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.