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.