Dementia

Each sunrise brings a little

Less of you and each sunset 

Takes away a little more.

Today, seems I've forgotten 

Your nose. 

A faint memory of what it

Looked like remains-- But I'm not sure.

I can't recall if it was pierced or

What kind of nose ring you wore.

Sometimes I wonder about

The strands of hair you often 

Slid behind your left ear.

Did you really do it or it's just

A memory of you fused with

Bollywood cliches-- I don't know.

It's the entirety of your face 

These days and I'm confused about 

The spelling of your name-

Whether it should come with

'i' after D, or 'ee' - I don't know.

What a disgrace.

It's not seamless. Recalling, 

Demands deliberate efforts.

It's like sketching your image

And the artist becomes less

Skillful after each try.

The mistakes keep increasing

And the need to mend bad strokes,

Wears down the paper sometimes.

And this distance between you

And me widens like lengthening 

Of our shadows against the setting sun-

The darkness ultimately feeds on it

Into forgetfulness and the sun 

The next day brings a little less.

Sanctioned History

Some histories are hidden
Between the gap of
One thought and the next.
The ones- all the pens
Fail etch on the papers.

The tongues lose them in
The silence of the pauses,
Like it was collateral damage
To the mute citizens.

The stands, taken and
Not taken in the record books-
The words that are bought
And the narratives, sold.

Cuban missile crisis at
One point was important,
Only because Churchill didn't
Get his cigars in time-

My country was half-done
As it didn't have any oil.

And the bullies who write
History gulp down the gaps
Like coffee.
The blood of indentured labor-

On each cup is often,
Overlooked and the bitterness
Is dumbed down with
Extra spoons of sugar-

As the sweetness of words
Can romanticize even
Well-planned genocides.

Zone

When you listen to a good song

And it rings in your head and
The world for the next
Twenty-four-hours rhymes.

The leaves fall in melodies and
Noses on the faces dance rhythmically.

The same goes for a good movie.
It's like walking with a Polaroid
Next day- just the shade and color
And elegance coming your way-

To stay for some time.
You forget for a while of all misery
Of the world and your own
Disposition - blue and pale.

There have been World wars in
The past and there are ongoing
One or two.
But people have still managed-

To cook food and have lunch.
Flowers still bloom and
The butterflies learn to fly
Daily, a couple of times.

Baggage

What to do with my past?
Days and years stacked up
Tight like a black mold-
It's heavy. How should I go
Carrying it around?

I heard someone made a
Vegetable garden out of
His fifty years old baggage
To feed the stray cows all
The reap.

Someone I know switched
To smelting and his furnaces
Now produce cheap knives,
That weap in the battlefield
To show solidarity.

I keep fiddling with mine
Against my poor,
Entrepreneurial skills-

Sometimes it becomes
The dog feed and other times,
A factory that processes
Cattle skin.

My half-hearted efforts
Don't stick to one particular thing.
And the piled-up-unsold-shit,
Rots and stinks.

Maybe it was always meant
To be manure.
Maybe I've to rework on
My USP to sell it to the guy
Who grows vegetables.

May a story get to you

May the good stories
Find you like the incessant
Rain off the coastal towns
Of Orissa.

May the plotlines get to
You like North Eastern winds
And unimaginable names
They give to cyclones.

And the water level as it
Rises, alarming the chances
Of a flood-

Knees deep, above the waist.
Then over the belly and
Chest to reach your mouth.
This story, may it get on

Over your head to down,
Like an unintended climax.
And leave worried in a
Good way-

Like the taste of coffee on 

The tip of your tongue,
For the rest of your life.

Humble Way

Your slender pale hand,
Brushes your hair constantly
To put them behind your
Left ear.

It's snowfall on an already
Snow-clad mountain,
Which falls to make sure
It looks more beautiful.

Did you learn the act from
The snow or did the snow
Learn it from you??
I'm sure the latter is more likely.

But look how humble you're
To deny that.

But when I tell you,
I sometimes look in your
Eyes with a hope of little
Cozy warmth and in return-

You've always given me
Starlight.

Would you deny that too?
In your humble,
To-smile or Not-smile way?

Or you'd like to deprive
The stars some credit?

Odd Chances

That one flower in the garden
That didn't want to bloom.
The rooster that didn't want
To take up the responsibility,
Of waking up the world.

That one matchstick that
Didn't want to burn instantly,
And that man in the Nazi army
Who refused to salute.

One Nerd chose to observe
The Apple Fall and the Butcher
Who fell in love with his sheep
And chose not to sacrifice.

These rebels without a cause
Trying to create a ripple
In the empty expanse of
Nothingness-

There was a big bang to
Create astronomical giants.
And one insignificant,
Pale-Blue-Dot decided to

Give a chance to an
Amoeba first and with
Evolution, what followed
Is the rest.

Redundant Deity

Grandma once told me about
A deity outside the village
Who cured the children
Who uncontrollably cried.

He was offered oily Bajjis        (=fritters)
She says and my father
Was named after him
To stabilize his cry.

The other deities in the village
Have got elaborate temples
And rituals over the years-
To become lords and

The overlords to the wishes
And prayers of the seekers.

But not him.
Roofless, faceless.
No hands or legs or a
Statue that oozes charm.

This deity is just a puddle
Of a rock upon whom
Vermillion is smeared and
The left-out oil is poured-

When women return from
Seeking all other Gods.

Our shapeless deity who is
Just a rock had only one job-
The doctors now give medicine
To the children who cry and

The oily Bajjis are advised
Against a healthy diet.

Nightmare

Sometimes I wake up

Unprepared for my physics

Exam and as the dread

Of failure drips as sweat

Off my brows-

I wake up in relief as 

It was only a dream.

But wait, is it fifteen

Past elven?

I'm already an hour late

To my office.

With the manager's angry

Face in my head.

I run to grab my brush-

Slip off the wet floor-

Get hit in my dizzy head.

The alarm goes then-

The priest calls my name

Aloud at a funeral and

I fail to reach anyone to

Mark my presence.

Soundproof coffins-

What a mess and

This time why the hell

I can't wake up?

Am I really Dead?

You'll never know

She tells him stories that

He doesn't understand but

He nods his head into 

Submission all night.

He wants to know why

An unicorn copulates with

Cats and Why the Ravens 

Switched to the rap instead

Of their usual caw-caw.

He doesn't understand why

An alien army would invade,

By telling jokes that don't

Incite any laugh and about-

The paradox of why some

Plants volunteered for

Domestication to colonize

The species that thinks

It is too smart.

And she goes on and on

About the monkeys enslaved

To forcefully fart and flowers

Moulded into firearms for

Battles they never fight.

The stories never end 

The sun never comes up.

He doesn't complain and

You'll never understand

Why this has to be a poem.

Life must go on

The doctors gave up.
All savings dried up.
Children, where?
At this time he doesn't care.

He peers at what's left
Of his life and the heaps
And heaps of loneliness
Terrifies him--

So this Oldman chokes
His ailing wife to death
And kills himself to escape
The inevitable misery.

Elsewhere, another Oldman
Screams daily thrice
From the kitchen to take
Cooking lessons from

His bedridden wife,
As life must go on.

Owning a Consequence

I keep tossing a rupee coin
Repeatedly to see if
I could change the odds

Heads, tales, heads, heads,
tales, heads, heads, tales
Tales, tales, tales.

This one time it balanced
Itself vertically without giving
Any results and I thought
It was beautiful.

I thought it beat the odds.
Maybe it is one way of
Taking a pause to ponder
Over the overwhelming stuff-

One's going through.

Yes, the end is inevitable.
It's this or that- in the end
Of this journey, there's a
Car crash.

But prior to that, the decision
To stop and weigh a choice
And own a consequence,
That matters.

Your wish to become
Something- head or tail-
It matters. Even if the inevitable
Fate is exactly the opposite.

Act of Randomness

Sometimes you fly so high,
That, it makes sense if you
Fall a little.

Sometimes you live so much
That, it seems normal
Even if you die a little.

And you've been sad,
And miserable all along.
If someone gives you-

An orange that's already
Been peeled. Take a slice
And enjoy a little.

You deserve it.
Even though it doesn't
Look so. You do.

Take it without any judgment
Or hesitation. Without any
Need for self-pity.

It's an act of randomness.
A favor of probability of
Large numbers.

Only so much sadness
Could have been thrown
At you that, eventually-

A little happiness was
Destined to reach you.

Dark Places

Let's spread some sheets
And pillows near the window
And lie there with our legs upon
The windows sills.

Fiddling with our toes and feet
We'll make a list of all the dark
Places we shall make love.

Maybe in the alley in the city
Of Gotham where Batman's
Parents died and between
The pages of Rorschach's journal
From where nothing good
Comes back.

Sometimes amidst the spoils
Of Rome and the dread of
Irish Famine and Black Fridays
Of each nation.

Maybe one elaborate session
In a dystopian Nazi Germany
Where all the bigoted history
Would be stacked.

I'll undress you in the section
Related to the First World War
And grope you against
The Treaty of Versailles that
That didn't materialize.

And in the section where
The tone for the Second World War
Wouldn't have set- we'll let our lust
Chronologically mock the tragic
History that followed.

And elsewhere, when we
Amorously makeout.
Maybe in the caves of ancient
Scandinavia where all
The witches were burnt for their
Vile incantations on the kids.

I'll ask if you can you can
Scare me with your hungry cat.
Maybe you can say Abracadabra
To feed me to its delight.

Dream Catcher

On a full moon day
My skeleton stands singing,
Outside your open window.
I know you think it's one

Of your dreams.
But the song is so good,
You sleepwalk outside to
Check it out.

The dogs around, bark.
Sensing the danger,
Your cat smells my
Presence.

This is the last night on
Earth before I'm flushed
In the void.
You might wonder why-

I didn't just barge into
Your dreams this time.
Apparently, ghosts in dreams
Are nightmares it seems.

Each time I tried to barge in,
The dream catcher beside
Your bed didn't let me pass.
So, goodbye sweetheart.

Defeating the Dark

I close doors and windows
Pull down all the curtains
And make it all dark in my room
In the broad daylight.

Then from around the window
I let sunlight pass through
A small hole and I sit on
The floor to just stare at
The incoming ray of light.

That's one way to reassure
Myself about how sometimes
The faintest of light can defeat
The darkness.

Then in the process,
I understand, how there is
No darkness at all.

The supposed darkness,
Is just the absence of light-
Confines of walls, curtains,
Closed windows and doors.

Do you understand me??
Do you understand what
I'm getting at?
Sometimes, all you've to do-
Not even do.

Just remind yourself to open
That door, the window.
Just remind yourself to
Light a candle or lamp
Or the fluorescent light.

Or maybe you can
Just smile and that's how
You can defeat the dark.

Alpha

While I rode from my home
On my bike, a crow maybe
In a hurry like me, it fled into me
And hit my helmet.

The impact was bad,
I almost managed not to fall.
Gasping its guts out in pain,
It fluttered and flapped its wings.

Against the beating, its
Breath spiked and in dread
I too stood all blurry trying
To process the whole thing.

It could have been me-
Hurting, helpless, and trying to
Conjure every bit of breath.

The crow could have been
On the bike, riding and
I could have been a
Mere crow running into
Fast-paced vehicles.

Who knows, if it was me
From a parallel world
Who had to sacrifice himself
To save me, to balance out a
Ebb in the multiverse.

Did I just call myself,
The alpha version of me?
Every other version should
Try to help and save me?

Maybe, yes.
Till I'm alive, maybe I'm.

And when I'll sacrifice myself
To amend another ebb.
Let someone call himself
An alpha then. Till then-

You got favors to return.
So call me daddy and serve.

Edge

Every night the fan off
The ceiling shivers out in
Anticipation of my death
By hanging.

Sometimes it asks me if
It could withstand my weight.

And the little bit of empathy
That's left within me tries
To eat less and workout
To shed calories for its sake.

All the while the sleeping pills
Wait for me from within
The drawer for the streak of
My insomnia to get to my head-

Things sink and rise.
They repeat till I reach
An edge. But the sad warrior
In me is not brave.

Seems like he's addicted to
The comforts of his breath.

And the train tracks and
The bus-tyres wait in vain.
While the box cutter on my table
Out of frustration wants to

Voluntarily retire.

Prayers Aloud

He was playing the piano,
When the city was bombed.
The half-composed melody
Got stuck in the rubble
When the roof collapsed.

The kid was playing with
His dog when the city was
Bombed.

His toy train was orphaned
When the leftover innocence
Of the world was crushed
By an electric pole,
That fell upon.

The rotis and the rice
That was on the stove still
Wonder about the hunger that
Didn't return by lunchtime.

And the broken wall clock
That's stuck at two past ten,
Thinks if it's rude to be still
Right, each day twice,
With the dead all around.

The muffled hymns stuck
In the stopped hearts of
The devotees at a church-
When somehow tried to
Reach the lord-

They were disappointed by
The fact that they couldn't
Be loud enough to hail upon
Their deaf almighty god.

But who's gonna tell them?
That the ongoing bombings 

Are already prayers aloud 

To please someone else's-

Non-existent God who can 

Neither hear nor talk.