Nost-algia

The tall building on the 

4th street has my book and 

Pencil-- I never gotta 

Go to school.

The villa near the water 

Tank has trophies I 

Never gotta win.

The temple near the Lake 

Has shoes and a uniform 

I never gotta wear.

The High school by

The Panchayat office has 

Memories of my crippled leg. 

Damaged when one of 

The walls fell off.

The childhood that's 

Rubbed away by the bricks 

I carried from the kiln-

When I walk these streets,

A streak of nostalgia 

Gets to me-- like I almost 

Met my school crush.

But alas! She too had to 

Carry bricks for the 

New Mall that came up 

In the city nearby.

We can almost hear the 

Sound of the movies.

And the whiff of popcorn 

Popping inside.

Sometimes we sneak in

To get a peek at the other side,

But it seems they always 

Shoo away our kind.

Grandma's Garden

The marigolds with their 

Yellow for this festival

And jasmines oozing their

Whiteness.

The Periwinkles with subtle 

Pink by the fence that's

Always ignored and 

The roses in full bloom

Dancing on the only sapling

That came up well after 

Years of trying-

The blossoms in Grandma's

Garden was the beginning of

New Year back then.

She made Deities with

Cow-dung for the occasion.

Age-old tradition to pay

Tribute to our ancestors.

Anything that was deemed 

As a weapon was washed 

And worshiped that day.

The first time she had

Asked me for my book and

The pen for the pooja...

How I had felt like a warrior.

Fresh bravery in my bones.
Chased away pigs that day
In the backyard by myself.
I was heck of a Knight.

Wishes

The next time you travel
By bus at night.
May a beautiful girl occupy
The seat beside you.

May you talk all night
And hit it off well.
May she ask your number
Before you could.

Then by next weekend
May she come to meet you
And you two readily
Fall for each other.

May bike-trips happen
To you both. Late night
Convos under the stars.
Music, love, lust, fights.

And worse, a marriage.

May you have a seamless
Happy life. Two kids in a
Big home. One girl
And the other boy.

One afternoon when you
Sleep on the couch.
May one of them throw a
Steel glass at your face.

And when you wake up
Irritated, to the summer of
Power cut. May you curse
The humidity with

The sweetness of what you
Briefly felt in the dream.

The Picture

Your head rested on my

Right shoulder when we

Sat on the park bench.

A photographer captured

It from behind and gave 

Us the pic saying 

"It's beautiful."

We kissed later that day.

Our first one.

The tendency of that pic

Of turning into innumerable 

Good things-

Travel, food, party, kids.

Sunsets, mountains, beach.

Long walks after fat feasts.

This pic that has no 

Beginning or an end but 

Only possibilities. 

It's a house on lease where 

We no longer live. But I go on

Paying the rent still.

Like a zoned-out writer 

Disappearing in his story.

Drowned and dusted-

Refusing to come back.

Reality fused in fancy,

Your face becoming 

A philosophy, an ideology.

Romanticism edging towards 

A singularity. And the religion 

You've manifested in me-

I'm happy to have become 

A fanatic. 

My bigotry stands stout 

At your service now.

I want a spiritual awakening.

The Hunter

There's a mountain on
Your body and upon it
The weight of a sky.

Then the hungry stomach
And unwavering stability
In the eyes despite all.

It takes patience,
Not the fangs or heavy
Duty arms.

It's the pacing heart's
Focus anchored Against
Titanium locks.

It's clarity in the right
Time. Right pressure
At right points.

A blink of a mistake can
Hail heavy on the stomach,
Even cost your life.

Hunting is not an easy job.
Ready to be steady even
Against impossible odds..

Hunting is a state of mind.
Why do you think a hunt is
Always glorified?

The Hunter doesn't think
About grass despite being
Starved.

Abandonment to Adoption.

My cat died. No, no. 

She was wounded.
Contracted an infection
That didn't subside.
She had to be done
Away with that's why.

Taken to a far-off place.
She was abandoned there
So she can't find her
Way back home.

She was a good fella.
But inevitability.
That's how things are.

The rats in the house
Started having a party.
We could hear their presence
After the lights were off.

So Dad insisted on
Petting one more.
Again, we got one from
A far-off place so it can't
Find its way back.

She meows around in
Feeble tones. She's fed
And taken care of till she
Become stout.

This gap between
Abandonment and adoption.
The mercy in our hearts
That sinks away and reappears
Like we really care.

We're masters of utility.
Aren't we?

If it suits us, we might
Bell our cats and start
Adoring rats by offering them
The fantasy of nine lives.

Then sacrifice cats
To a religious cause to
Appease Lord Ninklim.
And go in singing laurels
Of his relevance even
In these times.

Secrets

This secret that lingers
In you and bombards
Demanding a safe carrier.
Day by day, gaining weight
And turning into a rock.

How do you find the right
Ears to whisper it to?
The able shoulders to
Unload it onto?

You can't just throw it
At your pillow.
It's already overburdened
With tears and your drool.

Or you can't just scream
It off from a cliff hoping
The wind would carry it
To a place of no return.

If there was a competition
For bearing such a weight
Of a secret.
I wouldn't win it.

Crushed by even hints of
Such secrecy-
Spread, surrendered
And bled out on a paper-

The urge to unburden
Myself readily. The urge
To shed extra-baggage
In order to travel light.

I want to be a feather to
Fly away when the wind blows.
Or turn me into a quill to
Do the same.

Fart to Spirituality

Big entrance exam day,
Four puris in the morning
Fall heavy on your stomach.
The stomach growls.

What seemed like a harmless
Fart, seems to tease with
A Serendipitous act.
Your denial earlier grows

Thin and you gotta search
For a toilet. But the
College premises didn't
Bother to build any.

You gotta walk searching
For one. But the only hope
You got is Two kilometres away
In the bus stand.

And you walk and walk
Clenching your
Embarrassment in the ass
That wants to cry.

A five-rupee coin in hand
To pay for the toilet and
An old woman on the way
Asks you for alms.

You don't know what to
Do with the idea that
Flutters in your mind but
You gotta prioritize other
Important things in hand.

There's no gratitude
Bigger in life than your legs
Getting you a toilet in time.
And you're thankful-

The relief with which you
Return. You pay that
Old-woman purposefully.
That day you were more

Closer to God that
Anytime ever in life.

Baggage

Black coffee, no sugar- plain bitter. 

A Memoir of Dharmashala: Club from 1850s

when the British found vacation joys 

In the hills of their enslaved territory. 

'Cozy jazz' - playlist on the music platform, 

Plays endlessly, I'm all in even if it's hours long.

It triggers something in me

I think about this life. This damned life and 

The series of events that brought me

Here again. 

A friend who died

And the bike he left me in his will along with

A lot of vivid memories on it across 

Lands, oceans, and hills.

One or two songs from the playlist 

Or even more, tweaking the slow cinnamon 

Burn of our days from the college..

They take me back to pull my heart out

To the life at it's the barest laughter and 

We staring back at it with the coldest eyes.

Then he goes away. Twenty years have 

Passed and I haven't cried it out yet.

I feel like poking my eyes with this pen

In my to nab down every bit of tear that

Doesn't come out. But no. 

I have to drag this life for him.

I gotta feel un-poured rains for him.

And see the unveiled horizons. And experience 

That nightly starlight across the Himalayas.

And maybe someday at dawn, when the sun

Comes up across a snow-laden mountains

In the village of Zanskar, to bring 

Peace to my years of traveling streak.

I would then order two cups of 

Sea-Buck-Thon tea, to say cheers to an empty seat. 

And slowly drink it to fade away in 

The foggy wisdom the same evening.

Emancipation

I scribble my thoughts in

My notebook.

If something comes off well,

I type it and pin it in 

Google Keep for editing.

After regular rounds of

Mending, bending and 

Restructuring of the tone.

I unpin it before posting 

It in my blog.

It's like granting freedom 

To a prisoner. 

Like, an idea was held for 

Trespassing the premises 

Of my mind-

His plea had to go through 

Rounds of considerations,

Before his behaviour 

Was considered apt.

And when it seemed

He lived upto the mark,

He was set free in the

Poetry's realm.

And now that he has 

Earned his freedom,

He belongs to the hearts 

Of whoever reads.

'S'

This urge to capture 

Her pics. This urge to 

Scream her name.

The butterflies in the 

Stomach that want to 

Manifest but don't want to 

Make anything obvious-

There's pic of an old man

Walking away in my gallery.

And of a wrapper of 

Cadbury dairy milk.

A leaf of mango and 

A discarded pen I found 

When I was walking her

To the library.

This urge to scribble 

Her name in the last page,

But it goes only till 'S' to 

To become something else.

I realize. These pics are 

The moments I steal as 

Souvenirs around my 

Feelings for her.

Random, hopeless and

Not so loud pics- 

An attempt to hide my 

Longing, even from myself.

Yet this urge to preserve 

Her presence-

The 'S' that became 

'Seagull' in my pen name.

The unsung part is the 'P.S'

That hides the things

My backspace couldn't.

Narcissism

Sleeping with myself to 

Test my narcissism.

Guess I got an erection.

I saw my face and 

The bare-ugly-chest.

Drooled all over to 

Quench my fetish.

I was my own king

And my own queen.

Orgasm after orgasm 

After the self-admiration.

Finding no one better 

Than the two of me-

The goldy manifestation 

I am, and the others,

High on the voyeurism of

My pious sins-

Should try me. Try us. 

We can gaslight you

At will and feed you to

Your own guilt, so that 

You can come in praise 

Of my wit later on.

Till then, lemme 

Sharpen my tongue for 

My next attack.

War against Cancer

Me and cousin urinated

In the empty bottles,

Stashed by my grandfather.

Hampering his intentions

Of selling them to buy

Himself packs of Beedi.

Guess who were the

Earliest fighters of cancers

By weaponizing weenies.

Maybe we should take up

The task again to raise

Funds for a campaign to

Piss on the balance sheets

Of cigarette companies.

"Cocks against cigars"-

Such a metaphor for 

What kills and what can 

Give birth.

What can ooze out life

And what sucks it in.

Duality

Beyond this village,

The opportunities.

The lillies beyond the sea

Against the marigolds here.

The weight of a livelihood

Like a compulsive habit

To join an ocean.

Salt, depth, dark- lost?

Should the river be

Condemned to forget

Its own taste in search 

Of something more?

Should the Lotus in the

Village pond go on

Smiling daily, despite being 

Ignored by everyone?

The different worlds we

Fancy in our heads-

One leg, very well 

Grounded while the other 

Is placed in the skies of 

Heavens.

The divide forever keeps

Increasing while we piss on

The possibilities that lie

In the middle.

Adulthood

The older you get,

The less you cry.

You just learn to handle 

The pain well, with time.

Hide hit, mold it or 

Forget-

Whatever it takes to

Push back the tears.

The skilled carpenters 

We are with our 

Hammers and the nails-

Agile to thump back 

Every drop with no fear

Of damaging the eyes,

Or hearts.

Nails stuck all over the 

Face, a wooden mask

Always in work,

All through life.

The kid within us we

Tried to love. We abused 

Him eventually.

We're our own pedos.

Adulthood really is just a

Funeral where everyone 

Laughs at each other's 

Progressive demise.

One Last Hunt

The storm in your chest is a

Caged animal, waiting for 

That one last hunt.

Poised on front foot,

Body weight shifted to rear.

Ready to jump as soon as

You open your gates.

But you're afraid of the 

Turbulence aren't you?

Second guessing your ability to

Bear lightening and thunder?

To protect the flicker of

Light that you haven't lit yet,

You go all lengths to contain 

The storm inside..

And the darkness in your 

Life and winter in your legs.

The animal you are, wanting 

That one final hunt..

But you were afraid of the

Taking chances all your life,

And you wonder how you 

Starved yourself to death.

Ruined Thing

A bird that didn't fly,

Man who didn't try.

Stuck in ifs and why,

Train left the station 

And you stood watching 

Instead of hopping on.

The song was ready,

Guitar was tuned.

The song didn't materialize 

As you chose not to sing.

A perfectly ruined thing

Is the one didn't get

Any taint or bruise.

So afraid of the wound,

Stood infront of the mirror 

All life, glorifying one's 

Flawless skin.

But the mirror only 

Amplifies what you hide.

How do you escape 

Your reflection that lies?

Carrot Halwa

I hope you say my name

In your sleep. 

I hope your kid asks you 

Repeatedly about the one 

You seek in your dreams.

I hope you've fumbled 

Everytime they all wanted an 

Explanation and I hope

You had decided to never 

Talk about the past.

But not today.

Not on on this gloom ladden 

Sunday of late December.

But how are you gonna 

Say it aloud? 

How are you gonna scream 

An ex lover's name in

Everyone's presence?

So you decide to prepare 

Halwa with carrots from 

Backwaters of Kerala,

The one you had prepared me

When we had first met.

Everyone enjoys it to 

The last bit. 

Your in-laws say it's the best 

They've tasted.

That's the closure everyone 

In the family wanted..

That's what you thought.

But your kid still goes on 

Aking about me and you never 

Realise when he started 

Referring to me as papa.

And what shocks you more

Is why the hell is he referring

To your husband as mama.

POV

I like the Third-Person-POV 

Of mine who goes on 

Scribbling word after word.

Sentence after sentence.

Stopping for a while to

Search for words and then 

Go on in rhythms with a 

Set flow.

This simulation that runs

In my head, flowing around 

Like a river in search of 

New oceans.

I feel the tones, the pauses.

Breaths taken when I 

Run out of words and swish of 

Wind when a good sentence 

Strikes my head.

It's an unstructured play of

Aligning lines, before something 

Translates on the paper.

While I stood looking at

The burst-crackers in the street

From the previous night's

Celebrations-

I toppled over an idea and 

The subsequent stream of 

Thoughts landed me in this 

Poem.

Manther

The day I died,

My soul came out holding 

Its nose, like it could

Not bear the stench.

It didn't look back or wait. 

It escaped from gap between 

Unbecoming of my name

Into a corpse.

What will this bird out

Of the cage would do?

For I haven't taught her

Any songs too.

I already see a limp

In its wings,

Can sour to the heights 

It wishes to reach?

But then it enters another 

Body before I could 

Empathize with it a bit.

Souls have no loyalty, ain't it?

Flaunting its body-count 

Like it's a Manther,

It goes on lusting for better 

Cages and skeletons, 

To collect bounty in terms 

Of carnal misery of the body 

That comes with every 

Mortal's mortality.

Otherwise

Woke up, and went on a walk.

Made myself a cup of coffee

And had a good frothy bath..

It could have been otherwise.

Watched a movie later on,

Wrote something for myself.

A good lunch. A deep nap

After a long time..

It could have been otherwise.

Plugged in the earphones,

Hopped on an old playlist and 

Remembered an old friend while 

I sulked alone in the evening.

Called him this time.

It could have been otherwise.

He joined me later on.

A bike ride to the distant bar.

A beer, kababs and biryani.

Talked for long.

It could have been otherwise,

But I called him, and we had a beer.

Can live in relief for another 

Month at least and maybe 

Many more.

Good Night

Bridges from where to

Where and why?

Why they're always in

The proces of building or

Burning in the stories?

Today, in mine, everything 

Lies flat on the floor.

Reasons I don't know.

I mean, on this winter night 

Why the trudge?

Why build something 

Out of sweat? Or burn

Something to cough out

The same?

It's lazy, hopeless and

Mindless freak this night.

Lies flat with wanting 

No help or support.

Loses control and withers 

Itself to sleep.

This story is sleep deprived.

And I badly need it.

Good night.

Sense of Humour

At first, parents will come to

Snatch your sense of humor.

Then those teachers and 

Well-wishers.

Advisors and other elders, 

Who can't handle your wit.

Sometimes the siblings and

Some friends. Your dog,

The family deity, who can't 

Take a little offense.

They can't handle the ridicule. 

A bit of sarcasm seems

Like a mirror, and they don't 

Want to be exposed.

Then there's the government.

The most afraid and intolerant.

Anything that reeks of life,

They want to tax it.

Sales tax on whoever laughs

And slabs of GST on whoever

Makes them laugh.

They love you on crutches,

Don't they? A compliant mind 

That doesn't question.

A "Yes sir' without any arguments

And you're a patriot.

If only all the leaders were 

Comedians, and 

In the next world wars, 

Jokes would explode..

Not that they aren't jokers now

Or not exploding stuff.

It's just, no one is laughing. 

As the joke is on us. 

Orchards

Somewhere, there's a memory 

Of waiting with Mom for a bus

To her maiden home.

Somewhere there's a memory 

Of Dad carrying me on his 

Shoulders to buy me chocolates.

Grandpa, showing me how 

The buffaloes are milked.

Grandma, giving me 25 paise

After I help her with chores.

A memory of running around 

With cousins and bruising 

My knees. Mama gifting me my 

First pair of Pargon-chappals

As I tagged along while 

Harvesting paddy.

The brief shudder of calm in

My veins every time I remember 

My childhood. Feels like,

I still sneak into those orchards

To steal mangoes. So delicious

That I'm forever thankful.