Gap in Your Name

Your parents fought hard to
Settle on a common name for you
After your birth.

As a compromise your dad
Prefixed you secretly after his ex.
Coincidentally your mom was

Relieved to know that the suffix
Rhymed with the one she once
Crushed on in school.

So you have two nicknames now
That are distinctively uttered by a
Male and a female in your home.

And the syllable that holds together
The divide in your name sits
Overstretched in silence, and that

Pretty much sums up
The life you've had till now.

Orphan?

What if you were born as a girl and
Your father abandons, your mom
For not birthing a boy?

She couldn't return to her maiden home
Out of shame and left you at a
Temple door to jump in a well.

The childless priest raises you as his
Own and years later when you wash
The stairs of the temple, as a morning ritual..

You feed a hungry old man who was
Kicked out of his home by his son.
A thought crosses your mind to make you

Wonder if you're an adopted orphan..
Then the temple bell rings after the aarti
To bring you back to your senses.

Shudra

The usual dogs go barking in
A condescending tone.
The fat zamindar walks around
Staring, to detest our shadows
In front of his home.

Most refuse to offer us water
And even the virtuous ones serve,
Low-grade beverages in discarded
Cups that are kept outside their
Thresholds, which scream-

Our untouchability, as we're born
Out of the feet of the same God
They worship.
So much hate for a little foot fetish,
That the roads of our streets are..

Deliberately bent away from all the
Temples in the village, to protect
Their religious sanctity.

The intention of our thirst is questioned
At every pond and borewell too.
And even the nature of protein in our food
Comes out as a national issue.

Then the silent gag on our mouths,
The voice stuck like a wad in our throats..

We try to put warm-salt-water to
Gargle it out every election.
But all we can muster up is a
Bad cough that is often syruped down
By luring our votes for money and alcohol.

The Caged Bird

You'll be convinced that flying is an

Illness to be pushed in a cage.

Your songs will be beaten into submission 

Saying singing is a sinful disgrace.

Your dreams will be kept for display as

Ceramic cups to serve tea to guests.

Aspirations will be caged in a Saree,

In the name of a makeover.

They'll come at you one by one,

They'll be invited in fact to rate your gait.

And your body will be judged to be

Traded like a slave.

The forehead will be used as an 

Estate to flaunt ownership in Red.

You'll be awarded a uniform that's 

Widely recognised as a gown, to

Condemn you to a kitchen.

Cutting vegetables, preparing rotis.

Only after the third whistle of the cooker, 

Your presence will be felt.

The caged bird in our country, 

Can't even sing you see, she can just cook.

You either die as a Sanskari wife or 

Live long enough to be aborted in the womb.

Between the two, if you dare to grow 

Wings, you'll be deemed as a curse. 

And If you're 'manly' enough to fly, 

It can get worse.

Aging

Chaos in my head is a complex
Network of drains intermingled so
Haphazardly that, I never know what
Comes in and what goes out.

It's like a slime mold spreading
Across a substratum, feeding and
Growing at the same time and occupying
Space to become one with the host.

It's a riot really. An angry mob in
Search of free will and my
Conscious self, a dictator who wants
To bring order.

And every time there's a police firing
There's a hairafall.
Use of water canons- there goes
Another wrinkle on the face.

Childhood was unhinged democracy
An experiment to figure out what's
Right, what's not.
Adulthood seems to be an autocracy,
The rebellion for change goes for
A toss to accommodate self-acceptance.

Old age is holding the free bird by
The neck to clip its wings and
The funeral of a flight trickles down
The bald head like it was a chain of
Command from someone above.

Roaches

Your warm breath erases my
Love letters written on cold,
Foggy windows... The sea waves
Mock the sand castles and
Take back what's rightfully theirs.

My longing rises like ash from
A funeral pyre but the bruises
Of waiting all day long don't
Douse or die.

The unwounded skin screams
For attention and all I have
Are empty rivers and it hasn't
Rained here in a while.

The only intimacy I've had with
Myself, is a stress-driven streak of
Nail biting and hopeless visibility of
Fallen hair on the floor for
Disappointment, each morning.

I sweep it every night with the broom
To forget. But what can be done
With the dust that sticks to the broom?
The nightmares are roaches that
Choose to stick.

Self-Loathing-Cannibalistic-Vegan

From childhood, I was warned
Against biting my nails saying
They would germinate in my belly to
Grow as a giant try to feed on me.

Though that gave me nightmares
Somehow, my fingers find my
The famished mouth even now.

So that's me, savoring the
Forbidden kingdom of dirt beneath
My fingernails. Sometimes even
The hardened skin around the edges-
I'm a giant who eats himself.

That's a low-key introduction of
Myself for the role of a side villain
In Tolkien's novel. What can that be
Called in a modern lingo?
A self-loathing-cannibalistic-vegan?

The vegan part is kept to trigger
A wokist dispute for that time in
The future where eating plant-based
Stuff would be cruel and you gotta eat
Yourself or your progeny, to not get
Cancelled.

Eventuality..

The fresh absence when a
Father dies,
Loudness of the vacuum..
No one wants to sit on his
Chair.

The air tries to occupy
The void after a few days.
Muffled sounds and feeble
Brush of music.

The first sweets prepared
After his demise, and
For the first time your mother
Hesitantly smiles.

One afternoon, your son would
Sit on that chair and
Years later, his grandson
Shall forget his
Great grandfather's name.