Clap. Clap. Clap.

He rubs a pinch of tobacco
In his palm and claps out
The coarse chaff.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
Puts the tobacco in his
Mouth. It's midnight.

He rubs, claps, and puts it
In his mouth and abuses
My mom at night.
Clap, clap, clap in the
Dead of the night.

It's 3.15 in the morning.
The sound, slashing
The fierce dark.
Piercing through the sleep
Of mine.

Piercing through my skin.
A cold knife down my spine.
It's a masterclass on
How you ruin a young
Lad's life.

I hear my mom trying to
Hide her sobs.
In the morning, she
Looks away and doesn't
Look me in the eye.

It's sad that no one
Intervenes. It's sad days
Become years like that.

Clap, clap, clap in the
Dead of the night.
Tobacco should cause
Cancer.
But why hasn't it yet?

And thirty years go by.
My brother says how
He still grows weary upon
Hearing those claps.
I do too.

The trauma doesn't pass.
So doesn't my dad.
We go on carrying a
Broken glass in our bellies.
And clap, clap, clap..
It churns our insides
Every other night.

Baba of Undies

My friend left his underwear 

In my penthouse.

I'd to use it to clean my bike.

He cracked a good deal 

At his company after that 

And got sponsored for 

A free Bangkok trip.

After a year, another friend 

Did the same. I'd put

The cloth to some use.

His business boomed too.

The word got around and

Suddenly all my friends 

And their friends paid a visit 

To leave their undies in

My house and everyone's 

Fortune turned.

Did I just become an

Underwear baba? 

Beats me but

People started visiting.

Sometimes, I had to 

Symbolically clean stuff with 

Their undies and they did

Well in life after that.

Then came the skeptics

A professor, a journalist,  

A man with a clipboard.  

They left nothing behind,  

To check my validity.  

Their stocks plummeted.  

Their lovers left.

One man misplaced  

His entire career.  

Now they, too, return,  

Sheepish, contrite,  

Holding their offerings  

Like wilted flowers.  

I nod. Accept the fabric 

Fate has woven.  

At this point,  

Who am I to question it?  

When divinity passes

Through you to lead a creed.

You accept the prophecy

To happily become a 

Baba of Undies.

Stink

You meet someone online.

Talk for days, fall in love.

Discuss dirty stuff and

Get naked on screen.

You fight, you argue 

You figure it out and fall

In love more fiercely to

Shag each other on video 

For months.

You then fall apart. Breakup. 

You just close the screen 

And there's an eternal divide.

Moving on seems easy-

But it gets to you.

Heart is heart, and you get

Frozen in a period of time.

You miss her eternally.

Her face, her eyes.

Hair, skin, bare bust 

And the way she touched 

Her crotch-

You imagine the way she

Would have touched you.

But how can you?

Touch is what you're

Most deprived.

This two-dimensional love..

The deprivation it came with.

It haunts you.

You shag yourself in

Her memory for years.

Her face fade. Letter by

Letter her name fades.

And one day it hits you.

She remains only in what

You can smell.

She's fused in the smell of 

Your semen with a hint of 

Urine.

What else could have 

Filled the vacuum?

Maybe that's the smell

Of all the hopeless romance.

Maybe it isn't.

Maybe you would have

Been different if you had

Held her hand.

Maybe be this is loneliness. 

Maybe that's how a 

Break up stinks.

Maybe that's how a

A touch-deprived story is

Supposed to end.

Maybe that's how 

Best of memories smell.

Maybe you never know.

Maybe that's why you

Take things in hand 

And do it again.

And maybe... that's why 

Everything goes on 

Smelling the same.

The first time I knew I was alive

When you cut a newspaper in
A square and place a bow and
Arrow across two ends diagonally.

And paste the ends well with the
Rice paste prepared by mom.
You get a skeleton of a kite.

Then you poke two holes at
The junction of the bow and arrow.
And two holes parallely down-

You pass a thread across the
Holes- double the diagonal length
Of the kite.

Pull it out at the posterior end
To tie together the entire structure
To balance the centre of gravity-

You would need a reel-thread
From mom's sewing machine to
Set the kite in its course.

And for the first time, when
My kite soared high, it was
The first time I knew I was alive.

Zara

Zara

(Love Your Curves)

If you pedal through the passes 

Of Himalayas. Curve after curve 

The mountains unfurl their

Wilderness.

And if you could reach Hanle in

Ladakh and ready for more curves. 

You would find Umling La-

The highest motorable road in the world.

Adorable wilderness.

The bare mountains oozing elgance-

We wish we could cloth them all.

But we can clothe you.

We 'Love Your Curves' too.

Visit the nearest Zara store soon.

Time Traveller

The time traveller moves 

A stone. I wake up in

My New York apartment 

With Ana de Armas 

Asking what I want for 

Breakfast.

The time traveller moves

A chair. En route to 

Colonised Mars.

They ask me to be an

Interim president there.

Hands down. 

No complains.

Time traveller does 

Nothing this time.

He had a chance to do

Something but bored,

Tired, procrastinates

And sleeps.

I end up in misery here.

Broke, ugly, single

And still choking on 

Poems.

The third one is me.

Haven't realised it yet but 

I've travelled to the 

Present of this timeline 

For nothing.

Identifying Hope

When a postman 

Comes in search of an

Address in a war torn

City.

All the Houses grazed

To dust.. Still able 

To find that bombed

House..

Who's the refugee here?

The bodies?

The postman?

The letter? The sender?

Or the flower that's 

Trying to grow battling 

The hopeless silence 

In the rubble?

He keeps the letter 

Under the shadow of

The flower and

Returns.

What better way to

Take cognizance of

A life than delivering 

A letter?

To seek hope when

There's none.

Even if it's ridiculously 

Symbolic..

That act outweighs

Hope itself. Life itself.

The war itself.

Refusal

I refuse to look you in

The eye. I refuse to 

Let my feelings run wild.

Your slender hands and

Gleaming face.

Tiny feet and the way you

Sway when you walk...

I refuse to conjure the

Moon. I refuse to 

Soak my fantasies in 

The blue sky.

I like listening to you.

I like talking to you...

But somehow I refuse

To use the other four

Lettered word for the 

Things I adore in you.

Don't know why falling 

In love with you feels

Like a crime.

Don't know why I think 

Your name would hesitate 

To sit beside mine.

I don't know what 

Holds me back. 

Believe me I've even 

Deliberately tried.

My hesitation to answer 

The question you're.

The mystery you've become 

That I refuse to solve..

Thrusting words to this

Feeling feels like a crime.

Yet you fleet in every 

Act of mine.

I refuse to look you in

The eye. I refuse to 

Let my feelings run wild.

Child Labour

My son is not 14 yet.

He can't work.

Government orders.

He needs free and 

Compulsory education.

Government orders.

Upon that, he can't 

Even work in hazardous 

Industry till he's 18.

Uhh! What a waste.

His contribution could have

Added some Ammonium 

Nitrate to the world..

But alas! We got one

Bomb less because 

Of government orders.

The chaos in the world 

Is threatened by too 

Many takers of peace.

Pussies..!

Better to settle in Africa 

To take advantage of

His small hands.

Might at least be helpful 

In rathole mining of 

Some high-value ores.

His exploits need to

Be capitalized at least 

Over Gold and Diamond.

I mean, if adolescence

Is not wasted on 

Disruptive acts-

The age is dust

Scattered by farts.

Descendence

We were direct descendants
Of Gods. Apple of Brahma's
Eyes and Gospel of Alla's times.

And the Sinned Children of Christ
Inhabiting Holy Mother Earth-
Around which everything revolved.

Then HMS Beagle reached
Galápagos Islands.
Darwin declared us as
Descendants of monkeys.

Such blasphemy to
Make us slaves of our own
Reasonable mind?

We could heal the wounds,
Live longer, and not just walk
But fly on in and out of water.

But how dare we live on our own
Terms now? How dare we
Solve metaphysical problems
On our own?

It was Godly to die en masse
In famines, epidemics, and
Religious wars.

How dare we associate
Ourselves with monkeys and
Fall down to newer highs?

Human Misery

Chengis Khan is credited 

For controlling an eventual

Population explosion as

He killed millions.

Norman Borlaug is blamed 

For the Green Revolution as

He might have saved a billion

From starvation.

The famines and plagues

Have eaten up a good number 

Of people often. To keep the 

Population in check.

And something as simple as

Washing hands with soap

Has doubled life expectancy 

Within no time.

Where should we draw the line?

Who should we categorically 

Blame for the miseries of

Humankind?

The pandemics, disasters.

Modern medicine and the 

Wars that were stopped.

Could we have planned them all?

Should we think at a species 

Level at all or leave it to chance 

To simply eat, mate, reproduce 

Till we're flushed into the

Existential indifference?

Or we should up the game 

To blame someone better?

Like the stars, planets or aliens. 

The spaceships anyway 

Are on their way.

Worship

When I see a flower bud.

I pluck it and put it in water to

Force it bloom within hours-

I've a God to please.

The vibrant petals lose 

The color after some time.

The wilting kicks in.

The petals fall inward.

Turn black and dry out

Into a demise eventually.

Should I be held responsible?

I should be. Said the Lord.

The sheer cruelty of plucking 

A plant's reproductive organs-

Phallus for phallus he said

And hung me by the balls.

He had a target to reach 

Today and I was the last

Sacrifice to his Overlord.

Everyone up the chain is

Interested in phallus to have

Themselves pleased?

Explains a lot phallus worship 

In our traditions.

Seems at one point of time

All worship must have been

Mindlessly throwing around 

One genital at the other.

No wonder why all the 

Religions are a cover-up 

Jobs like fake orgasms.

Brand Poem

Read just the left part
Poem based on company Taglines.

To "Taste the rainbow"                                         ( Skittles)
To "Fly the friendly skies".                                 (United Airlines)
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"Think Different"                                                 (Apple)
"Think Big"                                                         (IMAX)
"Think Outside the Bun"                                     (Taco Bell)

"Eat Fresh".                                                         (Subway)
"Belong Anywhere"                                             (Airbnb)
"Everywhere you want to be"                                (Visa)
"Impossible is Nothing"                                     (Adidas)
    
"Live in your world. Play in ours."                     (PlayStation)
"All for Freedom. Freedom for All."                 (Harley Davidson)
"Quality never goes out of style."                     (Levi's)

"Go Further"                                                         (Ford)
"Obey your thirst"                                                 (Sprite)
"Challenge everything"                                     (Electronic Arts)
"Let's go places"                                                 (Toyota)

"We try harder"                                                     (Avis)
"Yes We Can"                                                    (Obama 2008)
"Nothing runs like a Deere"                                 (John Deere)
"Gotta catch 'em all!"                                         (Pokemon)

"Open happiness"                                                 (Coca-Cola)
"Good to the last drop."                                     (Maxwell House)
"Just Do It"                                                         (Nike)
"Because you're worth it" to be in                     (L'OREAL)
"The Happiest Place on Earth".                        (Disneyland)

A Marriage

Like my father puts it.

Maybe I would've joined 

The Air Force.

Married by 25 and had 

Two kids, if not three.

Named them against 

The sensitivities of everyone. 

Beaten them up twice and 

Loved them only thrice.

Life would've taken a 

Backseat that way to fizzle out

In the background of a 

Not so miserable family.

I wouldn't have given

A weighed meaning to

My words and wouldn't 

Have expected too much 

From this life.

Two or three properties to 

Boast. Drinking every night 

To abuse my wife.

Advising others on why 

One should marry early

Would always be on cards.

But nah. I had to take a long 

Academic path.

Grow a knack for overthinking.

Only to sit alone on 

Park bench this morning.

To answer all the imaginary 

Existential questions of 

Marriage instead of facing 

My father upfront. 

Taj Mahal

When Shah Jahan was 

Imprisoned by his own son.

For wasting public money on 

Extravagant architecture..

Held captive in a cell facing 

The Taj Mahal so that he could 

Wither away to death 

Contemplating his creation..

Did the White-Giant diminish 

Into a hateful nothingness 

Or it became a point of 

His pride?

Swooned daily by it's 

Magnificence. The beauty 

Growing louder day by day 

Till he himself became 

The shadow of this very 

Entity he commissioned.

Leaving historians with 

The ultimate question of

Who's bigger?

The dream or dreamer.

Meaning

Five thousand years ago

A bored little girl,

On the banks of Indus 

In the North Western province.

Wrote poetry on slabs

Of stone and threw them

Around.

Meaningless strokes of

Etchings that meant 

Only relief from daily 

Chores.

Millennia later, 

Archaeologists, Historians 

Getting hold of those to

Decipher the meaning.

Reaching consensus over

The assumption that 

They're records of day to

Day transactions.

Why didn't they consider 

The possibility of innocent 

Folly of a bored little girl?

Did we grow so high on

Our own intellect that

We're compelled to give 

Meaning to everything?

Is that why these civilizations

Fall, evolve, and arise?

Maybe yes. If it is yes.

Then it's such a tragic yes.

Next Frame

Right here, this moment.

Under the yellow light.

While chills of December 

Teases our passion..

What would you wanna

Remember from this

Passing time?

The rustle of leaves 

Against passing traffic.

The elasticity of desire

Across our eyes.

The door of my house

That wants to open and 

A hot cup of coffee that 

Wants to be brewed to 

Host you once.

What should we do with 

This hesitant longing 

That makes us stand 

Below my apartment?

If someone should take

A photograph of us now.

You in red chudi and 

Me in yellow-T and jeans..

Years later, if someone 

Should See it and wonder,

Where the next frame

Went?

What should I say?

We ended up together 

Or just turned into 

Familiar strangers?

College Hostel Holi

Holi would begin early in

The morning with some

Asshole splashing 

Colours while you were 

Still in bed.

Then you went to Mess 

For breakfast. You could 

Barely finish it and 

You were mobbed in turns

With colours.

The hostel Garden would 

Be filled with water in

Abundance by 9.30 and

The colours would be

Done with by 10.

Holi in college was proper 

Only when they dumped

You in the mud and kicked

Till every major pore got 

Some dirt.

After many mishaps and

Localised fights.

After cloths were torn

And everyone roamed

In undies for hours...

After the failed human 

Pyramids and smearing 

Of mud on hostel warden's

Bald head and stripping 

Naked the most popular 

Senior..we got to 

The burning of a huge

Caricature of 'Kamanna'

Specifically designed 

Wiith cucumber penis 

And brinjals for balls-

Everyone threw the remains

Of the clothes on that

One tree in the garden.

Seemed our yearly catharsis 

Could only be handled by

A non-animal entity.

Heart is Art

Stabbing is not easy.

And stabbing right in 

The heart is a skilled job,

Needs a lot of practice.

Ribs will come in the way

To begin with.

And kitchen knife is

Not enough to penetrate 

The sternum.

You could go for the

Throat to kill or stab

Randomly on the torso 

To open an artery.

But we're not interested 

In the kill, are we? 

We gotta get through to

The heart. Heart is art.

So when you practice 

The same on the dead bodies 

In the mortuary with a 

Special knife smuggled

From Russia. And then..

You wait for weeks to 

Isolate a victim..

Constantly running a

Simulation of her chest

To thrust the dagger 

Between 4th and 5th rib.

And at the right minute

You don't flinch, and you

Don't blink.

The reminder to yourself 

Of a blunt puncture with

Right force and angle..

Then to draw it back with

Same precision with not a

Sound from her mouth. 

Just the squirt of blood 

Oozing out gushing..

You fancy that sound.

You smile at your art that 

Just assured you the right 

Frequency of life leaving.

Water

Water was always short.

We had to carry it from 

Distances.

My Attya was fierce with 

Her water fetching 

Endeavours.

Two pots. One on head

And the other on the waist.

Distances as long as 2-3 km.

Multiple such trips daily.

She wouldn't let us waste 

An extra mug. 

Bathing daily was such an 

Unheard fad back then.

The first time I could carry 

A big pot on my shoulder.

It was a celebration.

Then I learnt handling 

A bicycle. 

Eight pots in a go was

A luxury. We even 

Constructed our house by 

Fetching water like that.

Then the government 

Put up taps and 

The motors came up.

Now there's abundant 

Supply of water

Without much effort.

Though we overuse,

It feels weird to 

Waste water even now.

Feels her voice from

The Kitchen calls out for

Wasting it.

Water scarcity is function

Of accessibility.

If everyone is made to

Walk a distance to fetch 

Water..

First thing they'd give up

Would be bathing.

Then they'd resume 

Defecation in the open.

Passenger Train

I travelled in the passenger 

Train this morning.

The tightly packed general coach

Teeming with labourers.

Shabby clothes, smell of

Alcohol. Loud desi music.

Many sitting on the floor. 

Reclinerd near the toilets.

A guy sleeping near the door.

A few toppling over him while 

Boarding down. He's not 

Bothered by their cussing.

Two sitting at the door,

Swaying thier legs out.

Taking a fight with whoever 

Is spitting from the window.

Young boys with foul tongues

Laden with lunch boxes.

Headed to earn daily wages.

The system got them 

Before they could grow up.

Every face is almost a mirror.

A guilt-ridden awareness

Keeps reflecting my relative

Eliteness. 

Two college girls in Burkha 

Dare enter this male abode.

But withdraw suddenly as

There wasn't any space.

I was more anxious by their

Advent than they themselves.

Because I know all about 

The male gaze?

Seems rich of me to think 

Something like that.

Who am I to judge their 

Lives anyway?

The train spits us off shortly.

Everyone starts walking.

I see the swaying lunchboxes

In the hands of those boys.

The crumpled ticket I throw 

Falls just beside the dustbin.

My indifference gleams in it 

As I walk off.

Last Day

On the last day.

We unwillingly kissed.

Got naked and 

Entered the shower.

We rinsed each other.

Made love like we're 

Hosting a funeral in 

Ourselves.

The hollow cascade of 

Longing..

The smoke out of

Embers that were dying.

We couldn't look in

The eyes could we?

This repulsion for 

Each other. The sparks

That don't invoke 

Emotions now..

The unloving that feels 

On the skin and under it..

Rather, I feel nothing.

There's something missing.

I say whoever pits love

Against carnal sensations 

Is wrong. Whoever 

Preaches purity is wrong.

It's all messy and dirty.

Imperfect and wild.

And if you don't feel her 

On your skin..

It's not love.

If the blood doesn't rush 

To your head at her 

Instance and if the veins 

Don't bulge...and if you 

Don't get a mild erection 

Whenever she crosses

Your mind..

It's not love. Atleast,

It's not love enough.

The Almighty Lord

Before he had any name.

Before he became

Predominantly male.

He was formless. 

He was nature once.

Then a mountain, a hill.

A stone worshiped on

Field or street.

The erstwhile omnipotent 

Omnipresent, omniscient.

Now divided, shred and 

Shrunk into certain 

Holy books, walls, domes

Tribes and religions.

When did he became 

Absolutely parochial?

The poor must wait in line 

For the darshan while 

The rich can bribe their

Way into sacrosanct?

Menstruating women

And widows are declared 

Impure too along with 

Some other castes?

The growing distance from 

The truth that he himself 

Was supposed to preach. 

Our God. The Almighty Lord...

Then infinite. There after

Limitless, unbound and

Now barely independent.

Who's gonna believe him?

But everyone does.

Now more fiercely than ever.

The supposed redemption 

To closeted bigotry-

What a downfall.

Life is 10th class

One more year of struggle 

And life would be set-

The preparatory exam is

Due tomorrow and you 

Haven't read anything yet.

Teachers say you should 

Study hard. 

The principal says yours 

Is the worst batch.

You try to put yourself into 

Blinders to stay focused 

But Neha keeps coming 

To mind.

There's still a lot of syllabus 

To cover but all your

Head can muster is ways to

Wish her "all the best".

Unable to recall the value

Of Sin 30 and Cos 60..

Unable to understand 

What's "Quite India" all about..

Somewhere you're still that

Teen of class 10.

Secretly praying for grace

Marks, you still believe that

Choosing humanities would 

Make your life easy.

But you don't know yet,

How misery does salsa 

Even there.

Ray of Hope

The words have decided 

To abscond from the 

Pages of my diary.

The photographs have

Decided to fade away from 

The old albums.

An invisible hand holds

The face of all the memories 

Against a wall and rubs it up

Till the skin comes off.

What's left is a white blanket 

Of salt- sour and saline.

But despite the douse 

And despite the dusk.

Something inside makes

A strong appeal for 

Resurgence.

Who's there? It asks.

Who's there?

And there's a subtle 

Knock from the other side.

And that seems enough.

It's someone's presence

That challenges the 

The stink of inevitable..

Like fragrance.

Like a single breath is 

Mightier than death.

A thought of you beats 

The shit out of oblivion.

Two Emotions

If you laugh when you 

Badly wanna cry.

Is it still sadness?

And sink within when you

Really wanna laugh it out. 

It's still happiness?

And when you cry so

Hard sometimes.

Your tears flowing down

Your nose.

Mixing with the nasal

Fluid and finding 

Way to your mouth.

The salty taste that

Invokes mother's 

Brutal beatings from

Your childhood...

The silent laugh from 

Your eyes that doesn't 

Translate on your lips-

What do you call it?

This gap in your 

Language that can't 

Handle two emotions 

At once.

What do you call it?

One Language

In the house that was 

Cozy and vast.

We had 10,000 windows.

Maybe more.

Then they said,

Tinting with aluminium 

Frames would be nice.

One at a time, 

over the years,

The clean blue sky

Turned pink, red, pale

And what-not.

Before we could realize 

What was at play,

That's what the nation 

Wants they said.

You gotta see through 

Our eyes and speak

Through our tongues.

"One Nation. 

One Language."

And when they gave 

The final makeover to

Our last window,

The last hope of clean light 

Shone bright at our faces.

But we didn't have a 

Vocabulary of our own

To scream a protest.

And when the last word of 

My language fell flat on 

The road- with the final 

Window down.

They checked if the last

Person can dream in

My lang and reciprocate.

And when there was 

Nothing.. 

They hosted a funeral on 

The graveyard of our 

Tongues to celebrate

National integrity..

Unity in diversity was 

The theme.

Om Mangalam

In my region, everyone's 

Surname is of a distant village.

And if you ask them why

They'd tell you a story of 

How their ancestors killed 

Someone and fled their 

Original settlement.

My own Lineage goes back 

To a neighboring state. 

My grandfather's 

Great-Grandfather killed

Someone and fled his village.

Everyone has the same story.

Most of them at least.

And I hope it's the same 

Across the country. 

Or maybe across the world.

We're all refugees it seems.

Guilty of crimes. 

Seeking a place to hide. 

Maybe the entire world 

Is an asylum like that.

Maybe that's how the 

Civilizations here began.

Maybe we fled Mars after 

Killing all the trees.

Guilty of doing the same here.

GENES!!!

Maybe be the first man on

Earth was called John Mars

At some point of time.

Or perhaps he was a 

South-Indian named Sreenu.

Aka Mangalam Sreenu.

And maybe that's why 

Mars is always pissed off

In our astro profiles.

Mangalam Sreenu is antagonist 

In the movie Puspa 

Shooting Blanks

Picasso had a revolver

To shoot blanks at whoever 

Asked the meaning of

His paintings.

Out of frustration he

Loaded it for real once,

To shoot whoever asks

For a meaning.

But no one asked 

Any questions that day.

Just smiled at his art

And moved on.

He felt so violated that

He held the gun to his 

Temple for quite a while 

That night.

At the final moment,

It occurred to him to 

Paint something for 

One last time.

"A revolver that shot

Flowers when fired".

The abstract was so good 

He decided not to die.

Then it was sold for a 

Record price.

And when someone 

Asked what's the meaning.

He again shot blanks to

Convey how each painting 

Saved his life.

Her Superlatives

The way they call her a

Juicy meat-

Dogs must be feeling

Her between their teeth.

Someone said she's a

Cute pussy-cat,

Rats must be terrified of

Her presence at night.

Pristine as primordial fire. 

She saves demigods from 

Conditional hypothermia?

Soothing as breeze.

Light as a bird's feather.

Intoxicating like a flower.

Someone even called her

Soft as a baby's butt.

And the way they touch 

Baby bottoms on live TV..

She must feel abused

Everytime there's a 

Diaper-ad.

Ochre

Ochre-faced dreams haunt me.

I try to remember why I call it 

Ochre but I can't recall.

The quest takes me to an ancient 

Cave. Pitch dark and only a 

Kerosene torch to look ahead.

The smell of soot, cough and 

Ancient cold in tattered clothes. 

I hold the torch to the walls-

The Cave-Paintings in red dye. 

Hunting, Killing, and boiling 

Cauldrons with bodies..

A sudden slam of pale face at me.

It's my History teacher yelling 

"Ochre is Ferrous oxide..

Mineral used in cave paintings."

Ancient piss tightens my bladder.

I wake up. 10th class history paper 

And there's that question.

Occhre I write. A caveman comes

Running and slaps me for the

Spelling mistake I made.

Suddenly I am in a class at

The edge of a mountain.

Writing ochre a hundred times.

Only question in mind.. why is 

English ma'am naked?

The PE sir charges at me with 

Cuss words after that thought.

Seems they're a thing from ancient 

Times. But why the hell he would 

Speak correct English this time?

Why Not?

We live in poems and die.
We dance sometimes and
Sometimes cry.

There are drums and guitars
In the corner. Knives and
Nooses on the other.

Divine worship and the
Invocation of Satan that
Goes hand in hand..

We're no one's favorite.
Hate can live long enough
Here. Love can readily die.

Romanticism is our kidnaper
And we got Stockholm
Syndrome diagnosed.

Poetry is a spectrum to
Choke on in search of
Meaning of life.

The wormholes placed in
Our words to enter one world
And exit through the other..

The full exploration of
The universe on our platter
May seem sweet.

But it's Salty and Sour.
And toxic at times.

Why so you may ask.
And our reply would
Always be a 'Why Not?'

Prayers

Give me a heart that can

Bear longing and mind that

Can handle parting.

Give me legs that can endure 

This tread and shoulder 

That can carry intentions 

That are decent.

And when the skies of

Separation cry a light so bright.

Seas of betrayal heave waves

Beyond fathomable heights.

Give me eyes that can't 

Go blind and hands that

Can swim through the 

Turbulent times.

May the tears of yesterday 

Not seep in today and

The lure of promised laugh 

Not hail on the fragility of 

The present.

My wishes are ordinary and

Prayers are simple.

May thou bless with wings 

That can take me high

And an attitude that keeps me

Grounded to remind me

Where I belong.

Enchantment

What eyes have cast a bad spell 

On me. I do not know. I stand in front 

Of the mirror often and smile.

What shadows have colored
My beliefs. I do not know.
I question myself often and sigh.

There are doodles in the
Last pages of the notebook.
There's a name dancing on my lips-

I don't want to say aloud.
Fresh bloom of roses in my garden.
The lilies are open for an affair.

What witch has unleashed her
Enchanted cats on me,
My head full of rats is on riot.

The resistance inside asks if
It can bell the cat and I almost budge
To the onslaught of demands but

Something tells me to loosen up
A bit. I do not know what makes
Me go crazy these days-

Just wanna throw my hands
In air and artlessly dance.

bRAINY

Hand lingers more than
It should.
Eyes go beyond whatever
My mind can't interpret.

Where does the wisdom
Lie though? In seeing things
As they are or re-imagining
Them into something more?

The bricks and bones of this
Dilapidated hut with a brain.
What more can this be?
A hand's yearning for another..

A phallus longing to fit into
Desperation of another to
Produce something that
Comes out crying.

The bare act of feeding
Famished Tongues was
Translated into different tastes
And now we sit here asking

Existential questions like
Condoms having flavors.

Other species must feel
Sorry for us for having a
Brain that overthinks.
Mating, eating, shitting in the
Open and not bothering

About a sleep schedule.
By letting us think that
We're the top in the chain-
They seem to be enjoying
A higher order of evolution
Anyday.

Wish we could be friends again

Before I saw rainbows

In your eyes and 

Bloom of roses in 

My heart.

There was an island 

Where we could casually 

Talk, laugh, cuss and

Gossip.

There wasn't anything 

Special about the things 

You did.

Not receiving a call for

Weeks wasn't an issue.

Even talking to you

For hours didn't build up

Any expectations.

Then a fantasy grew.

Things changed.

Our island got infested  

By butterflies.

And when you ask why 

Can't we be friends..

I don't know what to say.

The dangle of earrings, 

Carve of your lips.

God! How your smile is

Enchanting these days..

I wish I can ignore 

The strands of your hair 

Caressing your cheeks.

I wish your persona

In the black attire 

Doesn't hamper my

Heartbeat..

If you can tell me

Convincingly why the 

Hell we can't be a thing..

I'll tell you exactly why

Can't we be friends 

Again.

Till then adios my

To be or not to be 

Friend/lover with an L.

Adulting

Somewhere I'm still a
Confused boy who's
Not yet bothered about
The consequences.

I refuse to be a grown
Adult man.

Still biking around the
Supposed places with
My BFF, still believing
All the fun will be
Permanent..

The urge to become
A shepherd in the
Himalayas doesn't
Subside.

The longing to be a
Monk as an escape to
This reality is still on
Cards.

Somewhere the kid in
Me, running in the
Narrow streets of
My village with a tyre..
Has seen the adult me
Grow wings.

I flap and sour high.
Dive down screaming..
The air rushing to my
Face and tears drying
In the periphery of my
Eyes.

I lock eyes with him
And nod.
He smiles in approval.
Heck of a life.

Sense of Aestheticism

This friend in school with
Same kind of mad.
After reading a couple of
Same books and going
High on some philosophical
Quotes.

We tried to delve into the
Mysteries of metaphysical
Paradoxes against the
Volatile dance of our
Teenage hormones.

On the last day of school,
We climbed on the roof
Of sixth class to stay there
Till the orange sun
Disappeared below the
Horizon.

The sense of aestheticism
That got to us then-
We've been chasing it
For over a decade and
Half now.

Not tired of the beauty
Or bonhomie.. The things
We've experienced and
The places we've explored..

Just yesterday when we
Biked hard to catch a
Sunset on the beach
In Manipal..

We missed it because
He wanted to change
To his shorts first.
Can you believe that?

Enraged, Disappointed
I lie on the sand.
He too understands what
We missed.

But that's all right.
Good that we know what
We've missed.
Good that we know
What are we gonna miss
If we don't pursue.

That's what keeps you
Going right?
The curiosity that fuels
Possibilities..

How biking in the Himalayas
Can always start with
A feeble admiration for
Sunsets from above a
Classroom.

Homecoming

My boy doesn't seem
To walk on the ground
These days.
He likes to levitate.

Shit-talking about random
Girls has stopped.

Looks at earrings in
Thrift shops than
Window-shopping
Second-hand bikes.

He doesn't stone the
Mating dogs these days.
Talks about the nostalgia
Of Kishore Kumar songs.

Oils his hair and wears
Better bright shirts and
Wonders why his shit
Stinks after he shits.

My boy has become a
'Bwoy' it seems.

The other day he cleaned
His own puke and swore
Upon his mom to give up
Drinking.

He was a good goddamn
Cement-Wall with shards of
Glass to insulate himself
With feminine curses.

But somehow a witch has
Gotten to him bad, like
Periwinkles leaving cracks.

We're taking counter
Measures though..

Confident, his sailed ship's
Gonna capsize in about
Six months. Or maybe less.

We're getting ready on the
Otherside to relish a
Drunk night full of his rants
About her betrayal.

We know he's gonna sing
English songs after the 4th peg.
His homecoming has to
Happen with an orchestra.

So we're busy tuning our
Instruments now.

Book

I haven't read the book
You gifted me on my
21st birthday.

You remember that day?
You came to meet me
From Mumbai. We had
Lunch in a restaurant.

One of my friends had
Insisted me to offer you a
Flower. I did and you
Had accepted it without
Feeling awkward.

I told you about how I
Love to walk to college
All the way from the
City bus stand.

You said you'd love
To walk. And we walked
Some 7-8 km that day
In the sun.
You gifted me that book
Upon reaching college.

I couldn't read it then.
Then things turned
Worse between us.
I decided to read it when
I'd miss you the most
One day.

A decade has passed now
And every excuse not
To read it has come to
An end.

I don't miss you much but
I feel I should read the book
One of these days.

Or should I go back on
The same road to cover
The same distance
Under the August Sun.

Miss a decade of your
Absence at once.
Then sit in the college lawn
To read it.

Perhaps every finished
Page can be used to
Wipe off tears or
Burn them to ashes by
My brain-scalding ire.

Men In Love

I don't want this night to 

End. I don't want this 

Conversation to run out

Of steam.

The moonlight reflecting 

From your eyes and

The enchantment your

Lips have cast..

There's something about 

Today's sky. 

Something about you in 

This cold-stricken passage 

Of time.

The sways of your hair 

Against your cheeks.

My heart playing tricks 

With my senses..

It's hard to express.

Your persona building a

Nest in me like you're a 

Sparrow and my yearning 

Finding excuses to make

You origami crafts.

Damn this feeling.

Why would anyone 

Stereotype men as 

Strong and haughty?

They clearly haven't seen 

A guy fall in love. 

Smooth like fragrance.

So soft, even a thousand 

Feathers can't match 

The caress.

A man falling in love is

Like a little girl's dream

Translating on her face 

When she's asleep.

You gotta be careful 

To capture it.

It's a momentary lapse

Of reason. 

A little rush and 

He'd be conscious.. 

And you may never see 

That blush again.

Well, till maybe when 

He'd be blessed with a 

Daughter in some 

Imaginary future.

Mom, Gran and..

It's the weight of daily 

Chores or burden of idealism 

Imposed within closed doors?

The cry of babies or the noise 

Of wanna-be boys and men

That weighed her down?

Why is she hesitant when 

Someone asks her name?

Who was she before she

Could be a mom or gran?

The magical mystery, who

Reeks of round rotis and

Balance of a perfect sambar.

Something loud-mouthed

Consumed the syllables of 

Her last name.

Found only in her school 

Certificate maybe. 

But the paths to her school 

Is erased-

Childhood defaced and 

The backstory of how she was 

Before she turned a Misses is 

Fed to the Wolves.

What remains now is an

Ageless face. Her wageless

Labour and hints of onions 

In her expression..

Which doesn't go beyond 

A couple of sulphated tears 

In the kitchen.

Your own Magic

After a while, you get
Handy with seamless
Operation of gears and
Clutch.

It occurs to you, how a
Better braking system is
Not merely for stopping but
Upping the speed.

After a while, you realize
How you spend your days
Is how you spend your Years,
Decades and Lifetime.

And how sometimes
Consequences don't matter.
Putting yourself in a cocoon,
Having yourself an image.
Doesn't matter.

Age can be counted on
Number of places you've
Visited and number of times
You've aimlessly danced.

You realize if you could
Have stretched your hands
A bit more, you could have
Grown a pair of wings.

How if you could have
Eased yourself with life,
Things could have fallen
In a better place.

After a while, when you
Find yourself utterly alone.
You realize, how no Priest
Or God can help you.
Nor a president or PM.

You realize how you
Need to work on yourself
Till the feather of
Luck comes to rest on your
Shoulder like it's a
Whisper of Buddhist bird.

You realise how
Wonderful it is to be
Your own wizard and
Magic.

Trade Off

We live on a hill.
The rain ruins the lives of
The people below.

We sneak in at night to
Steal shoes of the dead.

We've got a winter to
Get through ahead.

Some of us succumb to
The snow anyhow.

And people from below
Wait for the hints of
Melting snow to steal
Bones of our dead.

They need them to build
Shelters against the next
Rain that's due.

Soot

Fed up, ashamed.
Feeling gross about
What I've written in my
Diaries all these years..

Decided to burn them
Page by Page.

There goes 3rd December
Of 2015 and 28th Feb of
Another leap year of
The past decade.

Faces of people I almost
Recognize along with
The fade of my own.
Words turning into flares..

Erasing them line by line,
Soot rising in the air.
Seemed I was a blank slate
For a while.

Shortly it rains.

Water-soaked char of
Memories clogging drains
And stinking. Seeping in
Dreams and haunting to

Remind me how I can't
Escape the past. How flushed
Memories can turn into ash,
And force you to cough.

Nost-algia

The tall building on the 

4th street has my book and 

Pencil-- I never gotta 

Go to school.

The villa near the water 

Tank has trophies I 

Never gotta win.

The temple near the Lake 

Has shoes and a uniform 

I never gotta wear.

The High school by

The Panchayat office has 

Memories of my crippled leg. 

Damaged when one of 

The walls fell.

The childhood that's 

Rubbed away by the bricks 

I carried from the kiln-

When I walk these streets,

A streak of nostalgia 

Gets to me-- like I almost 

Met my school crush.

But alas! She too had to 

Carry bricks for the 

New Mall that came up 

In the city nearby.

We can almost hear the 

Sound of the movies.

And the whiff of popcorn 

Popping inside.

Sometimes we sneak in

To get a peek at the other side,

But it seems they always 

Shoo away our kind.

Grandma's Garden

The marigolds with their 

Yellow for this festival

And jasmines oozing their

Whiteness.

The Periwinkles with subtle 

Pink by the fence that's

Always ignored and 

The roses in full bloom

Dancing on the only sapling

That came up well after 

Years of trying-

The blossoms in Grandma's

Garden was the beginning of

New Year back then.

She made Deities with

Cow-dung for the occasion.

Age-old tradition to pay

Tribute to our ancestors.

Anything that was deemed 

As a weapon was washed 

And worshiped that day.

The first time she had

Asked me for my book and

The pen for the pooja...

How I had felt like a warrior.

Fresh bravery in my bones.
Chased away pigs that day
In the backyard by myself.
I was heck of a Knight.

Wishes

The next time you travel
By bus at night.
May a beautiful girl occupy
The seat beside you.

May you talk all night
And hit it off well.
May she ask your number
Before you could.

Then by next weekend
May she come to meet you
And you two readily
Fall for each other.

May bike-trips happen
To you both. Late night
Convos under the stars.
Music, love, lust, fights.

And worse, a marriage.

May you have a seamless
Happy life. Two kids in a
Big home. One girl
And the other boy.

One afternoon when you
Sleep on the couch.
May one of them throw a
Steel glass at your face.

And when you wake up
Irritated, to the summer of
Power cut. May you curse
The humidity with

The sweetness of what you
Briefly felt in the dream.

The Picture

Your head rested on my

Right shoulder when we

Sat on the park bench.

A photographer captured

It from behind and gave 

Us the pic saying 

"It's beautiful."

We kissed later that day.

Our first one.

The tendency of that pic

Of turning into innumerable 

Good things-

Travel, food, party, kids.

Sunsets, mountains, beach.

Long walks after fat feasts.

This pic that has no 

Beginning or an end but 

Only possibilities. 

It's a house on lease where 

We no longer live. But I go on

Paying the rent still.

Like a zoned-out writer 

Disappearing in his story.

Drowned and dusted-

Refusing to come back.

Reality fused in fancy,

Your face becoming 

A philosophy, an ideology.

Romanticism edging towards 

A singularity. And the religion 

You've manifested in me-

I'm happy to have become 

A fanatic. 

My bigotry stands stout 

At your service now.

I want a spiritual awakening.

The Hunter

There's a mountain on
Your body and upon it
The weight of a sky.

Then the hungry stomach
And unwavering stability
In the eyes despite all.

It takes patience,
Not the fangs or heavy
Duty arms.

It's the pacing heart's
Focus anchored Against
Titanium locks.

It's clarity in the right
Time. Right pressure
At right points.

A blink of a mistake can
Hail heavy on the stomach,
Even cost your life.

Hunting is not an easy job.
Ready to be steady even
Against impossible odds..

Hunting is a state of mind.
Why do you think a hunt is
Always glorified?

The Hunter doesn't think
About grass despite being
Starved.

Abandonment to Adoption.

My cat died. No, no. 

She was wounded.
Contracted an infection
That didn't subside.
She had to be done
Away with that's why.

Taken to a far-off place.
She was abandoned there
So she can't find her
Way back home.

She was a good fella.
But inevitability.
That's how things are.

The rats in the house
Started having a party.
We could hear their presence
After the lights were off.

So Dad insisted on
Petting one more.
Again, we got one from
A far-off place so it can't
Find its way back.

She meows around in
Feeble tones. She's fed
And taken care of till she
Become stout.

This gap between
Abandonment and adoption.
The mercy in our hearts
That sinks away and reappears
Like we really care.

We're masters of utility.
Aren't we?

If it suits us, we might
Bell our cats and start
Adoring rats by offering them
The fantasy of nine lives.

Then sacrifice cats
To a religious cause to
Appease Lord Ninklim.
And go in singing laurels
Of his relevance even
In these times.

Secrets

This secret that lingers
In you and bombards
Demanding a safe carrier.
Day by day, gaining weight
And turning into a rock.

How do you find the right
Ears to whisper it to?
The able shoulders to
Unload it onto?

You can't just throw it
At your pillow.
It's already overburdened
With tears and your drool.

Or you can't just scream
It off from a cliff hoping
The wind would carry it
To a place of no return.

If there was a competition
For bearing such a weight
Of a secret.
I wouldn't win it.

Crushed by even hints of
Such secrecy-
Spread, surrendered
And bled out on a paper-

The urge to unburden
Myself readily. The urge
To shed extra-baggage
In order to travel light.

I want to be a feather to
Fly away when the wind blows.
Or turn me into a quill to
Do the same.

Fart to Spirituality

Big entrance exam day,
Four puris in the morning
Fall heavy on your stomach.
The stomach growls.

What seemed like a harmless
Fart, seems to tease with
A Serendipitous act.
Your denial earlier grows

Thin and you gotta search
For a toilet. But the
College premises didn't
Bother to build any.

You gotta walk searching
For one. But the only hope
You got is Two kilometres away
In the bus stand.

And you walk and walk
Clenching your
Embarrassment in the ass
That wants to cry.

A five-rupee coin in hand
To pay for the toilet and
An old woman on the way
Asks you for alms.

You don't know what to
Do with the idea that
Flutters in your mind but
You gotta prioritize other
Important things in hand.

There's no gratitude
Bigger in life than your legs
Getting you a toilet in time.
And you're thankful-

The relief with which you
Return. You pay that
Old-woman purposefully.
That day you were more

Closer to God that
Anytime ever in life.

Baggage

Black coffee, no sugar- plain bitter. 

A Memoir of Dharmashala: Club from 1850s

when the British found vacation joys 

In the hills of their enslaved territory. 

'Cozy jazz' - playlist on the music platform, 

Plays endlessly, I'm all in even if it's hours long.

It triggers something in me

I think about this life. This damned life and 

The series of events that brought me

Here again. 

A friend who died

And the bike he left me in his will along with

A lot of vivid memories on it across 

Lands, oceans, and hills.

One or two songs from the playlist 

Or even more, tweaking the slow cinnamon 

Burn of our days from the college..

They take me back to pull my heart out

To the life at it's the barest laughter and 

We staring back at it with the coldest eyes.

Then he goes away. Twenty years have 

Passed and I haven't cried it out yet.

I feel like poking my eyes with this pen

In my to nab down every bit of tear that

Doesn't come out. But no. 

I have to drag this life for him.

I gotta feel un-poured rains for him.

And see the unveiled horizons. And experience 

That nightly starlight across the Himalayas.

And maybe someday at dawn, when the sun

Comes up across a snow-laden mountains

In the village of Zanskar, to bring 

Peace to my years of traveling streak.

I would then order two cups of 

Sea-Buck-Thon tea, to say cheers to an empty seat. 

And slowly drink it to fade away in 

The foggy wisdom the same evening.

Emancipation

I scribble my thoughts in

My notebook.

If something comes off well,

I type it and pin it in 

Google Keep for editing.

After regular rounds of

Mending, bending and 

Restructuring of the tone.

I unpin it before posting 

It in my blog.

It's like granting freedom 

To a prisoner. 

Like, an idea was held for 

Trespassing the premises 

Of my mind-

His plea had to go through 

Rounds of considerations,

Before his behaviour 

Was considered apt.

And when it seemed

He lived upto the mark,

He was set free in the

Poetry's realm.

And now that he has 

Earned his freedom,

He belongs to the hearts 

Of whoever reads.

'S'

This urge to capture 

Her pics. This urge to 

Scream her name.

The butterflies in the 

Stomach that want to 

Manifest but don't want to 

Make anything obvious-

There's pic of an old man

Walking away in my gallery.

And of a wrapper of 

Cadbury dairy milk.

A leaf of mango and 

A discarded pen I found 

When I was walking her

To the library.

This urge to scribble 

Her name in the last page,

But it goes only till 'S' to 

To become something else.

I realize. These pics are 

The moments I steal as 

Souvenirs around my 

Feelings for her.

Random, hopeless and

Not so loud pics- 

An attempt to hide my 

Longing, even from myself.

Yet this urge to preserve 

Her presence-

The 'S' that became 

'Seagull' in my pen name.

The unsung part is the 'P.S'

That hides the things

My backspace couldn't.

Narcissism

Sleeping with myself to 

Test my narcissism.

Guess I got an erection.

I saw my face and 

The bare-ugly-chest.

Drooled all over to 

Quench my fetish.

I was my own king

And my own queen.

Orgasm after orgasm 

After the self-admiration.

Finding no one better 

Than the two of me-

The goldy manifestation 

I am, and the others,

High on the voyeurism of

My pious sins-

Should try me. Try us. 

We can gaslight you

At will and feed you to

Your own guilt, so that 

You can come in praise 

Of my wit later on.

Till then, lemme 

Sharpen my tongue for 

My next attack.

War against Cancer

Me and cousin urinated

In the empty bottles,

Stashed by my grandfather.

Hampering his intentions

Of selling them to buy

Himself packs of Beedi.

Guess who were the

Earliest fighters of cancers

By weaponizing weenies.

Maybe we should take up

The task again to raise

Funds for a campaign to

Piss on the balance sheets

Of cigarette companies.

"Cocks against cigars"-

Such a metaphor for 

What kills and what can 

Give birth.

What can ooze out life

And what sucks it in.

Duality

Beyond this village,

The opportunities.

The lillies beyond the sea

Against the marigolds here.

The weight of a livelihood

Like a compulsive habit

To join an ocean.

Salt, depth, dark- lost?

Should the river be

Condemned to forget

Its own taste in search 

Of something more?

Should the Lotus in the

Village pond go on

Smiling daily, despite being 

Ignored by everyone?

The different worlds we

Fancy in our heads-

One leg, very well 

Grounded while the other 

Is placed in the skies of 

Heavens.

The divide forever keeps

Increasing while we piss on

The possibilities that lie

In the middle.

Adulthood

The older you get,

The less you cry.

You just learn to handle 

The pain well, with time.

Hide hit, mold it or 

Forget-

Whatever it takes to

Push back the tears.

The skilled carpenters 

We are with our 

Hammers and the nails-

Agile to thump back 

Every drop with no fear

Of damaging the eyes,

Or hearts.

Nails stuck all over the 

Face, a wooden mask

Always in work,

All through life.

The kid within us we

Tried to love. We abused 

Him eventually.

We're our own pedos.

Adulthood really is just a

Funeral where everyone 

Laughs at each other's 

Progressive demise.

One Last Hunt

The storm in your chest is a

Caged animal, waiting for 

That one last hunt.

Poised on front foot,

Body weight shifted to rear.

Ready to jump as soon as

You open your gates.

But you're afraid of the 

Turbulence aren't you?

Second guessing your ability to

Bear lightening and thunder?

To protect the flicker of

Light that you haven't lit yet,

You go all lengths to contain 

The storm inside..

And the darkness in your 

Life and winter in your legs.

The animal you are, wanting 

That one final hunt..

But you were afraid of the

Taking chances all your life,

And you wonder how you 

Starved yourself to death.

Ruined Thing

A bird that didn't fly,

Man who didn't try.

Stuck in ifs and why,

Train left the station 

And you stood watching 

Instead of hopping on.

The song was ready,

Guitar was tuned.

The song didn't materialize 

As you chose not to sing.

A perfectly ruined thing

Is the one didn't get

Any taint or bruise.

So afraid of the wound,

Stood infront of the mirror 

All life, glorifying one's 

Flawless skin.

But the mirror only 

Amplifies what you hide.

How do you escape 

Your reflection that lies?

Carrot Halwa

I hope you say my name

In your sleep. 

I hope your kid asks you 

Repeatedly about the one 

You seek in your dreams.

I hope you've fumbled 

Everytime they all wanted an 

Explanation and I hope

You had decided to never 

Talk about the past.

But not today.

Not on on this gloom ladden 

Sunday of late December.

But how are you gonna 

Say it aloud? 

How are you gonna scream 

An ex lover's name in

Everyone's presence?

So you decide to prepare 

Halwa with carrots from 

Backwaters of Kerala,

The one you had prepared me

When we had first met.

Everyone enjoys it to 

The last bit. 

Your in-laws say it's the best 

They've tasted.

That's the closure everyone 

In the family wanted..

That's what you thought.

But your kid still goes on 

Aking about me and you never 

Realise when he started 

Referring to me as papa.

And what shocks you more

Is why the hell is he referring

To your husband as mama.

POV

I like the Third-Person-POV 

Of mine who goes on 

Scribbling word after word.

Sentence after sentence.

Stopping for a while to

Search for words and then 

Go on in rhythms with a 

Set flow.

This simulation that runs

In my head, flowing around 

Like a river in search of 

New oceans.

I feel the tones, the pauses.

Breaths taken when I 

Run out of words and swish of 

Wind when a good sentence 

Strikes my head.

It's an unstructured play of

Aligning lines, before something 

Translates on the paper.

While I stood looking at

The burst-crackers in the street

From the previous night's

Celebrations-

I toppled over an idea and 

The subsequent stream of 

Thoughts landed me in this 

Poem.

Manther

The day I died,

My soul came out holding 

Its nose, like it could

Not bear the stench.

It didn't look back or wait. 

It escaped from gap between 

Unbecoming of my name

Into a corpse.

What will this bird out

Of the cage would do?

For I haven't taught her

Any songs too.

I already see a limp

In its wings,

Can sour to the heights 

It wishes to reach?

But then it enters another 

Body before I could 

Empathize with it a bit.

Souls have no loyalty, ain't it?

Flaunting its body-count 

Like it's a Manther,

It goes on lusting for better 

Cages and skeletons, 

To collect bounty in terms 

Of carnal misery of the body 

That comes with every 

Mortal's mortality.

Otherwise

Woke up, and went on a walk.

Made myself a cup of coffee

And had a good frothy bath..

It could have been otherwise.

Watched a movie later on,

Wrote something for myself.

A good lunch. A deep nap

After a long time..

It could have been otherwise.

Plugged in the earphones,

Hopped on an old playlist and 

Remembered an old friend while 

I sulked alone in the evening.

Called him this time.

It could have been otherwise.

He joined me later on.

A bike ride to the distant bar.

A beer, kababs and biryani.

Talked for long.

It could have been otherwise,

But I called him, and we had a beer.

Can live in relief for another 

Month at least and maybe 

Many more.

Good Night

Bridges from where to

Where and why?

Why they're always in

The proces of building or

Burning in the stories?

Today, in mine, everything 

Lies flat on the floor.

Reasons I don't know.

I mean, on this winter night 

Why the trudge?

Why build something 

Out of sweat? Or burn

Something to cough out

The same?

It's lazy, hopeless and

Mindless freak this night.

Lies flat with wanting 

No help or support.

Loses control and withers 

Itself to sleep.

This story is sleep deprived.

And I badly need it.

Good night.

Sense of Humour

At first, parents will come to

Snatch your sense of humor.

Then those teachers and 

Well-wishers.

Advisors and other elders, 

Who can't handle your wit.

Sometimes the siblings and

Some friends. Your dog,

The family deity who can't 

Take a little offense.

They can't handle the ridicule.

A bit of sarcasm seems

Like a mirror, and they don't 

Want to be exposed.

Then there's the government.

The most afraid and intolerant.

Anything that reeks of life,

They want to tax it.

Sales tax on whoever laughs

And slabs of GST on whoever

Makes them laugh.

They love you on crutches

Don't they? A compliant mind 

That doesn't question..

A "Yes sir' without any arguments

To label you a patriot.

If only all the leaders were 

Comedians, and 

In the next world wars

Jokes would explode-

Not that they aren't jokers 

Or stuff isn't exploding stuff now.

It's just, no one is laughing. 

As the joke is on us. 

Orchards

Somewhere, there's a memory 

Of waiting with Mom for a bus

To her maiden home.

Somewhere there's a memory 

Of Dad carrying me on his 

Shoulders to buy me chocolates.

Grandpa, showing me how 

The buffaloes are milked.

Grandma, giving me 25 paise

After I help her with chores.

A memory of running around 

With cousins and bruising 

My knees. Mama gifting me my 

First pair of Pargon-chappals

As I tagged along while 

Harvesting paddy.

The brief shudder of calm in

My veins every time I remember 

My childhood. Feels like,

I still sneak into those orchards

To steal mangoes. So delicious

That I'm forever thankful.

The fleeting moments

Do we ever become worthy
Of something? Love, kiss, a hug?
A decent talk maybe, to be a

Day-to-day person?

Why does the mountain of
Expectations weigh down on
The fleeting moments?

Get a job or earn something
Before you could deserve
Something-

The wait, till you turn 25,
The wait, till your dog goes,
Through second pregnancy-

It seems I waited too long for
Things to happen to me.
Took me long to realize, how..

Life happens between fleeting
Moments. The messy palette
Before it manifests into art.

The pleasure of chaos in mind
Before something thoughtful
Arrives.

The blue, pink, red, yellow that
Passed in front of you while you
Waited for that perfect girl to

Land in your life.
The undermined beauty of
Monochromes before

The rainbow did or did not
Happen and the feel of the
Colors that forever remains.

True Love

I don't believe in true love.
The unconditional kind.

l like the idea of it though.
I like the fact that some
People believe in it.
I like the fact that my friend
Still believes it.

One person's unhinged
Passion for the other.
An almost obsession
That wants to cross
Boundaries.

Longing for each other
Like it's a rage.
A radical communist if
Love was an ideology
Leaning left.

Like belief in God.
Come what may- logic
Science or rationality-
Or other religions that
Denies one's belief-
Thy lord is supreme-

No one stands a chance.
You can't negotiate
Those terms or plant
A doubt in the mind of this
Plain blindness.

I hate, I can't do that.
I hate, I can't believe in God.
I hate, I can't truly fall in love
With you and worship you
Like you're my Almighty Lord.

I hate, the fact that I can't
Truly surrender to you
When you say- "Lemme
Love you" and when you ask
"Who's your mommy?"
I hate I can't truly be a
Child.

Lost Decade

Tell me forgotten friend,

About the decade we lost.

Tell me about the weather 

Of far-off places and of

The same place when 

We were far off.

Do other people sound 

The same? Does the movie 

Experience with others

Get better?

Did you buy a PlayStation 

To play with your roommate?

Or started together a

Business?

The beer didn't taste 

The same for me. 

The pillion of my bike 

Remained forever empty.

I lost interest in the video 

Games. Even my girl left

Me as she couldn't fill up

The void you left.

A pitcher forever waits for 

You in beside a half-plate 

Biryani, in every bar I visit.

Tell me if you miss me

The same. Tell me if there 

Are chances to amend.

Tell me if there's hope.

Tell me if we can meet again-

To bike around in the mountains.

Eat, laugh and bitch about 

People in different places,

Like we always did. 

Missed Diwali

How was it this time?
I asked my brother after
Missing Diwali for years.
He said-

The cousin with the funny
Nose had come and we
Made hot-air-balloons like
We did as children.

Grandma took charge of
Of the kitchen to prepare
Her signature once-in-a-year
Vermicelli dish.

Mom planned an elaborate
Rangoli- I helped her fill
The colours - she teared up
While she put your name
In the bottom.

Dad of course was
Grumpy all morning.

He did test everyone's
Patience yesterday evening
While he made all of us
Clean the house.

By 11 am today when
Everyone gathered to offer
Flowers to your photo.
Dad broke down for the
First time in three years.

I haven't cried it out yet.
And I've stopped bursting
Crackers. And just like
The future ones would-

This Diwali was grand too
In your memory.

Playfulness

At first, you battle with your mind-
Trying to enslave your thoughts in
In tough words.

Forcefully attempting to knit meaning
In metaphors. Hoping they would
Grow wings one day.

But can clipped wings fly?
The caged birds sing?
The arrogant poet you're initially-

Not knowing the art of letting go-
The edgy arrogance smoothens out
To give way to a playfulness eventually.

You surrender to your mind and
Let yourself flow in uncharted
Territories.

The erstwhile Lake becomes a river
And you give it a chance to join
The ocean. Standing on the sidelines-

Slow, observant. Ready to borrow a
Glass of water from the eternal flow to
Make it into a verse.

Unsure always to declare it as a
Full-fledged poem-- Not being sure
Opens up innumerable possibilities.

Now you can be the Beginning, the End,
Or the middle. Or All of it, None of it or
Simply the in-between.

Quietude

Somewhere there's this quietude.
Waiting on a hill, looking at a nullity-

Sitting by a lake, waiting for
The ripples to come, touch your feet-

Imagining yourself in a dark room,
Eyes closed. Searching for something.
Searching for what?

This quietude you can't listen to.
Quietude you can't feel or touch-

Trying to translate it on sheets and
Sheets of paper. Not satisfied with a
A pen or colour or your intent.

Ending up relating yourself more to
The blankness of the paper than any
Of the stories written-

Each paper, screaming, louder than ever.
And you, growing quieter every time
You scribble.

With each appeal and attempt-
Between the noise and silence.
The void, getting bigger and bigger-

The artist in you, smaller and smaller.
Till one day when you disappear from
Your art. Consumed by the void.

Only then it's complete.
Only then peace. Only then a poem.

Skilled Labour

They don't make children's 

Movies these days.

Seems everyone feels a bit 

Overly adult each year.

All the toys and dolls be

Reduced to a nullity soon.

All the cry and naivety be

Banned because who wants 

To be child anymore?

There would be ultrasonic 

Classes after conception.

The foetus should learn 

Mandarin by the second 

Trimester.

The world's running out of 

Skilled labour- one has to 

Process Raw-Data if they

Want decent exit from their 

Mom's vagina.

Ohh! We need to beat machines 

And AI modules you see- 

Teaching mental agility to 

These LittleShits is the only 

Way to save humanity.

Our wars are spiritual,

We're our own enemies.

Need to give up vanities,

Ignore emotions. 

Focus on mental awareness

And cognitive orgasms.

So, here, you wanna be 

Freaks. Take these 

Quantum Nuclear Codes.

Mug them up and don't leak.

If there's an explosion,

Contain it in your head.

And that's a test for your 

Enrollment in first grade.

Two Chairs

At the end of the world,

Against a fiery sky that's

Dying. There are two 

Plastic chairs.

I'm sitting on one,

Waiting for you with a

Cold beer.

At the beginning of 

The world. Against rebirth 

Of a new sky- there are

Same two chairs.

Still waiting for you,

The beer is cold still.

And the epochs pass by-

Ice-ages -advent of warmth-

The civilizations and now-

The same chairs against a

Murky sky and skyscrapers.

But you come this time.

Where were you? Doing what? 

Having flings? Kissing hoes?

Tasting betrayals? 

The beer just turned warm 

And the moment is gone.

Saying BFFs for life-

The way you've come now.

The sheer audacity.

Where are the snacks?