Wife

Your father's wife is the one

Who supposedly said 

"Let there be light".

But your son's mother is 

Just a wife?

Seventh Day

He sits in the hall with a
Bottle of Old-Monk,
Demanding half-fried omelets
And bhindi fry-
Seventh time this week.

She oils the pan. Tries to keep
The yolk intact while sprinkling
Chilly powder and salt.

After the fourth peg or the fifth?
She waits there in anticipation
Of beatings from him.

With a fake smile as armor
That's never enough.
Just the Seventh day of the week.
Tomorrow, the first again.

What's the Taste of Blood?

What's the taste of blood
The hooded Satan demands.
And you wake up to the noises
In the kitchen--

Your dad screaming at your mom.
You stare at him in rage and
He smashes his whisky glass
On the wall behind.

His hand bleeds, unable to bear
The sight, your mom faints.
You dress him up in a fowl
Mood.

As you washed yourself,
The frozen reflection of you,
Catches your gaze in the bathroom
Mirror. In a fixation-

You lick the blood off your finger
And collapse.
'Ashy, metallic' says your reflection
And wickedly smiles, as

The hooded Satan appears
In the background in approval.

Deception

The Oldman sits on the embankment
Under the neem tree to ask
The sparrows if they have any stories.

Of the winds or the oceans or
Of the skies or of the lands
The sparrow asks.

Of you feeble-hearted. Of your
Wings and the the flight.
Of your mates and children and
The nest. Says the old man.

It chirps and picks on the grains,
And talks of her songs composed
In vain. And the flights that didn't
Fetch her any grains.

Of the rains that assured no gains
And mates who betrayed her in
Games that were together to
Be played.

He brushes it's neck and grabs
After a deception saying,
Someone didn't learn from her

Last lesson.

Gratitude of a Pet

The cat coughs and walks with
No life left. You've seen this in a
Couple of dogs before they died.

You feed him well with the hope
Of recovery and put aside the
Thought of taking him to a doctor.

You've seen human care stretch
Into leashes and neck collars.
Love get out of hand to mutilate

Their genitals, in order to prevent
Their random mating encounters.
So the only favour you could have

Done to this little beast is to feed
The left-out chicken from your plate and
Let him roam around in free lanes.

And when he meets his friends
From the city in heaven, complaining
About their deprivations.

He can have a little erection of
Gratitude for all those juicy rats,
Wild fights and unhinged mating

That you didn't deprive him of
In the streets of your dirty locality.

Gaslighting

She'll axe your chest to name
A color after your insides.
Try to pull you apart to claim
It was just to check if you were
Tensile.

She'll crumple and trample over
To patronizingly say,
A currency note doesn't change
Its worth no matter what.

But what if it burns and chars
Your core? Your ashes flushed down
Like a fistful of dirt? The feeling
Of dejection after all the endurance-

Time to hold your tits, to grow an
Attitude mate. Act like hoes come
And go daily. And leave her to her
Pimps as business is booming.

Seeded Subconscious,

Your BFF invites you to a
Ramzan feast and the friends
From school are all present.

That's when the cylinder on
The terrace blasts and his niece
Points at the culprit- her mother.

Before the shit could hit the fan,
His brother screams,
"Cut and convert the Kafirs".

Hell breaks loose and you all run
For life. Mostly save your cocks.
Your friend's fidelity occupies

Your head, while his cousin
Saves you from entering into another
Muslim locality for one last time.

You're redirected mysteriously
Into a bus stand of present-day
Hyderabad, God knows how.

You're relieved to find a familiar
Friend in the bus headed to
Your native. He smiles wickedly-

To pull up his skull-cap and you
Wake up in horror, hating yourself-
Over the propaganda that's been

Seeded in your subconscious,
By the incumbent government.

Evolutionary Serendipity

More often than not, I've thought
About the inevitability of death.
The ultimate degeneration and
Decay and sheer apathy that
Runs through the brutal expanse
Of the universe.

But the possibility of life.
In fact, the impossibility of it.
The rarity of it.
A tiny little insignificance blown
Into a walking, talking entity-

Having a corner in the world and
Loving, and caring for each other.
And almost forgetting the crushing
Indifference thrown at us by
The universe.

If life hasn't amazed us...
The sheer breathing and existing
Exercise that's offered to explore,
Further possibilities can open up-
If it hasn't amazed us..
What will?

Immolation

He has been captivated and
Castrated by the Sultan to
Induct him into the team of 

Eunuchs, that guard his Begums.

He meets his un-dead wife, who 

Survived Sati- serving as a maid
For the emperor's other wives.
Both exchange silent glances-

After months of these muffled
Reciprocations, he signals if
They can cohabit and restart
Their life all over again.

Her eyes mistakenly fixate over
His groin. All songs of longing in
His heart took part in their
Mass immolation that night.

Traps

A rat gets spotted in the room,
And five of you virgins get a
Purpose for the evening.

You close doors, seal burrows,
Guard corners with sticks,
Brooms and shoes.
Then you chase it for hours.

Someone brings up a gunny bag,
To increase the surface area
Of the trap and you nab it down
And click a selfie with it.

The nerd among the lot couldn't
Shut the fuck up, says- what if in our
Next lives, rats surround us to
Hunt us down, like we did?

All of you sit in contemplation,
To find ways to shut the loop
That you'd just left open.
The same way-

The rats above you did, after
Enslaving you all in a lab for
Human trials.

Persecution

Why the blue has abandoned 

The sky. Why the birds, 

Gone home without a goodbye?

Why the clouds been subsumed

In the dewdrops and

Why the dreams hung on 

Cloth lines, have taken the fall?

Why the legs relentlessly run,

When the destination is long dead.

Why does hope even dare to sprout 

Even in this war-torn land?

But you shouldn't ask such 

Questions, you're still a kid. 

With the next incoming missile

You'll also be killed.

Why challenge the authority 

When the ill fate is fixed?

Let's die first, if there's a

God in heaven, we'll ask him 

If he stood witness to the 

Ground reality or went into hiding,

Fearing his own persecution, 

In the hands the men- 

Who didn't spare, even 

The kids.

Cuck

She slams hard those doors
Every time she leaves,
Imprisoning me in the incomplete
Conservation we previously had.

I sit measuring the degrees of
The crime I might have committed
Against the punishment she
Has me sentenced.

She comes back guilt-ridden
Sometimes to console me but
Leaves the same way she came,
Making me feel more apologetic.

After seeking pardon and writing
Pleas to please her, I've lost hopes
Of my redemption and wait for
My fateful days at the gallows.

But it seems my condemnation was
Never to the crushing discretion
Of a noose. Her intention was to
Romance the hangman in my presence.

And after each of such un-dead
Fateful nights, 'Cuck' written
On my forehead, I wake up to the
Torment of another dawn.

Apocalyptic reminiscing

In the first conversation after
Ghosting for months,
"What would you do if I die?"
She asks. 

You withdraw yourself
From the talk and sink back
In torment,

Only to see a part of yourself
Silently placing flowers at
All the conversations you've had.

Starting with the 31st of August
When you first met and how it
Ate up all the roses you brought.

By the time you reached your
First fight, all the flowers on
Earth were done with and you..

Sat converting all possible things
Into flowers. The hills, stones,
Trees, the oceans, and fishes.

Only you were left after the
Apocalyptic reminiscing trance.

And you sat mending yourself into
A jasmine that matched the scent
Of her skin that you still held on.

Fear Of Loss

Your grandma passes away
While you massaged her foot.
The sudden rush of cold paleness,
Sticks to your palms.

The stingy shudder every time
You shake someone's hand-
A heightened suggestibility for
The fear of loss.

It's hard for you to look someone
In the eyes now.

Six feet graves in their names
With epitaphs on foreheads.
Crows start feeding on their
Funeral food, whenever you think
Of getting closer to someone.

You get past the barrier sometimes
But your girlfriend doesn't know
How many times she had to die in
Your head, before she could sit with
You to drink chai.

The Obvious

You say it's obvious.

Obvious like what? The trees
Shedding leaves in winter?
The cliche of silence before the
Cyclone in summer?

The farmers praying for rain,
Sailors cursing the same?
Children killed in war and fresh
Absence of a father when he dies?

The torment of life getting to me
And my self-inflicted wounds
Screaming even when there's
No pain?

True or false. Obvious or not.
When you say it in a condescending
Tone. Your patronizing words
Hammer my head down, and

I squeak like a slut, enslaved
To give you a hard-on.

The Ocean

The rains are failed love letters
From the sky. The earth despises
The rivers and banished them
That's why.

So every stream cries and
In solidarity, they join the ocean
To mourn each other's loss.

The waves are repeated apologies
On their behalf to the land.
But they fall short of their plea
Every time they try to reach out.

The sky curses the Ocean for
Being apologetic for its love and
The ocean is forced to feed the
Clouds now.

Not bored of its repeated efforts as
A messenger of this unrequited love.
Stretched between two angry lovers,
The ocean is Sisyphus at heart,

Who carries the burden of
Cyclical Inevitability of life.

The First Sedantary

Your great-grandpa's grandma
Was made to walk bare-chested
Against the levy of a breast tax.

Her son had to walk tying a broom
To his waist to erase the shadow
He cast in the elite streets.

The great-grandma could at least
Offer prayers to the village goddess
By standing afar.

Your grandfather was given access
To the village pond and your mother
Could file a nomination in an election.

In the long line of untouchability and
Trauma of your caste, your achievement
Was a little high level of blood sugar.

And when your community celebrated
It for an increased standard of living.
This lifestyle disease became a

Political statement. As the generational
Hard labour and abuse, took a sigh of
Relief in your diabetes.

Male line Inheritance

Every Sunday, your wife tries
To prepare Kheer, just like
Your mom once did.
It falls short of something
Every time.

Your face assumes the same
Stroke of disappointment
Your father's did, when
Your mom failed to recreate
Your Grandma's kheer.

You think of breaking the loop
After such a realization.
But after looking at your son
Enjoying the same Kheer,
You let him have the opportunity-

Of learning the art of gaslighting
That runs patriarchy.

A Perfect Transition

Triple riding, one beer to drink
At the empty real estate by
The highway.
The papadi, pickle sachet
And other cheap snacks
And lots of laugh in the
Dead of the night.

Light drizzle, and then food
At Rajasthan dhaba.
Meaningless talks, euphoric
Recollection of memories
In a loud voice.

Heading back at 2 am with a
Backache, tired eyes and
Sweaty disgust of summer.
Hating your steamed-up little
Room, spreading a mat on
The terrace in haste and falling
Asleep in the moonlight.

That sounds like a perfect
Transition of the evening into
Night.

Giving it back

Your father beats you up for
Getting beaten up by the bullies
In the school.
He advises you to throw stones
At anyone who bothers you.

It begins with dogs at first.
The pigs, cattle, and cows.
Not the bullies yet but other
Meek ones, as you wanted to
Be a bully yourself.

The harmless teacher gets
This one time. And your
Aunt gets it over a sarcastic
Comment.

The insecurity in the head gets
Manifestated in hand forever,
The supposed 'give it back'
Becomes an act of expression,
To cause unnecessary harm.

You're past the 'eye for an eye'
Thing, as everyone now is blind.
But the empty hand and your
Devil's Workshop, are compelled
To turn inward..

But who gouged your eyes?

Apparition

Your mother works in a dingy

Brothel of Kamathipura.

And each morning calls you by

The name of her previous client.

The day she uttered your 

Real name, you stood in front 

Of the mirror, to embrace yourself

Unapologetically.

And while you looked yourself 

In the eyes, the fickle alleys 

Forced into you a question-

'Who really was the client?'

Cycle

There's no secret but to wait.

Till the sand-dial settles grain by grain,
And is turned up upside down to
Do it all over again.

Drop by drop, the lake fills itself
And dries up to repeat the process.
Time is a sculptor in pursuit of an
Angel stuck in a rock.

Time is a musician trying to hear
His own patience for a serendipitous life.
So the way forward is always wearing
Tearing and rebuilding again.

Time is a ruthless, unbiased invader.
Painful for someone and a pleasure
For someone else and within a
Short while it'll reverse the roles again.

Like tearing down a mountain into
A plain somewhere and elsewhere
Gets beneath a valley to
Punch it up again.

Time fancies a rollercoaster ride,
The repeated ebbs and flows in
The fabric of space, screaming births
And deaths like bursting balloons

In a birthday party of a kid.

My empty rooms

My own empty rooms, I'm unable to
See. Unable to stick a broom to clean.
Flickers of light that refuse to reach
And I never know what's there or
What's not lurking?

Someone comes along sometimes
To open a couple of them,
Switch on the lights and sweep them
Clean and ask for matchsticks to
Prepare tea.

Years back there was a late-night party
In a couple of them.
The smokey smell of a campfire
Still remains but has been left
Unattained ever since.

These places without people are
Handicapped geographical coordinates
It seems. The numbness here grows
Shouting the absence of human touch,
So that no ship and compass
Can ever reach.

But the dried-up rivers show up to
Salvage their tragedies somehow.
And return in pity after seeing
The cataclysm that's already brewing.

Overlooking

The tree of longing that I
Watered, all these years.
Stout, lush green, supposed 

To bear fruits.

When it sulked without flowers.
The wait seemed strenuous and
I had to axe it up into bits to
Burn it piece by piece.

Now I celebrate the smoke
That's stuck around,
The pungence, the cough,
Irritation in the eyes.

But I somehow expect the songs
Of the birds that once nested
In the green shoots.

I hear and see some things that
Seep in from the cracks.
Overlooking the fact that
It's just a mirage.

Shitty Faces

They take us to an old age home
As a part of the college curriculum.
Some girls sing and make them play
Merry games. Tell them how great
They're and blah blah blah.

They must see plenty of jokers
Like us who visit them daily to
Feel good about oneself.
Maybe the oldies all gather up in
The evening to rate our shitty faces.

The best one is kept in mind
For manifestation when they're
Constipated the next morning.

Two stars

The night that you were born,
'Two stars died'. Your grandpa said
That repeatedly over the years.

The counterfactuals you learn
As you grow old.
The twinkling phenomenon,
The nebula, supernova and
The light-year distance.

On the day of his demise,
You approach his stout body
While women sat around crying.
You touch his feet for one
Last time to pay homage.

And whisper in the ears,
"Guess two stars are born tonight".
It seemed like his lips realigned
Into a crooked smile in approval.

And the stars far away in the
Distance said WTF in their language
And farted together in a fury,
Which lasted longer than
Human history.

Freedom of Confines

Hate this room, hate this life.

Need a final escape-
Emancipation for good.
So the chair that warmed your ass,
Facilitates one final climb and doesn't
Hesitate to topple this time.

The noose tightens around
Your neck. Eyeballs pop out,
Tongue sticks between the teeth
And the drool off your mouth
Greases the rusty ribs, so that

The soul could escape without grate.

The legs sway rapidly, and
The hands try to conjure help for
One last time but the feather-like
Beast, your soul, is already on
Its maiden flight- Only to get stuck in
The cobwebs in the upper right
Corner of your room.

'One prison' pushing you into another.
'The beyond' you sought now
Stares at the chair you had toppled.

And the ass-less soul misses
Its cozy warmth and the freedom
That was within the walls.