as legacy.

Then smile,

because they’ll still

quote you

to sound intelligent.

And centuries later,

when they speak

your tongue

better than you-

call it progress.

Silhouette of Sins

Grasp me in your thighs,

Eat me with your arms.

Coax me with your 

deprecating acts and 

burn me with touch 

of your fingers.

Throw me to the 

wolves of your eyes,

Punish me up with the 

guile of your smile.

Pull me to your bosom

to ruin me, like it's 

your right.

Give me reasons that 

sabotage rationality.

Trigger in me a theology

that's enslaves a 

behaviour that's edgy.

Let my faith collapse

between your breaths,

and my prayers melt

on your tongue.

Let every sigh

be a sermon of guilt,

and every pant,

a hymn of blasphemy.

If sin has a shape,

let it be your silhouette-

holy, wicked,

and unbearably human.

and if you can go 

beyond me, to fuck the

God I believe in. 

Do it, so that

when my prayers 

are answered-

all I can hear is a 

moanfull satisfaction 

of your name.

Left Slipper

When her slipper from 

from the Kumbh stampede,

got away in the crowd.

Kicked around across

the road.

A dog took it

to the next street.

It found a way

to the sewers,

then to the nearby river,

and was gulped

by the ocean.

It reached another city.

A tramp found it

by the shore.

Placed it on his left foot

to check the size-

wore it along with

the right sandal he had 

picked up elsewhere.

A new story began.

A journey of walk, run,

and hustle in the rubble.

The slipper saw

new gods, new dirt,

and streets that

never slept.

It carried hunger,

dust, and songs

of cheap liquor shops-

the chants of Kumbh

long washed away.

tore open shortly.

found a landfill now.

beside a broken idol

and a torn tricolor

and a skull-

Faith, nation, and bones.

all used, worn, and 

misplaced, and replaced-

a story that got as 

human as it could.

So what?

We stole some tissues
from the restaurant, so what?
We got a handful of sauf
wrapped in it, so what?

Once we stole soaps from
the hotel room, and the towels,
and the water bottles,
and the toiletries, as there was
nothing else left,
so what?

We are Indians, and the blood
that runs in our veins
demands it.

In fact, we deserve it.
and because we have spent
money, and if we can't make it
a paisa vasool affair-
the one last paisa is gonna
shame us down.

and because we have paid,
and we deserve it all-
the waiter should wait on us
like we are royalty,
the servant should act like they
are our slaves.

You may call it indecency,
so what? It's cruelty, so what?
It's tradition and culture, and it
runs back to five lakh years
Down in history.

And that's a fact, if the fact
is incorrect, so what?
Lying is a bad virtue,
so what?
We've licked hypocrisy like
It's ice cream and are
In a shameless peace.
So what?

We are and will be
Proud of our conduct...
so what?

Remind Me to miss you

Remind me to miss you.

Remind me to remember you

like I always have.

I keep forgetting names

and streets

or where my house is.

I keep forgetting

dates and faces

like I am being pushed

down a dungeon.

The appropriation

of my adult bones,

falling heavy on my 

childlike heart-

I keep searching for things

without knowing

what I am looking for.

It's numb where it 

shouldn't.

It's itchy where it 

shouldn't.

Can you come

and hold my hand?

Can you come

and remind me

what warmth feels like?

Teach me the smell

of fantasies.

Show me dreams

and teach me

how pain feels.

Remind me what 

reminiscing is by tracing 

your stories on my hand

till all my nerve endings.

burn it in my skin

before I lose it all

and fall down

an hopeless abyss.

Crush me with your softness

and bruise me with 

the itch of your love again.

Treat me like a toddler

one last time.

And if there is no hope

left-

strand me

in a certain dampness

that reeks of your love,

and dump me

in a desert

to search for hope again.

How to live 101

There should be a dream.

a list, an idea of life

to chase around.

No need for

grand philosophy

or borrowed ideology.

common sense can 

get you everywhere. 

Have a friend who's

equally crazy.

let him not let you

fall for idealism or slip 

through the cracks 

of darkness.

Live on rent,

own a vehicle,

read, travel,

fall in love and

don’t marry.

Be on the edge,

and rinse life

with uncertainty.

always keep moving.

Laugh too loud,

forgive too late,

and forget just enough

to keep going.

Learn to sit quietly

in your own mess,

and call it peace.

When the world

demands definitions,

be vague.

When it asks for purpose,

just breathe.

And at the fag end of life,

when they ask—

was it all worth it,

this lone, selfish life?

Tell them about 

all the good and bad 

sunsets without remorse,

and complaints.

it's a fair deal really.

you never know what 

the other side 

had to offer-

just like they would 

never know how 

cherries taste on this 

side of the mountain.

and that's alright.

and if at all someone

shows some real

interest. 

make a pact and

ask them write

something for you,

which can be used

as an epitaph on

an open grave that

comes, without a

tomb.

Sherlock of Poetry

I interpret, reinterpret,

misinterpret my thoughts

to find meaning 

where there is none.

I dumb down rationality,

deduce spirituality,

call out others for double 

standards while I rot in 

my own hypocrisy.

I am Sherlock Holmes of 

poetry who doesn't take

the job seriously.

all my cases are unsolved-

But that’s the charm, isn’t it?

to chase the echo

and not the voice,

to name the ache

and call it art.

I build metaphors

like makeshift shelters,

stay in them till it rains,

then move to another

half-finished verse.

Some days, I think

I’m writing to heal,

other days, just

to sound clever enough

to be left alone.

Still, I keep at it-

dissecting silence,

romanticizing misery,

putting rhythm to what 

should’ve been therapy.

And when I’m done,

I look at the mess and smile.

another case unsolved,

another poem pretending

to know why it exists-

Nihilist versions intermixed 

with existential ones-

and the urge of absurdist

to breakout like he's the 

Only one that matters-

The result- an embargo.

But maybe that’s enough-

to keep investigating meaning

in a world that keeps

burying evidence.

So cheers to

another case unsolved.

another cigarette lit in

the ruins of a thought.

maybe hell is poetry’s 

just-paperwork for 

the lost.

Absurdist advice you will not follow

Bite your tongue 

intentionally and act like 

it’s the end of the world. 

Pinch yourself on the 

left thigh and announce 

how strong you are. 

Eat 10 green chilies 

at once and write about 

how salty the tears are. 

Sit beneath a banyan tree 

for a day and announce you 

are enlightened.

Thereafter, declare to

your family that you're 

renouncing the world-

and eat like a glutton, like 

you would be an ascetic 

the next day. 

Then, leave your home 

at midnight. Walk away 

barefoot and by noon-

when you feel hungry,

ask for alms, and if they don’t 

offer any, come back to 

your cozy bed. 

Look in the eyes of the

faces in the house that don’t 

have any remorse.

Smile at them and say 

thank you for watching,

like you were a side 

character of a TV serial-

And then, this is important.

get to your room.

turn the blinds on-

Incognito, jerk off.

Get under the blanket 

and thereafter cry.

Villain for Peace

Don't talk.

Don't talk and try

to be lovable and nice.

Enough smiles

and uncomfortable laughs,

awkward silences,

and half-truths

that are bad lies.

Don't give suggestions

or try to show care.

Don't suggest new outfits

or healthy diets

that I could try.

Don't try to sound easy

and try to make it simple.

Don't try to own my pain

like it's a DIY craft

from Pinterest.

And above all,

don't keep asking me

if I have found another girl.

You have broken me 

enough and moved on,

already.

Don't try to fix things,

just because you pity me.

Well wait,

you don't feel sorry for me.

You are doing this

because you want to be good

in your own eyes.

You are polishing your guilt

in my waters,

so you can glide your 

reflection without taking 

accountability.

Well, all the best.

Go get that happy sleep.

If your ghosts visit you,

gaslight them too-

tell them how I wasn't 

good enough.

tell them how bad I was.

You always needed

a villain for your peace.

and here I am,

serve me on a platter.

Sorry Stranger

When my male gaze 

Falls on you,

The bra strap,

Triggering my 

Voyeuristic thoughts.

Vision going beyond 

Your dress-

The firm grip on 

Your breast,

My face all over your 

Bust, and belly button.

Ohh! This drool of

My lust.

The creases of your 

Panties guiding the

Carve of my tongue,

The roundness of your 

Butts, fitting in the

The clutches of my

Fingers.

Hell yes to this

Wet savory of desire.

Wild imagination of

Harmonal mishap.

Speaking about this

Is perhaps a crime.

But who has control 

Over the unhinged 

Thoughts?

Panties and politics,

Ass and asceticism-

Everything merging 

In one sloppy philosophy

Of “just looking.”-

Unzipping our 

Fantasies in public-

Den of hungry wolves

Is our mind-

How, wildest sex stays

In the skull inside.

Damn!..

Unkind Love

Don't talk to me in

Intermittence.

Make yourself available.

Give me attention.

Gift me your seamless 

Compulsion.

Don't delay your replies.

I don't want the 

Time gap to act as mirror 

That reflects cracks in

Our unhinged talks.

Loosen up.

Shed the inhibition.

Bring it all and make

Me shameless.

Ridicule me. Humiliate.

The anger. The dirt. 

The love and punishments.

Give it all.

The touch that wounds

and heals alike.

The rage that hails

Upon like a fireball.

Your distance,

Your strange tenderness.

The insults, the pity,

The ghosted neglect.

Mercy to cruel little pauses.

The words that lose heat,

And the frustration that 

Feels rehearsed-

Give it all till I kneel 

Before the indifferent 

God you've become.

Give it all and

Make me yours in

Every unkind way.

Give it all till, the silence 

Between us starts

Bleeding your presence.

Scratching Away Life

When I thrust my hand

In search of my usual

Stout manhood,

I couldn’t feel a thing 

In the morning.

A heist around my

Groin? What went

Wrong?

I guess I was dead.

Body lying around

Without any decency.

Mouth open.

Flies entering and 

Coming out.

Drool all over the 

Pillow. And hands 

Thrust in my pants.

Did I pass away 

Scratching my balls?

Hell of a last moments

Then- Three seconds

Of replay, maybe full 

Of relieving thoughts.

My son wouldn’t joke 

About me out of 

Respect, maybe.

But my grandkid, 

That devil,

He will scream about 

My awkward posture

in some podcast-

With a thumbnail,

"Men die as they live-

scratching problems

they never solved."

Soaking Her in a Song

When you soak her

In a song and keep

Listening to it 

Over and over-

The melodies stick

In your skin like

Someone cauterized

them in your bones-

The rhythms turn

into fragrance-

Even the sense of your

appetite emanates from 

the same tones-

Ohh! What a life.

What a disposition.

It's as if the moon 

Needs your validation.

Butterflies seek you

For color designs.

The sound of rain is

Your composition 

and you decide the

Picturesque course 

Of every river.

Your senses bask

In cosmic rhythms 

and you feel you're 

Forever redeemed,

Like you've tasted

Flight.

And your euphoria 

Is justified-

If love and music 

Doesn't give you wings,

Redbull never will.

Transcendent Grief

When your father is 

Bedridden in the hospital 

And you can't stand his 

Suffering.

Sitting in the hallway 

Listening to the 

Heart monitor beep-

Every once in a while, 

Scared to a jump,

Thinking,

It has stopped. 

Do we have a word for 

That feeling? 

When he passes away,

And you gotta console 

Your mom, but the words 

Don't come out-

The blood thickens in 

Your veins, rushes into 

Eyes, but tears fail to

Come out.

When these languages 

Fail and the senses 

Give up-

When you feel like 

Stranded in your 

Mother tongue-

Where do the feelings go?

Do they transcend 

All these situations,

Compulsions and confines 

Of the words? Or

Do they keep lingering

And finding vents-

Till one day when you

Realise, you walk like him

And dress like him, and

Carry the same attitude-

And you wonder about 

The grief that never left 

But learned a quieter 

Language like empathy 

and gratitude.

Moral Onus

Good people always 

Suffer and bad people 

Get away with their

Acts.

People keep saying 

That.

But who's good and

Who's bad?

The rich?

Crooks with silver spoons,

Bloody thieves in 

Glass castles.

Haughty, immoral and 

Not generous?

The poor?

Lazy with life,

Vices and bad behaviour.

The karma of past life has

Catched up to them?

We're perfectly 

Positioned, aren't we?? 

Not too high, 

Not too low.

From here, we can 

Look down and up,

To shift the blame on

Both sides.

Everyone is guilty,

except us. Isn't it?

Everyone cheats fate,

except us.

Everyone is stained,

except us.

This knack for 

Self justification,

As the moral compass

Always radiates out-

We shall draw a

Halo around our

Heads one day and

Worship the mirror 

That always shows

A flawed image of 

Others.

Perhaps that's how 

All religions evolved.

And nations-

We polished and the 

Mirrors got so bright-

A collective consensus 

Of not looking within 

Evolved, till the dirt 

Always seemed

Elsewhere.

Serendipity

Whatever book you 

Enjoy is the best 

Book in the world.

Whatever movie you 

Adore is the best 

Movie ever.

Whatever person 

You've enjoyed 

Your time with-

However brief-

Past, present, future.

They're the best

Person of the times.

Shed the judgment 

In the brain.

Shed the jargon.

Shed the rigid 

Intellect that says

Otherwise.

An inch beyond the

Clutter of the head lies

A playful child.

Innocence lives in

The moment 

And forgets-

Embrace change,

Accept diversity.

Go on with the flow-

Adapt, improvise

And move ahead.

Do your part and 

Wait for the sweet

Accidents that 

Unveil wonders-

Life is a journey

Not destination.

And we're more of 

Pilgrims than 

Travellers-

So hop on till 

Serendipity finds 

Us all in all the 

Unexpected places.

Forever Arrival

It’s arriving. 

It seems near-

In the next city,

In the neighboring village,

In the next street or

In the room beside me.

Sometimes,

in the cusp of my palm-

but never in my mouth.

Is this my forbidden fruit?

the forever arriving hope.

the never reaching fulfillment.

the persistent incompleteness

and uneasiness in the nose-

Sometimes I wonder

if it has passed past me.

I don’t know.

and perhaps I shall not know.

The night is long,

the breeze has been kind,

and the wait, after all,

is a worship that’s blind.

The distance between

desire and fulfillment

tending to halve after 

each leap but never 

enough to close the gap.

“Sunk cost fallacy “

said someone.

but what does a fool,

who calls himself 

a pilgrim know?

maybe Zeno’s ghost 

laughs from the edge 

of time for being 

part of his paradox.

close enough to ache,

never enough to touch.

Achilles outrun by 

A slow tortoise-

Fate always has an

upper hand.

Weightless

After years of punishing 

myself for not being able to 

forget you,

I wake up today-

and you’re not in the air 

anymore.

No trace of your scent

on my mornings,

no silhouette of your head

lingering in stories.

The world feels wider,

brimming with possibilities.

no more your eyes

burning holes in my back.

no guilt for not belonging

to your songs.

It feels strange,

to have dreams that 

are clean,

to breathe without 

reminiscing.

Sixty kilos off my 

shoulders, and

the lightness I feel-

must be the air.

the buoyancy in my 

bones- is this the fresh 

taste of freedom?

must be.

Deep sighs and 

smooth rides like

a soaring flight.

I'm a bird again?

Palatability

Toilet, bathroom, 

Washroom. Once loo, 

Now restroom-

The language keeps 

Getting sanitized.

Everything must be 

Palatable, softened, 

Perfumed, polite.

Crippled, handicapped, 

Disabled. Now, 

Specially abled.

Who rinses these 

Words in glitter?

Fired. Laid off. 

Downsized.

Talent restructuring.

Servant. Maid. 

Housekeeping.

Domestic help.

And now-

Home assistant.

Like we're gonna 

Treat them better 

With new names.

Bombing. Airstrike. 

Precision strike,

Collateral damage.

Ah yes, 

Surgical strike.

The political correctness,

To feeds the masses

The right kind of words

To sell the wrong 

Kind of truth.

The politeness in

Our words that 

Hide our intensions-

"Little boy".

"Laughing Buddha".

Guns painted in pink.

Violence rebranded

As revolution.

The facts strategically 

Placed in the gaps

Of headlines-

For the appeal of

The front page-

Cruelty now has a 

Smile.

Total Internal Reflection

When you watch 

yourself from within-

Loads and loads of

tar-loaded goo,

smothering you 

and drowning and

gulping you up.

You scream for help,

but from whom?

In an abyss that

echoes your voice 

and reflects a

person you have 

never met-

How do you escape

the absurdity

you've become?

You, yourself,

spreading for miles 

and miles-

an infinite loop

that's bent, twisted,

and turned within 

yourself-

A snare,

a void,

an emptiness.

or an open sky?

And that's a tragedy,

or emancipation,

or imprisonment-

you never know.

Wherever you turn,

you end up in yourself.

You are trapped or free,

you never know.

Travelling in yourself

to end up repeatedly

in yourself-

this re-enforced

concrete of self-

Does that make you

a better person or 

an infinite loop of 

total internal reflection 

pushes you into

narcissism?

Bon Appetit

If someone offered you 

A live chicken-

Would you cut it?

Would you hold it as it flutters.

Watch it bleed out,

Dip it in boiling water to 

Pluck the feathers?

Would you skin it,

Chop it into neat little pieces,

Boil it, spice it,

And enjoy your dinner?

Or would you rather 

Have an MNC to outsource

The work to its local

Branches-

To standardize a recipe.

Engineer a taste for 

Your tongue before you

Go gaga over the 

Illusion of flavor?

So what would you prefer?

The outsourced guilt

From a supply chain to

Supermarket. 

Or actual fingers buried 

In the blood before it

Lands in your tongue??

A packaged palatability 

For your conscience?

A raw Savory for its

Untamed taste??

Our compulsive acts,

Thrust down a system to 

Rinse them down with

A language that

Suits our morality-

And because a bullet 

Directly in the head 

May come with lots of 

Moral terpitud-

We shall outsource 

The work to remotely 

Controlled drones.

And the war crime 

That had become

Collateral damages 

Shall be game points

Soon-

So Bon appétit to 

The hunger spiced 

With lobbies.

Happy meals.

Intent

Intent is important 

to prove a crime,

according to IPC.

Action doesn’t matter much

without the intent.

Intent to kill,

intent to love,

intent to hate.

Loving without intent,

killing without meaning to.

hating without intending 

to hate.

But what if you can’t 

love someone

despite all the intent?

What if

the action

falls short?

What if I intend to kill you 

but all i could gather 

was just a little love?

What if I'm a bad bad

guy and despised myself 

all my life for that?

But what if I intend 

to die content,

but don't actually do 

anything about it?

but what if I intend 

to forgive myself just

before my death? 

what if I actually do?

does that wash away 

all the misery?

if I intend to be happy 

just before my death,

and die wearing a smile..

would you call that a 

happy life??

Is life just a long 

preface to a single,

deciding smile?

or that's just another

beautiful lie?

Constipation

when you can't tell

if your writer's block 

is erectile dysfunction

or just constipation,

you try writing about it

to figure it all out.

and when you deduce 

your work between 

a good poem

and a bad poem-

the former being a 

rare event,

and the latter being any

uusual poem-

you conclude:

this one is closer 

to shit than cum.

Running

I run and run, searching

for what I don’t know.

I run and run, knocking doors,

to find who I don’t know.

I ask questions,

answer them myself,

and run more and more-

to find myself, or to hide,

I don’t know.

The rooms I find are 

No home.

The rooms I find are 

No hideouts.

The rooms I find reek

My absence and 

The rooms I find myself in

push me to run more 

And more.

It’s the sweat and 

The drool and panting 

my guts out, mother.

It’s my existential angst

holding my face, 

Taunting me by sticking 

its tongue out.

It’s black tar dripping

from the roads that are 

Closed.

Sandstorms of dreams

That have turned into

Blurbs.

My shoes are torn 

from yesterday's chase.

But feet still move like

Body remembers what 

The mind tries to forget.

And I run and run again

Without meaning to

Like stillness is louder 

Than my breath.

Oh, I am tired, mother.

And I think I am done.

Save me from myself.

Unbirth my existence.

Take me back into your 

Womb and pat me down 

to a long rest.

I've been tired mother,

And hopeless-

Tuck me to sleep to 

Wake me up again.

Wonder between Pages

Our story is written 

Somewhere,

If not in Stardust,

In half-burnt charcoal.

If not in the golden pages

On the rough surface of 

Lichen-laden rock.

Preserved in a 

Century-old book,

If not in ancient exegesis.

Hints of old-style dried 

Roses between the pages,

Waiting for some kid to 

Accidentally read it.

He mumbles and laughs,

And screams in joy while 

Grasping words-

It’s fun to turn pages

And gleam with wonder 

Without even 

Understanding anything.

We are that story.

Not words.

We are the wonders 

Between the pages.

Turn to Silence

Turn to Silence-

Loneliness, aloofness, 

Isolation. 

Reclusive, seclusive.

Call it whatever you want.

But shut the noise.

Look within.

Dig a deep, deep well.

And take the plunge.

Scrape your own walls 

In the darkness.

Eat dirt.

Smell the stink.

But keep going.

There’ll be nails.

Broken glass.

Rat traps. Blades.

Broken condoms.

Failed relationships.

Mirages of money.

Cheap desires.

Overpriced temptations.

Your guilt gleams till

You're scared and 

Confused, but you gotta 

Get past that to 

Keep going.

You may see hints of

Light somewhere,

Don’t budge to its lure.

Don’t fall for its appeal.

For this is not a tunnel.

You are here to

Search for a spark.

You're in search of 

A fire within.

So keep going and

Go deeper, till you can 

Light a bonfire.

Don’t worry about 

The smoke. 

The spectators never 

Understand the fire.

Let them cough, 

Let them curse- 

They’ll call it madness 

Before they call it 

Awakening.

And only when you burn 

Enough within you 

Can really see how- 

Silence isn’t absence, 

It’s arrival.

Innocent Love

When love is still

A fresh paint out of 

Coloring books.

The idea of it being 

In a place beyond 

Good or bad--

It's actual butterflies.

Light legs, dance 

Moves and radio 

Playing your favourite 

Songs--

You couldn't even

Say her name aloud,

Thinking whatever 

You felt was sacred,

And it needs to be

Preserved--

A dreamy prince riding

A horse and a princess 

Waiting for him in

A glass castle--

The clouds gather,

It rains, and you're 

Stupid enough to 

Believe coincidences

And you actually smile.

Then, adulthood 

Eats innocence.

Your fantasies leak

From the gaps in

Time that's not 

Relative.

You dare say, love

Is not unconditional 

One day, thinking-

The realisation is a

Pumped up achievement--

But you'll not be

Knowing it just yet-

About how you 

Killed in yourself,

A child.

Demons

My demons stare 

At me from the dark- 

The clock whispers 

My name like I'm a 

Ticking bomb.

Every tick steals my 

Breath and I make

Deliberate efforts to

Remind me I'm alive.

The grip loosens,

Ground slips and 

Fate demands its

Rightful share-

How to hold it all

Together tonight?

I'm done tracing every 

Pulse like a prayer.

Done naming every 

Shadow of mine aloud.

This unusual knock

That seems to be 

From within today-

It breathes when I 

Breathe,

Grins when I choke,

And whispers- 

That only peace 

Is my surrender.

Mocking my efforts

To stay human,

Pushes me to edges

And I tend to give up.

If I let go,

Will it catch me?

Or will I discover

A new me, 

Tomorrow morning?

Soft-prey, marinated

In caffeine and despair-

Insomniacs are 

My favourite it says.

And lured by a few

Ounces of sleep-

My eyes close.

It turns dark.

The demon devours

Me, and whoever 

Wakes up-

Wears another shade 

Of eyebag, like 

The next morning is 

A Zombie Apocalypse.

Resurrection

When Grandpa got 

Bedridden, stopped talking,

Everyone began visiting-

Aunts, in-laws, cousins.

Aunts of aunts,

Cousins of cousins.

Every day sipping chai,

Talking, reminiscing,

Full meals and gossip-

Waiting for him to die.

His breath would pace up

Or eyes would abnormally roll.

And shivers in his legs-

He was in and out

While everyone waited.

Days passed and weeks.

People came and went.

Some stood their ground,

Some were frustrated

And never came back.

Some thought they would 

Return once he died.

The event became a 

Running joke eventually.

One day, he stood up.

After a while, he started 

Walking around.

Talking and cussing like

He always did.

His revival confused 

Everyone. 

To be happy or sad?

The churning of free

Sucrose while they 

Waited for him to pass-

Was it this uncomfortable

When Jesus resurrected?

Might be.

Maybe Jesus cussed 

Everyone who were 

Disappointmented by

His resurrection.

Someone took a note

And it's a religious 

Scripture now.

Shoes

Dad doesn't wear 

His shoes. 

Weak knees- 

He fell off a couple 

Of times.

Afraid of wearing 

Them now.

But he polishes 

Every morning and 

Slides them under 

The cot, like it's a salute 

To his body that 

Doesn't obey.

Dreams of running 

With the shoes on 

But the reality of

Every morning is

A defeat of limping 

In the house.

This struggle-

Past borders, 

Past medals,

Past time itself to

Cope with the new

Reality-

The battlefield now

Is the hallway,

And victory is simply

Not falling.

Dev n Danav

And when you look

Within yourself.

To make peace with 

Your Dev and Danav-

The unending turmoil 

From both ends,

Pushing you into more

Chaos-

The risk of poison 

When you churn

The ocean is forever.

The Halahal is 

Inevitable and the 

Amrit, at most 

Is dumb luck.

But should it mean 

Men shouldn't aspire 

Immortality?

One has to plunge

Into action believing 

Shiva may come

To one's rescue.

Rather- believe 

You yourself can 

Become Neelkanth.

And if you do-

You shall stand above 

All Dev and Danav.

So shall Halahal

And Amrit.

My Own Muse

For a day, or two,

Or longer still,

Let me be my own muse:

A mirage of hope

I chase within.

Can I place myself

On a pedestal-

To look at me

As I look at the moon?

Clouds made of 

Rainbows.

Periwinkles blooming

Through cement 

Cracks.

The last light of sun

Falling at right angles

On a restless tide.

Can I be the evening breeze

Brushing past her cheeks?

Can be a caress to 

Cleanse myself

In her fragrance?

Can I hold myself

Between a prayer and 

A dance?

A fragile ray of starlight

Defying an ancient giant?

Can I slip through

The cracks of inevitability,

And sing lullabies-

For myself, this time?

A mindless thought.

Irrational decision.

Sweet little accident

And an irresistible 

Grasp.

Like the same one 

In a million chance 

Of being born.

Can I be my own muse?

For making it this far.

Middleman

The Gods give bribe 

To the priest to hide their 

Intentions from the devotees.

Devotees pay a convenience 

Fee for speedy delivery of 

Their prayers to the deity.

Overwhelmed by the attention 

From both sides, The priest 

Decides to act funny.

Over it, excessively burps 

And farts. Stands half-naked

And jabbers in a language 

You don’t understand.

He is a self-proclaimed 

Pampered kid of Lord himself.

Always in shady scheme of things,

Patronizing devotees-

Slowly he makes cotton 

Balls out of the prayers,

Thrusts them in the ears

Of lord-

Each plea makes the god

A bit more deaf and 

Devotees a bit more desparate.

Till one day when the

Middleman declares-

How silence is the holiest 

Answer.

And the devotees offer more,

The crowd bows deeper.

The god grows dumber.

The priest grows fatter.

And faith remains-

Stripped, milked,

But forever obedient

And utterly blind.

Lust on Steroids

I claw at your back

As if carving scripture,

Each line a verse,

Each gasp a hymn.

Your breath floods

The hollows of my ear,

Hot, trembling,

Breaking my reason-

My head gallops 

Ahead of itself

And tries to bury me

In all your burrows in 

Search of the sweet

Sound of your moan.

I sense the sweat 

Of your armpit on

My fingers.

The meat of my

Manhood seeks a 

Refuge in your 

Feminine abode.

In the clash of sweat,

In the bite of skin,

We lose our names-

Man, woman, sinner, saint.

And when silence breaks,

It isn’t peace-

It’s the aftertaste

Of fire still smouldering

Between our hearts.

While feel you strongly 

Between my thighs.

May our love be lust

On steroids tonight.

Bomb it Terrorist

Gather your grief,

Put together a heap,

Bring in a bomb,

And blast it up.

Collect all the joyous 

Memories,

Prepare a molehill of 

Happiness,

And blast it up.

Pick up the anger,

The broken earphones,

Old diaries and the 

Person you are in the 

Mirror.

Conjure all the guilt,

Use it to cement 

The failed exams,

Burst cycle tires and 

Fever-ridden mornings.

Bomb it up and blast.

Let the shattered 

Pieces arise, smoke 

Gather around-

Cough, tears,

Cry it all out.

Move on like a terrorist 

After his job.

Don’t look back.

Be a bigot of the present.

Whore of thyself.

And overall, a kid.

Kid in Traffic

"If you wear the silver ring

And make a wish,

It would be realized."

Said the kid who was

Selling it in the traffic.

Selling dreams for ten rupees

Seems like a fraud.

But who are you to judge

The compulsions of 

His hunger?

But when you see the 

Same kid daily twice while 

You commute.

A familiarity grows.

Your feelings soften.

You consciously keep 

A ten-rupee note in the 

Shirt pocket one day to 

Readily give it away.

But you don’t see him 

The next day.

And for many days after that.

And weeks.

And eventually, when that 

Note goes away into your 

Next cigarette.

The smoke you vented-

For a brief while, you were

Concerned about 

How the kid must be 

Breathing the same air.

Slipping

You slip from dreams.

You slip from pics 

We forgot to take.

List of places we 

Should have been 

Exploring.

I try to hold on, but

You slip through 

The gaps in my 

Thoughts.

You slip from words,

Gasps and my

Frustrated sighs.

I built rooms of 

Silence to trap your echo,

But you slide past

My heart of glass.

You slip from prayers

And from curses alike.

Through unformed 

Memories, 

Half said goodbyes.

Soft silence and my

Thickened arrogance-

You slip till I can't

Recall your face.

You slip till your name

Becomes familiarly 

Strange.

A ripple on a lake

By a stone I once 

Threw, which 

Still manages to 

Reflect an image

That asks-

Alas! Stranger.

Didn't we once know?

Pound. Pound. Pound.

First, put on a layer.

Say that's for protection.

And that's okay.

Then another layer 

In the name of 

Social utility.

Pound. Pound. Pound.

A thick layer of concrete upon 

Both- Name it ethics, 

Morals, and idealism.

Then go on pounding 

Many layers -

Religion, language,

Culture, marriage,

Nationalism.

Till you grow out

Of your origins.

Then despise the

Nakedness. Despise 

The blunt truth. Despise 

Straightforward acts.

Rounds and rounds of

Lectures on sensitisation,

Sanitization and

Political correctness.

Pound. Pound. Pound.

Till they can't look

In the eyes.

Pound. Pound. Pound.

Till silence is virtue.

Till obedience is pride.

Till fear is renamed

Civility.

Pound. Pound. Pound.

Till the body is no body,

Till the self is no self,

Till the living are

Half-dead statues applaud 

For standing still-

And walking dead.

Spells and Jinx

The petals blooming 

Out of thorns.

Fragrance beneath 

Those cement walls.

I've seen you mumble 

Hymns of love,

Behind the face of 

Your anger.

You're tough, 

You're soft.

A mountain that can

Protect a flicker-

And a flame that can 

Be fire to tame a

Mountain's rage.

And because I want

To be grounded

In your pragmatism 

And float away in 

Your reveries-

Here, have a rose.

And my heart,

And many reasons-

A snowflake to be

Molten your palms.

A dew drop wanting 

To be liberated by 

Your feet-

I'm a Muggle in awe

Of your spells.

Jinx me more,

I'm happy to be a

Subject of your magic.

Am I not a Desert yet?

I've buried the

Names I knew.

Friends turned to

Faint silhouettes,

Lips that once called

Are cobwebs now.

I've walked through

My hollow self.

A museum of

Forgotten laughs-

Broken vows pinned 

Like insects.

I've dried out of 

My rivers.

Emptied oceans.

Blocked all the light 

And bleached up

Colours.

I've blocked all

The echoes.

The den of my 

Thoughts is abode

Of bird droppings

That are crippled.

Dreams are lost.

Aspirations, doused.

Ambitions for what??

Everything is ash 

And dust.

A skeleton with

Scraped off flesh.

But where do all

The tears come from?

Am I not a 

Desert yet??

The floods still

Find me.

The corpse still

Weeps.

Bigot Again

Yet again, she turns

Her back.

And the thousand 

Poems you didn't write,

Find all possibilities

To happily rot.

But life goes on 

You know.

The many sunsets,

And winters.

The yellow stripped

Off the flowers,

And the fragrance.

You try to clutch 

Your chances.

But you find no anchor 

Whatsoever.

And the pyres in

Your chest,

Many funerals in

Your head and

A fancy for looking 

At the ships that 

Capsize, growing 

Into a happy fetish-

You thought you'd 

Find peace when

The last known place 

Of nostalgia would be

Razed to dust.

But an apocalypse

Has always been 

The start of a new 

Religion and you're

Condemned to a 

Bigot of love again.

Gasping act

I'll pin you to the wall 

and armourously 

Kiss your back.

l'll undo your saree in 

Haste and unbutton 

The blouse with 

My mouth.

I'll devour your lips and

Drown in your eyes.

Dive in your bosom and 

Be lost in your bottoms.

I'll savour you, 

Taste you and make you 

Mumble hymns of

Basic biology so deep...

You'll weave poetry

with your gasps and

Tune it with your moans.

Saree

Stand stout. Don’t laugh.  

You’ve to believe me  

When I say I can dress  

You up in a saree.  

Extend your hands.

Let me put on the  

Blouse first.  

It might take an unusually  

Long time—  

Well, it does,  

To intimately button  

All of my promises  

Into your bosom.  

The pleating can be  

Tricky, but when I adorn  

Each fold with our  

Dreams and fantasies—  

Pulling you closer to  

Tuck the pleats into  

The skirt, like it’s my  

Compulsive fetish—

Don’t be surprised if  

I kiss your nabhi, or  

Inappropriately explore  

The mysteries  

That region could offer.

Wait patiently.  

And when I throw the  

Pallu over the other side,  

Pinning it on your right  

Shoulder like I’ve been  

Into this job for over 

Hundreds of years—  

I might take a couple  

Of steps back to  

Adore your beauty  

In its entirety.  

And that’s when you  

Should slip away,  

While there’s time.  

If I make an excuse,  

Saying there’s  

Something missing—  

It’s alright if I put  

A bindi, or just gently  

Kiss your forehead.  

But if I take my  

Intentions to your  

Sassy lips—  

Know that  

My edgy temptations  

Have kicked in,  

And thereafter,

You can’t escape the

Clutches of my 

Sweet sins.

Cupcakes

As I try to look her

In the eyes.

My shame repeatedly 

Breaking into a laughter.

Looking away.

Trying to look again.

Slowly getting used to

The depth of her gaze.

She smiles.

I look away and 

Come again with only 

A thought in my mind-

How to kiss her today.

My desire peeks in 

And out. Passion 

Knits rationality with

Love.

I ask her to lean to 

Whisper a secret.

But only dare to kiss

Her on the forehead.

She sits back and

Smiles wide.

She knows only so

Much can be done in

The restaurant.

The rest of the time 

That was left,

I lace my longing 

In the cupcakes she 

Brought.

Piece by piece I place

It between her lips

While I look her in 

The eye. 

My gaze steady--

Each bite

A hidden kiss,

A held breath,

A promise left unsaid.

And when the last piece 

Melt on her tongue.

There was no shame

Left. Only the comfort 

Of being known.

She understood 

A poet’s heart—

That sometimes love is 

Best served in 

Metaphors.

And birthdays are 

Sweetest when the gift 

Is simply accepting 

The love as it's offered.

Like this one was.

Waiting for you

And while I wait for you,

Wait to hear your voice.

Wait to have that one

Real glance -

I see the second-hand

On my watch turn into 

A knife,

Each tick is a slash.

Fatigue sets in.

My anger simmers.

I question your intentions 

And almost edge my

Longing into disgust.

But I wait.

I sit here gulping pain

And nursing my wounds 

With your thoughts.

And as you make your 

Steady appearance,

The flowers that bloom

Here, 

Ward off my misery.

Life seems sorted 

Thereafter.

Earth stands healed.

And I become the 

Same fool again.

Gag

I'll cut my tongue 

And hammer nails

Into my eyes to 

Push my tears back.

I'll hold those words

By neck and 

Trample hard on 

Thoughts before

They can manifest.

I'll drown in my

Own aloofness and

Choke on reinforced 

Silence, before I

Can I reveal to you 

My intentions again.

Once I feel,

You don't deserve my 

Attention. 

I'll assist myself to

The bottom of

The ocean-

To hide even my

Breath against the vain 

Of your your 

Disgraceful presence.

So adios,

You ungrateful wretch.

Maybe I gotta erase

This poem too-

You don't even 

Deserve my hate.

Butterflies

These butterflies in 

My stomach that

Whisper your name.

They tickle my fancy,

They colour my

World in new shades.

They get to head,

Go to the heart and 

Don't let me sleep.

I seek lullabies of

Of your lips in the dead

Of the night and 

You appear like a

Holy voice that 

Wash away my sins.

That's how you sing

Me to sleep these

Days.

And in half-dreams

I slip in better realms.

Only to wake up

Rinsed in starlight..

The butterflies again

And your name.

You're the enchantress 

Who has stolen me 

Away.

Intent to Preserve your Gaze

I've stolen your gaze,

And I intend to 

Preserve it.

I've wrapped it in my 

Favourite songs.

Soaked it in the fragrance 

Of the flowers I've 

Adored.

I intend to nurse it 

With my nostalgia and 

Nourish it with the presage 

Of great time that's 

Ahead.

Ohh! How I wish to be

Seen by your eyes

Again and again.

How I want my name 

To be uttered along

With yours.

How I want be stolen,

Intoxicated and 

Drowned in your depths.

And if only, redemption

Didn't lie in this yearning-

How I wouldn't even 

Dare fall for you--

But I do. I do. I do.

Intimate Peace Out

You keep your eyes

Set on me, and you

Look deeply- teasing 

Me for still having my

Clothes on.

The curve of your 

Wicked smile,

Already has the spoils

Of my persona-

Like I'm ready for a

War.

Well, I am.

Our fingers entangle

Searching for the 

Warmth our tongues

Battle for. 

And the legs spread

Aligning and realigning 

Repeatedly-

To transcend the barrier 

Of our skins.

We hurl at each other 

Our evil intentions 

Like soldiers on

Opposing teams-

Only to be humbled by 

Our panting breaths.

And our rush ceases 

Into a realisation that

We're just two refugees,

Seeking home in 

Each other--

So we peace out 

Into a submission of 

Feeble touches and

Happily sleep.

Head Lice

My tenant. Who was my 

Teacher as well at the convent.

She was fond of me.

Gave toffees, and

other eatables.

Would catch hold of

Me whenever I scratched 

My head to pick lice

In the evening.

I would offer her flowers

Randomly. It felt nice.

That winter, Mom went to 

Her maiden home for 

The third delivery. Dad was 

In the Army like always.

Felt forgotten and aloof

For months in my big joint family,

And only Ma'am felt like 

Family in the absence of 

Mom.

After the summer holidays,

When I returned from 

Visiting mom.

Ma'am wasn't there.

Married off. Gone.

I waited for her as my

Aloofness grew louder 

In the house--

The itch in my head 

Wouldn't stop.

I insisted on shaving 

My head in the following 

Month, when Grandpa

Took me to the barber.

Something broke me

That day and I suppose 

That explains, why I hate 

Shampoo to this day.

God Files Treason Against Darwin

God Files Treason Against Darwin

(for proving evolution and murdering miracles)

I gave them

Adam, and this particular 

Pastard gave them

A chimpanzee

With with bipedalism.

I said,

“Let there be light,”

He said,

“Photosynthesis.”

I carved Eve from a rib,

He said,

“uterus, cell division-

checkmate.”

One theory from him—

aland suddenly,

Floating somewhere between

Greek gods and Santa Claus-

I’m a myth??

They used to call storms

my wrath. Now it’s

“cyclonic pressure zone

over Bay of Bengal.”

I gave them

plagues to humble.

They gave me

Vaccines and said

“I’m good, thanks.”

I offered heaven for 

Obedience.

He offered Evolution

And a billion years

of paperwork.

Dear Darwin,

You killed prayers,

Turned temples

Into selfie zones.

You made them

Feel smart enough

To stop needing me.

Fine.

Let them have their evolution.

Let them trace

Grandpa’s lineage

To a lemur with abandonment 

Issues.

Let them

Map the genome,

Discover dark matter,

Build sexbots, smarter 

Than prophets.

But when they cry at 

Funerals or beg

The tumour to vanish by

Whispering my name...

A dejected grey Pigeon 

Will poop on your statue.

Because science,

For all its brilliance,

Never made a God

Who listens to 

The chemical fuck ups

In human head.

The Great Indian Cough-Off

It began

When someone started

Stealing laughter.

Quietly.

From WhatsApp groups,

Chai tapris,

Even Kapil Sharma reruns.

Jokes turned stale.

Faces forgot

How to crinkle.

Stand-up comics

Sat down in

Self-censure.

One man,

Near Ghaziabad,

Coughed so powerfully

It echoed in Parliament.

He was made Minister

of Health & Mucus.

News anchors began

Clearing throats

Instead of facts.

Debates sounded

Like TB wards.

Slogans turned to 

Luxurious wheezes.

“Freedom of Speech?”

No, no.

Freedom to Cough.

That's a thing now.

Coughers rose like poets.

Dry cough. Wet cough.

Nationalist phlegm.

Contestants lined up

Outside Ayush Ministry

for the Coughing Championship.

First prize:

A plastic lung that's 

Fluent and 

Lifetime supply

Of Vicks.

Coughing replaced clapping.

Replaced slogans.

Replaced silence.

One cough, one vote.

Two coughs, you're an influencer.

Three coughs? 

Too much freedom--

Sedition, probably.

But soon,

Coughs began to disappear.

Someone—maybe from

"Anti-national quarters"—

Started stealing them too.

Sucked them out

With nano-devices

and Section 144 notices.

That’s when it happened.

A man in Bareilly,

Perhaps god’s chosen one,

Farted during

An Aadhaar update.

The Earth paused.

And thus, began

The Age of Flatulence.

Panel discussions now began

With gaseous bursts.

National anthems

were remixed

With strategic toots.

Schoolchildren were taught

to respect loud farts

But fear the silent ones.

The PM called them

“Symbols of Organic Dissent.”

One MP spoke out:

“This is ridiculous!”

He was arrested.

His last recorded sound

was…

a suspicious squeak.

Soon,

Corporates joined in.

Patanjali launched

"Desi Gobar Gas™"

for the spiritually aligned.

Baba Ramdev

Held a press conference

With no words—

Just synchronized fart yoga.

But art suffered.

Poets were replaced

by stomachs.

Cinema replaced

with whoopee cushions.

The Constitution, now

a scratch-and-sniff.

Still, the people adjusted.

They always do.

They coughed when allowed,

Farted when blessed.

And in between,

They held their breath—

For what used to be

called Freedom.

The Sole Broker

I collect chappals

From stampedes-

Not bodies.

Not names.

Just resilient soles.

Rubber. Plastic.

Faith-worn. sweat-kissed.

Some still warm with

Unfinished pilgrimage.

___

I pair them-

Left with a right.

Sometimes a Bata

Marries a Relaxo.

Kolhapuri with

A Lee Cooper.

A child’s slipper gets

A grown man’s sandal.

A woman's shoe gets

A dirty flipflop.

And like anywhere else,

Even here,

Love of course is a 

Compromise.

___

Sprinkle Holy Water for 

Bloodstains.

But don't clean them 

Entirely.

Incense for odour.

A little glitter to make

It presentable.

Loss sells better

When it sparkles

You see and fetches

More when I adorn

Them with a made up

Story-

“This survived Kumbh 2025.”

"RCB's victory parade- hola ESCN"

“This one tripped a minister’s 

Convoy in Tirupati.”

“These? Blessed by accident. 

Someone literally died on 

Top of it.”

_____

Collectors love it.

NGO execs.

Art curators.

One Berlin museum

Paid ₹1.2 lakh for a 

Pair that smelled like

Cow dung and crushed belief.

One in New York got 

Over a crore just because 

It the bloodstains were 

Still fresh.

Sometimes,

A grieving family shows up.

“That slipper… it was my mother’s,”

they whisper.

I offer a discount--

Grief should never pay retail.

⸻

People ask:

“Isn’t this unethical?”

And I say:

So is God’s crowd control.

At least I give closure 

To a sole.

I’m not a monster.

I just turn stampedes

into exhibits.

Into commerce.

Into matching pairs.

I'm human..

An opportunist,

A capitalist and

I tend to profit from 

Chaos. And why not?

When someone with

A brush can do it?

When someone with

A book, pen and 

Broken words can do it?

Why not someone

With a conscience 

And a size chart with an

Ability to find 

An able match can't?

Why can't this be

Labeled as art?

___

It Was Over for Men

When Rosa Parks

refused to move from her seat—

we should’ve seen it coming.

That was the first crack

in the throne.

Then they snatched

voting rights.

Wore pants.

Cut their hair.

Took our offices

and didn’t even say thanks.

---

It was over

when Indira Gandhi

held a nuclear button

in one hand

and the parliament

in the other.

While Margaret Thatcher

turned strikes into statistics.

They became doctors.

They flew planes.

Engineers and architects.

Even lawyers till the

Divorce papers got

Real efficient.

We were done for

the moment when 

she stopped asking,

 “Can I go?”

and started saying,

“I already did.”

---

Then the internet 

Happened. 

We made a feet pic viral.

It was all accidental

But seemed like a

Crack of hope.

But we took it slow.

One step at a time.

You’ve won.

“You can be anything now.”

A slow and steady pampering

Is all it took-

"Boss babe, scientist, president, 

Fighter pilot—

But first, show us the haul.

The skin care.

The lashes.

That soft morning light

on your upper thigh.”

---

Then came the first 

Storm of hot steamy pics

On the internet.

We needed a better algorithm 

Is all to get what we need-

"Not footsteps

into parliament halls.

Not footprints

on the moon but-

Semi-nude pics with

Crushed lips. More and

More filters,

set to trending Audio to

Make them say

"You go gurllll"

---

She dreamed of Mars.

But her inbox

was full of men

offering $10

for a video

of her stepping on grapes.

She wanted to build rockets.

But her reels did better

when she whispered,

“Guess what color panties today?”

---

And while she filmed

“Get Ready With Me”

for the fifth time this week,

We quietly rewrote

The algorithms to

Encourage the same.

The lie was elegant—

It took them on a swirl

And eventually OnlyFans

Exploded.

“Empowerment is sexy, right?”

That's what we kept 

Whispering-

And so, liberation

became a filter—

not a fight.

Makes Savitribai Phule's

Ghost cry in the corner 

Today...

But, alas!

Feminism now rots

In the confines of 

Flashing flesh on screens

And we go happily 

Sipping pleasure

Over the rejuvenation of

Our sweet comfort -

Patriarchy.

----

Pothole Republic

I saw a pothole,

big enough to qualify for 

Aadhaar. It had depth.

Personality.

Probably a family of frogs

and an SBI branch inside.

I reported it.

They planted a sapling

in it and the next morning,

The sapling was gone.

The pothole had eaten it—

wanted roots, not reform.

It developed sentience.

They announced.

A holiday to celebrate 

The same.

It was declared as a

Protected monument—

Older than British roads,

More enduring than promises.

Now tourists arrive.

Locals pray.

No one fixes it.

No one can fix it now..

Divine energy is passing 

Through it someone said.

"Test your spines here

Like a prayer"

"Take a hard fall here

If you want an awakening"

And whoever falls is an

Offering now.

Two bulls, a few scooters.

and a manifesto has

Drowned so far.

A poet too has tripped in 

and found a deeper metaphor.

Now he lectures at JNU

on the "existential sinkholes

of Indian democracy."

The Chinese are 

Trying are trying to 

Reach out for research 

Collaboration but 

Even NASA has been 

Put on a wait.

"The Interplanetary Society 

For Theosophical Parody"

Has made it somehow.

Right now, stuck in traffic.

The debate on who's 

Gonna take the credit 

Has to be settled first.

The contractor and

MLAs have fought over

It already.

Many national parties 

And even the PM is

Fighting for the same.

But everyone knows it.

Everyone knows,

The credit has to go 

To Nehru.

First Day

If I were in the first 

Year of college today.

On the first day and 

In the first class-

Among the band of

Those lean girls with 

Deep eyes..

You would be there

Too-- soft cheeks

And a bright smile.

Not hesitating to

Laugh gracefully with

Those feeble lips.

Not at all bothering 

To mark my humble 

Presence-

Casually playing 

With the strands of 

Your hair to cook

Guys like me..

Who would still be 

Thinking, infatuation 

Is a crime.

Maybe I would slip

Into a whirlpool of 

Fantasy to fall for you 

Eventually, and never 

Conjure up any courage 

To confess about the 

Ocean I carry.

And maybe after 

Brooding for over 

Four years-

On the last day of

College, in the

Farewell Program-

I would gather just 

Enough voice to ask for

A pic with you and

My wingman would 

Mess with the camera..

And your persona in

The blue saree would 

Forever go fading in 

Memory for years or 

Perhaps for decades.

Male Gaze

A direct line of sight 

With a girl, in a local

KSRTC bus is rare.

But once a decade,

On a rare summer day,

It does happen.

Decent looking with

A crooked smile.

Almost a flirty nose.

But why a serious,

Knotted face?

Why does she look

Agitated?

The heat?

All male gaze?

My ugly face?

Grappling with my

Urge to look-

Standing in the aisle-

Clutching my hands

For support.

The crowd, 

The jerk of legs

That sway with the 

Motion of bus.

Yet my eyes fixated 

On her.. waiting 

For hints.. 

Trying to hold on.

Waiting for her gaze

To meet mine.

Then that sweet

Moment arrives-

The question on her

Face finds an 

Answer when she,

Throws up.

A spray of vomit.

The curry leaves 

And indigested 

Onion on the people 

In the blast radius-

Radiating smell 

Finding hairy noses

With or without 

Moustache-

Bus stops. 

Many rush out.

Few curse her.

My eyes still manage

To look at her again

In the aftermath-

A gleaming face.

Crooked smile.

A firm stare that 

Screamed-

How everyone 

Deserved something 

Like that.

Ape Meat

The best meal of 

China and the most

Expensive-

As claimed by my 

Friend, Hoooli Foook.

Cost him a fortune.

But he arranged it

For free, as a

Goodwill gesture.

The waitress who

Looked like a Midwife,

In the deep sea

Exotic hotel-

Served the hot

Omniotic soup first,

Followed by the 

Air-Fried-Umbilical 

Nachos.

Apes in this part 

Of the town, taste 

Better, said the 

Mermaid-faced Manager, 

While he instructed 

His crew to serve 

The main course.

The hype for 

The big reveal was 

Intimidating when

The waitress who 

Looked like she just

Got out of labour,

Announced "Fresh 

Out of my womb"

There were limbs,

An open head of a

Foetus garnished

With little fingers.

Took a minute to

Realize the pun in

'Best ape' but 

Snapped out of it 

To get along-

When Foook said

"What happens in 

China remains in China"

"Except for viruses"

I said to myself, 

Before I shifted my

My full focus on 

The delicacy.

DiiiiDiii

Bibliophile, Pluviophile.

She/her. Lowkey writer.

Full-time depressed.

Loud, upbeat. 

Swears a lot to look 

Cool among her affluent 

Peers.

Dogs and cats are

Didi's first love but hates

Men, like that's gonna

Up her game against 

Other ultra-feminists.

Goth look. Dark humor.

Body positivity and

'Go slay gurrrl' with overuse

Of vowels to highlight 

Her over-the-top emotions.

Upon that, an opinion on

Palestine is a must.

Gender fluidity is a

Newfound fetish and

Bisexualism is a

Compulsive dessert

Beside the other 

Delicacies of her big

Fat meal of pretense.

Mom's love is never 

Enough. Her brother 

Is always an asshole.

And of course Didi's 

Got daddy issues 

That are stacked even 

From a past life.

The food-lover,

Party animal, wanderlust.

The exotic places in

India aren't enough.

Didi has perpetual plans

To tick off ten more 

Countries before she 

Turns twenty.

High on self-awareness.

High on information.

She thinks she has 

Figured it all out by 

Being condescending

On boys who are 

Petty simps in the name

Of BFFs.

But maybe a rich-ass 

Dude, of whom she

Always dreams of-

Seems to be the only 

Solution for her delusions.

When he confines her 

To the commands of 

His mother to mass 

Produce Gol-rotis in

The kitchen-

The sweat off her brow

Would scream

How the Good dude, 

Vignesh, would have 

At least extended his 

Help to do the dishes.

No Ash, No Phoenix

The way I wanna 

Lose you.

The way I wanna 

Let you go.

But the urge to

Preserve and 

Remember you

Forever-

Like rose petals

Leaving hints of

Presence through 

Fragrance.

Songs leaving 

Traces of memories 

In the tones that

Don't wanna fade.

But the monsoons

Convincing me,

I can't hold you 

Any more-

The way I wanna

Make peace with

A drab feeling 

In my bones-

I write, rewrite 

Your name on my

Skin, but its tendency 

To disappear,

Again and again-

Time does his 

Job well, you see. 

The way he rubs

It off you, 

Doesn't leave any 

Stain.

He's a slow pacifier 

On a couch,

Smoking a cigar,

That doesn't need

An ashtray.

There's no phoenix 

Without ash.

And the way you're

Fading away-

No scars are left,

To scratch.

Social Mobility

Before returning to

His duty in the army,

Dad bought me a 

Chair when I was five.

Shortly, when the 

Village-landlord visited

Our dilapidated house.

Which reeked of 

Cattle dung and urine-

He couldn't stand 

The sight of a

Bright blue chair.

How could a mere

Labourer's house 

Have a chair?

And when there's a

Chair, how could he

Sit on the floor with

All that ego up his ass?

He commanded my

Grandpa to serve his

Ego with a kid's chair.

My poor chair with

Small arms and legs.

Accommodating his

Big-big-butts without 

Breaking-

Trying to hold entire 

Family's respect-

Like it was my dad's 

Part-persona fighting 

The divide here.

My chair did a good 

Job in straightening 

Our spines for next 

Two decades-

Before it was passed 

On to my niece.

Who now climbs on it

To reach the books

We never had.

Aftermath

It's been five years 

Since she died, and 

I haven't moved on.

Today is the last day 

Of Dashami, and 

I'm sitting here,

Wearing her Red saree 

and seven bangles

On each hand.

That's what the 

Tantrik said.

A Mandala made 

Out of Haldi and 

Kumkum. 

Soil from her grave 

In the middle with 

Limbu and Mirch-

After myriads of

Attempts, I invoked 

Her spirit successfully 

This time.

It was so good to

Hear her voice.

Her translucent body

Looked hot.

Everything was alright-

Till she sobbed and

Asked me in a 

Coarse voice:

Why did you kill me?

Readily, I threw on her

The enchanted ash 

To set her on fire.

The spirit, too, had to

Be killed to unlock 

The ancient treasure-

That's what the last

Page of the book,

Grandpa left me said.

Facts vs intellect

This year Mahanavami, I was aghast to see a warning board when I entered the temple of my village Goddess. It said, "Women are not allowed in the sanctum".

I slipped into a furious state of overthinking.

How can they say that?

How can they break away from the tradition?

Did the national politics enter my village already?

Did a loudmouth force his campaign into the temple?

Every year women from every household visit the temple. For nine days, they pour oil into the lamps allotted to them in specific slots in the racks. The temple shines, adorned with thousands of those lamps.

Even inside the sanctum there used to be rows and rows of lamps all these years. But this year, no. They excluded the sanctum with the warning sign that said women aren't allowed inside.

In the backdrop of Sabarimala temple and its a ban on entry of menstruating women. I thought the question of purity invaded even my village.

My bias against right-wing politics added tadka to my emotions. This made me take a pic of the warning board- to make noise about the same on Twitter.

But before I could post, I thought of enquiring about it first. And when I asked my father about the same expecting an answer I wanted-

His answer was more flabbergasting, to my shock and surprise. He said-

Because a new idol of the goddess has been installed. Women are prohibited, as they often touch the idol with oily hands. They've restricted the entry for nine days to prevent a mess.

Such a face-palm moment. Sometimes the problems are more basic and practical. That's why logic, reasoning, and intellectualism should always be backed with facts.

Roasted Liver

The dead body in the 

Backyard calls my name

In the night.

Asks me why I kill?

What do I tell? 

I like the smell of 

Raw flesh?

The sound of oozing 

Blood?

How I wanna give 

Sharp metals a better 

Purpose? or

My own lust has its 

Way to manifest me 

A greater revelation?

Ohh! It's such a 

Pristine compulsion.

What do I tell it?

Can it even understand 

The gravity of passion?

What a rush it is to

Isolate a subject.

Stab them in the heart.

Drain out all the blood 

Through just an ooze.

Run out of breath in the

Act. Feel hungry as hell

After that.

Then roast just the 

Liver on low flame with 

Just salt and pepper-

To feel my art on

My tongue.

Ohh! Great art is all 

Hunger and food.

Passion translating into

Juicy fetish in your 

Mouth- 

Good art is a 

Roasted liver for 

The fancy of one's 

Taste buds.