Skeptic

I'm not a cynic or out of bound 

Positive person in any way.
Romanticist for sure but many a
Times a sense of existentialism
Keeps getting at me to make
Think I'm a nihilist.

I'm that person who doesn't
Want the roses to die.
But not the one who believes
That its beauty can indefinitely last.

I'm a realist that way but I
Also have this urge to glorify
Elegance of that rose and
Believably explain its
Aesthetic impact.

But then again I'm afraid of
The thorns too- so there's always
A sense of restraint from
Any form of attachment.

And sometimes the fear of
Thorns stretches so much that
They take the shape of a ghost
To haunt me at night.

Amused by the freshly arrived
Spring and equally haunted
By the autumn that would
Shower dry leaves-

I tread carefully between
The narrow lanes of two faces
Of a coin. I know it's head
Or tail any given day.

But I overthink about the thin
Rim of the coin that might decide
To beat the two definite odds.
I'm definitely a skeptic that way-

But am I?

I remembered God

You always gotta remember
'Vithoba' he would say.
Whatever you do, wherever you're.
While eating, shitting, traveling.
Specially before you hop
Into a vehicle. You gotta
Remember his name.

My mother's father- he was
The most spiritual and
Humblest man I've ever met.

He spent most of his life,
In a small farmhouse.
The trees, cattle and poultry
Is all he needed he would say.

He taught me how to- climb
A tree, graft a sapling,
Pick cashews and roast them
To the right taste.

Those winter mornings and his
Little sessions on the tricks to
Cut grass and bundle it in small
Parcels so that I could carry it.

The mythological stories he would
Narrate in the evenings.
About the King and four shepherds.
About the demon who would be reborn
From each drop of his slain blood.

Sometimes he would ask some
Mathematical questions from
His time. And if you answered
He would declare you're the smartest
Kid around.

When he passed away last summer
Due to prostrate cancer,
I received the news late,
As I was elsewhere in a
Meditation camp.

While I waited for the bus to
Return home for the obituary.
I hated the fact that I couldn't cry.
The smell of oily fritters, when it
Wafted past my nose-

I remembered those Saturdays
When he peddled to the local bazaar
To sell vegetables and bought
Fritters and other snacks.

I uttered Vithoba's name while
I stepped into the bus.
The atheist, I'd become as I grew-
It was the first time in years
I remembered God.

End of the world

At the stroke of midnight
Empty beer bottles pile up.
The stench of half-eaten biryani,
And the dirty dishes all
Over the floor.

The shearing pain in
The head of the hangover,
You can't handle-
Orphan written
On your forehead as you
Can't remember your
Father's name.

She comes to mind and
The life you couldn't have
And the unborn children
Scream and you roll over
The floor and cry.

At ten past two,
You think you're gay and
Try to kiss your drunken
Friend beside you.
He slaps you first and
Consoles you into a weird
Sort of existentialim.

An hour later something
Gets into him- he convinces 

You that the world is gonna end.

Douglas Adam takes over
Your drunken head and
Takes you both to
The restaurant at
The edge of the galaxy.

You order masala dosa
And cutting chai and write
Each other eulogies in a hurry
On tissue papers.

At the end of the world,

By nine past four, you understand-
All the fireworks were just
You puking heavily without
Understanding why and
The eulogy sounded so good, 

You really wanna die.

Poems are your children

Poems are your children-
The, could have been,
Would have been and
The actual ones.

The ones you would have
Laughed, cried, and silently
Missed all along.

And as they learn to walk
Through you- some fall
And rise.
Some tumble off a rock
And break their head.

Some come out with a
Limp and you gotta hold
Hands to say it's okay.
Some turn out to be
Mute and blind-

To accommodate them
You learn sign language
And Braille.
Some will top the class,
Some, commit a crime.

The one you wouldn't
Have wanted will make you
Laugh and one you revered
Will, maybe drag you down
The street naked.

But is it immoral to have
Them?
Are you even worthy of
Making that judgment?

When you yourself- a poet-
A bastard out of an
Orgy in your head.
Why not let them take-

Birth out of the random sparks
In your head to run across
The lanes of their fancy?

To reach unintended places

To trigger more sparks-

That might melt down, all

The miserable strongholds. 

The Unborn Child

Met this girl.
Rose-toned, rain-scented.
And things happened.
Love, lust, dreams.

Yeah, dreams.
Rushing in a tiny home
By the edge of the city.
Near a creak.

We dreamed together of
Petting a small panda.
We dreamed like we
Petted it in fact.

And one day. Like all those
One-days in parentheses-
That inevitably happen-
We fell apart.

Goodbyes stretched across
Length of my city,
Reaching only the closed
Doors.

It's been years now.
This house could have been
Bigger and baby-proofed.
The little panda sometimes-

Comes in my dreams to
Rest on my right arm.
The next morning my
Hand aches-

Like the sourness of a half
Remembered memory that
Stares like a cat all day from
Below the dining table.

To Those Who Look Down Younger generations

I miss the old days when we
Killed for food, land and
Most importantly, religion
And God.

There was an emotion in
Picking a weapon of choice.
Machete to a hatchet- neat.
Practicing all through the day-

All through childhood,
All through life-
To kill sometimes and
Mostly die.

We raised children to be
Brave, raised them to stab
In the hearts and we raised
Them to proudly die.

We took pride in killing
While we stared them in the eyes.
And we saw in the eyes while
We raped their wives,
Daughters and mothers.

And when the onslaught
Stopped for a while sometimes-
In the evenings, on Fridays
And maybe on the first week of
Rainy days-

We had our moments to
Store food, pile up wood
And fuck to breed fighters.
How will you understand?

Your generation, who got it
All easy.
How will you understand
What is it like to live?

Loving dogs, appreciating art,
Overeating, obesity and
Cardiac arrest at eighty?
Is that even a living?

Real living you know is-
Killing, dying, and starving

To death before the thirties.
Debating over gender fluidity..
And preaching your kids
Political correctness.

How cute. Learn from us.
Build bombs and destroy
Cities. Get a life by
Destroying everything.

Unconjured Ghost

As a kid, I had fallen in a
Pit full of cattle urine in
The backyard when I was three.
If my uncle hadn't pulled
Me out in time, I was gone.

The buffalo that everyone
Cautioned against,
Got me when I was five.
The horn tore my jaw,
Threw me across and
Some I survived that.

When I was seven the tractor
Ran into the electric pole
While I sat in the driver's seat,
With my father.
Got lucky there too.
I survived.

Later as I grew old.
The electric sockets that
Were kind. The near brush-off
A speeding truck while I
First rode the bike.

The waves that took me
On the beach, and threw me
Back.
All those flues, fevers,
Typhoids and smallpox.
Many die on hospital bed
For medical mistakes-

But thanks to all the nurses
And doctors, who were careful
And sane while treating me.

The dent in the fabric of
The space-time that wants
To flush me out,
Keeps forever waiting and-

My ghost stays unconjured.
And maybe a kid my locality
Sleeps alone at night with
No worries and his bed stays

Dry for another morning.

Too Late

If you disappear for seven years
You'll be presumed dead legally.
Your wife can marry your friend
Without any consequence and

He can write four eulogies each day
For maybe the next couple of years
And have them published without
Anyone's objection.

Maybe a grave in your name
Would dig itself up, sing an
Uncomposed dirge and
Close itself without any funeral.

The winds will be afraid to
Remember your name and the birds
Would be put in captivity to
Forcefully whisper your absence.

The world would have filled
The void you had left and maybe
Your death would be celebrated
With cake and rum each year.

And if you ever decide to come to
Everyone, it would be hard for
The stakeholders to accept you.
And while you stand wondering-

About the dystopian possibilities
Beside the house you built
In the village. Maybe the dog
You had fed once-

May sniff you back into
Existence if you're lucky.
But then again, will you be worthy
Of such acceptance?

Anarchy

Every season when migrants
Come to my village to cut sugarcane.
The Socio-economic scenario of
My village changes.

The chicken prices go up and
The demand for liquor skyrockets.
Those who know a bit of Hindi
Get a bit of importance and when

Someone from their clan utters
A word of our slang, our faces lit up.

One can see makeshift huts
By the road. Kids in messy clothes,
Unkempt hair- who takes care of
Even smaller kids and a bit older ones
Armed with machetes to cut and
Load cane.

Smoke off the burnt stubble in
The evening and small talk in
The street corners and pan shops
Finding usual, unusual references
To the affairs of our men and
Their women-

The smell of anarchy in the air-
Bit of intermixing with outsiders
Exposing the cracks in our social fabric-
And before the concerns-

Get out of hand. It starts pouring in June.
Our seasonal guests would be gone.
Chicken prices come down as
Monsoons become proper resets.

The turmoil in many homes, over the
Inflated prices and debauchery of men
Settles and the reason for tears in
Many kitchens would be owned by

Just the onions again.

Toys of Deprivation

When something glares up

In the night sky and 

The kid who knows about 

The shooting stars makes 

Wishes.

He wishes for more and

More toys.

And after each bomb,

The children who survive,

Run from one end of the city

To the other in search

Of their wishes from

The previous night-

An unlimited supply of

Toys in the form of

Empty shells- Only to 

Fight over better variants-

The ones with a tinge of red 

Over the soot-loaded 

Blackened scraps- it could 

Have been the blood of

One of their parents.

But it doesn't matter,

I guess.

When the streets are washed 

In blood and hunger goes

Beyond stomach and gets 

To ones head. 

Crimson becomes another 

Shade of red and for 

The children without a home,

It's just paint.

Ifs

If I had seen you arguing over
Extra coriander with the vendor.
We could have met that way for
The first time, happy to have settled
Over decent discount on
Vegetables we bought.

Maybe elsewhere I could have
Seen you, swinging on a swing
In the local garden-
We could have met while
Buying an ice cream there.

I would've caught you watching
The moon if we had our
Flats in opposite apartments.
And we could have met
While you thought I eavesdropped
On your high-pitched phone
Conversations.

Or maybe we could have met
At a remote junction waiting for
A shared auto or we could have
Met in a lit-fest fancying works
Of the same poet and bonding
Over his underrated verse.

In this imaginary game of 'ifs'
We could have at least been
Childhood friends who eventually
Marry or A Hindu Muslim who
Elope to finally get killed.

But no I had to be born in this
Grounded village and you in
Some a posch street of Chandigarh-
Only to meet on the Internet and
Have half of everything-
Love, lust, dreams.

Our love was a Schrodinger cat
You know. Alive and dead at
The same on the other side of the door.
The door was a screen and we were
2500 kilometers apart when it was on.

Now that it's been off, I fail to
Measure this thing between us.
Sometimes it's just longing and
Most of the time, a void.

The Clock

A boy roams in the streets
Carrying a clock on his back.
To remind people how much
Time they're left with.

Some are just a couple of
Dance moves away.
Some a few sails in their
Fish boats.

Some are counting hours in
The number of meals
They can have, some in
Things they can own.

The clock slowly turned into
A mirror and people started
To see themselves clearly
On their own.

Someone showed it to
The boy himself and
He became an adult and
Started counting himself on

Another boy who crossed
The street daily,
Seemingly carrying a clock
On his back somehow.

Grind

Why does the dough listen to
The commands of my mother?
Like the clay mixed with water
Dances to the cues of a Potter.

Why do the long woolen threads
Follow the thoughts of my grandmother?
Like those bricks falling in line
To the dictates of a mason.

Like the tones of a nightingale align
With the break of light in the dawn.
Why does the axe follow the hands
Of my father towards the intended

Marks on the wooden log?

And the marbles dance impeccably
On kids' fingers in the street and
Kites fly higher and higher with
Each jerk of the tread.

Why do my words run seamlessly,
Upon your instance like
Hailing of fragrance in the garden
Of longing.

And the dreams run wild and
The rainbows adorn the dull sky
As if you walk past my house
Every midnight.