Makeover

Throw away your phone,
Go into hiding. Lose all the people
And break all the bridges.
Don't buy anything new to see
If you can live without vanities.

Go on without eating for a day.
Try holding your breath for a minute
And still better, try not to speak
To anyone for a couple of weeks.

Pack your bags, buy a ticket to
The general railway coach or
Better travel ticketless.

Climb a small mountain alone.
Talk to strangers, make friends
Drink, party and leave without
Exchanging any modes of contact.

And remember her too, then let her go.
Torch all those memories.
Rub the leftover ash on your body.
Dig a six feet ditch and bury

Yourself till you don't make yourself
Anew next morning.

The Political Poem

This was once a political poem.
It wore a black-shirt,
Red-ribbon on the forehead.
Picked stones on the streets to
Aim at the glass castles.

It rolled around like tar on the roads
Venting off anger like trapped heat
Of primordial earth.
It was hungry, it was poor with
Rags and unkept hair, that learned
To run among dilapidated huts.

It made effigies of leaders to
Burn them on poorly made highways.
Ran marathons to raise funds for
The education of the blind children.
And donated pocket money to
The welfare of HIV-ridden sex workers.

It often took turns to keep watch
On the potential frauds.
Commemorate the Martyrs,
Did candle marches to commiserate
With acid victims and
Commensurate its own eliteness.

Once, this was indeed a political poem,
When the blood didn't refuse to boil.
Wings didn't refuse to fly and
The simmer of thoughts didn't hesitate
To make noise.

Then it caught cold like teens
Getting affected by chronic adulthood.
And now there's no time to think 
Anything beyond one's own runny nose
And the constant urge wipe it off
With a hanky that's clean.

The Other-side

With a beer on this beach,
I think about myself sitting in
A room biting the cap of my pen
In search of words.

Or all I can do is sit here thinking
About that beach and the eight
Percent of alcohol between
My teeth, as I do now.

This wishful thinking of being
Somewhere else, watching myself
Hike through a mountain in a
Third-person perspective-

It keeps passing through my
Mind constantly like a simulation,
Wondering about all the un-eaten
Mangoes. Untrodden places-

Unmet people and
The unheard voices.

The urge to chase down all the grace
On one hand, and the urge to
Hunt down all the patience with
Impulsive hate on the other.

The fancy of silence in traffic
And the wisdom of the crowd
When I sulk in solitude.
This vacuum of things happening

Elsewhere when I'm here..
It boggles me.

It boggles me when I think about
The other me who's erasing this poem,
While I'm on the edge of penning
Down the final word here.

Staying Alive

To love life when you don't have

Stomach for it. Everything you 

Build, when it crumbles

Like a sand castle against

The feeble breeze you loved.

And your gut aches, your heart 

Fails and the air that wants to 

Get inside feels so thick in your

Throat that you just want to

Vent it out, than inhale.

And the things you want to do,

All your goals and aspirations,

They lose all the meat there was

To sulk in a corner celebrating

The glitter of accumulating dust.

Even then you gotta rise up 

To the occasion to hold tight

Your old buddy-- This Life.

To calm him down with a peg of

Some old-fashioned whiskey.

Feed him half-fried omlettes,

Boiled peanuts and chicken lollipop 

To say cheers all at once to 

Jolt him back to this tragedy 

Called life.

Let the Evening come

Let the mellow light of
The late afternoon filter through
The gaps in the neem leaves
And its bitter fruits.

Let the dancing shadows form
An intricate modern art on
The freshly painted wall that's
Facing the west and let
The evening come.

Let the chickens go to brood
In the corner of the barn.
Let the bullocks and carts take a
Relieving sigh after their
Treadfull draft.

The moon must pat down
The crying kids to sleep.
The stars, let them thank all
The mothers for the supper
They've cooked.

The cicadas might be wanting a
Silent stage for their daily cry.
And the ghosts- the doused flicker
For their late night dance.

So let the evening come to pat
Down some of us to sleep and
Wake others in their dreams.
Let it come like it always has been.

And sometimes in many ways it
Always hasn't been.

Men in Thirties

Men in their thirties learn to accept
Themselves and what there is.
They listen to the same songs
From college over and over again
And advise the schoolgoers to
Just have fun.

They hesitate to look at their
Ugly selves in the mirror and
Those good-looking young girls
As they remind them of their own
Age that's pacing past.

Men in their thirties learn to be
Not excited about Birthdays
Or New Year's. Or about a
New movie or a book.
There's nothing more to learn
Or to be surprised about.

Everything they encounter is
Just an addition to their pre fixated
Mindset. The un-mouldable
Lump of clay they become-
The left, remain left and the right
Lifelong accuse liberals and the rest.

The married, regret their decision,
The unmarried learn to drink alone.
The money isn't enough,
The time isn't enough.

They sometimes want to sit for
A while to talk to themselves at ease.
But are often afraid of the potential
List of regrets that might pop up.

More closer to being fathers
Than sons- between the child,
They couldn't be and the adult
They don't want to become.

Men in thirties spend most of
Their time in a struggle to
Gather themselves through,
This transition of life.

Reading a Good Poem

There's nothing like reading
A good poem-

There's nothing like learning
How the moon slips silently into
Someone's black and white
Childhood photo.

And there's nothing like realising
How the salty breeze of
The sea might smell like
Over-aged Jasmines and how

The boat by the desert can
Carry dreams from the realm
Of sleep to reality with the sailor
Always missing.

There's nothing like appreciating
The funeral in Dickinson's head.
Or the way Linda Pastan listens to
The silence of the eggs that hatch.

And the Bukowski's whores that
Are as romantic as the Faiz's
Pristine damsels or Ghalib's
Misery draped in silk and-

How Billy Collins compares
Forgetfulness to his memory's
Retirement to a little fishing village
Where there are no phones.

And like that when it heaves
The calm oceans of your heart,
To come crashing down on your throat
To finally, break into just a bit of

Moist feeling in the eyes as
Happy tears. You too will declare
That there's nothing like reading
A good poem.

That's Why

When I make you a cup of tea,
What I mean is,
I can only do so much that's
Close to cooking and

What I mean more is I often
Bite my words between my teeth
And say I care for you by
Offering this hot beverage.

And when you showed me that
Dried petal of Rose you had preserved
For over a decade in your diary.
Did you mean, this is kind of-

A secret that I'm sharing only
With you or do you generally
Flaunt that to everyone to indicate
How you're a big keeper?

I don't know. But I think it's
Something. The whole act of
Preserving fragile things,
It's definitely something.

And then maybe one day,
I'll talk to you about the moon.
Not just the moon but about how
He shines across the horizon

Of the blue sea, soaking his
Milky white in the deep blue
To feel the calmness in
The depths.

I'll definitely be not knowing,
Why I would say something like that.
And maybe, if you understand
Why I would have done that-

You may show me a fleeting
Feathery cloud one afternoon
To ask me if it looks like a shape
Of a unicorn.

And if I say, "maybe yes".
Then say that's why.

The Silence that won

The king sent a proposal across
His kingdom to create silence.
Declaring, the silentest of silence
Shall be rewarded.

Someone emptied colors off
A rose and brought it to the king.
And another brought the heart
Of a friend who was betrayed.

The blood-soaked soil off a battlefield
Seemed enough at one point.
Till someone offered the thirst of a
Sailor amidst the sea of water.

Someone split particle of a dust
To show there's more to it,
Which was contested by dried-out tears
Of a mother whose son had died.

A Chinese monk came off with his
Meditative mind and when the judges
Entered inside, his disciples
Scraped noise off other silences-

To offer more assertive silence,
That imploded everyone's thoughts
Into emptiness. And that won
The final prize.

Brinjal

Mom listen, why it has to be
The damn brinjal always?
Almost every day, it's like
Every other vegetable is on a
Protest, retired, or died in a
A bomb-blast.

What happened to Bhindi?
Did the government ban it
Because it looked like a phallus?
Or the chauvinists cancel it
Because of too much of
Feminism in its English name?

Did the potatoes fall prey to
Irish famine again or
The Israeli forces employ them
To make bombs that could
Feed the hungry children of
Palestine?

Ridge-Guard is my favorite.
But you know that already.
Why hasn't it seen the inside
Of our kitchen for weeks??
What do you mean it refuses
To visit a secular home?
Has it already joined the bigots?

If it makes you feel any good
Let me tell you how even
Sadguru has categorically said
That eating Brinjal affects the brain.
The way he talks utter shit,
Looks like his mom fed him too much
Of it to him when he was a child.

I'm paraphrasing him so that
It is godly enough for you to
Understand why I'm unable to
Do good in exams.
Maybe that's why people in
Hyderabad use it as a cuss word.
Can you understand my
Frustration here?

And you know what I think??
Maybe God cursed humanity to eat
Brinjal, when Eve ate that
Forbidden fruit and made you
The guardian to make sure
Everyone ate it daily.

Is that why they say,
God couldn't be everywhere,
So he created moms. Why??
Because you're his agent
To feed us Brinjal?

Selling Pain

One of my friends is
Seeing a therapist and
He laid out in front of me
The cost of his therapy.

The aggregate amount he
Spent over the past three years
Was nearly two lakh rupees,
That got me into a calculation.

The per cost of his pain
And depression was around
Two hundred per day.
That's almost double-

The per-day cost of my
Breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Pain is expensive I realised.
I bought a weighing machine
To quantify every ounce of mine.
Kilograms of pain and tons of

Misery every week-
In lumps, sheets, and heaps.
Clogging bathroom drains,
Some, as stench under my bed.

Some of it soaked, wrung
And put on the railing to
Eat sunlight. Some of it
Swept in a corner to discard.

Some of it spread on paper
With pen and ink and
Sometimes colors and
Blood-ridden cravings.

Sitting in my melancholic hill,
I saw someone frame his
Mental state in a Gallery to sell it
To the geeks who find in it meaning.

I wish there was Khatana Bhai
To stop my Janardhan to waste
His pain over the samosa chutney
And instead, make him hold it

In his loose fist to throw it
At rock music. As Jordan
Was just the pain that was
Sold well.

Mind of Seasons

As the April sun shines over
The ripe and unripe mangoes.
As the dusty roads lead to
Fruit-bearing shrubs and
Fully grown Jamun trees and
Those sweet blackberries-

You should have the mind of
The summer to understand
Those parrots who leave
The cashew-apple half-eaten.

And as it rains and the July sun
Shies away to the gloom
Put up by the nimbus clouds.
The kamikaze go into hiding
To bring out the paper boats-

One should have a mind of
The monsoons to understand,
The shudder of the lush greens,
That's transferred to the dogs
And the drenched vultures.

The December sun who withdraws
Himself as the fog surrounds
Everyone's better sense.
The kids that refuse to wake up
Early in the morning and
The dew drops on the Chickpea leaves
That call for the harvest-

One should have mind of winters
To understand those sheeps
That lent you their wool to warm
You in a shawl your uncle brought
When he went to hitchhike in
The terrains of the Himalayas.

Good Boy

He talks about politics,
History, policies, finance
And inventions.
About Bitcoin and NFTs.

It seems like, he has
Figured it all out.

He eats with spoons,
Knows how to use a fork
And knife. His etiquette
Is impeccable-

He even knows how to
Smell wine.

The fake smile that goes
With the blue tuxedo and
The Italian shoes.
The borrowed hairstyle-

And the watch that shows
Nothing beyond time.
The charade almost
Looks real.

Then sip by sip the wine,
Goes in. It takes over and
His facade falls and
The termites from inside

Come out bearing his l
Local slang.
Licking just the pickle
He now orders, Old-Monk.

Stands on the table to declare
How the system is wrong.

Seemed like a political
Commentary until he retched
Real hard and puked out
Everything like he was a

A primetime news anchor on
A retainer.

Letting Ironies Meet

I try to sit on my chair,
With a book and pen with
Its lid open- To try to
Corner my thoughts with
A hope to make something
Out of them.. like it really
Matters.

It does though.
It doesn't too.

The writer's face I assume,
Wears away and comes
Back constantly while
I try to ponder over
The existentialism of this
Entire exercise.

Not the wind and the rain
Not the rivers and
The mountains, Please!
The way I've exploited them.
They should slap on me a
Harassment case.

I hear the vehicles honk
In the distance.
The boys chatter as they
Play cricket.
The neighborhood lady
Washing clothes- clink
Of her bangles.

I try to bring the barking
Street dogs.
But they've made many
Guest appearances and
Comeo roles.
On any random day they
Might just decide to give me
A taste of rabies for
Using them without any
Rewards.

Then I keep drawing shapes
On the paper without any
Fresh ideas.
A tree in the corner appears,
A circle, square and
A vague geometric house.

I think about you and I
Like I haven't written enough.
A long list of my family members
Cross my mind too, without
Triggering anything.

After everything was compared
To everything else.
After the leaves became feathers,
The flowers became damsels.
All the old men became
The village banyan tree and after
You became a chill goddess.

The rusty engines, the dry grass,
Dilapidated huts and
Looted ancient temples.
Ahh! It's tiresome!!
To not find correlations.

And then I thought I would
List all the things I'm tired of
Writing and ended up
Writing about the same-

Compelling the obvious ironies
Face each other before 

I let them die without any 

Glory.

The Science of it

This distance- the kilometers of it.
Nautical miles of it.
Light traveling for years of it.
The longing- the depths of it.
Width of it and ever sinking,
Irrational, Pie value of it.

And of this bleeding heart,
The lub-dub of it,
The crimson ooze of it.
The effing ache of it and
The indifference to the ebbs
In ECG of it.

And this desire burns like a
Blue flame.
The absent black soot of it.
The fusion reaction that
Got out of hand and
The hydrogen breeding
More and more helium of it.

The love, the idealism,
The unfelt grit of it.
The unconditionality of it.
The abrasive nature of it.
The urge to chase it down
In all enclosed compartments-

Its presence and absence 

At the same time.

The enigma of it.
The Schrodinger cat of it and
Heisenberg's uncertainty of it.

And the rush of my lust
That spreads all over the floor- 

The fluorescence of it.
'Newton and Apple' kind of
Obsession of it.
Time dilation during an
Orgasm and the sheer fucking
Relativity of it.

Death at Will

Can you foresee your death?
One fine morning, can you know
That you'll be gone by
That afternoon?

Does the Buddhist bird on
Your right shoulder whisper
The time and the place of
Your demise and the way
You'll pass away?

It seemed so in my
Grandpa's case.

He woke up that day.
Visited the family barber whom
We still paid in grains.

Had his bath,
Put on a new shirt
Which was very unlike him.
Then applied Vibhooti on
His forehead and visited
All the temples in the village.

On the way back, met his
Usual friends. Sat with them
Under the Banyan tree by
The end of the street.

And when he was back home
By mid-day, we kids were
Dancing off to really loud
Music put up by my father.

For some reason Grandpa
Got irked by it and got into
An argument and a brief fight
With my father-

A classic case of Indian fathers-
"I don't know how to hug you
But this is goodbye, son."

Then he ate lunch served
By my grandma in the kitchen.
I hope he really thanked her
In his own way and pleaded
Sorry for the stuff he put
Her through.

Then he went to the other
House for a nap.
There was urine on the floor
When Grandma went to
Wake him up.

He had passed away
In his sleep.

Quick and painless and
Didn't burden anyone.
People in the locality
Called it a good death.

I too agree if you ask me.
He should've emptied
His bladder before his nap though.
Maybe the Budhhist birds
Wanted the scene to be
A bit messy to avoid suspicion.

How Long?

I keep watering roses that
Refuse to bloom.
How long till you break me free
Of the chains of this longing?

The birds of my fancy keep
Falling with broken wings.
How long till you douse this
Funeral in my head?

How long till these windows
Be flung open?
How long till these walls
Eat wet paint of sunlight?

How long till the marigolds 

Stop being jealous of the Lilies 
Before they start owning 

Their own elegance?

And how long till my heart 

Stops ailing. How long till 
The Jasmines burn the cities
Instead of misery.

The prison guard has
Stopped playing songs again
And the hangman has
Started oiling his levers.

How long till you ratify
My mercy petition?

How long till you bless
My sullen garden with
Actual fragrance instead of
Bogus reveries.

Wound-less world

And sometimes when you

Run out of the words,

Unable to scratch-

When you run out of your itch..

The cells that are in a

Hurry to heal- engulf the vent 

To ascertain a blockage-

Healing can be smothering.

The ideas that try to bounce

Are hit on the head into a

Submission of inexplicability.

The red embers of thoughts-

That hitch with raw rush

Of emotions are doused 

With cold fetters-

Mental stability is slavery.

And you wait and wait like

A prisoner of a non-violent

World - A hostage in this

Wordless cage.

Smothered by the gags of

Un-bled blood- 

Anti-healing slogans in 

Your veins convince you-

That the pens are mightier 

Than swords.

But the government that

Hates pain and preaches 

Positive thinking has

Machine guns on steroids.

Fearing which- despite

Growing wings, 

The words refuse to fly.

And the poem intended

To be written is a martyr 

Even before it put up a fight.

Mirage

Look, Deepali,
Next time when you enter
That tunnel in search of
The light at the end of it-

You will never know where to
Enter, where to exit or
Where to turn or if you need
To keep going at all.

Cicadas will chirp even though
There wouldn't be any and
The serpents will hiss even
Through their absence.

The darkness will grow emptier
And you will listen to your
Silence screeching like words caught
In the middle of a sneeze.

And even then if you want to
Chase the madness- The faint blip
Of that meaningless light-
You may never find it.

And probably when you flutter
Your eyes in the dark in search
Of something to hold on-
Maybe you will catch my eye.

As I too would have been lost
Just somewhere there
In search of the same mirage.
But I shall be free by then

And out of the tunnel.
As I would realize, you were
That light and redemption,
All along.

But once outside, you weren't
Anywhere around.
I thought you came in search
Of me. But it now seems-

That you were there to
Wait for someone else.
What a surprise! Seems, the light 

Was a Mirage from the start.

Reflections

The boy is not guilty of
Stealing the money from
His father's pocket.
His Oldman meanwhile
Isn't guilty about his act
Of taking bribes.

The village headman is
Not guilty of using
The public funds for his
Daughter's marriage and
The daughter is not guilty
Of rejecting his lover
For a rich husband.

The boyfriend meanwhile
Is not guilty of leaking
Her nudes on the internet,
And his friends are not
Guilty of sharing them to
Show solidarity in his revenge.

The priest is not guilty of
Censuring devotees wishes
Or complaints and God in turn
Is not guilty keep tabs on
Everyone despite being
Omniscient.

Everyone knows all well,
What are their crimes
But can they carry it all-day
In front of their eyes?

A hiccup in everyone's
Conscience. Guilty reflections
Are bad for smooth conduct
Of business.

So today marks the day
Of deliverance. Everyone,
Has to stone their mirrors
In the village graveyard.

Reflections, from now onwards
Are banned for a lifetime.

Poetic Ends

When you cut open 

Your veins, the blood
That oozes is always
A shock of crimson red.

And when you hang yourself,
Your neck will crack.
Body will bulge, covered in
Excreta you'll stink.

There's nothing called
A poetic end.
There's no refinement
To the crudity of it.

It will hold your face in
Its hands and stare you
Like Anthracite coal-
The blackness of it will

Stick its tongue to make
Your throat thick- pull your
Intestine to choke you on
Your own breath and

Command you to count
Numbers in reverse.

So when the next time
One of those poets tries to
Serve you pain in an
Ornate thali-

Hiding the crude redness
And snapped neck of it-
Between the shades of
Water Lilies and Bougainvillea pink.

Take a moment to reconsider
The romanticism.

Either give him a hug to
Absolve him from his
Own pain. Or better
Kick on the nuts

Till he clenches his gut.
For caricaturing pain into
Cute dolls to plant them
In people's minds like

Time bombs.

Cheat Day

My kitchen knife is a
Vegetarian.
Prefers to cut onions,
Tomatoes and potatoes.
Refuses even to consider
Working on the paneer,
To flaunt its vegan-ness.

But occasionally it
Slips off a bit to cut
My finger a little,
Claiming it's a cheat day.

It's just like my tongue-
Preference to just a bit
Of salt and sourness-
Abstaining from any
Form of sugar.

But then again,
Its boneless attribute,
That takes it everywhere
Makes it tumble sometimes-
Utters the 'F' word without
Any restraint.

My pens that lie and
The glasses that colour
My sight sometimes.

My Uncle- Uncle Sam,
Comes to my mind.
Who breeds doves,
Preaches peace.
Holds conciliations to
Sign treaties.

But then, when he drinks
A little on weekends,
The chauvinism under
His pink coat comes out,
Knocking on random doors-

Compelling him to rape
A couple of those
Poor countries, quoting-
Their cigarette smoke is a
Potential mushroom cloud.

Act of Listening

The other day I talked to a
Sparrow who told me all about
Her morning Riyaz and her
Favorite ragas.

Met a Hyena later on who
Flaunted his art of deception,
Tricks of fake tears and
How one should be ruthless.

The ants went on about
The importance of teamwork.
And the bees about their
Productivity hacks.

A wooden log by the street,
Told me all about his uncle still
Standing in a place for over
Five years and counting.

This act of listening to
Everyone seemed interesting,
Till I met a stone lying idle
On the road who started to

Boast about his ancestry at first.
That his forefathers formed
The foundation stones of
Monuments of Hampi.

How his friend is being employed
As a brick in Ayodhya Ram Mandir.
His boast slowly turned into
A sad rant eventually about..

How he's jobless even after
His younger brother got an
Employment offer to pound
Ginger and Garlic in a kitchen.

The problem was too relatable
So I asked him to forward his resume
To my mom by that evening,
And next day he was sitting under

One of the legs of my table to
Level the extra ground clearance.

Divergence

Through the mist and dust and
The dead leaves. A path that
Carved itself out of the forest
Aspiring to become a road-

With re-enforced cement or
An asphalt overlay hoping to
Reach a distance city.
Now it chokes in a tiny room.

And the timber of the pine,
That wanted to be reams and
Reams of paper be part of
One of Murakami's novel

Now sits on some professor's
Desk hosting a research paper
Claiming- how refusal to watch
Black people porn-

Is an obvious measure of
The racism in your veins.

One of those dinosaurs,
Must have dreamt of becoming
A red giant maybe. Then it
Ate dust on that fateful day-

And now it's a fried chicken
On my plate.

One of those primates that
Aspired to be an alpha to
Rip those bullies and to have
New damsels daily as trophies-

Somehow ended up as my
Father and his sperm that
Won must have had hoped
To be a cool brat at least.

But no, he had to be a poet,
Philosopher and a loser.

Bygone

The unlatched door of 

My room that opens to 

A wide terrace.

It sways back and forth 

To the swish of the 

Incoming wind.

The Hinges grate,

It creaks- grr grr..

Like an Old man's

Snore to his disappointed 

Dreams. Who knows,

That no one is ever going to 

Come to meet him.

Blurry eyes- 

Even the light is

Hesitant to enter.

Runny nose- 

The air is afraid of a

Seamless exchange.

The winds come 

Constantly and Dreams 

Knock regularly but 

Both overlook all the usual 

Hints- In search of 

Something that has 

Greater meaning-

Eventually ends up, 

Alone and waiting.

Unlatched and creaking.

Once in a while, had he

Listened carefully..

He would have heard

Her song and latched

The door and

Slept early beside her

Without any nightmares

Or snore.

Overthought Things

There is something about
Giving meaning to things.
Chasing rains to feel the grit
Of water between fingers.

The texture of air on the skin as it
Passes in the evening and
The threads of mellow sunshine
On the face in winter mornings.

Painting those mountains in the flesh
And taking up a long trek to
Hug them for just being there with
Their gigantic elegance.

Imagining the slow flow of
A river as our own thump of blood
And assuring it a safe journey
Back home.

Autumn's assault had just ended
And the spring had regained
Access to the lush greens.
The clouds rose in heaps to

Look themselves up in
The mirroring lake.
Thinking the earth is finally
Ready for a date.

Then it rained as if
The love language of nature
Lay in the inevitability of
Rain.

Let Her Fool Around

As she sits there curled up

Beside the couch with
Half-eaten dog feed in the bowl
Looking at the distance, lost..

Take a moment to stare
In her eyes.
Do you see the blankness?
The loneliness?

The fancy collar on her neck,
Ornate leash with a grip.
The cuddles you give and
Hot water bath you provide.

The poop you pick to feel good
About yourself and-

While on the morning walk,
When she wants to smell
The genitals of the fellow street dogs.
Why do you pull her away?

You, yourself waltz announcing,
Your pronouns on your social media
Profile. Is that why you want to
Make your beloved dog sterile?

Wake up, you moron.
At least for the love of some
Woke-God. Let her fool around
With those ugly street dogs.

You go on performing everything
From Missionary to Alabama-Hot-Pocket,
And deprive her the pleasure of 

Her own authentic Doggy style?

Grow some sense you condescending
Piece of Hypocrite.
If she makes babies tomorrow,

You must know that you can 

Flaunt them on Instagram-

As puppies have far better
Engagement than adult dogs.

Vigil

You can cover your face
With a scarf outside but
The walls have keen eyes
And they have seen it all.

You whisper your secrets
Into the ears of a vague statue
Of an unknown God.
But even the devotion in

Your fickle heart has holes
That can amplify lies.
And for long, you fixate over
The possibility of

Deafness in your lord.
But fate is playing
The game of chess with you.
And it's all tactical-

Lets you beat the queen
And bishops of the black but
That one insignificant pawn
Has been waiting with a plan.

You tie your shoe loose
Thinking it's all right and
When the vigil is gone-
A checkmate from the pawn.

You'll be done in a battle
You never fought.

Dharwad Rain

It was too much heat and
It became cloudy.
Suddenly there was lightning,
Thunderstorm and rain.

It rained over and across
The roads of Jubilee circle
On the metal head of
The Ambedkar statue.

The tin roofs of the Chigri bus,
Got the hammering from
The silver nails too.
Sending rhythmic tones

To whoever sat within it.
It rained on the dusty old scooter
Unveiling its name to the world
"Bajaj Chetak"- like it was a fossil.

The kids in the white shirt and
Blue shorts ran around to collect
The ice cubes of the hail.
It rained on their tiny heads.

Over the tripling college boys
On their Splendor Plus and
Over the empty Kingfisher bottles
To mock the chill out of the beer.

It rained on hospital signboards
That said 'do not honk.'
It rained over a punctured tyre
That just wanted to burn in fire.

Over the pigeons and the crows
And the maize feed that they
Wanted to eat- that's how
Their hot meal turned cold.

It wanted to rain on Elliot's
Wastelands too and Silvia's
Pig tree before it could even
Branch out more.

Even on Bukowski's whores
And wine and on that
Frost's road not taken and its
Fresh grass; till one could-

No longer tell the difference
From the other one.
But it strictly wanted to be local,
For some reason.

So it let Karim Mulla's grave
Drench and Chakkadi Balya's
Thirst quench.
By the smell of Mirchi Girmit
It let the crowd elate.

And one of those tractors
To pass playing a Janapad song
On full blast- It let itself
Loosen up a bit to have-

A little fun for a while and
Dance in Tappanguchi style.



Mirchi Girmit- local food prepared from puffed rice
Janapad song- Songs in local slang often played in tractors

Tappanguchi- local free style dance

What If

In another life, we would have
Ended up in the same house
Maybe the green or the blue
House of our school hostel and

Fought over, the toilet duties,
To carry over the sourness
Throughout the school life.
Or maybe you would have been-

That friend of mine back then,
Who gifted me a Reynolds-Gel-Pen
Every Bday and had lunch with
My family on parents' day.

Who eventually victimized
Himself, blaming the system
And lost in touch after school.

Even worse, the part-time
Bully of our class would have
Shown interest in philosophy
And poetry and like a nerd

Explained those juniors about
The stars and the night sky.
Eventually listening to too
Many songs to lend his playlist-

To hitch me on conversations
We now go and go on and on.

I would have completed the
Spiti circuit on his bike you know
And you from your own
Bystander life would have-

Laughed at us for being so gay.
As you wouldn't have had
Anything other than that to
Get at us in one of those

Trolling sessions of our
School reunions.

Simulation

Canary, a yellow sparrow-like
Bird sacrificed in the coal mines
To test the levels of carbon monoxide.
Rats in our laboratories of course
As tin cans to test fire our
Experimental medicines.

Haven't the dogs been our
Long-standing first line of defence
Against those heavyweight carnivores?
And the cattle of course
Butchered into meat to satiate our
Not-so-starving needs.

Have we been held hostage in
This ranch called Earth too?
By some higher civilization-
To test against the level of
Oxygen and temperature rise?

To derive a formula for optimal 

Resource allocation through

A false means of fair competition?

Who are you sitting above in
A surveillance room studying our
Simulated lives?
Can you please delete the footage?

From the previous night.

I wasn't supposed to pee standing up,

I accidentally identify myself as male.

Carrom Coin

By the bench in the park,

Found a carrom coin this morning.

My math teacher would've liked 

To know the probability of getting-

A white coin, only a black coin 

Or the one other than the pink coin-

The simplest answer to that 

Question is 'one' and the coin

I found was the Queen.

Somewhere on a tattered board 

Her black soldiers and the white ones

Might have been waiting for her tirelessly

And the striker might have already-

Slipped into existential questions

Of why or for whose sake it must 

Strike purposelessly.

And the four jobless blokes 

Sitting around the board

For an afternoon session,

With talc powder in hand-

Might be considering the option of

Elevating ranks of one the

White soldiers temporarily

By painting it in pink or otherwise.

The Queen meanwhile sits here

On my table offering me 

A chance of revenge over all those,

Childhood bullies-

Who never let me win 

In a fair game.

Raqeeb- The rival in love

He plays the flute
Standing on an old
Telephone booth to ask
The wind often, if 'she' can
Hear him play.

He plays it like a smooth
Refuge of warmth on a
Winter night. He plays it like
Slide of a water drop
From molten ice.

He plays it like capitalism
Wanna stop running and
Catch up some
Music lessons ASAP.
And he plays it like-

The dustbin nearby
May wanna fall asleep.
But the plastic wrappers
Inside don't let it
As they wanna dance.

The dogs have heard it.
The birds have admired.
The dragonflies have given up
Their flight to listen him 

Play all night.

Not bothering with anyone's pleas.
The wind swirls deaf.
When asked 'why' it says-

It has been in love with the same
Moonlight-soaked beauty-
The boy wants to send 

His song to.

And the tune is so good,
Out of jealousy-
To her, even out of mistake
It can't convey the song.

Prank

The sunset on the horizon
Turned out to be a LED bulb
With faulty wiring that mislead
Many insects into hiding.

What looked like hunger was
Just an erection in the pants that
Just wanted to sexualize everything
With the hump in a shiny attire.

The crude romance was just
A free hitchhike,
She left the pillion when her
Luxury bus arrived.

What looked like a dog was
Just a boy who had changed
His pronouns and now he has
Learnt to bark.

The blue mountain in the distance
Was just Diwali smoke flirting with
The fog- just like that friendship
That felt like a prank -

Done with two rupees
Plastic lizard.

What seemed like a dream
Was a stink of reality-
The water park experience of
Me wetting the bed by morn.

Removing Tropes

This time, the hero will not
Come running and jumping,
Thrashing a couple of
Local gundas-

There is no entry scene
Planned.

The heroine will be clothed
Normally. She doesn't have to
Reveal her mammary glands or
Adipose of her thighs.

There is no item number or
Rape scenes thrust.
No need of any social commentary
Or political philosophy.

No one is gonna come to diffuse
The bomb in the temple.
The lovers in the climax will not
Be able to marry this time.

The fallen hero will not wake up
To the wail of his lover.
Things somewhere got real
Real and he had to die.

The boy who read in the streetlight
Couldn't make it big and the
Patriotic don couldn't defeat
The evil Mafia lord-

All the stories dried up by
The time the tropes were removed.

And Basanti danced out of her
Free will to marry Gabbar and
The hand pumps stood in protest
For unnecessarily portraying,

Them as weapons.

Real, Inverted

A convex lens casts a real
Inverted image on a screen-

A pointy skyscraper can
Look like a ball pen.
A large Banyan tree, like
A buds of broccoli.

Women walking in skirts
Turned upside down but
Why hasn't it revealed
Any pale parts?

A God-man who passed by
Looked virtuous through it.
But you should imagine how
Distort his reality might be right?

A biker on the go seemed
Like having an anal with
The bike, clearly
The bike was winning.

And maybe someone
Looking at your eye from
The other side may get
Surprised at the strange-

Genitalia with lashes
Fluttering on the vulva.

Novembers

Novembers are the monsoons
Passing the baton to the winters-
One leg on the boat that sailed
And the other that's poised to leave.

Novembers are the sleeveless T-shirts
Inviting the cozy sweaters for
Their brief retirement party,
While you keep tuning-

The right speed of the fan, cursing
The technology for not figuring
Out a regulator with a speed notch
Between two and three.

Autumn would have taken out
The horses out of stables by now,
To hitch a ride to conquer
The lush greens of the trees.

Meanwhile,
The Novembers become
The oceans that refuse to lend
Any water to the winds.

And the angry air blows dry-
To beat the land with its cold.

The Novembers finally turn as
The agents caution.
One has to store the fire-wood,
And the requirements of food.

Some may start carving for
That one lost person and
Some might start getting closer
To the one beside them-

As the Novembers turn out to be
The agents of longing too.

Quick Gun Murugan

Two cats stand face to face,

In the empty passage,
Of the neighboring alley.

Roaring at each other from
A distance.
They stare at each other
In fury.

It's a western in slow-mo
In my head by now-

Both, ready to pull out
Their revolvers from the
Holsters to take out
The other first.

Somehow it feels like
The other one would be
Quick and Clint Eastwood
Would die in this duel.

Broom-Sweep-Punch

Ten-Thousand hours is
What it takes they say.
Beethoven did it to perfect
His symphonies.

So did Picasso. Maybe,
Even Modiji.

I can't help but to think
About my grandmother.
Who lived for over a
Hundred years.

Her meticulous morning
Routine of sweeping
The front and the backyard.
And then the cattle-shed and
Disposing the cow-dung.

Her daily grind with the broom,
Would have crossed her
Ten thousand mark,
Long ago I suppose.

If her broom were a guitar,
She would have been
A bassist maybe with
The Pink Floyd.

If it were a paintbrush,
Maybe the Italian Renaissance
Would have spread around
My village.

And Thank God it wasn't
A potential weapon.
She would have fought
Alongside her mother to
Defeat the British Raj.

And sometimes when I
Overthink about the whole
Scenario, I can't help
But imagine that terrified
Face of Bruce Lee-

When he first heard about this
Bent-Torso-Straight-Leg
Broom-Sweep-Punch.
The one 'Ten-Thousand times'
Practiced move-
He wanted to be afraid of.

Nudes

Searching for her
Fuckable body in the poems
She writes,
You slide in her DM-
Literature as your pretext.

Persistent in your intent-
Leaving hints in the usual
Conversations,
A peek behind her dress is
All you need-

Everything else is just
Pretense.

Out of pity or respect.
Maybe she was in it too
Or she wanted to make a
Statement out of sheer
Disgust.

When the image of her
Bare bust glares on your
Screen with a missing breast.
Sneaking past the edges of

Your own guilt-

The reflection of your face
On the black mirror-
Shriveled the same way,
Your erect meat in your
Right-hand did.

Uncertain

From somewhere, the age-old
Conquest of rust will get to
The brakes of your bike and you'll
Forget to have it serviced
Before the next trip.

A bullet with your name written
All over it will somehow
Remain in the magazine,
Despite hours of practice
In the firing range.

Against your good fortune,
Another virus from a
Chinese lab is gonna find you
In a pin-pointed stroke of
Fate.

And despite all the precautions
And planning and those hefty
Insurance claims- A bee will sting
Your ear on the wrong side of
The state highway.

And that's it my friend,
Thirty years of your life will
Flash before your eyes in just
Three seconds and all those
Beers you're supposed drink-

Will be in luck, if they find
A refuge in the belly of your
Best friend- who might toast
Every year in loving memory of
The time you guys spent.

Able Form Of Expression

I didn't cry when my
Grandpa died. I couldn't,
Even when Grandma passed
Away Infront of my eyes.

Tears like frozen packs
Of ice and dead expanse
Of desert refuse to
Yield any water.

The consolations, though
Take off from the bottom of
My stomach, often they
Dry down in my throat.

The dark clouds of this
Unexpressed grief refuse to
Pour down on the aridity
Of my cheeks and the brittle-

Strands of my beard still
Find solace in flaunting
My masculinity- which screams
For help each day-

Without finding an able
Form of expression for
The condolences that
Rot in my belly.

Remembering You

Tomorrow when I sit at
A South Goa beach after
Taking the Karwar route
On my not-so-good bike.

I'll weave together strands
Of my longing into a shack,
To sit and relax around to
Write about-

The texture of the sand,
Angular gravel, soft seashells.
Birds other than seagulls
That haven't yet gotten-

Bored of sad lovers.
And about how the wind
Smells of salt though
It doesn't.

And about how I whispered
Your name in a couple of
Empty bottles that echoed
Your address and-

If a letter- written on a
Banana leaf-ever finds you,
With the stink of cheap beer,
Know that,

Even in the bustle of
Vanities offered by this city,
I managed to scratch a
Couple of old wounds-

To remember you.

Itch

This urge to scratch the
Itch on the other hand,
Bite nails and chew the
Hardened skin around them.

The itch on the thighs, and
Around the groin and the ass.
The itch around my head,
Because of too much hair
And entangled thoughts.

The urge to scribble on the
Margins of books because
Of the itch in my mind
That just keeps saying
"Why not?"

The itch of lust hiding in
The pretense of love and
The want for love that
Wants to scratch but never
Gets a chance.

And the itch of the
Stomach of course that's
Not confined to the usual
Roti-Kapada-Makan.

And then the itch of bigger
Ambitions that have
Tentacles spread across
Far-fetched horizons
To have it all-

Like the one to dig tunnels
In search of a meaningless
Light and when found at
The end of it.

Sit there waiting for the
Moths to test the validity
Of it, as there's also a itch
That thinks it might just

Be a mirage.

Boy becomes his Father

Out of dread for those
Serious eyes, bold beards
Heavy moustaches and
The dictating voices-

Every boy, who hides
Behind his mother's saree
Is revolutionary.

Feeling his mother's grief
In the feeble variations of
Taste of daal- very resolute
To change the precedent-

Wanting to throw stones
At the village altars and
Clean shave before even
Adolescence hits hard.

Then as the the fierce
Command of manhood
Takes over his face,
Mind and groin-

And by the time he brings
Himself a wife-
Yelling at her from the bathroom
For not giving him Chaddi
And banyan in time-

His father and grandpa
Smile from the mirror
In total approval of the
Man, he has become.

While his kid in the hall hides
Himself in the saree of
This woman who had just
Become his mother.

Union

The broken lover, 

Out of grief sits scribbling,

Her name on the beach-

Persistent, till the sea

Remembers who she is.

In the middle of the ocean,

From around, another

Part of the world.

Another lonely name,

Finds this one and now

There's a new affair.

The onslaught of the

Saline water that often

Subsumes things-

Has made an exception

To write a new story

And named it as rain.

Watchful Gaze

Your image flashes in my mind,
Constantly like fluttering of eyelids.
It's almost, as if, you're
Watching me from within myself.

And under your watchful gaze
I have become conscious of my
Day-to-day things.

So when I wake up and stand
In front of the mirror to brush.
I don't spit it all over the sink.
It's as if you're standing beside to

Guide me through the process,
Like a high school math teacher.

My hands reach my back properly,
While taking a bath.
Rinse my hair thoroughly while
Applying coconut oil.

The maroon shirt goes tucked in
The Light-grey trouser with a
Tie that's purple or blue. And then
The bike with a helmet always to
Protect my not-so-important head.

Sometimes,
A wishful urge comes along,
To do things differently, messy-
Like I always do--Unkempt hair.
Dirty socks. Unwashed dishes-

Deliberately, I spill some milk on
The breakfast table,
Thinking, that you would come
To tease me into a correction.

But it almost, always, never happens.
Your murky angry face,
Never takes things in hand and like
Always the next day resumes again-

As it should-
With the jeans going along
The right shoes and eating rice in
The lunch with a spoon.

Hunger

In the noon while I strolled in my
Backyard, a roti fell from the sky.
I looked up in wonder and there was
A crow cawing- must have slipped
From its grasp.

My father immediately asked me to
Rush back inside the house,
Mom joined him to say how-
Lord Shani might change his position
To haunt my astro-profile.

And from a distance, precariously as
I watched, wth a quick dive, the crow
Picked up the roti to fly away.
The emotion of hunger there was
That simple.

Crude as coal and pure as gold.
Devoid of any dubious morals or deceit-
Hunger often is the shortest distance
Between the stomach and the food.

A compulsive affair of desperation
And hope on repeat.

Dogma

Belly crushed, insides
Exposed- you lie there.
Wriggling and grappling
For life.

Just beside you, I stand
Cursing the driver for
Not even bothering to
Look at his mishap.

Despite all the turmoil-
Out of sheer repulsion.
I fail to reach you and
Choose to pass by.

Maybe my gut would have
Churned a bit more,
If you were a cute little dog.
Or a sparrow or a pigeon
With a broken leg.

But who cares for a
Piglet right?

The empathy in my heart,
Seems, it can only be bought
With gold-plated tears.
And it goes unsold today-

Making even your blood
Worthless- over the dogma
That comes with you
In my surroundings.

Temporary Relief

The clock in the train station
has an itch in its back.
Rock-paper-scissor between
The second-minute-hour hands-

As to who shall scratch it
This time. And just for a while,
Everywhere- time has stopped
Past midnight.

No one is partying,
Making out or cursing their
Bosses or waiting for the
Next weekend.

None is hungry for a while.
Or depressed or dying
Out of shame. Or trying
Hard to fit in somewhere.

No power change, no war or
A threat of a nuclear attack.

It's just quiet- insects have
Found a comfortable niche.
Dogs free of leashes and the
Mountains, don't want to slide.

And before it could have
Gotten any better,
An abrupt streak of light
Appears in the dark sky.

This time, the minute-hand
Lost it, it seems,
Now that the back has been
Scratched-

Suddenly,
There are forest fires.

Wishfull

Tomorrow I will be past thirty.
That's four hundred dog years
Of age someone said.
Maybe I can wear a collar,
Tie myself to a leash and walk
By the garden to play fetch.

If we start putting it that way
Maybe I'm twenty tortoise
Years old I suppose.
Should I invite the rabbit for
A race again?

How about the six hundred
Rabbit years of age? I can
Already see the irony in that.
For the phrase, 'Fuck like rabbits'
I'm such a virgin.

Maybe I should count myself
With the old Banyan tree-
Only a couple of years old.
Maybe I would just stand and
Stare all day to observe and
Judge them all.

The comparison anyway has
Far-fetched by now, that I
Want to a Siberian Crane of
Age whatever I don't know.
I fancy flying over all those
Mountains each year to the
Sweet warmth of my village-

To tell a thing or two about
flight, to all the kids who are
New to flying kites.

Hopeless Quest

Sitting alone in the
Restaurants battling
With the spoons and a
Bowl of Idli-chutney.
Catching your lonely image
In the window glass and
Searching for yourself
In the cracks.

In movie theatres- early
Morning shows,
Sleeping there without
Any care for the plot
Or action and later on
Drawing philosophy over
Discarded condoms and
The spilled popcorns
In the last row.

Locking yourself in the dark
Of your room. Not wanting
Slightest of light.
And cursing that hole in
The window with no courage
To close it or let it
Fully distract.

These half-hearted efforts
To find yourself.
Asking deep questions to
End up falling in made-up
Dungeons-- to give
Over-thought meanings
To your shallow life.

The kind of facades,
You put up--
Masks you steal and
The identities you assume.
All for what?

To sit by the road again,
To paint yourself a
Self-portrait by copying
The faces of all the
Strangers that pass by?

Making Tea

First, you put half a cup of water
And leave it on the flame.
While you add two spoons of
Tea powder. Maybe a half more.

Then the same amount of sugar,
A bit less maybe.
Then you watch, till the bubbles
Show up with signs of boiling.

Now comes the milk, almost
The equal quantity of water.
Don't pour more thinking it'll

Taste better. This is not coffee.

As you pour milk and it mixes
With the decoction, you should
Observe the way it mixes like
Some mystical painting.

And as the color turns from
Black to pale and from creamy
To brown- the waft of aroma,
That elates your head-

You know the quality of it
Before even tasting.

And when you strain it in a cup,
The tip of your tongue already
Dancing over the moist fumes.
The first sip sends your soul-

Into the space. You'll have to
Pull it back after sipping one more.
And one more and more till
Your astral self makes peace

With your actual one.

The Misplaced Tile

The misplaced tile in the
Newly laid footpath.
It bothers me.
Who in their right mind
Could do that?

Did the Masons think
It was okay to put it in there
Without any thought?
Or the engineer deliberately
Planned it, to mess with
The passersby?

The red and black tiles
That alternate throughout
In perfect harmony-
Now, have a sudden ebb
Of surprise.

An older couple on the
Evening stroll might
Suffer a stroke by
The shock of that sight.

The conspicuous oddity
Of a red tile in place
Of the black can even
Attract aliens who admire,
Geometric maladies.

I'm more worried about
That one over-aged man-
Who might after years,
Become a child for a while-
And decide to walk only
On the black tiles.

And before he could
Smile over his little feat,
Step on the Red one
For no fault of his,
To have his day ruined.

Greener Grass

A boy sits astride the
High fence to make it to
The other side.
A girl is buried in books
Studying all morning,
To do the same.

Holding a yellow umbrella,
A vendor sits in the rain
On his vegetable cart,
Maybe dreaming about
Adding more colors to
His life.

Aren't we all the same?
Trying and dreaming
Of an unknown sea,
With better greens.

Like a nun who found her
Salvation by riding a
Bicycle through the
Crowded street full of
Ogling eyes.

A violinist finds it
While playing his music
To an indifferent crowd.

And maybe someone
Is chasing it by praying in
His single room all day long.

And some other-

In a medieval Egyptian
Brothel by having
Exorcist hymns whispered
In his ears in the name
Of nude massage.

I don't know what

The dry moss between
The tiles spread like a maze
On the terrace-
Little black ants obsessively
Follow the trail to solve-
I don't know what.

Strands of cobwebs across
The railings shine against
The rising sun.
The redundant Dish-TV-plate
Poking its concavity to harness-
I don't know what.

If it wasn't for the dirty
Underwear on its shoulder,
The clothesline across the
Rear windows would have
Eloped with the laundry basket
Long ago---

Like the chair left there,,

Facing the lake on the balcony,
Constantly thinking of
Jumping off in the water
Just for the sake of it.
Something holds it back-

I don't know what.

Pronouns

An earthen pot and
A plastic bucket sit,
Side by side thinking
If they should start a
Family.

Maybe one will be
Called a plastic-pot.
The other, as the
Earthern-bucket.

And if there's a
Third one claiming
It's gender fluid,
Then it can be used-

As a dustbin.

This Love

This love, sometimes-
It's just a blip.
Waiting in the corners
To make a point and
Then, not able to
Escape the cobwebs
It's been caught.

And sometimes,
It's just an elaborately
Woven novel with layers
Unveiling the plot lines
And finally waltzing

In a public library to

Find itself a fancy

Bookshelf to sit 

Haughtily all day long.

It has been a loosely
Edited Tarantino movie
Most of the time-
A heist gone wrong,
Murders, blood and
With the police involved-

Sometimes you're guilty,
Sometimes it's me.
The blame like a
Fire-ball passed on to
One another's peril-
To push each other
To the gallows ultimately.

And as the noose tightens
Around our necks,
Amoursly making out again,
Without any regard for
The hangman or our

Mutual unrest.

Unaddressed Issues

Who's gonna talk about
Those retired guitars,
Torn-out shoes and
The redundant lanterns,
That still want to glow?

And the broken bicycles,
Forgotten recipes.
Stopped watches that
Still want another chance.

The cold bowl of soup,
The lost lots of souls and
The shattered pieces of
The mirror that still
Want to reflect?

Rust-eaten door keys,
Dust-ridden rooms,
The dried leaves that
Scream about how
Brown is still a color.

The silly sisters,
The lonely mothers,
Angry brothers and
The hopeless fathers-
Who may just want a hug
Or a decent talk--

People that haven't yet
Gone mad,
Friends that haven't
Yet died and yourself,
Who still wanna give it
One last try-

Who's gonna talk about
Opening that room?
To pull yourself out of
The head of yours,
Where you often brood.

We Men

We men, we don't do
Sadness.

We often learn to
Hammer nails in our eyes
To stop tears from
Making it out alive.

Nail by nail, the emotional
Rapport with self that dies
And the attitude to fix
Everything by hiding it-

Good at erecting walls
Around our emotions
And vulnerabilities.
Brick by brick-

A seven-storied building,
That learns to smile.

Knowing each other's
Conditioned compulsions-
The son and father,
Unable to hug each other.

Unable to console a friend,
Unable to help mom in
The kitchen.
Unable to understand
My brother's depression.

We, with clenched hearts,
Closed minds.
Who can fix your broken
Bikes or leaky taps-

But unable to soothe
Your ailing hearts.

We who can laugh loud and
Argue ourselves to death.
But fail to look at the mirrors
And talk to ourselves.

This distance between
You and us, and the
Deep trench-like emptiness,
That keeps on sinking,
Within for generations.

It has set a precedent for
A supposed masculinity.

A bear with muscles,
Moustache and beard.
Dictating constantly
About how-

There's a manly glory in 

Being a corpse than 

A teary-eyed pussy.

The Bubble

What about the bubble on
The water? What if
It starts to ask questions,
About its existence?

Can it though? Does it
Have enough time?
Enough life?

Born in a blink and faded
In the next.
Is it what living in the
Present means?

Vanishing away before
Even the past makes
An effort to talk to an
Instance of future.

What if we're that bubble?
Just alive for an instance
In the astronomical time-lapse?
Vanishing away before-

The giant-eyed God
Closes his eyes.

Whose blink of an eye
Stretched maybe for over
An eon or an epoch-
And while his children

Play in the evening with
The soap water.
Blowing the bubbles and
Clapping when

Floating little humans
Burst open.

There goes a century
Of our expectancy in
An instance and our

Obsession with living

In the present.

What was the question
Again? A lifetime in
An instance or an instance
Containing a lifetime?

A bubble as a man or
Man, himself being
A bubble on the water
Of space-time?

Co-Passengers

Whenever I enter a bus,

There's always a person with

His bags on the seat.

Sniffing suspicion off anyone 

Who stands in his proximity-

He doesn't give away

The spare seat unless

The conductor hails upon

Him with authority.

A turban-clad old man 

With a coarse voice. 

Behaves like he has figured 

It all out. Politicians in his 

Pockets like spare coins-

Preaching morality to

Young people.

He expects everyone to

Fall in line.

Another typo who always 

Runs out of change and

Counters the conductor

With his anger over the 

The potholes on the road.

For his own mistakes, he

Has to always blame the 

Government.

The woman, past forties,

Protesting for her missed stop 

Or sometimes getting

On the wrong bus.

She always has to reduce 

Her son's age by a decade 

To get the ticket for half.

The dude with his earphones,

Always lost in his phone.

Looking at the GPS for his stops.

Needs to be shouted back to

Reality- to have him pay for ticket,

Before he jumps off in angst.

The kid who always has

His parents scream for his

Nature's call- maybe his bowels 

Only get triggered by the 

Wobble of this tin-box.

Then there are these 

College nibbas who have to

Stand by the door to pass 

Random comments.

Though I've done that in my days,

Seems like a nuisance now.

And there's someone 

Like me. In fact, that's me.

Always standing 

Without having a seat- 

Waiting for someone to get up.

I wait like a mantis to

To hold on to the empty seats.

All these strangers,

Having become quite familiar

Over time.

Some I hate without reason,

Some I despise.

Some are just irksome-

Without whom the feel of the 

Journey seems incomplete. 

And of the only few people I like. 

The considerate conductor,

Reasonable driver and maybe

The old lady standing there

Like rock without any ruckus.

And you of course, always in 

A chudi or jeans- just of

Right height and hairstyle.

You look like 'her' from

The back-

Please don't turn back

And catch my eyes.

I just want to look at you

As long as I can,

To keep the illusion of her

In you intact.

Faded

A postcard- maybe a

Twenty years old or more.

Faded ink; the lines stutter 

With missing words.

A dried flower in the diary,

A bit of fragrance and the rest-

Smelling away like soot of

Burnt paper.

In the same dark room,

An unrecognisable voice of

Someone from the past- 

Singing in whispers.

It's strange how memories,

Stick around-

Songs without a voice. 

Flowers without fragrance. 

The pics in the old closets-

Some with their faces 

Scratched off. Others

Beneath the fingernails-

As edgy bits that still 

Manage to feebly live on.

The Jar

End of every year,
I sit on the beach,
Get hold of a
Fistful of sand.

I press as hard as I till
Much of it slips away
From the gaps between
My fingers.

Whatever remains in
In the palms.
I put it aside in a jar.

I do this on repeat,
Till the jar is full of
The sand grains that
Chose to stick around.

Years have rolled down,
Decades have passed.
The grip has weakened
Yet what I retain keeps
Coming down.

Keeping up with old friends
Is a laborious task.
Now it takes more time
To fill the jar.

Remembrance

Sleeping with head outside

The window to catch

The dreams the winds carry.

Drinking tea under the sea

To have a taste of all the

Stories the rivers bring.

Soaked in wet paint to

Strand in different perspectives.

It's awesome to get to know

Unknown people.

Then there's always basking

In the mellow light of the

Setting sun- The departing birds

Have a thing or two to say.

I kiss your fading image by

The sea- those half-written

Stories and incomplete verses-

They get a meaning.

Suddenly, a thought grows wings,

To fly off as a seagull-

For your feeble remembrance

Nothing could have been 

A better allegory than that

I suppose.

Scapegoat

My landlord invited me to
Ganapati Pooja.
Giving the final touch to the
Decorations in the mandap-

He aligns the position of
The statue one last time,
To declare, Bappa can't be
Moved till the fifth day.

Incense sticks were lit,
Aarti was brought, camphor
Was burnt on a coconut and
His daughter started singing.

She shouldn't have but
She did. Even the lord
Seemed pretty scared.
Maybe he wanted to run-

But he was bound by a
Coarse voice's command.

I stood there hands folded,
Imagining situations in
My head. Trying to control
My laugh.

But the laugh as it
Hammers on the wall of
My mouth- unable to
Find an exit-

Rams on my nose with
Heavy cough and drool.
And laugh of course.

The song stopped,
She cried, everyone
Hated me for what
I did.

The Lord wanted to
Rescue himself from the
Whole act- to which he
Sacrificed me like a lamb.

Exhilaration

A spark from within 

Grows shoulders and 

Hands. And out in all 

Excitement, it leaps to

Grab it all.

Stretching itself, as it

Extends to the sky.

What it could have is

Only a drop.

Without slightest of

Disappointment.

It says- all right! 

Probably, next time.

And the meaning of 

Exhilaration, I suppose

Is that's all- giving it

Heck of a try and still-

Keep the inherent 

Fire intact.

Gender

From tree to tree the

Monkeys that hopped,

Have suddenly remembered

What it's like to fly.

Some weaved 

Themselves wings. 

Some had to steal from 

The birds instead.

The birds now have 

Forgotten the art of flight.

So they've imprisoned

Themselves in cages-

To feed on crumbs 

Thrown by men who

Think flying should be 

Banned.

Weirdest Headlines

The fresh dead bodies,
In white robes have taken
The night off to dance it off,
In a distant resort.

The lady of Led Zeppelin,
Eventually couldn't afford
The stairway. Had to actually
Die to make it to heaven.

Elsewhere, someone opened
The gates of the sky,
The pigeons in angst had to
Take refuge in the cages.

The girl who cried daily
To conjure evenings, suddenly
Stopped to check it out
If it had been morning.

Skin wrinkled and cracked,
A man grew old overnight.
Repeated past in head is
Living too much, one can-

Age thrice as fast.

A farmer in the countryside,

Has gone mad anyway.

It's said he had to use an axe 

To read between the lines-

The book that caused it was

The Prophet by Khalil Gibran.

Luxury of Grief

She, a mother at the

Age of eighteen-

Lost her son to 

Pneumonia last week.

Husband in a local brawl 

A few months ago.

In-laws in a bus crash

And her widowed-

Mother to asthma,

The year before.

Autumn hovering

Over her life,

People falling off like

Yellow neem leaves.

Her tears dry down,

Before even they

Could make it out

Of lashes.

Goodbyes, tired like

Worn-out feet of

Women fetching water 

In Lathur.

The weak roof on

her head, out of pity-

Has decided not to 

Collapse-

To let her have a

Discretion over her

Grief at least-

Not anytime soon.

Idle

A man by the roadside
With his broken car,
Instead of fixing it,
Tuning his guitar.

Fisherman, instead of
Baiting the fish,
Trying to tame the ocean
With fish-nets for what?

A rat in a painting is
Now homeless by
Eating up the canvas in
The night.

A fence in the locality
Has turned jobless again,
By grazing up the only
Apple farm.

A terrorist became
Kind after listening
To Sufi songs and a
Nazi with sore feet,
Has failed to trample
Fresh thoughts.

Like a monkey with
No lice to pick on-

Characters like these
With no closure,
Sit idle, wasted in
My stories-

The way I do with
A pen in my hand,
Instead of a broom to
Clean my dirty room.

Distance

We keep coming back

To each other.

To sit on park benches 

At an arm's distance.

To count all the roses

We couldn't have.

At train stops, temples,

Hills, tea stalls.

Sunsets and long walks.

To grow some more

Distance each time.

This time at different 

Ends of an aisle.

Ten empty chairs apart.

A caste, a few lakhs,

And a doused flicker of

Longing as divide.

Confused Mornings

Dreams like
Water balloons,
Burst open with
Wake of my eyes.

A worrisome thought,
Often filled with
Nostalgia and a
Little guilt..

Seeps down my
Bones wondering..

If I freed them
Or just kill.

Inaction

A pirate with both of his
Eyes intact.
His ship still safe at
The shores.
Sings about wretched
Winds at the edge of
The world.

Not standing the irony.
His compasses-
They give themselves
Away to the daily-rust.
In an attempt to find
Their deprived glory,

In death.

Confusion

A swordsman in
Shiny clothes,
Who fancies poetry
Wonders-

If he could write
With blood and
Sometimes,
If he could sever
Heads with verses-

Papers like empty
Battlefields, wait
For a taint and the
Swords at least
For some red paint-

As he sits idle

Doing neither.

Aura

Some people have a
Lit up face,
A mysterious aura
Oozing off them-

You can't take your
Eyes off their persona.

With a dead expression
And sullen smile.
Some, however upbeat,
Look just bland.

I don't know, in which
Category I fall in.
No one is gonna tell me
That to my face.

But if you think
I'm of the first kind,
Don't be fooled.
If you think, I'm of the
Second kind.
Don't be fooled.

I just might be a man
With a gun to my
Temple or yours.
Or maybe I'm the

One with flowers,
Out of goodwill or
Waiting for more
And more funerals.

Fortune Tellers

Of all the bustle 

There was at the footpath
Adjacent to Azad Park-
Of the hawkers, cobblers

Old-book sellers and
The beggars.
Only the fortune tellers,
Remain.

Sitting aloof, without
Shuffling their tarot cards.
Making no efforts to appeal
To the passers-by.

I don't know what happened
To all those seekers who
Wanted their hands read,
All the time.

Did everyone who sought
Got their fortunes,
And forgot this emissary
Of the lord?

What's the thickness of
Poverty to have them
Believe in astrology? I ask
With my eyes as I pass.

He vents a puff from the
Unlit bidi to point me,
At his parrot-less cage

And empty pockets-

To say that he was the
Only believer left.

Lonely introspection

A TV running blank in the 

Empty house and the 

Incandescent bulb burning

Without purpose.

There's a stool. Two shoes,

That avoid eye contact.

An old telephone hanging

In the air by the spring-cord.

A man past his fifties has

Cut his face in half, holds it,

Like bowl of soup- to search 

Meaning of life with a spoon.

When the only conversation

All day has been a dry fart

In response to a cold sigh.

The loneliness like a-

Drop of sweat goes down

The trails of his spine to talk

To someone- only to get

Choked in the ass. 

Alas! Hips. 

Why can't you talk?

The Hand

My hand moves without

My cues like it has got a brain.

Its itch often hops on to scratch-

A compulsive habit of exploration.

It browses my back, brushes 

My hair. Reaches my groin,

Just check if everything is

Alright.

Duels with fingers of the 

Other hand, picks on the nails.

Sometimes reaches the foot

To dig into the toenails.

The pinky finger loves mining

It seems. A couple of times daily,

It has to dive in my ear to dig

Into the wax, which eventually-

Is rubbed off to the chair,

Wall, windowpane, or the table.

The other digits are no less.

The thumb and the forefinger,

Form an alliance to reach my nose,

Like a search party for missing 

Ammunition.

The booger that's found is rolled

Into a wad to be catapulted 

Towards the distal wall. 

And it coincidentally to hit,

A Housefly-

The entire species must have

Slipped into an illusion that 

They're on the movie sets of 

The director Rajamouli sir.

Lost Curiosity

The moon no longer
Follows me while I
Travel at night.
The rooms that lead
One from the other,
The curiosity is
Long gone and
These days, I don't
Get lost.

The trails on my
Palm, that often
Grew like a forest to
Build cities full of
Castles, chokes
Out of weariness.
Like the paper planes
Forgetting to fly.

Often not giving
What was asked,

Imagination like
Broken street lights-
Sulks in the confines
Of the blinders
Of the past and
These days I don't
Believe the fact
That I'm a spy from
The planet Mars.

Cat

My ex, she sneaks in,
Like a deceptive cat.
To pamper me and
Talk for a while.

With an emotional
Stirr of hopelessness.
I keep on asking her,
Why?

The conflict therein,
She lacking answers
To my questions.
My denial to face the
Reality- to hold back
Onto charred fantasies.
Which light up upon
Her instance.

This to and fro
Toxic communication,
In spurts.
Stretched well over
Three years.
Pervades my iron walls
Every time.

These days instead
Of shooing her all night.
I've decided to let
My rats bell the cat.

Though she makes
Noise. My rats know,
Where to hide.

Critics

I sit on the floor to
Mindlessly scribble.
The mosquitoes attack
Me like puny critics.

It's like a preventive
Attack by state agents,
To control supposed
Damage in the future.

Instead of putting my
Pen to work.
I keep flapping my
Notebook to crush
Them, between pages.

The blood splatter
And black pigment
Of the gut,
Smudge of their
Bodies..
Spread on paper-

Almost looks like
Unintended piece
Of painting.
Like modern art,
The meaning of which
Only the artist knows.

The abstract of it
Screaming, at me-
To take vows of
Silence and
Give up any form
Of expression.

But something in me
Waits for more colors to 

Draw better allegories.

And just then I see
A housefly come flying
Towards me.

Corporatization of a poem

The streetlights, 

Have replaced the place

Reserved for the moon
In my poems.

The gentle wind in the
Second-stanza had to be
Put to some use-
So the windmills been
Put up to generate 

A side income.

And in the groove of 

This verse you wanna 

Fall in-

The roads aren't tattered,
Reveries are marked
And named.
The question of getting
Lost had to be a
Guided miscalculation.

The straight trees are cut
To floor homes with
Safe bunkers-
The insecurities in
The penultimate stanza
Had to be eliminated.

The real estate boom
In the following stanzas-
The humble homes have
Been replaced by lonely
Apartment rooms.

The corporatization of 
This poem inflated the
Price per carpet area of
The words anyway.

So the predatory-loans
From China, that had

To be borrowed, are 
Gonna whisper Mandarin,
In the space between
These lines henceforth.

And if you're gonna put
Efforts to decipher
The metaphors,
You shall be called
A commie, to be put up
In a house arrest.

Helmet

To all my fellow bike riders,
Who have made an effort
To point out my poking,
Side stand.

Who, while coming from
The other side, warned
With passing glances,
The presence of the police.

The ones of help when
The tire was flat.
Gave a lift despite the
Trouble of a triple ride.

Even more to those who
Managed to hitch a ride,
By pushing it by one leg,
When petrol was out.

You guys deserve a
Place in heaven.
Like me who rode the
Bike without helmet.

Abandoned House

Door mats with no footsteps 

Laid for over a decade.
The thresholds deprived
Of the touch of any feet.

The doors that haven't
Lead anyone to any room.
The air, stuck in a corner,
Running out of breath.

The knives in the kitchen
Rusting away without the
Final taste of onions.
The taps, thirsty without-

The slake of water.
The furniture, with lost limbs,
The bells that refuse to sing
And the broken window sills.

Life is being eaten away
In this dust-laden slavery.
The half-life of this
Abandoned house is

Being measured by
Cobwebs, per square inch.

The audacity

The audacity of periwinkles

Growing up from the cracks
In the concrete walls.

The audacity of rats cutting,
The wires of ultrasonic repellent,
For the very purpose, it was brought.

The audacity of dogs barking,
Bulls openly mating and crows
Stealing rotis without our notice.

The audacity of the pigeon crossing,
The barbed wires to poop on
The fuelled up tanks.

The audacity of yourself in the
Mirror. The nation is in a crisis.
How dare you smile?