Nangeli

Kerala had a tradition of taxing Dalit women who covered their breasts. Nangeli rebelled against it by cutting her breasts in protest.

They ask me why I cut 

my Breasts, as if the story 

begins there.

As if blood is the cause

and not a consequence.

They ask me why I cut 

my Breasts, and I

look at my sickle that

wasn't sharp enough 

to cut anyone else.

They ask me why I cut 

my Breasts but they don't 

tell you how the kingdom 

decided to measure 

them first-

I remember the hands

of the accountant 

fondling my breasts,

to assess how much tax 

I had to pay for bearing 

them on my chest.

I remember, how at the

cost of our humiliation,

the tax had to be served on 

a banana leaf with utmost 

respect.

The untouchability, 

no temple entry,

hundred other taxes levied 

besides other subjugations-

They even forbade

the shade of certain to

trees for us.

So it boils my dead heart,

when they ask me why 

I cut my Breasts.

And I say, they deserved 

a spectacle-

A blood oozing wound 

might stick better in memory 

than slow oppression fits 

into history.

But why does history 

remember the breasts

and forget the tax?

Why does it remember 

the blood and forget 

the caste?

You may ask the same 

question too. 

and in all humbleness, 

I shall serve you my 

severed breasts too.

That's how I want to break 

the fourth wall to ask

you this-

You've been subjugated 

by similar taxes too.

What's the mode of protest?

Why your dicks intact yet? 

Or you've come already cut?

Red shift

Waves compress when 

things move toward us. 

Frequency rises, and the world 

sharpens itself into arrival.

But when things begin leaving,

the wavelengths loosen.

The pitch drops. 

Even sound cannot hide 

separation.

Astronomers know this well.

They stare into distant galaxies

and measure loneliness

through redshift.

Light itself reddens while 

fleeing away across 

expanding space.

Entire stars confess their 

departures without language.

And perhaps human beings

carry their own Doppler 

effects too-

Like how your voice 

sounded different

when you loved me closely.

Every word arrived brighter,

compressed with attention,

alive with blueness.

But now- even your silence

feels stretched.

As if distance itself

has entered your frequency.

But the blue light of your 

arrival still hangs in me,

unable to decide whether 

it belongs to the past

or the future.

So here I stand with a 

telescope pointed toward 

your absence,

watching your redshift

grow deeper each day.

The hopeless observer 

I've become in search of an 

astronomical miracle-

There must be a law the 

universe forgot to write, 

where, things that recede 

forever can somehow 

still be coming home.

Wave🤝 Particle

The observer effect says

nothing remains untouched

by the act of being seen.

Even electrons lose their 

composure under attention.

As if observation itself

demands performance.

Photons colliding. Detectors 

interfering. Measurements

leaving fingerprints

upon being measured-

As if the universe, when 

watched too carefully,

forgets how to remain fluid.

Perhaps that is why

I fear being understood

too completely.

Maybe people are not

so different from particles.

Leave us unobserved

and we remain expansive-

contradictory, wave-like,

full of unrealized selves.

But the moment someone 

demands certainty.

asks us to define our exact 

trajectory, 

something collapses-

We harden into identities.

Tell me how much of love

survives observation?

How much tenderness

disappears the moment

we try too hard to name it?

Perhaps intimacy itself

is a delicate experiment.

Too much scrutiny,

and the mystery recoils.

Too much definition,

and affection stiffens

into expectation.

Maybe that is why some 

feelings survive longer

in glances, half-finished 

sentences, and lingering 

silences.

Because the moment we 

drag them fully into language,

they stop behaving like 

wonder and start behaving 

like witnesses under oath.

Shortest Distance

The shortest distance between 

two points on a flat surface

is a straight line says, Euclid.

I keep thinking about that.

I keep thinking about your eyes.

and how, I could look straight 

into you with just a stare and

understand you right away.

But isn't that wishful?

Could it ever happen?

Can it ever be that easy to

understand each other?

Perhaps, a certain distance 

could afford such honesty.

But If Euclid could draw a line 

between our beginnings 

and endings, and called it 

optimal-

We could both have easily 

surrendered to such mathematical 

efficiency and laughed ourselves 

loose through all possible 

geometrical angles.

But we've emotional detours.

Curves of memories that

push us in loops to take us through 

scenic routes of denial, ego, 

and longing.

The destination remains 

unchanged, but we arrive 

exhausted from unnecessary 

weather, because life or love hardly 

aligns well on flat surfaces.

The Earth curves.

Space-time bends.

Gravity distorts trajectories.

And, even light learns to bow

around massive objects.

And I know the thing between us- 

if not massive, it's not easy 

at least to come around it.

Every short path of mine

has warped my universe to

become something stranger

every time I've tried to 

reach you.

Every effort to reach you directly

only taught me how deeply 

the reality bends around desire.

Perhaps that's why I still 

circle you instead of arriving.

Maybe some people cannot be 

reached through straight lines 

alone. Love perhaps is a loop-

and through a beautiful distortion 

of distance and return,

I shall learn to spiral better 

to reach you again.

Paisas, Annas, Rupees

When Dadabhai Naoroji

sat pondering over the 

economic state of India.

Reflecting, contemplating over 

the things he had seen. 

Referencing and cross 

referencing the things 

he had experienced in-

"Poverty and Un-British 

Rule in India"

His theories stretching

beyond mere arithmetic-

towards the quiet starvation

of an entire civilization-

the estimate itself must have 

trembled his hands.

If he had to put in numbers

Twenty rupees he would 

hesitantly write.

Twenty rupees per year

as the per capita income,

He would gulp it down

like hot coal before he came

out of his room in fury.

And as he walked down the

corridor- his thoughts 

lingering between rupees,

paisa and annas-

entire civilization shrinking 

down to a mathematical 

humiliation-

He must have encountered 

his personal assistant 

cleaning the floors of his 

posh bunglow-

He must have looked into 

his deep eyes.

The desperation in his eyes

must have asked for better 

wages for the first time.

And Dadabhai must have 

given away sixteen annas 

to hide his own guilt.

And that's when his

Drain Theory must have 

stood up to slap him,

and Dadabhai must have 

given two more annas in a

hurried miscalculation.

But did it make up for the 

rightful twenty rupees? 

Or down the history,

the wisdom of averages

overlooked it for larger good?

Pi and Richard Parker

When you grow too curious and 

hold your ear against the fabric of 

reality in search of a higher purpose, 

you're thrown into a desperate ocean. 

You and me ended up in these

existential waters, like that.

Helpless, drifting and hallucinating,

while trying make meaning out 

of this salinity.

But the waves here aren't made 

of water. They reek of confession, 

compulsive guilt and self-humiliation 

that comes after forced sarcasm. 

You made gods out of language, 

fed meaning to every passing cloud, 

Tried to tame the wild thing in me 

with tenderness. and without noticing 

Didn't you become 'Pi' like that? 

And I, Richard Parker. Not fierce,

just an animal, too wounded to admit 

I have grown used to your companionship. 

And this raft between us-

these exchanged poems, 

these metaphors stitched together as 

survival manuals. 

We fed on verses like it's a wisdom 

that guide us out of the abyss.

and somewhere between casual words 

and crafted poems, our instincts 

disappeared and we became witness 

to each other's drowning. 

You fed me your attention, and I circled 

your loneliness, like I would worship it forever. 

And, to be frank, I survived the ocean 

because of you.

But somewhere I know why 

a beast should never forget his teeth 

out of gratitude.

That’s why I keep warning you.

That, one day, land will arrive-

Reality will return like a coastline

neither of us asked for.

And when it does, I'm afraid my 

old instincts will crawl back into me.

The instinct to vanish, to ghost.

To walk into the jungle without turning back.

Not because you meant nothing.

But because creatures like me only know 

how to survive through departure.

Richard Parker

You called me your fierce 

companion, but I was only

a hungry animal dragged 

unwillingly into the brawl 

of the ocean.

You looked at me through 

your dread and 

I looked at you through 

the lens of starvation.

But both of us had to

act beyond our insticts-

So the raft became the 

ground for a negotiation

between us.

The distance we maintained 

as a measure of survival,

turned into mutual respect 

and somewhere between 

salt and hunger, we stopped 

being boy and beast.

And through blind storms

and mad sun,

You fed me with your 

trembling hands and I tried

offer you purpose by simply 

being there.

I've heard your sobbing

beneath the waves,

the way you whispered

to gods like a child writing 

letters to an empty sky.

I never tried to respond.

not because I don't have a

heart. Because Tigers don't 

know how to console. 

But when the land arrived,

and the jungle called me in 

the oldest language I knew,

My predatory insticts were back.

So tell me Pi, whether 

saying you goodbye was

important or grabbing your 

neck against my will?

And because somewhere

inside my animal heart,

I could not bear to make 

a meal of the only witness

to my survival, I walked away.

Not out of indifference,

But because instinct is older 

than gratitude.

Ila

They ask me her name, and 

an imaginary mirror appears 

in front of me again.

My grey hair gleams in it. 

The wrinkles on my face 

suddenly grow honest, 

and the shame in my eyes 

settles heavily upon my 

shoulders. 

They ask me her name, and 

my tongue fidgets restlessly 

inside my mouth. 

The throat thickens, blood rushes 

up, but before even her 

image fully forms in my head, 

her name collapses into an 

awkward smile.

They ask me her name, and 

my barren lands enter the fray. 

My untouched soul protests 

against the ebb she creates. 

The solitude I have grown 

used to goes into defence.

Even the ghost of my dead wife, 

whose face I no longer

remember-

indulgences itself and asks me

the definition of love- 

The bravery in my veins 

quivers down again.

But why won’t this wretched 

world let my brooding rest? 

Again and again they ask, 

" What’s her name?" 

I try to swallow it back, but they 

do not know how desperately 

I want to scream it away. 

The letters she sent in the

'The Lunchbox' push it 

against my restraint, and 

her name returns tasting 

Like all curries, I relished.

Ohh! They ask her name again 

and again. But I have to 

smile first, to hide the blush. 

The world could end in the 

next instant if I say it, but 

to hell with it this time. 

I say "Ila" and the world 

still stands unbothered.

But all the weight is off my 

shoulders, and I'm in the air.

River

There is a river in me, and 

I let you flow through it.

The fragrance of your hair

dissolves into its currents,

the tones of your anklets

ripple across the water.

and the caress of your feet

colors its otherwise 

restless depths.

If I ask you to be my navigator,

will you do the honors?

will you place your hands

upon the trembling compass

of my longing and pretend 

you know where this ache 

is headed?

I would obey gladly.

“Aye aye, Captain,” I’d say

like a compliant child who trusts 

the sea only because you're 

beside me.

Let the darkness of night 

be dealt with reading the

stars aloud, let our fancy be

always the constellations 

of the other world.

And when we reach the sea,

don't just stand and watch

me disappear.

step into my depths and

take me to the shores.

If I drift, guide me towards you.

If I drown, lemme be subsumed 

in your reflection.

Atone my storms, 

repair the fear of shipwrecks

in my heart-

For what is a river if not a 

body searching endlessly

for surrender?

Let us find new beaches 

everyday to break as waves.

Let us do it so meticulously 

till they can't say, 

where we began and 

where we ended.

Omnipotent

Whoever bears a surname

as yours, I tend to think they 

might be your distant relative.

Whoever comes from your state,

I quietly assume they must 

know you somehow.

It's as if geography itself is too 

small to not carry traces of you.

Or you're are perpetual enough 

to not be everywhere?

I search for your familiarity

in borrowed accents,

in train station conversations,

in the way certain people

stretch vowels while speaking 

your language.

Sometimes a stranger laughs

in a way that resembles you

for half a second-

and my heart, foolish thing,

stands up to attention.

I know how absurd this is.

You cannot be scattered

across an entire population.

And yet,

my mind keeps rehearsing

your presence

through other people.

I very well know this in my

bones, that this is an illusion 

cast by my fancy.

Yet, I let my longing weaken 

the borders between 

resemblance and memory.

So what if every map

feels mildly inhabited by you.

What if every language in

the world has your hints.

When every crowd seems 

to be capable of returning 

you to me, 

why would I wanna strip 

down my delusion?

When my my devotion 

for you is as real as the day,

Why wouldn't I fancy every 

attribute of God to you?

That way, you're at least 

omnipotent.

Jasmine

Your arrival is announced 

with tones of anklets,

The gleam of your eyes 

reaches me laced with kajal.

The air, swept by the sway 

of your saree,

It reaches me softly and

my reasons fall asleep.

O, the jasmine of my village.

Come to me like a steady summer,

and settle like a season 

in my barren heart.

The restless bee I am

short of purpose, reach me

like fragrance and take me 

away to a certain slumber.

For what good is reality if

it can't be fancied?

and what good are the dreams 

if they can't be lived?

Enchant me into a deep sleep. 

Once I dream you enough, 

Mumbling your name,

I wanna wake up gasping.

Search

They say-

The things you run away 

from, will meet you in 

the middle of the city.

Grief found me on a

rainy day.

Loneliness on a summer 

day.

I tried running away from 

you. Seasons have passed. 

Cities I've crossed-

Where are you?

At the edge of the world 

You meet me, only to say 

I've been searching too-

where were you?

Negotiations to be a fool

On a distant sea shore,

there's a piano and you play it.

I feel the tones here and 

dissolve in a deluge.

The undercurrents have a

thing or two about you to say,

But I out beat them by saying 

many more.

I've done the same in the sky. 

And with gods and devils 

in heaven and hell.

No one can stand me, that's why.

Talk about getting banished 

from everywhere for being 

such a chatterbox-

I'm a stray in no man's land.

And the way I wanna belong 

only to you, own me if you want.

That's why I seek your asylum

with repeated pleas.

This yearning I suffer with.

I've made threads out of it to tone

my longing. Every guitar riff

is tuned to your distant presence. 

My compositions fleet in your 

service, forever in the air-

and if you get a whiff of it.

Embrace it into acceptance.

Do it, so that, 

I could negotiate terms with 

myself, to be a fool I should be, 

again and again.

Hijack

Hijak their tongues.

Hijak their words.

Hijak their silence and

assume it's a 'yes' 

when it's 'not a no.'

Tell them bad air is

all their fault.

Tell them how holy

is water, to hijak

their god.

Tell them nation 

comes first, tell them 

it's for the greater good.

Tell them individuality 

is a sin and sacrifice is

the only way to go.

Punch holes in their

dialects with a

compromised vocabulary,

and rinse their history 

with facts that are 

blasphemous to deny.

Make compliance a

virtue. make questioning 

a sign of betrayal.

Repeat it. Sharpen it.

Sanctify it until 

language forgets 

how to resist.

You're champions of

democracy already,

Yet, you choose to conduct 

elections now and then.

Not for power but

check the grammar 

of your propaganda-

Which is foolproof.

and we, with bit of

rationality left, are fools,

to think, you aren't 

Inevitable.

Opulence

If your income is

below twenty thousand 

per month-

You've a caste, sub-caste.

Kul, Gotr, Nakshatra. 

Rashi, dosh, Mangal, 

Shani and what not.

Upon that, even the 

neighborhood deity, 

who's a boulder,

is angry on you for

missing a upvas.

Maybe, if the income 

doubles, or triples.

Your Kul and Gotr

would be spared.

You can offord to overlook 

the local deity and focus 

on some institutional 

Gods of your town.

If you it notch up a little 

and go over few lakhs

a month kinda bracket.

You can ignore even

mangal and shani.

Can appease a pujari in 

a few temples, he can 

offer special puja at will

whenever you need it.

And if you can go even 

further. Perhaps, if you can

make a few crores a month. 

Maybe you can have a

few temples of your own.

Maybe few gods will 

stop holding you contempt 

altogether.

Few murders, few rapes

can always be kept in

reserve till you piss off

a better lord.

Then, if the money in 

question starts working 

for you and you start 

minting it even when you

don't have to.

You can start a cult to 

enslave a few gods.

Make your own rules to 

keep them in check.

In fact, you can force them 

to interbreed. So that,

you could use their children 

for your pedophilic acts.

Maybe other alpha Gods

will be a little angry but

you can negotiate a

deal to make them part

of your sweet dirty acts.

You don't have to worry

worry about the consequences 

at that level of opulence. 

The onus lies on the almighty.

Or maybe it doesn't.

As they're equally corrupt.

TF

When someone is reduced 

to being a shadow,

No one has to wake you up

to force you into recognition.

That's why you should know,

you're perpetually present.

I know, everytime I mistake

you in a stranger, 

it's definitely not you.

Yet I carry your silence in

each one of them to repaint 

the fading contours of you.

The air doesn't become 

thin for me. It already is.

The flowers needn't bloom.

The bloom is forever and

I taste the fragrance in my 

mouth like I munch on your 

name with each breath.

I've seen fresh horizons.

Experienced new maps

and I've experimented with

new faces to force your

memory into submission.

But the bloody thing sticks.

The fact that you're vital,

constant and Inevitable-

I hate to meet you in 

rooms no one else can find.

I hate your occupancy in

my thoughts and I hate

the fact that I can't get 

you even out of my vacant

gaze when I recollect 

something nice.

That's the problem with 

being reduced to a shadow

you know.

You don't arrive, you persist.

By this time, you're a 

fantasy gone wrong.

A rogue angel back as a 

ghost.

Ohh to breathe around you,

to think despite you,

and to move forward

without ever leaving you 

behind.

Ohh to be aware of this

toxicity and yet be a

hopeless romantic-

You may feel happy about 

the way you linger within me 

but I feel stuck in the 

quicksand of failed 

negotiations with self.

and if it helps,

each time I whisper 

your name before I could 

realize I've spoken,

the only afterthought 

these days is TF.

Contentment

I crave for a freedom 

I don't want when 

I don't know what to do 

with what's already in 

my hand.

This constant urge to 

escape- 

Is the grass really green

on the other side?

I wonder about it with a

cup of coffee in hand.

Where does the peace 

lie though?

Does contentment linger

between the ribs or 

it fleets somewhere far?

When the chair I sit has 

enough to offer,

I don't know what to do 

with these thoughts that 

seek comfort in a

foreign land-

So I take a sip and 

contemplate about how

the mind might sit here

or wander elsewhere.

May sulk in a room or 

bask beneath the shadows 

of pyramids-

The other side maybe 

green or offer, a whole 

spectrum of the rainbow-

and as I take another sip 

of this bitter black liquid,

I hypothesize-

That if you aren't happy 

with a cup of coffee,

You can't really be happy 

with anything else.

Backspace

I type and undo stuff.

seems backspace is my love 

language and I'm becoming 

fluent at it, I know.

I overthink to reject the 

things I feel about you.

sometimes I send,

then delete and deny to

achieve what, I don't know.

I've buried your pics and

pics related to you in a 

vague telegram group.

I visit it now and then-

I pretend to hide something 

from myself but can I 

outrun my impulse?

I freaking don't know.

I look in the mirror and stare 

into the abyss of my eyes.

I feel cute and wanna smile.

but I stop before my lips

can give it away.

I know you're the reason 

for this and I don't want

to say it aloud.

Ohh! is this how I look when 

I pretend to be in love?

The gleam in the eyes 

I bury with loud laugh.

words I bite and swallow 

with sarcasm at my hand.

I wonder if I have spilled 

any hints.

But, did anything flutter its 

wings to reach you before 

I could clip those cuties?

I must say, it's difficult to 

kill a beautiful feeling.

But I try.

But no matter how many 

stars I crush and the flowers 

I manage to trample.

the stardust sticks and 

fragrance lingers.

I borrow it all to weave 

it all with my unspoken words.

some of it becomes what 

they call as poetry,

and I humbly slip into the

humble arrogance of 

being a sorted poet.

Messiah Complex

Oh, that fancy for girl 

with terminal illness-

That tumor behind a 

little face.

Hope gleaming loud

in her big eyes, and 

walls ready to crumble 

behind the stony walls. 

Didn't we men create a

romance genre around 

this trope?

Adding fragility over 

fragility over the softness

of her white skin-

Only to bring out an 

inherent duty in ourselves 

to rescue this 

starry-eyed girl. 

Ohh this compulsive 

urge to be a messiah-

A hero complex with

daddy issues that 

leaves a hollowness 

that needs to be filled-

You wait for her demise 

by framing and reframing 

your words for an 

ultimate eulogy-

Isn't such tragedy 

a perfect place to 

rehearse your poetry?

But when she's gone.

when you no longer 

have an audience for 

your pretentious grief,

you're left with a question-

That if you loved her

for what she was or just the 

idea of her, upon which

you could briefly park-

The only purpose you 

were left with.

Make me something you never finish

Oh, to dissolve on your tongue 

like a cherry and taste my name

in your reveries.

To be the hushed tones of 

your whispers and the feeble 

breath of your sigh.

Oh, this yearning to meet you 

and be cradled in your arms.

to hold your hand and 

to lay there off guard.

I wish I could meet you once.

I wish I could walk beside you

basking in your shadow.

I wish the sentences suspended 

in our throats would start a

poetic affair of their own.

And I hope this distance is just 

a comma and our separation is 

a deliberate a plot hole to elevate 

the climax.

And before the ink is dried and

chapters are closed.

memory is thinned and 

oblivion is invoked-

I'll meet you once for sure.

We'll force our hands into 

etching our union onto the 

stony silence of fate.

But the night is longer, and

the wait is forever, my love.

Keep looking for omens till then.

If I swift through your loose hair 

and disappear like a sparrow's chirp.

Preserve me like a fragrance.

Settle me deep in your memory,

like you reminisce your favourite 

Gazhal, Make me something 

you never finish and,

I'll always return.

We'll never meet again

You ask for a meeting

brief as a struck match.

But what if we have already 

burned that fleeting light?

The ancient, unbreakable 

promise you keep talking about.

Haven't we both learned how 

words fail precisely where 

they are most needed?

You philosophize distance 

as a comma. 

I wish I belived the same.

But commas are not always 

merciful.

What if they continue when 

we would rather stop?

You say your heart would find me

in a sea of strangers.

Mine would recognize you too.

But won't we be those 

familiar strangers full of 

contemplation again?

Your fear of solitude in love 

is justified. But again,

ain't love solitary at its core?

Yet there were moments 

when our solitude overlapped.

so precisely that it 

almost felt like belonging.

But if the pages must turn,

and chapters must end and

books should be closed.

Let it be.

Not every story is meant to 

be concluded.

Some are meant to be 

suspended mid-sentence,

mis-plotted and half-baked.

So they can be returned to

without the burden of an ending.

So I will tell you this-

we will not meet again.

not because I doubt it.

But because I refuse to reduce 

us to being subjects of a

bogus promise.

Hence, let the memories die

out of hunger. Ink dry 

after being orphaned.

Deprived of any touch, 

the tenderness of hands must sulk

and heart must ache-

For silence has always been 

the question, let solitude 

be the answer.

Bombing A School

From the mouth of a building

that forgot its own shape,

they pull out papers-

creased lungs of color,

breathing ash.

A house drawn in seemingly 

straight lines refuses to 

learn collapse.

A sun- not so round, 

not so certain,

keeps smiling at a sky that 

no longer exists.

Stick figures hold hands

across a page in solidarity 

like there's still a future 

that no blast could edit.

A blue crayon river

still remembers how to flow,

though the street outside

has turned to dust.

Fingerprints of red and yellow-

small, stubborn signatures

outlive the walls that tried to 

keep them safe.

And in one corner, a bird 

mid-flight, wings open-

has nowhere left to arrive.

The resuers stack the 

drawings like evidence against 

the idea of war. Proof that 

color survived impact.

Proof that someone,

before the noise,

before the blast believed in 

windows, in doors, 

and in tomorrows.

Proof that, in the quiet

after sirens-

whatever hope that was left

got laced to crayons and 

took an iroclad refuge 

in papers that no

power could ransack.

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 definition 

of 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,

seems to exceed 

the magnitude of your 

delayed blessings.

Perhaps I can go on

committing more heinous 

acts, till you one day, you 

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.

Not 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?