I'm a creep?

When I look down 

from my balcony.

Can't take my eyes 

off your clothesline.

Pink, yellow, blue 

panties in rotation.

and the occasional

red I've grown fond of.

Don't know why 

the bras are not as 

colourful? 

Either white or black.

Rarely other shades.

Maybe that's why 

my imagination 

of your bosom,

doesn't sit right.

Predicting what colour 

would be next is

a proper hobby now.

The first ritual of

every morning.

If I could bet against 

the odds, I would be right, 

ninety percent of 

the time.

Pardon my kink,

but if I match my 

undies accordingly,

Would I be a creep or

a quirky romantic?

Yes, I've seen your 

face and the way you walk. 

You're decent.

But have you noticed me?

Beyond that, 

if you can notice my 

clothesline and guess 

the sequence right.

Let's meet to explore 

the riz of our crotches.

Call it superstition.

but I'm not gonna

approach you,

till you realise this 

silent reciprocation.

I wouldn't dare 

interfere in our pious 

union. Take your time.

God speed!

Cold Goodbye

Sometimes the kindest 

thing is a cold goodbye.

No trembling voice.

No rehearsed compassion.

Just a clean cut

that doesn’t pretend

to heal.

You leave without 

nostalgia.

You leave without the 

fancy of a 'what if'.

No strings.

No soft corners.

No memories left to

polish later into 

tender reminiscing.

Raw, unflattering wounds.

The bruises that cannot 

be romanticized.

The kind that makes 

you cringe when their 

name surfaces.

A disgust that protects.

An embarrassment 

that pushes you ahead.

A decay that doesn't 

grow back-

A dirty breakup is 

A strange mercy.

Ohh that freedom 

that comes when 

even longing gives up-

Insects gone for good 

from the den of head.

Ohh when the empty 

cages come closer 

to peace,

The feelings you kill

becomes an act of 

self-love.

In seek of validation

What if I call you a 

Goddess and worship? 

Would you consider my 

Devotion? 

Would you shower me 

withblessings if I offer 

you prayers? 

If I adorn you with flowers, 

fruits, and other hefty 

offerings, will I be worthy 

of your affection? 

Tell me the threshold of 

your appeasement 

before I stop sounding 

natural-

and I shall cross 

it by jumping, crawling, 

or in whatever way

you would like it. 

The human sacrifices 

aren't enough clearly, 

so aren't my pedophilic 

tendencies.

I've tried bombs,

missiles and rockets.

Space exploration,

Genocide and whatnot.

Still falling short?

Give me a hint maybe.

A sign?

By this time,

The validation I'm seeking,

Is seems to exceed 

the magnitude of your 

delayed blessings.

Perhaps I can go on

committing more heinous 

acts, till you one day 

prostrate before me

to stop it.

But I won't.

By that time my 

God complex would

make me deaf and

maybe you can act

like you're my bhakt.

Missing Girl

At first, it is small.

Maybe she’s late.

Maybe traffic.

Maybe a friend’s house.

Then the clock

sharpens.

Minutes grow teeth.

She could be lost.

Stuck in school.

Stuck in a bus

that forgot its route.

Or worse-

someone took her.

The mind doesn’t pause.

It doubles down-

Kidnapped. 

Trafficked. Sold.

A room with no windows.

A life rewritten

without consent.

suspicious containers.

dingy brothels.

The headlines you 

scroll past daily

start rehearsing 

inside your skull.

Upon that-

What will people say?

How do you tell relatives?

What answer is safe?

What version of truth

can survive their gaze?

and if she returns-

how do you hold her?

How do you ask

without breaking her again?

How do you protect

her from the house that 

failed her?

And how do you

protect yourself while

the guilt gleams till 

it blinds everyone around?

You wait and wait batling

all thoughts, till

the house becomes

a waiting room

for catastrophe.

Phones repeatedly 

locked and unlocked.

Doors half-open.

Breath uneven-

Every sound

pretends to be her.

Every silence

proves it isn’t.

And then-

the door opens.

She walks in.

Normal. Hungry.

Unaware of the war 

she triggered.

Seven hours collapse

into one breath.

Relief floods loud, 

unceremonious,

almost angry.

All the imagined horrors

fold away.

No one speaks

of what almost happened.

But everyone knows-

how quickly

the world can end

inside a mind,

and how quietly

it resumes

when a child

just walks back in.

Tell me

Tell me, everything 

will be alright and 

I'll believe you.

Tell me, the sky is

blue and I'll wear

same kind of shades 

to surrender in your lap.

Tell me, there are still 

places we can go,

and tell me we can

evade fate if can 

hide together.

Tell me running matters.

Tell me escape is real.

Tell me we can outrun

what we've become.

Tell me we can start 

all over again.

Brush the hand of

assurance over my

head and tell me 

about that island we

always talked about-

Sun-scorched sand.

our bare bodies.

half-burnt fishes

and tender coconut.

smoke off the fire 

like love-

and if the sky is kind,

and sleep is still an option.

If the moon is bright 

and tries to shine 

over my eyes-

Tell me if you can

veil my eyes to assure 

me it's not a dream.

Tell me the tides won't 

turn. Tell me the 

morning will not interfere.

Tell me this pause is

permanent.

Tell me this borrowed 

time is not an illusion.

and even if it is,

wait for it till I gather 

myself-

I may wanna preserve 

this bubble.

Metamorphosis

The larva eats like mad 

and withdraws itself 

into a cocoon.

Then it broods.

Each step guides

Every action or 

inaction towards a 

becoming.

Each bite coding a color.

Each utterance 

defining a flap. 

The intent is decided, 

noise is removed, 

action is streamlined.

and when it's time-

The wings are 

fluttered and boom-

the first flight. 

The butterfly must 

become a butterfly.

Not by chance.

No by miracle. 

But by outgrowing 

a noun it is to 

Become an attribute.

The butterflyness 

of it from every breath 

till a culmination-

The flight wasn't in

The wings.

It was in the intent.

Being Reduced to a Poem

Deep down I always

wanted to be a poem,

but no one wrote for me.

So I took things

in my own hands.

And the more I wrote

about myself,

the more of me

began to disappear.

It felt like admiring

my own skin-

then peeling it off,

layer by layer,

until I stood

on the carcass

of what I once was.

A strange spectacle-

this naked admiration

and quiet disgust,

coexisting without conflict.

I kept writing more.

Not to be understood,

but to see

how much of me

could be translated

before nothing remained.

And now, what’s left

doesn’t resemble a 

person-

Just lines. Fragments.

A voice that sounds 

like me but isn’t.

Maybe this is what

becoming a poem means.

Not being written,

but being reduced

to something that can 

only be read.

Existential Incarnation

It's sad that you don't exist. 

It's sad that I want to 

believe in your existence, 

but there aren't any hints. 

It's sad that innumerable 

people believe in you

despite wrong fallacies. 

And it's utterly sad that 

faith hasn't moved any 

mountains yet. 

It's sad we humans don't 

learn from history, 

and it's sad that we are 

Logical beings but aren't 

rational. 

It's sad we are doomed 

in our own heads. 

Oh, it's sad, we've been 

incarcerated this way.

But for what crimes? 

We demand a fair trial. 

Give us a battlefield outside 

our heads and see. 

See our defiance turn

into something holy.

See our souls dip in

glitter and outshine 

your immortality.

See us grow wings 

and fly away to offer 

you a spectacle that 

can compel our

Emancipation and 

your redemption.

Goldfish

Let us become parrots 

and feed on cashews 

of my nana's farm. 

Let us become the last 

sunshine of your village 

and kiss the same warmth 

on my coastline. 

We could become the 

small feet of our own 

childhood and run across 

every divide there is. 

Perhaps we can become 

blasphemous gods of 

two religions and have an

Illicit juicy affair. 

How about a validation 

machine for old men 

with daddy issues?

Maybe then, they can 

stop starting a war in 

their free time. 

I know you are somewhere 

and I am elsewhere, 

but let us pretend that we 

are two goldfishes in a bowl.

That goldfishes have a 

short memory and 

everytime we bump into 

each other-

The bubble we live in 

becomes a new illusion

to live by happily.

Embarassed out of Existence

This steady warmth 

that embraces quietly.

Just a softness

you refuse to name.

The caress that's not

a longing yet.

A longer pause in

a conversation.

A sentence that almost

says too much-

A silence that you hope 

this person would 

eventually comprehend.

Hidden in hints,

Sarcastically weaved

sentences and carefully 

dropped emojis-

A cautious glance not

ready to be caught.

An ambiguous distance 

that isn't ready to 

take chances--

But one day,

when this person asks 

about it upfront-

You feel exposed.

It's like a secret being 

dragged out in the open

before you barely 

admitted it to yourself-

So you laugh it off

and go into denial.

You're offended in a

weird way? or 

You feel guilty about 

the same?

You aren't ready for 

the mirror that's held

infront of you, are you?

Maybe you're afraid of

naming it.

Naming something 

makes it real.

And real things can be 

refused-

You wonder if fear of

rejection is acting up again.

Days pass. The hints stop.

The pauses shrink.

The softness dries up

as you retreat into yourself.

Somewhere between 

pride and fear,

A small unnamed love

dies quietly.

What could have grown

into a story is filed away as 

misunderstanding.

Not rejected,

Never confessed-

Just embarrassed

out of existence.

Citizenship

A woman in 20s

wraps her face

in a white sari because 

her husband died,

wipes out the tears,

and decides

to lead a life-

happy or sad,

doesn’t matter.

A kid limps

across a street

because a doctor

injected a wrong medicine.

No one cursed the doctor

or took the matter

to higher authorities.

He just accepted life.

Young men ride 

their bikes into a big 

potholes.

Entire locality drops

dead because 

Drinking water 

was contaminated.

It was all there fault.

This is life in its 

rawest sense-

death is routine,

suffering is private.

They adjust.

They normalize.

They move on.

They don’t 

Demand better.

Why should they?

When endurance is 

sold as national character

and jingoism is more

important than food

in the plate-

Compliant acceptance 

becomes a prerequisite 

for Citizenship.

We Almost Existed

The instances we didn't 

talk enough, and the way 

we haven't yet touched

each other.

The fact that our breaths 

haven't intermingled yet, 

and this place beside me

that already screams your 

absent presence-

A certain smell shall always 

reek of the forever distance 

between us and my un-kissed 

lips are gonna be forever 

hesitant to say your 

name aloud.

And the fact that we'll 

never meet and how I would 

be condemned to carry a 

certain silence in your shape-

Perhaps, I'm gonna press 

my ear against that 'quiet' 

every day, to hear,

every unanswered whisper 

that's gonna remind me-

"How we almost existed."

The Arc of History

The arc of history bends toward justice.

I think I believe it.

Liberal winds outlast conservative walls.

However tight the scripture, however loud the bigot, 

however sacred the redundancy-

Sati had to go. Widow remarriage had to come.

Feminism was inevitable. Equality and human dignity 

were always the aspiration.

Sometimes I suspect it isn’t morality at work-

Just market optimization, cruelty becomes inefficient 

and compassion scales better.

Reform, perhaps is capitalism discovering 

empathy is profitable. Still, even if the motive

is impure, the outcome inches forward-

It's a fair bet I guess.

See, I'm a cynic in the short term but an 

optimist in the long term. I see chains of 

slavery disappearing, feudalism subsuming 

into itself.

Customs that once called themselves eternal,

now survive as footnotes and we got better 

lives now, than any medieval king at his prime.

So yeah. It's fair to reiterate as the old gods

shrink, old chains rust, old certainties crack-

And though slow, reluctant. 

Rarely noble or perfect- the arc of history 

bends toward justice.

But you're condemned to study, find a job and

toil hard to feed your misery, so that some 

future generation can enjoy the amenities you're 

currently deprived of-

Then smirk from beyond the graves when 

they say the previous generation had it 

better.

Why do you wanna go?

I wanna hold you in 

my arms, but you say,

you have to go. 

Why do you have to go? 

I wanna drown in your eyes, 

but you withdraw and say, 

it's late, you gotta go. 

Why do you have to go? 

The sun hasn't painted 

the evening sky yet, and 

the moon hasn't 

conjured twilight.

The big black clocks 

want to stop for a bit

and even the road to

your home wants to lose 

your memory for a while,

so give it a rest.

The waves crashing in

the distance are yet to start 

an affair with the shore,

and the words stuck under 

my tongue want to 

compose you songs.

The secrets I wanna 

confide in your braids 

and a hundred pauses 

I wanna measure against 

your breath-

The redness of your 

cheeks needs to be

tended with kisses.

But you say, you gotta go.

Your fondness for my

bruised heart is at

work with hurt, 

But you say, you gotta go.

Why darling, why do you

have to go?

Fun Poem

My niece says she's fan

Of Mri's dressing sense.

I'm fan of her hair though.

The number of birds

That can nest in her curls-

She can revive two-three

endangered species.

For the English Teacher 

she is and The P.E.T teacher

who might object my interest-

I'm more afraid of her 

tendency to correct 

my grammar-

So she can't be my muse,

As she's a grammar nazi.

Jaison, my man, I wish

You were my homie-

The corporate coolie,

Who writes love poems 

for grannies-

I would teach you the tricks 

Of Laal Salaam and

The cocktails that come

When one is totally 

Unhinged-

But you can't me my muse

as you aren't a true comrade 

of God's own country.

And ohhh my dear bhanji.

Cylindrella, Dri.

The wannabe patakha,

But Lil Momta di.

I wanna rhyme you

The way you dance.

But you're too cute 

for the cruel world.

But keep practicing 

your witchcraft on

Dolls.

You can't be my muse

Because I'd be 

called Epstein.

Well..well. well- Aditi.

How are you still part

Of Brahmin community?

Our rants and joint

poetic blasphemy screams

 you're just perfect.

It's tempting to say 

Only if I were younger 

or you were older-

But that would be gay,

As I recognise in you

a potential weenie.

 

You could be my muse

despite that but

'Bulldozer', says CM Yogi.

I could go on about 

other but no one is

age appropriate.

I could say my muse 

is me but I'm ugly and

narcissistic.

So I shift the blame on

my Kumbh mein bichada bhai-

Yo nikamma admin,

add to the group,

A millennial babhi.

Thousand Times Over

Our eyes meet and 

they talk about rainy 

promises.

the blooming gardens 

and hidden colors in 

the skies. 

Our breaths reciprocate 

and they exchange 

heavenly wisdom of 

stars. 

Time, obviously, is 

slow here and light 

bends in the shape 

of our hearts. 

Our skins touch and 

the tingles carry 

vulnerability that even 

Gods are jealous of. 

Spirituality without a

carnal caress is an

eternal thirst they

haven't yet solved.

And this is how we 

complete each other-

The winter of my 

summers, 

breezy evenings of

my lazy nights.

I wouldn't choose you a 

thousand times over. 

One lifetime is enough. 

I'm sure we will live it a 

thousand more times 

in this one 

over and over again.

Sinking

You know you are 

no good. 

You know you can't 

do it. 

The judgment has 

been passed and 

you've accepted it. 

But you gotta try it

one more time.

You know it's for no

good but you conjure

that last ounce of energy 

and give it a try.

You do it with all the 

shame and disinterest. 

You do it, and you 

see it crumble again. 

You have seen this 

innumerable times before 

and this is no surprise. 

You anticipated this. 

You knew this is exactly 

how it was supposed 

to happen, and it did. 

And you are disappointed 

in yourself again. 

You trusted yourself, 

but can you, again? 

This is sad. 

This is a new fall, 

a new low, 

a deeper abyss you 

don't wanna stare at.

And then you smile. 

the hollowest smile 

in the world.

Only you know how

Hollow it is-

Even if the world 

conspired against odds,

All the light would be

subsumed there.

For the Age in Question

The longing of hesitant eyes,

The weight of unsaid words.

The language that fractures

before it becomes words-

and your gentle failure to 

read my compulsive intent.

The urge to drown in your 

arms, followed by the fear of 

being mocked for the same-

The desire to have all of you

dodged by the self-shame 

that gleams in mirrors--

Some stories dissipate 

like that. 

When speed itself is shamed,

and any thoughts in favour 

of anti-gravity are

branded as taboo-

Not everyone can garner 

escape velocity to reach the

moon you've become.

and for the age in question-

I'm seventy years too late

to become an astronaut.

and maybe seventy years 

too early to be compelled to

worship you from a distance.

So here are my redundant 

offerings- 

Prayers and wishes.

and if devotion is love enough-

I know you'll be considerate.

Old Graves

The scar I keep 

scratching has a 

memory from when 

it was a wound-

fresh, mushy.

Waltzing with pain 

and misery.

the vulnerability, 

abandonment, and 

other perks that 

came free with the 

suffering. 

It spoke in a language 

that I once spoke. 

It smelled like the air 

I once inhaled. 

It had a microcosm 

of its own- a brain, 

a heart, and a nervous 

system that spread 

like a fungal infection 

with intentions. 

But now, it's dead. 

It feels numb, like it has 

been left with no purpose.

It recapitulates like

an old man now.

It's almost nostalgic.

I'm tempted to scratch 

deeper-

It's tempting to be 

a victim again.

It's a sin to dig old

graves, they say.

But the necrophilic 

tendencies of mine 

do it anyway.

Cost of breathing

mistakes are marks 

of evidence to say 

things are still working.

and to err, to cuss.

to take chances despite 

innumerable setbacks.

to care, to hate, and 

to miserably embrace 

our own imperfections.

to lie, to swear.

to tumble down and

spectacularly fail,

but still be humane.

and to still love and long 

despite betrayals,

and to live through 

inevitability of death-

wounds in the flesh 

indicate something 

inside is still beating-

a tiny flicker has to be

left in the night sky to insist

dawn is still not a myth.

let pain be proof of

pulse and life be a

rebellion against 

indifference.

Reciprocation

The things I wanna say, 

steal them from my eyes. 

The things you wanna hear, 

translate them onto my skin.

The things you wanna say, 

place them on my lips.

And the things you may 

wanna hear-

They're are stashed in 

my heart, thrust your hand 

and savour them away.

For each of your khaki 

confessions, I shall make 

fluorescent promises-

Bright enough to blind

our hesitation.

Ask me if I have secrets, 

and I shall lay myself bare 

for an espionage of

of your interest. 

And if you have any, 

you should know-

I am good at pulling off 

a juicy heist. 

Interrogate my pulse.

Decode my breath.

leave your truths under

my tongue to 

obliterate distance.

Let the alibis collapse,

disguises melt.

Let our staged honesty

pass into submission

of love, even if it's

fake.

Weight

If you take a Y shaped 

wood and fit the two sides 

with strings of rubber.

You get a slingshot.

Everything becomes 

a target from there on.

Street bulbs, bottles.

Pigs, dogs and cattle.

You take aim at crow

eventually and it

falls down wriggling.

punctured breast.

oozing blood.

So much for a young

mind to process.

Twenty years down 

the line, every night 

it still caws in your 

dreams.

Tell me, if you kill a

bird and carry it's 

weight in you,

Did it die or started

living in you?

Tell me, when you

kill a bird, if your

soul dies too.

The caw caw in your 

head, tell me if it's 

kind of incarceration.

Witness

To feel the warmth 

of her skin and sculpt 

it on a stone.

To witness the fire 

in her eyes and burn 

the canvas with paint. 

Once I glanced into 

her heart and the 

way my guitar cried- 

the lullabies born 

cleansed my soul 

a thousand times. 

It took a lot of patience 

and impulsive spurts 

to understand her. 

The storms I hurled 

were calmed with her 

smile and the silence 

I hid was nursed with 

a satin touch that 

wreaked walls.

Her contradictions

are acts of love and 

my unguarded heart 

is a refugee in hers-

to witness a new

tomorrow every day 

like it's my birth right.

Fragrance

If you dive deep

inside someone and 

plant a flower.

perhaps a jasmine.

and if it stays and 

survives and endures 

the forces of longing 

on good or bad days-

a subtle fragrance 

emanates. 

a yearning stretched 

across time-

surviving delays, 

denials, and onslaught 

of non-reciprocation-

a thirst that doesn't 

seek relief or validation.

ohh! this scent in my

unguarded heart.

a wound that refuses

to close, to remind me

what once felt-

it talks with the gentle 

wind that blows from 

the west and 

settles deeper in

folds of memory like

quietude after a

heartfelt laughter.

The Ink Outlawed

My pen refuses to 

stay neutral. 

It refuses quietude, 

inertia, routine, or 

any emotional paralysis. 

It invokes rebellion 

against stillness and 

whispers songs of 

revolution in my ears. 

It's a beast in hibernation, 

fragrance in aestivation.

A calm before the storm, 

a tremor before an outcry.

It pushes me inward,

to bring up all of it in 

the open.

But Alas!  

The government has

banned ink and dyes.

And the stony silence 

lingers, searching rocks 

to inscribe.

But rocks are holy

and only meant for 

statues, says the mob.

So my pen grows teeth

to bruise the air-

The words, tethered,

shall blow over the skin 

to scar memories.

The ink, outlawed, 

shall paint in red the 

pages of history.

The Haunting

My father's unvented ire, 

mom's unshed tears, 

my own suppressed angst 

found me. 

And the unintended jokes 

of friends, 

the passing comments 

of strangers, became a 

knife to hold me 

accountable. 

The image of that 

school bully gleams 

upon my face sometimes.

and the laugh of my 

math teacher hails over

my trigonometry again.

The other ghosts I hid 

in the kitchen cabinet 

come to get me, and 

the same useless gods 

conspire against me 

for being too holy.

All the rooms I enter

are infected with my past.

And the moment I 

try to escape,

they unlock a new door 

that has a bigger demon- 

And I'm compelled to

fall deeper within myself-

while they ask

"Why can't I smile?"

Humiliation

Thirst trap me and 

punish me with the lure 

of your wetlands. 

Give me sleepless nights, 

Offer me reasons to 

invoke my self-pity. 

Corner me to push my

boundaries. 

Reach my insides to

pinch me where it hurts.

Bring out your 

God complex,

I am ready for a devotion 

that's close to slavery. 

Blur the lines between 

prayer and submission. 

Render me defenseless.

Hoard me in a 

bondage of carnal 

pleasures. 

This night, 

laced with charm, 

my senses suspended, 

reasons fed en masse to

rampaging hormones. 

Gut me like a goat.

Ask me if I am ready 

for my ultimate humiliation.

If I don't comply with 

a hard on-

Punish me further till 

I actually suffer from 

pain.

Half Half

The overjoyous heart 

poises itself as a tear. 

The excitement in my veins 

tingles in my fingers. 

Legs ready to run 

towards you.

Arms ready to embrace 

your intimidating mind.

The feelings outrun 

the confines of language.

Logic spills over from 

the vessel of reasoning. 

Lips want to say much 

more than needed but 

the words fizzle out. 

I am so overwhelmed 

by your presence here-

I pant in a language only 

you understand but 

Slip away in the one 

I fail to express.

My pulse becomes

an impatient translator,

beating against the ribs

for a clearer sentence.

My eyes rehearse

confessions in silence,

hoping you will read

what my tongue cannot risk.

The air between us

grows dense with 

everything unsaid-

Half-fluent in courage,

Half-exiled in awe.

I stand here carrying 

a storm in a cup-

If I step closer,

I might dissolve.

If I stay still,

I might explode.

Becoming of An Unbecoming

And to love you and 

let you go.

To yet preserve a 

longing and carry that 

weight around-

 

What does the bird 

that flies away know 

of a void it left 

in the prison?

And to sing the same 

song again and again 

to the bird that 

never returns. 

To feel the warmth 

of her skin and sculpt 

it on stone and to

burn it on a canvas

with paint.

Oh, it must be tiring 

to do something like that.

A habit grown out of hand.

A compulsion that 

becomes art.

The hum that keeps 

rampaging without the 

need for validation and 

goes everywhere but 

to her. 

And even if it does, 

she doesn't get it. 

And when your creation,

When it goes beyond 

what it was meant for,

oh, that's love.

That's beyond love-

That's redemption of

Self. The becoming 

of your unbecoming.

Unseen Labour

What to do when 

the mind refuses to 

rest when it's asleep? 

What to do when 

thoughts circle over 

the same question till 

they lose their shape? 

Time slows, 

night lengthens, 

silence is crowded and 

quietude is a diarrhea 

of incomplete answers.

The unseen labour, 

sustained pressure, 

a friction that produces 

fatigue without movement. 

The body lies tired, but 

the mind doesn't find

closure. 

In comparison, 

isn't hell overrated? 

Give someone immortality 

and take away their sleep. 

Make them stranded

in their own head by 

giving infinite hope with 

inevitable despair. 

Ask them to carry the 

boulder up and down by

infecting their mind with 

ideals of persistence. 

And when they ask a 

counter question, 

tell them-

"One must assume 

Sisyphus happy."

Ikk Kudi

I listen to 'Ik Kudi' and I remember you. 

I hope you are fine. Wherever you are, 

I hope you aren't lost. 

I hope you aren't missing from yourself. 

I hope you still reek of those Avadhi words

That loosely translate as love for self. 

May the fire in you find a calm embrace,

And the silence in you get enough weight 

To reciprocate with storms.

I hope all the wonders and mysteries 

Unravel in you with all their intricacies.

I hope all the heavenly beauty embrace 

Your imperfections.

I hope you carry the summer and winters

Alike and I really hope you accept 

Your gods and demons alike.

I hope the world is not just a stage for

You and you don't have to perform.

I hope that's your homecoming.

I hope you realise, you found yourself 

Not because you were lost but you

Stopped looking everywhere else.

Simpy put, I hope you become what

Shiv Kumar Batalvi wished when the

Song reaches its high with-

Ho surat osdi pariyaan wargi,

Sirat di oh mariyam lagdi.

Hasdi hai taan phul jharhde ne,

Turdi hai taan ghazal hai lagdi.

Life is Inevitable

The first time I wanted to kill myself. 

Mom knocked on the door. 

I gulped down the feeling and lived 

four more years. 

The second time, I tried to kill myself. 

The cat spilled the milk in the kitchen,

And that bought me a few more years. 

An okayish time after that, I guess. 

The third time, I was overwhelmed by 

a fresh poem. I had to scribble it down 

Before I could do the honours.

But then, between that poem and 

the next few hundred, 

I got few collections published, 

and they are alright, I suppose. 

Well, the fourth attempt was pretty 

serious, but she called after a decade, 

and I married her eventually. 

Marriage is a demise in a way, 

but may not be equal to killing oneself.

Then I slid through life: children, wife, 

school and whatnot. 

I think about my fifth and sixth, 

but bloody hell, neither I get any 

time or privacy to ponder over 

my intrusive thoughts. 

For the seventh, I made up my mind but

In the final moment, I started laughing.

That's after standing on the stool with 

the noose around my neck. 

Life looked pretty small from up there. 

Life indeed was laughable. 

But more than that, Death was more 

worthy of that laughter,

For I have mocked it many a time.

So I climb down at my good sixties.

Or bad? I don't know. Averaging an 

attempt for each decade. Yet, 

shamelessly missing my intended aim.

Sometimes, doesn't it seem that 

Life itself is inevitable? 

And death, at most, 

Is an accident that didn't happen 

to you on good days.

The Resistance

Me and my cousin

Fancied bows and arrows.

A flexible bamboo for 

A bow and jowar stalks as 

Arrows- 

Best harmless weapons,

Yet stout for fun.

Our primary targets 

Were pigs in our backyard.

Our contention was,

Their acts of sniffing our

Asses while we shat

in the open.

So before open defection 

Was looked down upon,

We had an offensive strategy 

To hold our ground.

And when PM declared, 

India, open defecation-free,

He forgot to mention 

The members of

The resistance,

We were- to put it mildly-

A little angry.

Unknown Yearning

There are things in the world we will never understand. There are things in the world we can understand but never experience. 

Whenever our eyes meet, I try to look you in the eyes- to understand and experience- what? I don't know. 

But I will tell you this. When reasons fall flat and meaning is rendered irrelevant. When definition of words grow thin because any one language isn't enough..

Am I making sense? 

It's like you are somewhere far away and we haven't met. But I feel your teeth on my neck. The intoxication of your lips on mine and how I taste them like honey..

Well, yes, it doesn't make any sense for now-

But just so you know, it's something like that. It's an unknown yearning I try to fight through denial. It's kind of a compulsion I don't wanna escape.

It's something I can touch but can't reach. The forever incomplete feeling I carry. My attempts to fill it takes me places and I seem to always stop here.

And I'm happy to stand here waiting. You take your time, Stranger.

Leap

Enough overthinking.

Enough hesitation.

Enough streaks of

Lazy days and nights.

Enough practice.

Enough obsession.

Enough rehearsals to

Get it finally right.

On the day of

Deliverance-

When the ghost of

Consequences stare

Into my soul-

When the hiccups in 

My head and cough 

In the veins peek

Through my sweat-

I shall shed defenses,

Forget my weapons,

Extend my hand,

Tighten my legs-

Close my eyes to 

Look within myself for 

One last time, and 

When it's about time-

I shall take a leap to

Leave it all to chance.

And when the others

Ask how I did it..

I shall look them in 

The eye and say-

"I got lucky".

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.