Validating a Wound

What good is a wound 

That heals quickly?

What good is a wound 

That didn't itch when

It shouldn't?

The helpless fingers 

Compulsively finding 

Excuses to scratch.

Healing seeming like

A petty crime-

What good is a wound 

When it's not inflicted 

By you? What good 

Is a wound that doesn't 

Remind me of you?

The reason to bruise

Myself and the reason 

To heal, when it's you-

What good is your 

Occupancy in my head-

If you don't force me to 

Push boundaries that are

Beyond the visible blue?

What good are the wings 

That don't force me to fly

Close to the sun and 

What good is the flicker in 

The heart that doesn't 

Set the world on fire?

Introspection

In the desert of my

Solitude. I watered my

Silence once.

And it sank deep,

Imploded. Exploded..

It grew eerie though,

I could hear it now

And then. A couple of 

Years passed,

I could see it from 

My third eye.

Eventually, when an

Invisible hand from within,

Started to extend itself,

Into the abyss in seek

Of a connection.

The silence touched

Me for the first time.

And that's how,

I found myself.

Redemption at last.

November Nights

These late November nights, 

And the mild winter that

Caresses with feeble shivers 

On the exposed skin.

My cranked-up bike on a 

Rusty Lonely Road, sailing 

Through the foggy darkness.

Faint chills of a dread- 

Fear of encountering a  

Scary stranger. Hints of a 

Ghost in my head.

Bit of hunger scratches 

The empty stomach- craving 

For a ready hot dinner.

Thank God the tyres didn't 

Give up or fuel didn't run out.

Happy to be home safe.

Bed, quilts, eyeful of sleep.

Appreciate the warmth.

In the morning, I find a pic

Of mine, deep in sleep.

But I live alone! Bonkers.

What the hell? OMG.

Closure

The bruises stay,

The soreness in the throat 

Itchingly remains.

The tears that didn't 

Come out, they never 

Go away.

The flowers you once

Preserved in the book,

Seems to have left stains.

Closure is an ancient 

Myth. 

A redundant Deity 

In the third street of 

My village.

Your mind plays tricks like

An excavator often and 

The worship that ought to 

Stay Buried comes out 

In the open.

Demanding you to 

Pray and prostrate.

Turned Tables

When they lost their language.

Unable to smile at each other.
Unable to pick up signs.

Silence that howled around
Like fragrance. It grew hooks
To pierce their skin.

So they stood at the end of
A road with a doused lamp,
With nowhere to go.

Somewhere down the line,
They knew they had to
Inevitably end in each other.

So they decided to write poems
To each other to open a new
Tunnel of communication.

He says "You shall be condemned
To the shackles of moonlight"
Instead of fuck you.

"I dare you to fetch rose water
So I can drown you in my solitude"
She screams instead of

Giving him a fuck you too.

Another Day Maybe

It starts with a Hi, Hello,

How are you, blah blah blah.
Tea, pop culture references.
A nostalgia trip and
Blah blah blah.

The conversation peeling
Off the layers after each
Spell of boredom.
Uncomfortable silence
Pushing you a step closer
To naked vulnerability.

What a song meant.
A good day before father's
Death. Unexpressed gratitude.
And that random ass pain
That comes cluttering
Through sarcasm at first.

After everything is said
And done. The final layer
Bruising through your
Hesitation past midnight-

Your urge to tear it off,
To cry it all to him-
Then you hear him snore.

Just another day of closing
The floodgates of the river
Behind your eyes-

The invisible knife in your
Hand, a bit more sharper.
The Fourth Blank fired in
The Russian Roulette that
Goes on, in your head.

Happy Spitting

Most poems are 

Buried in your belly.

You gotta dig them up

With a shovel and 

Pull them up.

Many are stuck in

Throat. You need

To gargle sometimes.

You cough them out

Now and then.

Best ones dance on

Tongue. They're like

Spit. They just come

Out of the mouth 

Without effort.

But the belly needs

To be dug, for you

To drool at ease.

Efforts, no doubt 

Are important.

Some fine ones are 

Stuck in the nose too.

Sneezing is fine but 

Sputum again is not 

A good poem.

Cage

Till one day- the bird
That leaves decides
To never return.

This emptiness after
She leaves. Every song
That goes unanswered.

And the urge to sing
That dries here-

Somewhere every cage
Was a home once.
A good host. A rib.

Then the music sinks.
Breathing stops.
The fragrance dies.

The skeleton of the
Flower still stands stout.
But for what?

Meaningless and loud

I like things that are
Meaningless and loud.
Enough imagination
And totally dumb.

A mountain that's ready
To cry. A volcano afraid
Of Butterflies. Petals bearing
The weight of the skies.

I wanting to be you.
You, wanting to be me.
To be parallel lines
Tending to meet at infinity.

Philosophies not afraid
Of math. Spirituality that's
As secure as science.
A villain deriving power

By square root of minus
Nine and a hero defeating
Him by dividing himself
By zero thrice.

Math books felt abused
By listening to this and
The History professor
Turned Pookie to snatch

'The Great' from Alexander,
He's a they/them, now.

Odds Against a chance?

Do we realize?
We're all a part of this
Giant experiment of odds
Against a chance?

The smartphone in
The hand is a direct result
Of calculus, we learn
In the school maths?

Rice on our plate is the
Result of the first caveman
Who wanted to settle down
With his girlfriend.

Odd probabilities working
In our favor. Series of
Random accidents in
Right time and place.

Millions of moons died before
One got set on the right path.
And the floating debris
We were before the cocktail of

Some elements got high
On oxygen. Now we sell
Insurance to each other
In fear of withdrawal.

End

There are no new wells
To be dug every day.
Or no fresh trees left
To be cut.

No places to explore
Or names to forget.

A fistful of heart.
A handful of brains and
A tattered soul that's
Never satisfied.

No matter how deep
We fall or how high
Is our flight. We always
End in ourselves.

Tragedies. Comedies.
All the drama, dread.
We're our own
Sunshine, and rain.

Trust

Sometimes when you
Return home drunk.
Father opens the door
And let's you in.

No questions asked.

This thin line where
He doesn't confront and
You don't outrightly
Reveal your habit.

He knows it's harmless.
You know it's not
Beyond manageable.
This boundary you respect.

This line of belief in
One another.

It's a lamp on the wall,
Serving light to both the
Sides. Flickers, dances but
Keeps a balance.

A little rush and there
Would be darkness on
Both sides.

Taming a Local identity

The capital, the city, the king,
The prime minister- they suck
Everything from us.

They make us grow, and
Compel to sell us at a price
Decided by them.

They steal our plates and
Self-esteem. They savour it
To fart in English and Hindi.

And if we hold our noses
In disgust, they hold us
In contempt for talking-

In our dialects, while their
Mouth is an actual ass that
Gives away loads of shit.

One language, one religion,
One spectrum of stench,
At the expense of my village?

With a knife in our throats,
You snatch our Golden Goose.
And in the name of nationalism

You force us to believe,
That we stole your eggs?

Hakuna Matata

The young Bangalorean smiles.
Hakuna Matata she says and
Smiles. Twists that nose,
Curves her lips and I know,

Something funny is on the way.
Hanuna your tatas she says.
Laughs, laughs, and laughs.
I laugh, you laugh, the world laughs.

My adult awareness hits me.
I get awkward to have laughed
So much. It's okay captain!
She says.

Ta-ta-ta, tomata, batata,
She says and laughs.
I laugh, and the world laughs.
Then it Rains-- Bangalore, right?

Hakuna your gotas I say,
She laughs and dances.
What the hell I say to myself,
Before I too dance like mad.

A streak of lightening and
Then thunder. The dark skies,
Slashed with a Rainbow-
A laughable life this.

Colors yet to be defined.

The World

In a world where there's
More to what meets the eye.
In a world where words
Can be weaponized.

In a world where algorithms
Dance like unhinged zombies,
To pollute minds and question
Feeble intentions.

In the world of FOMO,
Compulsive take on rapes,
Murders and epidemics.
Their expectations to form

Opinions on politics and
Ongoing wars.

In the world where the moon
Hesitates to transition into a
Steady evening- My mom learns
To send pics in WhatsApp-

The first bloom of marigolds
She grew for the festival of

Dasara. The yellow transcending 

Its hues to my face and 

How I smile..

Sanitization of Words

The moon needn't be in
The poems today.
The bulb in the room
Often feels betrayed.

The swish of cool breeze
Needn't hail,
The ceiling fan between
2-3 asks, how does it

Matter if Americans can't
Catch the reference?

Bring in that shabby pillow,
Your bag and socks.
The bucket too wants
To be hosted here.

The first time someone
Debuted a TV,
Broke all the rules of
Victorian-era poetry.

Bring in your dirty
Underwear- there are
No rules. Sanitization of
Your words is just pretense.

If your toothbrush hasn't
Made an entry yet.
Your poetic exploration
Hasn't been enough.

Pheonix

We sit by the river in 

Silence and her eyes talk

About "How we give wings 

To passing moments to 

Make them memories."

My eyes have a different stand.

"The ticks bore each other 

And set one another on fire.

Memories are ashes,

Self-immolation of moments."

She knows it. About my

Cynicism and I know well,

How she always tries to

Fill the gap.

So she asks me to give her

A stone. Throws it into 

The lake holding my hand.

A phoenix rises shaking off

The ash. And she says-

"We're that dip and 

The subsequent flight."

When Bystanders Wrote History

There was a hole in

The king's immortality.

Pores in his Teflon imagery.

He wasn't that godly 

After all. He too had a

Butthole and his shit stank.

When the bystanders

Wrote history- their hunger

Screamed loud.

Their dilapidated huts 

Against the state's 

Glittery gold-

Their birds with, deprived 

Wings learned to fly 

And sing out loud.

Erstwhile blasphemous 

Acts oozed wisdom.

Earth was no longer flat.

Sun could not revolve

Around the earth.

The crownless could be

A prince in the stories,

And the last princess did 

Marry a poet of her fancy.

Fragrance

The Periwinkles and 

The other small yellow 

And white flowers.

The names you don't know.

But their caress when you

Walked barefoot.

The impression of their color,

On the blanket of green.

The feeling that wafts past

Your nose..

This act of smelling the

Moments that have passed.

The bloom of spring in

Your heart.

Her face, which once had

Eyes, cheeks, lips.

It's all fragrance now-

Rose. Jasmine. Rain.

September 22

This girl who's bday is

Due tomorrow.

She times blowing the

Candles at exactly 6pm.

Cuts cake exactly half 

So that, the day and

The night are equally 

Split in half.

She's obsessed about 

This day, maybe 

Possessed. Equinox 

It is she says.

Half of her 'should

Have been height',

Confused about cutting 

Her boyfriend laterally 

Or vertically to call

Him her better half.

The stuff she explains 

Sometimes pervades,

Halfwit of the humans.

So she writes verses 

Like they got a half-life.

Never-ending, infinite,

Almost finished,

Yet something left.

Half you get, half you

Can't. There's always half 

And half of something as

It's equinox.

But Hey

Your smile is imprinted 

On my chest and heart

Beats differently now.

The urge to steal your 

Glances, longing to imagine 

Your name beside mine.

I wished for your love 

That night and watched

A shooting star.

Wore a yellow T-shirt 

The next day, wishing 

You'd wear something 

Of the same shade.

The coincidence seemed 

Odd to you maybe but 

Hey, you smiled again.

The weight of your elegance 

On my weak shoulders-

I'd to forget gravity to

Match your grace. But,

Now I levitate. None of 

This has to make sense

But Hey, you smiled at me

And I smiled at you.

The world became 

Insignificant and I've too.

Leap

The wet floors and
The banana peels are just
Excuses. My fickle heart
Likes to slip and take leaps.

The sunsets, the moon.
Colors and the melodies-
Spring is here and my
Garden hasn't bloomed.

Body fancies bruises that
Only you can bless,
Gleam of your eyes to cleanse
The clutter in my chest.

The pen bleeds but for whom
It doesn't know yet.
But I wait for you to smile.
A cue enough to levitate-

My fickle heart likes to
Slip and take leaps, and
Now that I've seen you,
Maybe, only at your behest.

October

October comes scratching 

Some buried graveyards.

Glimpses of forgotten face,

Traces of a path to an

Abandoned place.

Smoke from the ruins of

A house lost to a deluge.

Bday of a close friend whom

You don't want to wish.

Your own teenage self that

Seems distant..

The child in you who's not

Ready for the incoming 

Winter..

You sit counting the falling 

Leaves of the almond tree

In front of your home.

The hope that someone 

Would come along to paint

That last leaf-

The cynicism of adulthood 

Gets the best of you, and 

Those who came along were

More interested in gathering 

Your ruins to 

Warm themselves first by

Burning the fallen leaves.

Simmer

Who's gonna stop this story?

Who's gonna stop the flood

Of these emotions that are

No more weary?

The legs have mustered

Courage and eyes are ready 

For unshamed stares.

The lungs swoon with pride-

Blood flows thick, 

Head held high. Hands sway

Seamlessly and we're ready

For a riot of dance.

Who needs your approval?

Validation doesn't matter.

The songs that bombard 

In the belly are strong enough 

To make it out of our throats.

Wings are as fierce-

The cages stand molten, 

We're ready to fly away now.

Last day of Delhi

After we talked for long on
Your terrace- last day of Delhi.
The half-beer against the
Full meal got to my head.

I didn't gather myself to
Tell it to your to your face,
So I sent you an SMS,
Can I Hug You..?

You didn't say anything.
Made excuses to sneak
Down the stairs.
Aloof, dejected..listening to

'No Surprises' I spread
Myself on the terrace
Cursing the shooting stars
That aren't in my fate.

Then a sudden brush of hair 
On my face and the warmth
Of your lips on my cheek.

When I opened my eyes-

A fading image of yours

As you rushed back down the stairs.
The sudden blues in the sky,
A bloom of roses and it played-

'What a wonderful world'.

Train to Your City

In December of that year,
I came out of Chandigarh
Station. The first glimpse of you.
Happy, awed- Butterflies.

We hesitantly hugged.
Unable to talk clearly at first.
Like learning a new language,
Saying stuff in chunks.

What a day it was.

We roamed around all day.
The rock garden, rose garden,
Skipping the lunch-
The street food marathon.

In the evening, while we sat
By the Sukhna lake, eating
Ice cream. I wanted to Kiss you.
Couldn't muster any courage.

Months went by thinking
Should I have? or otherwise?
The un-met longing, like smoke
Raising off burning desire..

The 10 pm train to your city
From Dharwad, it took a couple
Of years before it stopped
Mocking me over that

Un-kissed evening.