Unchanged Odds

In a world where they
Ask the right questions in
The wrong time and the wrong
Ones at the right time.

I ask the right question
At the right time and
You don't agree to meet
Me over a coffee.

So I shift to a world where
Things are reversed.
To ask you the right questions
At the wrong time and

The wrong question at
A right time. Only to get
Rejected twice.

And in a world where
The questions and the
Answers are banned.
I bottle my emotions to
Sell them in your street.

For years no one buys
Anything. At the distal
End of an apocalypse.
When everyone starved,

And thirsty for love.
I sought you thinking,
You might need something.
Even then you chose to be

A vile bitch, who thought
She could figure it all out,
But ended up dying of
Dehydration by a creek.

My Name

I'm named after T-90
Russian military tank.
Ajay means, undefeatable.

My father must have thought
Of unsung heroes of his
Battalion before pledging their
Valour in my name.

But the warrior in me gave
Up a long ago.
The sword was no more
Thirsty of blood.
My battlefield, no longer
Hungry for death.

But my words are as angry,
And as sharp. As volatile
And as strong.
Ohh poems are not weapons
You may say and my kind-
Not worthy warriors of a
Bloodshed.

But wait, "Yankee Doodle" to
To "La Marseillaise".
"Arab Spring" to
"Bolshevik revolution"-

All the weapons lied idle,
Till the songs of turmoil
Hammered boiling blood out
Of sleeping citizens..

So I'd say, "Say..My..Name.."
Though it doesn't rhyme
With Heisenberg, but You'd 

Still be goddamn right.

Mom's Teenage Photo

Wearing a black top and skirt. 

Standing beside her mom. 

The teenage photo of my mother, 

From an old album- 

Her gleaming eyes with dreams, 

Boats and untamed seas. 

It breaks me when I see her in 

The kitchen now. 

Maybe it is the story of all 

The moms. They capsize their 

Boats. Erase their seas. 

Forget it all for a compromise.

They should all gather in a 

Place one day. To stare at this

Singularity called society. 

Stare long enough till

All of us could understand. 

Leave understanding, 

At least acknowledge.

Stare enough till the guilt in us

Oozes out like an angry river. 

The guilt of confining them, 

The guilt of hiding their teenage

Photos from themselves. 

Guilt of killing their dreams and 

Guilt of how it has been a

Systematic genocide.

Recommending Songs

The songs I tell you about.
How the lyrics go, how the bass
Feels against a changing weather.

How the particular tone of it has
Soaked in a memory of mine
To become a fragrance.

I can smell it now. 'Rehai' playing
Against the soothe of her face,
Trying to absolve me from a
Confined place..

My soul comes out of the body
To stand on a table to guide me
Through a cosmic dance.

Then it screams about
My performance,
To an invisible audience.

And when I recommend you
That song and you can't talk about
It with the same euphoria..

I'd point you to my best friend to
Convey, how he'd exactly react.
I know you may call us gay,
But that's all right.

I just hope, you really listen to it
One more time. We need a
Third wheel you see and that's

The only screening we felt apt.

Old Dharwad

I feel like I met you in

Old Dharwad, where

Cement hasn't smothered 

The roads yet.

Your face gleaming with

Rusty shops and hints

Of raw literature that

Runs in the streets.

We sit in a forgotten 

Restaurant to have 

Haap-Cha and Girmit,

And you appreciate it

Using the only cuss word 

I've taught you.

You ask the meaning again,

It's just a superlative I say-

That's too much cultural 

Exchange for a day.

Your Punjabi soaked in

Kannada, our story 

Like a redundant name

Of a Hindustani song-

We walk from Railway station 

To my college, like

Postman carrying a letter,

From 1950s to the present.

Gothic Bitch

A woke who identifies 

With spectrum of genders..

Yet she doesn't get laid.

A fascist who enslaves 

Low borns but even they,

Detest her to say nay.

She can do anything to 

Get laid, this Vixen is a

Sex addict and is ready to

Be anyone's bae.

She tried to seduce the Devil 

Once but he said he's gay.

So she pulled out a weenie 

By identifying herself as male.

That too ended up in

Disappointment. So she sold

Herself to Bengali baba,

To become an enchantress.

But that came with a condition,

She can never be straight.

She's this type of lesbian now,

Who cuts male genitals to 

Use them for her scissoring 

Sessions. That's the best 

Revenge she says..to hunt

Men who don't respond to 

The nudes she sends.

Transitions

The smell of one city
Before it gets lost in the
Newness of another.

The nostalgia of the previous
House before it gets
Consumed by the aura of
The next.

The late night's hangover
Of a Sunday brushing its
Madness on the face of
Monday.

Failed resolutions of
This year trying to coexist
With new ones in the first
Week of next year.

Transitions are fleeting
Dungeons, where a little bit
Of both sides exists in
Peace for a brief while.

Like the warmth of palms
On one another after a
Shake-hand and the hints
Of your face on hers-

Before I kissed her.
The poems I once wrote you,
Show a way to new ones
And how I wanna write her

A hundred more now.

Deprivation

We love where we've
Come from and we're
Thankful. A square meal
A day at least..and..

The rags we think of as
Clothes for some
Harmless warmth.
And to breathe clean air,

Taste some neat daal
And maybe some roti.
Life today smells like
Eye full of sleep.

The bright morning
Hasn't come at our peril.
The night had no
Surprises that could kill.

There's a blip in our
Fate it seems. Someone
Has skipped work in our
Tormenter's office.

So much worse could
Have happened,
But we're lucky to
Another day's laugh.

A swoon of gratitude
Towards everyone,
For letting us have
Another day's life.

Could Have Been Gangster

While he and I played under 

The tree- we four years olds.

A dispute arose around 

A toy we found.

The little conflict turned 

Serious when he ran to

His kitchen to fetch a knife,

I to mine, to grab one for me.

In the next five minutes,

We stood staring at

Each other in the street, 

Ready to stab.

His mom came out in time

To bash up both.

What a waste, ruined a

Chance of me growing up

In a remand home to pick up 

A little broken Spanish..

To utter 'Que pasa..' in 

Marathi accent before stabbing 

The final goon, in a future 

Gang war.

The Childishness We've Outgrown

To have us feel 

Each other's breath, 

You inhale a chunk of air 

To exhale it steadily on  

My belly.

You ask me to do 

The same. I think you're 

Crazy but I do it anyway..

The warmth creeps under 

Our skin..it tickles.

It's a bit of an innocent kink,

Makes us foolishly 

Giggle.

When did this fragrance 

In us lost its way?

We love, like dark strokes

In shades of grey 

These days..

The lost revolt of colors 

In the dark..

Two drooped flowers,

Not even excited about 

The morning sunshine.

You say 'I love you '

From the other end..

And I don't instinctively 

Conjure my wit to 

Flirtfuly say..'and lust..?'

Inheritance of Trauma

You storm the inspection area
Your dad had prepared.
You ransack it with your gang.

In a fury, he sells you off to a ship,
That sails to unknown lands.
Holding the same grudge, you

Excel in your chores, teach
Yourself cooking. Find love,
Make children and eventually

Become a world-known chef
Of the hopeless ship that
Heads almost nowhere.

One of those big days, when
Queen of England was hosted
You were in charge-

Of the big feast. Your son topples
The buffet table on the guests
And you turn seasick..

The higher-ups ask you to throw
Him in the sea but you roast him
To feed him to the delegates.

Your deceased father is horrified
By the scene. So he travels back
In time to not sell you in angst.

But time travel doesn't exist
Does it? And all the un-addressed
Trauma never gets fixed.

So all the metaphorical suffering,
Is transferred to all the symbolic
Victims. Molehills of parents

As mountains on children's
Shoulders- a dynamite underneath,
With a trigger, God knows what.

We're Dust

We're dust that never settles.
The winter wind carries and
That of summer keeps it afloat.

Stays in the sky no matter what.

Bouncing off the fluttering
Wings of birds and frequencies
Of the dragon files.

Reflecting the sunbeams and
Keeping the earth cool,
The patterns of Tyndall...

Painting the sky red and in
Other shades. We're sunrise,
And the sunset. A blip of

Aesthetics in the mundane.
We seem to be harmless and
Not a matter of concern..

Till we get into your eye or
Maybe even the nose,
To assert our presence.

That's how Dinosaurs vanished
Right? Dust occupied the
Sky and there was a long winter.

Wishful Mirage

Your nimble fingers run over

The bare skin of yours sometimes.

They complain about this

Sack of a husband of yours.

Then you drool over the ghost of 

The dead relationship of ours,

And fail to force yourself to

Look down upon me..

Do you remember me?

Creating scenarios in your head

To break it all for once..

To run away to this place I once 

Confided you with..

You'd still find me there, 

Building castles in the air. 

Standing close, looking at me 

With your filled-up eyes to say..

How this and everything esle

Was my frigging mistake.

But I understand your frustration 

And let my long gaze convey

It all. To once again meet

You in a mirage.

Acknowledgement

Broke, lonely. Stuck in

The summer of Delhi.

The fan stops working 

That night.

Mosquitoes invade.

Irritated and sweaty. 

You sleeplessly roll around.

After an hour-

The electricity is back,

The slow soothe of rotating 

Fan makes you realize about 

The companion you were 

Really missing.

Until his absence was 

Felt, you didn't know the 

Importance of his existence.

The next day, you clean 

Him up with a cloth.

Somewhere you knew,

Gratitude is one of the best 

Way of acknowledging 

A friendship.

Boundless

The songs of the languages 

I don't understand..

I don't want to thrust words

To this feeling.

I want music to cut my

Sanity, frequencies to

Suspend my vanity.

I want hands of this illusion-

To reach my belly to churn

My realities to make me align

With whatever isn't discernible 

And is not in boundaries.

Too much awareness is

Weighing me down.

I want unicorns to invade

Earth and for them fireflies 

To enslave us. If somehow 

Sparrows fall in love..

With the Periwinkles that 

Learn to fly..

Take me there and wake

Me up.

Feather

Undress yourself, stand stout 

Like there's no burden on 

Your shoulders.

Peel yourself wound by wound 

In front of the mirrors.

Conquer what's left of you.

Layer by layer grow thin..

Light as a feather and

Fly to the cues wind.

Stop when it doesn't blow.

Rise when it does and 

Sour when it tries to rush 

Itself to new highs.

Wind is life. Don't expect

Too much as there isn't.

Laugh when it makes you 

And weep when it 

Wants you to be sad.

Stay quiet and accept the

Things as they are.

But don't take your leg off

The accelerator, as 

Shortly there's gonna be

An opportunity to fly.

A period of calm might 

As well be a pullback to 

Set you in an vigourous path.

Ancient Wounds

It occurs to me in a 

Sudden rush of angst and 

Excitement that I should 

Just text you. 

Talk to you about all the 

Places I have been..

And in all those places, 

How I've missed you 

Deliberately, to stamp 

Your face, in the high of 

The mountains, rivers and 

The slow betrayal 

Of the evenings.

On a hidden beach, 

Watching the waves crash 

And ships fade on the horizon. 

I wait for a bottle that 

Carries a letter from the 

Other side..

This knack for nostalgia 

And the reasons
You give to scar myself..
I scratch them in rhythms 

You know..

To listen to music that 

Screams your name in 

My ancient wounds.

Four Hundred Eighteenth Time

I imagine your face while
You refused to meet me.
Your hateful gloomy eyes
That shed for me the last
Drop of tear..

I imagine yourself wrapped
In an ornate saree to
Give yourself away to a
Husband, for what mistake
Of mine?

I imagine you hiding me
In the syllable of your
Second child's name, after
The regret of not doing that
With the first one, as you
Still had some hate left.

I imagine you feel a
Pair of eyes on yourself
When you visit the Shani
Temple every Saturday..
Searching for the stalker
In me in the crowd.

But I slide in time avoiding
Your gaze.. the successful
Four hundred eighteenth
Time, since your marriage.

The Romantics

Someone among the lot,

Would send an SMS

To watch the moon..

Good days back then.

Sun rose beautifully and

Even in the sunstes,

We had our hearts.

We, four-five romantics,

Sharing books and poems.

Good songs and talking 

Like everything would 

Remain the same.

We wrote, posted letters

To each other. Sometimes 

Met one another before 

The letter could reach.

Where's that craze gone? 

The grit of life we could feel 

Under our noses like we 

Breathed a special air..

It's been cloudy lately,

The moon has been 

Masked by a haze. 

The desire to reach out to 

Each other is so shallow..

That the longing to walk 

Barefoot often meets with 

The complaints of the lawn 

Being damp with 

The dewdrops.

Science Guy

Your grandpa claimed to have
Seen ghosts when he spent
The night in the farm.

Your uncle claims the same.
And your father asserts it
With one of his encounters
In a Himalayan jungle.

Hallucinations, too much
Alcohol and schizophrenia.
You come up with an explanation,
As you're a science guy.

But the voices in your room,
Still persist. How do you
Explain that?

A guy in Reddit claims,
Carbon Monoxide can cause
Delusional manifestations.

You buy a meter to measure
Monoxide levels. In that part
Of the corner, where the
Levels are high...

'Hola Grandson,
Fuck your science' says a
A shadow cast on the wall.

You get hold of the Hanuman
Statue in angst, that you
Had as a backup.

Snake Bites the Tail

I look you in the eyes 

And you look in mine. 

For a while each question 

Stands answered and 

Each puzzle solved.

Our lips quiver and we

Explode in a fire of desire.

But love still asks 

Un-answerable questions,

Beautiful or not.

But the answers do not 

Matter when we subsume

Ourselves in one another..

The questions and answers 

Shake hands now.

The snake bites its tail and 

We become a paradox.

Hungry Graveyard

You take your father on a

Bike ride, over-speed and

Lose control over a hill.

Fall off a cliff, he dies 

And you survive.

You're in the streets of

Old Hubli now witnessing 

The funeral procession 

Of your friend's dad you

Couldn't attend before.

Your brother is hit on duty,

The minister who was 

Supposed to inaugurate 

A hospital in your hometown 

Gets killed.

Your subconscious seems

To have become a hungry

Graveyard that feeds on

Simulated demise of

Close ones...

This one time you couldn't 

Kill yourself and you 

Enslaved your best friend 

To do the favors.

But he refuses.

To assert command,

You yell, 'Who's your Daddy?'

'Ain't no gay' he says and

Kills himself instead.

Boundaries

A wasp goes astray,
Stinging my insides.
Bombards around wild
To find a vent out.

I clench my belly,
Pour out my lungs.
Heart pounds like it's
Stuck in my nose.

Sweat finds way out
Of my skin, but then
The feet turn cold.
Caught between the

Embargo of fight or flee
The legs quiver like
They've seen
Wolverine's zombie.

But can you escape
Yourself? The boundaries
Of yourself in your
Third eye?

Can you ever be free?

These inner revolts that
Are always squished...
Zombie apocalypse with
A happy ending.

For better or worse,
We always end in ourselves.
The Self is a dictator
Of third degree.

Father-Son

Your father is hospitalized
When you're on a trip.
You head back readily to
Assist your mom.

The resentment you had
About him melts in the
Background and a sense
Of gratitude fills you up.

The urge to utter that
Last 'thanks' gets stuck
In the clutter of paying
For the medical bills.

He recovers anyway.
Only to abuse your mom,
The way he always did.
You translate your gratitude

Into an unapologetic elegy
That doesn't materialize.
But this isn't the first time
This has happened, right?

Maybe that's how this
Father and son thing is.
This relationship,
Always dissipates-

Between the gratitude
You can't express and
The hateful elegies
You almost wrote.

Abortion Receipt

In the top right compartment
Of the old store room,
She has stashed an
Abortion receipt.

Numbered 79, guilty of
Not even bothering to think
Of a name for the fetus
She had shed.

Smiles at her 10 years old
Sometimes. Trying hard
Not to tear up to
The fact that,

The would have been
Eldest kid was the curse
Of a rapist, whom she was
Compelled to marry.

Un-dated

September 2011, fresh out of
School. The journey I took to
Allahabad for an interview..

The train and 'Teri Meri' song
Playing against the flashes of
Your face...

Took a detour to Mumbai while
I returned. Met you outside
Kurla station past 11 pm.

So brief, could only have
A plate of Pani Puri in haste.

Sneaking past the railings
While I climbed the staircase
Of the platform.

I remember your fading
Image as you swayed your
Hand to bid me a goodbye.

The love and longing that was
Budding that didn't go
Beyond a dead friendship..

I rejoice that moment with a
Wishful thinking now. About
The 11 pm Butterfly that might

Just be alive, waiting in a limbo,
Outside Kurla station, on every
Un-dated September night.

Sneezable Sneezes

This euphoria doesn't
Subside. Sticks like
It would never end.

Heart beats fast.
Blood rushes to head.
I can feel it thump my

Scalp from below.
It feels something
May breakout aloud.

But it doesn't.
It's like a sneeze
Poised to rush out

But sticks in the nose.
You conjure all strength
To get it out but

It dissipates.
The moment is gone.
Now you're tired.

The big event you
Conjured your energy for..
The sneezable Sneezes

That go unsneezed.
The un-ceremonious exits
Hurt the most.

When You Truly Arrive

There should be a hill outside
Your village. A narrow,
Walkable path up to the top.

There should be rocks, a lake
Fruit Laden trees and incessant
Rains to complain all season.

There should be an abandoned
Temple with names of lovers
Who didn't marry each other.

The old men and the young
Should talk about a vague ghost
That comes alive every new moon..

The adamant rusty hearts of boys
Who play cricket in such places
To prove them otherwise.

The grannies making papads,
Daughters going to schools.
Memories of making kites.

And years later when you
Return from a distant city..

The smell of crushed flowers
In wet tar, tickling your memories.
There should be a feeble heart

Blessed in you, that screams
Butterflies when you truly arrive,
To this place, you belong.