Reverse Photography

I don't remember when

I took that photograph.

It looks like a selfie, but

It isn't when I look closely.

My eyes are blue.

The tip of the nose is red.

Why do I have profuse

Hair on my head and

Where the eff is my

Moustache?

Did the pic blink just now?

I looked closely into the eyes-

Our eyes got locked.

Why can't I blink?

Why am I frozen?

Suddenly, I'm thrown 

Away, and there's snow

Everywhere.

It's hot and the snow

Doesn't melt.

My footprints vanish 

As soon as I make them.

People pass through 

Me without asking 

My name.

Wasted, abandoned.

Feeling like I'm being 

Systematically erased.

I shout, but my voice

Seems to go nowhere.

That's when someone 

Takes out a camera in

The distance-

Click. Click. Click.

The flashes go out-

Like light is being

Eaten away.

The camera,

Sucking in memories-

The cameraman says

"This is reverse photography."

"You're in a whirlpool 

Of oblivion".-

Smile please!

Click. Click. Click.

My face disappears.

I don't feel my skin.

No sensation in my feet.

But there's this strange 

Feeling that screams-

Am I no one or

Everything?

Breathing is a Flex

No rivers want you

You ugly fuck. 

And no graves wanna 

bed you out of love.

The nooses hate you.

Knives n blades too.

So do poisons, reptiles

and electric sockets.

So don't bother 

Killing yourself.

Get your ass back 

Normalcy and carve

a forceful smile.

The god of death

Hates a little joy-

So better condemn 

Yourself to something 

Fun-

Look at that 

Newspaper, 

Your favorite team 

In Red has won. 

Barge on the kitchen 

and eat those idlis,

Because who doesn't like 

Mom's idlis, right? 

Your friend is calling

You from the streets and 

There's a new bar 

opening up tomorrow-

offering free booze for 

a week. 

Breathing is a flex-

Inhale. You gotta 

Chill the fuck out and

 Just exhale.

Bravery vs Stupidity

Stupidity and bravery are two sides of the same coin. But if you're not brave when you're stupid- that's cowardice.

If you're aware enough and still not acting, you're just a dud.

And if you're not stupid enough to be brave, and aware enough to restrain- you haven't figured it yet.

Then, if you're intelligent enough to figure it out and philosophize it for no good- You're miserable enough to be a poet.

Final Act of Love

As a final act of love,

I've learned saying 

Your name without 

Making an ounce of 

sound.

I've learned to deal with 

The emptiness without 

The need to fill it up.

And to love without 

Expressing it,

To yearn without the

Need to show it.

To remember without 

Collapsing--

The art of conversing 

Without the need for 

Reciprocation-

Silence is new language,

And healing is just

Accomodating wounds.

You're not longer a

Scar, just a space

I like to carry.

And perhaps that's 

What love becomes 

When it outlives the

Destination-

A steady embrace of

Letting go..

Wishful Fantasies

My garden blooms 

with memories. 

Sky fills with hopeful 

reveries. 

The weightlessness of

my heart must be a hint

of an unknown longing. 

The urge to fly- 

must be a sign of a 

distant love arriving. 

The persistent chirps of 

sparrows from the balcony,

The fresh shoots on the 

Almond trees-

Spring must be an 

anomaly of her feelings.

Sometimes, through my 

stained window, 

When I see a rainbow in 

the sky- I wonder if 

she put it up there.

Do seasons still wait 

For her approval?

The weather still complies 

To her instructions?

It almost makes me

Believe,

That somewhere,

She too thinks about me.

And the earth, 

Briefly bends in our 

Favour.

Keep it moving

One word at a time, then a sentence, a follow-up sentence, and then another. You stutter in broken sentences, than plan something grandiose. 

The moment you start giving importance to creating something extraordinary, you become a victim of that. Create average, create mundane- shit, vomit, and spend words like it's dust. 

Then mold, edit and reshape it into something good. This is wrestling, this is boxing, this is dirt racing. This is a constant battle with laziness. This is to keep the pen moving.

Let it move, don't think, don't put your mind to it. Let the pen do the thinking. Action, that's the only thing that matters. Go on and on about how something is this, that, or whatever - or how it can't be. 

This is needed. The only redemption is to keep the pen moving. The only redemption is to let the pen think. The only redemption is to just blast it out of your head while you do the etching. 

Remember- One word at a time, then a sentence, a follow-up sentence, and then another. There's no secret ingredient. Miracles don't happen, if you aren't ready to get your hands dirty.

Unbecoming

to gently dissolve 

like salt in water,

to gently disappear 

like fragrance in air-

the way your name 

tastes on my tongue,

and the way your face 

is imprinted on my walls.

to escape in your 

reveries and be lost,

and to trace you back 

to reality and adore-

my days roll by like this.

and months, and years.

to know someone exists

and to yearn for 

something that's yet 

to happen-

the river of my time 

once touched your feet,

and by the sound of 

your anklets- my life's 

unbecoming.

Pen and Ink trails

The tip of my pen 

slides on a blank paper. 

The trail takes me 

nowhere to anywhere,

to everywhere-

I am where my 

pen moves. 

The wet sand on feet,

The snowy breeze 

of the Arctic. 

The mellow sun shining 

upon a hill and 

Flamingos flying en masse

to Lake Baikal--

I could go to space if 

The trail takes me or

spend nights in my grave, 

if it's deemed necessary--

I am what my pen 

make out of me.

My mind seems to be 

a dark room and 

Only ink can guide 

light there.

and until I put it on paper, 

I don't even recognise 

my thoughts. 

It's my face or a mask,

I don't know. 

I hardly know what I feel. 

and if you sense it

after reading-

let me know.

Displaced. Rehabilitated.

If I could begin again 

I would walk on the 

same roads.

Eat the same berries,

and rejoice the same 

fragrance of jasmines

that reek nostalgia 

of my village. 

I would adore the same 

cattle while they return 

by evening and 

I would be a little more 

curious about the small talks 

of women while they 

fetched water from 

the distant borewell.

If I could begin again, 

I would fly the same kites 

from near the village pond. 

Hang with the same friends 

with small dusty legs and 

have the same thorns 

poked in my feet while

I played with them.

But alas! The water from 

the dam rose one day and

overnight my village got

submerged.

we got dislocated.

we're rehabilitated,

the government says-

But the absent hunger 

in our full plates,

begs to differ.

So do the chirps of 

sparrows that lack

authenticity.

Third Eye

I bet you think about me.

those days when you 

complete your chores,

watch all the TV there is.

Done with those 

Daily items by 11 am,

While you kill time out of 

Boredom-

From one corner of your 

Mind. From the visuals 

of your third eye-

I sneak in your thoughts.

But you’d hate it, 

Wouldn’t you?

You conjure your acts of 

distractions,

Hold me by the neck to choke 

me up and try to rub me off

Like I'm a bad stain--

Dying like that from 

your hand,

It would be a pleasure.

But you don't do that,

Do you?

You can't just ignore me

and flush me down a

limbo.

You find my ghost

Lingering in your drafts-

Half a sentence. Half a sigh. 

Words thought but never 

Penned. Never sent-

You try to wipe it all,

Thinking you’ve erased me,

but I still hum between 

your thoughts, 

Like static on a radio.

You’ve moved on,

You say-

But moving on is just

another form of haunting.

And maybe that's why.

You hold me hostage 

in your ribcage.

to treat me like a trophy. 

or maybe as a 

contingency plan?

Oh Bloody Hell!

The sleep is gone.

Dreams restlessly dance.

The days flirt with 

The evening breeze and 

The sparrows sing in my 

Heart- it churns.

I dress up well to have 

a glance of you-

Jitters, butterflies-

The sky isn't blue anymore.

My yearning has painted 

The world in your colours. 

There are feelings 

Better than this I bet.

But now that it has 

Happened to me, 

How I wanna scream 

about it.

How I wanna lace up my 

words in your reveries,

and float away in the 

Paper boats I made while 

I was unbecoming.

A star has just fallen 

for me asking 

If this is love-

I'm Buoyant. Baffled

Bamboozled-

Ohh bloody hell!!

I have no one way of

saying this, but 

Yes, yes. Hell yes..

Thrift shop

I saw God in a 

Thrift shop.

Blue jeans, dirty jacket.

Doubtful, unsure-

Negotiating the price of 

Blessings for all the 

Half-hearted prayers--

Needs of parched 

Farmers discounted 

From the fate of sailors 

who despise rain.

Tears of mothers,

Compensated out of

The debauchery of 

Chauvinistic men.

The cry of animals for 

Carbon footprint 

Left by private jets,

And the death of soldiers 

From foul-mouthed

Politicians.

I saw him beg for 

Mercy for kids against 

A caricature of POTUS, 

To no effect-

But he stood his ground

Counting coins of

Patience to bet it all

Against a hope that was 

Nowhere to be found.

Because when miracles 

are outdated-

If he doesn't look for

them in a place where 

things are useful again-

Who else would?

Luck

The journey is sleep, 

Or sleep is a journey.

For me, I don't know.

I sleep in buses..

I sleep in buses, and 

I hear my co-passengers talk:

Drunkards complaining 

About the price hikes,

Women despising their 

Adamant kids.

Grumpy old men 

Negotiating ticket prices,

And middle-aged 

Boasting about their 

Sturdy crops.

My villagers in the bus,

Who doesn’t let me sleep 

With their small talks,

Often warn me about 

The old witch in the 

Front seat.

They tell, she steals 

Luck by touching 

Whoever is asleep.

They fear, but I don't 

think I have to.

Luck has always been

a contagious disease,

and maybe she’s 

just the cure.

I hate talking to you

Maybe I hate talking to you 

when I can't write. 

Maybe you are a mirror 

that reflects my face

whenever I can't write. 

What I mean to say is 

I start running away from you 

Because I can't face you 

with writer's block. 

Maybe you challenge the 

only purpose I am left with

and maybe that kicks a 

small midlife crisis.

Maybe you demand me to 

become worthy of a 

conversation, and when I 

Get away in dejection- 

And eventually when 

sentences land on 

fingers like melodies-

There's this urge for 

validation that brings me 

back to you.

Should this feeling have a 

name or it shouldn't? 

I leave that to failed 

Therapists.

 

I am just happy knowing-

you make me write,

and I can breathe in peace 

for one more day.

Justification for a Marriage

Do I have to be a

Cornered dog to 

Get married? and

Do I need grow a 

Spine to live alone?

You think I haven't 

Thought about this?

You think I haven't 

Sung a rebellion before 

I could accept the

Obvious?

Expectations of the 

Family. Sentiments.

Middle class aspirations-

My teenage rebellion 

Dissipating as I aged-

What if a laid-back,

Mundane life is an

Armour for the Wars 

I wanna fight?

What if I live by every 

Vow I take?

What if I learn to weave

My poetries in her

Braids?

What if all my cynicism 

Will be dodged by a

Daughter I'm gonna raise,

And be content with the

Cheers of the pitchers 

I'm gonna enjoy with 

Friends I don't forget?

Of all the overthought 

Outcomes- IFs and ORs, 

AYEs and NAYs.

As the world paints itself 

In grey-

May be redemption lies

In taking a chance.

And because history 

Will repeat itself and 

Every boy is cursed to 

Become an adult 

Like his own father-

Maybe I'm gonna get 

Drunk and recite to

My wife tender poetries of 

The people I adored till

My daughter is gonna

Believe-

What cynical poets 

Can become when they 

Become a parent.

Alternate Names For The End

Doors slammed shut, 

Opportunities lost before 

you could act.

Last nail in the coffin and 

Momentary lapse of reason. 

Epilogue, eulogies, 

Epitaphs. Graduation and 

Unemployment hand in

Hand. Then birthdays to 

Remind you how 

Depreciating you are.

Death, demise, 

Passing away, fading, 

Forgetting. 

Sheer oblivion and then 

There is apathy. 

A marriage, a child, 

a justification when it's 

Not needed. 

And the need for a God, 

When common sense 

pretty much does the job. 

Your presence felt like 

a menace. 

Absence, indicating relief. 

Hope where it shouldn't-

Love, lust, and other such 

Nonsense to indicate 

Everything is alright.

Dreams sent to archives.

Meaning lost to labels.

Somewhere between 

Farewell and full-stop-

A breath that never 

Returns.

Cursed to Endure

I remember counting 

the last pages and

closing the book. 

I remember very well,

how the story had a 

dramatic end-

Death, justice 

and redemption.

Yet there is a sunrise 

on the horizon. 

The birds seem to be 

chirping again. 

Flowers blooming

and fresh paint like

hope smearing itself 

on the canvas..

For what? I don't know. 

The redacted memories 

keep resurfacing. 

The healed wounds 

keep finding new openings. 

The closure I wanted 

edges itself into a 

continuation and the water 

I drank out of thirst 

reinforces it again. 

Caught between a wanting 

and a desire unfulfilled. 

I stare at the ceiling

beseeching the end this 

for once- 

And for a moment, 

image of Ashwatthama 

flashes before my eyes. 

And I understand how-

 

Some stories are beyond 

Beginning or an end-

You just have to endure.

Shakespeare's Ghost of Bhishma

My decision made in 

haste was sealed 

By ceremony- Drums,

Garlands, Applause-

They lifted me onto a 

pedestal overnight

and called it greatness.

I watched my choice

harden into a role.

Watched myself become

an adjective- steadfast, 

incorruptible, eternal.

Every celebration

tightened the knot.

How a man is trapped

not by chains but by 

applause.

Duty grew louder than

Desire. Responsibility 

Felt stronger than

My inner voice-

So I stayed. 

I stood guard over 

The decisions that were 

no longer mine to 

Protect futures that

Excluded my own.

But what good is a 

Resolve without 

contentment?

What good is a decision 

without happiness?

A vow without revision 

is a virtue disguised

as violence-

So beware of the sour

Old men who have no

Respite for reflection.

And remember me not

For the Resolve I made

But for the Warning

I became.

Blurr

She slept on my lap in

The college lawn once.

Hugged me under the

Streetlight at night.

Dragged me to the biggest 

Romantic movie of that

Time and took me to her

House to make me 

Meet her mom.

It was all new to me.

Hesitant. Awkward.

And totally on backfoot-

But it was nice. I think.

On a college trip, 

She made me carry her 

Near the waterfall.

Everyone around cheered.

Months after that

When she said it.

Said it aloud like it was 

Obvious- I froze.

I snapped.

I said nothing.

I didn’t accept or deny.

Maybe I wasn’t ready.

Maybe I didn’t trust myself-

my future,

my ambitions,

my unfinished plans.

Maybe I was afraid

of it becoming real.

Then I pretended I

moved on.

She moved on faster.

Got a job, changed city.

She got married and 

Now has a kid.

A decade later, when 

I think of her sometimes.

Not as regret or rejoice.

But as a loose recapitulation.

It's just a blur.

On cold nights like this,

when memory returns 

uninvited, I can’t tell

If those moments truly 

happened or I imagined them.

I wanted something

beautiful to have happened

to me once. And it did.

But revert back to reality 

Like it didn't.

This constant lingering 

From doubt to fancy-

A poem is the worst thing 

That can happen to you

On lonely nights.

Or the best, depending 

Upon the levels of misery 

You're dealing with.

Instructions for Dividing a Country

(to Radcliffe over the Indo-Pak border)

The scaling for this activity 

On the map- one inch equals one mile.

So keep the pencil sharp.

A millimeter here can throw 

A village elsewhere-

From Graphite to uranium enrichment,

They may never forgive geometry

Or geography.

Clear your throat before you begin.

Do not cough.

A cough can move a mosque

behind a temple,

a temple behind a mosque to

turn prayers into knives.

Check your eyes.

If they blur, pause.

Wear your glasses.

Weak vision can send a mother

running with a child on her hip,

can decide which side

her husband will die on.

Make sure the lamp is bright.

Dim light turns homes into targets.

It decides whose Urdu becomes illegal,

whose Hindi becomes suspect,

whose name is enough

to drag them out at dusk.

Drink water.

Dry hands shake.

Shaking hands redraws citizenship.

Shaking hands make people choose

between Kalma and survival.

Do not think of trains.

Do not imagine compartments

sealed with silence,

filled with bodies that reached

the right country too late.

Do not picture women

cutting their hair,

smearing ash on their faces,

jumping into wells

to avoid becoming trophies

of victory.

Avoid names.

Names are dangerous.

Names decide whether a door opens

or set houses on fire.

If you feel tired, stop.

Fatigue invents massacres.

Fatigue makes people believe

this separation is temporary-

that they’ll return after things settle.

Well, they won’t.

The houses they lock

will be occupied.

The fields they leave

will be renamed.

Their dead

will belong nowhere.

Do not imagine gods.

They will be invoked anyway.

They will be dragged into this

with slogans and fire,

forced to watch believers

kill other believers better.

Sign quickly.

Fold the map neatly.

Leave before consequences arrive.

If you stay, you'll be worshipped 

For the favour you've made.

They must not know,

You're their Messiah.

Temporary Address

Do that in your 'sasural'

Says Mom.

We tolerate you, but 

Would your in-laws?

Chuckles Dad.

Once you marry,

The room will all be mine-

Declares my loving Brother.

But should that be

Alright?

When these windows

Remember my childhood,

And the walls echo my 

Tattered first words-

Should the air rehearse

my exit? Should the mirror 

Constantly remind me, 

How my rent is due here?

Why would everything 

Repeat itself to 

Pack me away?

Home these days is a

Conditioning draped

In care.

A departure dressed

As destiny-

A quiet loosening,

As if the roots should 

Learn early, how to 

Apologise for growing.

Helplessness

Helplessness is a dog 

that has an itchy skin. 

Helplessness is a hen.

It has wings but can't fly. 

Helplessness is a reptile. 

All the burrows are closed. 

Where should it slither?

Inside your bones? 

What if helplessness is

a child who demands you to 

put an elephant in his bottle? 

Helplessness is a cigarette 

in your hand too. 

Except you don't have the

Match to lit it up.

You put it in your mouth 

and pretend to tackle your 

compulsion-

The question is how soon 

You are gonna break?

Raja Beta

When my aunt had a daughter, everyone smiled. Everyone's wishes had a silence that screamed it were a boy.

When the second one was a daughter too, there was a gasping silence across the closeted room, like someone had committed a crime.

The air reeked of murmurs that disapproved of the sinful act. The desire for a son became forever aloud after that.

Don’t worry, this one will be a son- the concern had a hidden warning. "If it isn’t, you are done."

The desperation to have a son can push one to have five daughters in a row. And how these walking, talking beings are reminded that they are a rejected lot.

How everyone’s words mourn their presence, how even before these beings grow up, everyone thinks of marrying them off, as if they are to be discarded as soon as possible.

By now, even they know how even their unwanted existence needs a validation from a kid bearing a peg.

So they pray for God to miraculously bless a conception that has a Y chromosome. And thankfully, it's a baby boy this time.

But they don't know how they'd be put up to the task of catering to his needs- Five full-time babysitters to validate his every act.

And this lad grows chauvinistic day by day. Why shouldn't he? So that, one day when girls ask him, "Ghar mein maa-behen nai hai?" after being cat-called- 

He can always say, "bahut hai."

Fragile Weapons

But what if you are

wounded by a smile,

bruised by a glance.

Intoxicated by her 

eyes and drowned in 

feeling of how you 

felt around him?

What if you're moved

by the aura of jasmines,

shaken by the flutter 

of butterflies?

and to melt in 

someone’s arms,

to gasp over unhinged 

confessions-

To watch the moon

and be sad over 

the nostalgia you 

can't enjoy-

You'll be damned 

when the definition

of all traditional weapons

fall short against a 

certain fragility-

Really damned,

when gentleness

cuts through the swords 

and you die because 

someone was kind.

Humiliation Kink

God is watching 

the world burn,

and we are praying, 

begging. In fact-

We're questioning

our very intent of 

worship sometimes.

But if God is having fun?

winning bet after after 

each kid's death.

A jackpot when there's

A genocide..

What if he never 

cared about us?

so appalled by 

Eve's disobedience,

he decided hold us

against ourselves?

the plan was always

to make her watch her 

children kill each other.

maybe Humiliation is 

God's favorite kink.

He's a narcissistic 

bitch.

Postponed Life

If the world doesn’t 

end tomorrow,

I would spit out the wad 

stuck in my throat 

to scream my guts out.

I would climb a mountain,

walk into a forest,

throw myself off a plane

and dive into the deep 

sea just to hear how 

silence would sound.

Maybe I would call 

you too and as a 

final act of love I might 

rip my heart out to

place it at your feet to

sing blasphemous 

confessions.

This life stuck in 

the nose that I can't 

sneeze out-

I need a new hammer 

to break it open.

I gotta run, jump, fall

to jolt me awake to

a radical change..

So lemme reiterate-

If the world doesn’t 

end tomorrow,

I would begin again.

properly start the life

I keep postponing.

But aghast!

it always seems

it'll end tomorrow,

or next hour,

or right now.

every breath feels

like a countdown.

always on my toes-

waiting for an apocalypse

that never arrives to 

postpone a life

that never begins.

Jigsaw Fit

The craving for a 

drop of water

on a thirsty tongue.

The burden of an 

ocean, when you're 

filled.

The dryness of 

a song upon your ears 

as your heart is 

yet to be bruised?

The flowers are 

brooding and drooping 

because the bees 

have lost the sense 

of longing.

You too have a flaw

and I do too-

and only with our 

missing parts alone,

the world is complete.

The jigsaw fit for 

each other always lies 

elsewhere.

Why else would winds 

move from somewhere

and it rains here.

Civilization

Study. get a job.

earn a living.

marry. have kids.

lead a life.

Why bother?

why digress?

why derail the 

conveyor belt?

Why think?

why observe the 

noise inside?

why give thoughts 

a language?

Why give a chair 

four legs? or

aeroplane wing?

why do anything 

other than just

breathe and exist?

What’s the point

of asking a question

in a world that has

mass-produced all

the answers?

That's what all

all cavemen thought. 

till a lazy dude said, 

why not?

and set his head

on fire to impress 

a girl for a 

one-night-stand.

and from the wheel

to steam engines-

the standards 

have gone up 

ever since.

the arc of history 

is bent by the 

acts of these dudes

doing crazy stuff to 

sniff ass.

Source of Protein

After a full day’s labour,

you reach your house-

tired wife, excited kids.

a KG of mutton in 

your hand.

Weekend luxury.

Masala ready.

Oil sizzling.

An occasional happy meal.

Then a mob kicks the door,

drags you out,

beats you senseless-

no question,

no warning.

Your head spins,

teeth crack,

vision blurs-

and just before

you fade into blackout,

one voice cuts through

the chaos-

Beef! says a 

saffron laden voice.

and that’s it-

One word. your trial, 

your verdict,

your sentence-

fuck the stairway to

heaven, when the 

source of your protein

can get you there.

Dilshad, Sudha

me and my close friend

we talk about everything-

songs, food, places to go,

the new restaurants,

the old regrets,

and the usual gossip

about life.

after the usual loop,

we always slip

into the family stuff-

the dysfunctions,

the taunts,

the tiny wars at home.

we blame our fathers

for being toxic to our mothers,

we psychoanalyse them

like two trained therapists

with pitchers in hand.

we call out patriarchy

with big words,

strong opinions,

heavy statements.

i suddenly realise,

i don't know his mom's 

name. he says Dilshaad.

he asks mine,

i say Sudha--

two decades of friendship

choked by the void that

sat in the names of women

we claim to defend-

alaas! patriarchy isn’t in 

the fathers, sons or 

those other oldies-

it quietly sits inside our 

vocabulary.

crazy how, the change

we wish to see can

begin with the awareness 

that his/her mom has

a NAME.

Blunt Knife?

After each sin, 

God sharpens his knife. 

But does it mean 

it turns blunt after 

each good deed? 

And if death is inevitable

won't the virtuous be 

killed by a blunt knife? 

If so,

which is more painful, 

Death with a sharp knife 

or blunt one? 

Well. Well. Well.

That's why that fruit was 

forbidden in Eden.

Isn't it? If it invoked in 

humans, logic.

and God didn't like 

counter-questions.

He had to abandon us

for our loud mouths.

We don't know it but

Freedom of expression 

is a punishment-

We've been left to 

Ruin ourselves by 

Too many opinions of

Ours.

Water

Every other day,

we were supposed to

fetch water-

me, my cousin,

a kilometer’s walk

from the hand pump.

Small pots on our 

shoulders, slipping arms, 

dusty feet, the road 

smelt of wet mud

and sunburnt patience.

If we did that for a 

week, the reward was 

a roti with butter

and a lump of jaggery-

a Sunday feast

we’d eat like kings.

While we fetched water,

and grandma churned 

the curd with her Kadagol,

humming some old tune

that had no beginning 

or an end.

By the time we returned, 

En route, our shadows

grew taller than us.

The house got cemented

and plastered.

Cattle were gone.

Grandma too.

The water came through 

motorised pipes,

and the life got seated

in memory-

Lingering now only as 

sensations in the legs 

that refuse to run.

Taandav

Empty vessels make noise, 

they say.

So I emptied myself.

To hear the one who's 

Been silenced for decades.

I scraped my past.

I scraped my future.

I scraped my present.

Just to hear the noise,

I emptied myself to

the core.

and when I became empty 

enough, there wasn’t 

any noise.

silence sat heavy-

dense, unmoving,

like truth refusing to speak.

Disappointed, distressed,

and in retaliation-

I started filling up again-

memories, guilt, 

half-read books,

faces that never stayed.

Slowly, the noise returned.

Not hollow this time,

but humming-

a strange vibration,

a forming self.

The more I filled,

the clearer it became-

from clutter to chord,

from noise to note.

constantly shaped and 

reshaped-

Learning, unlearning 

and relearning-

till Shiva in me made a 

round trip as Nataraj 

to force my voice

sound like mine.

Soft Ambitions

I feel tired. 

I sense my life choked

In my nose. 

I wonder how my 

Nana did it-

living alone in a farm 

for decades, 

attending to his cattle,

and narrating 

mythological stories 

whenever I asked. 

I can beat you blokes 

any day, both in 

eating and working, 

He'd say. 

He loved his buffaloes, 

cows, and hens, and 

He loved his lord Vitobha. 

His chores got him through, 

and his band of friends-

The bhajan mandali.

Sometimes late in the 

evening when I feel like 

Not eating and sleeping,

and not living-

From somewhere, 

the sound of his bicycle 

jolts me awake to a 

longing for the fritters 

He brought from 

The Saturday market. 

And once again, I start 

my life with small efforts. 

I get a pen, a poem.

A pan, an omelet-

The trick is to get going 

somehow-

The trick is to remember 

The soft ambition of

Touching the sky,

From all those days 

When he carried me

On his shoulders.

Another Year of Almosts

In another minute,

it’ll be 16th August-

my next birthday.

There’s half-eaten 

Biryani beside me,

a bottle of beer-

I don’t even want to drink.

I’d hoped you’d call,

but I know you won’t.

Suddenly, I realize-

I’m all alone. After years.

I feel utterly lonely again.

Everything seems to 

withdraw-

the disappearing moon,

the absence of 

eavesdropping ears.

the strange urge

to hand over my eyes

to someone else.

And then it hits me-

there are only two 

possibilities,

and I don’t know which 

is worse:

that you don’t remember

my birthday at all,

or that you do-

and choose not to wish.

The clock blinks 12:00-

A quiet announcement

No one wanna hear.

I scroll through old chats.

Half-written apologies,

None worth sending.

Maybe growing older

Isn’t about aging,

But outliving the noise

We once called love.

So I raise the bottle,

Not in celebration,

But as a truce

with the silence-

To another year of

Almosts, and the slow art

of getting used to being

forgotten.

Burning it up

Does burning help?

After months of fighting 

With myself.

Punishing myself for 

Letting you walk away.

Was it my fault?

Do I deserve it all?

I collected every bit of 

Your memory while I 

Kept asking myself

All the self-deprecating 

Questions in the world.

The final one:

Does burning help?

The books, the gifts, 

The memories and the

Places that remind me 

Of you.

The songs, movies, 

Snacks, and food.

In the middle of the night,

I did it anyway-

A bonfire rising to the sky,

Soot mixing with the 

Fog for days.

Then it rained.

Water carrying, charred

Mist of demise.

Deluge of knee-deep.

Black water up and rising.

The flooding-

You can’t escape the burst,

Can you? If you burn it,

You might drown briefly 

after that.

Ode to Rockstar songs

After years of wandering,

you find that one 

wholesome home to 

settle down.

The 90s Bollywood music 

you listen to, and the good 

old Kannada songs-

Western music happens,

and you are obsessively 

into a couple of bands.

Then you hit a sweet spot.

It takes over you

like a ghost of childhood 

you always romanticized.

Years pass by while it 

makes a home in your head.

You relish the indie music,

you go gaga over 

classical fusions for some time.

But you always come back 

to this homeliness of

Rockstar-

A hall of Sadda Haq with 

TV and couch.

Pirse Ud Chala kitchen,

where you cook dancing.

Aur Ho is a cozy washroom.

Tum Ho is bed and Tum ko

is a blanket.

This homeliness has always 

Been a good night’s sleep,

and a Kun Faya Kun like 

mornings you wake up to-

Nadaan Parindey like

Meals and Hawa hawa kind 

of evenings to slip in

Drinking-

Dichotomy of fame kinda

of tea.

Ohh! beyond the shackles
of right and wrong,

life has become tasty,

and at ease- a toast

like Tango for Taj.

So this is goodbye

The desire in the eyes

doesn't transcend

down to lips.

The quiver of fingers

doesn't translate

the fire in my veins.

The moon doesn't wink

at your instance.

The tongue doesn't roll

seamlessly with 

wet verses when you 

cross my mind.

Somewhere, our nest 

feels abandoned.

The ship that was 

supposed to cross the 

seven seas, strands 

in the middle.

The lullabies intended

to you get caught in the 

sneezes to fizzle out.

And with failed will and 

wings, any reciprocation 

from you,

fails to take off.

I have repeatedly tried

to fix this.

But every attempt

is another excuse, that

causes more damage.

it feels hopeless,

I want to give up.

don't know if you'd 

go or try to give this

another chance 

but for now, this is 

goodbye, Moonpie.

Before everything turns 

to ashes, let's part 

on a good note.

if this stands the test

of the times, maybe 

we'll be left with a

a nostalgia we can keep 

coming back.

Persistence of Oblivion

I take pictures of 

the clock thinking 

it will freeze time.

One in childhood, 

one in school,

college, marriage, 

birthday.

But the second-hand 

always ticks-

Ebbing, etching 

something each time.

And I end up with a 

scratched

photo of mine.

Almost forgetting, 

mostly forgotten-

the eyes, nose, or 

the cheek I once had.

A void left everywhere 

for me to scream 

my oblivion-

And almost always,

there is no answer 

to a why.

Only the faint sound 

of seconds chewing 

on memories,

polite, persistent-

like an old friend who 

stayed longer than 

he should.

A friend who let

The frame collect

dust, and the dust 

collect years-

Each layer smothering 

who I was, and 

what becomes of me,

till even memory 

loses its grip

on who it remembers 

or mourns.

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.