The Almighty Lord

Before he had any name.

Before he became

Predominantly male.

He was formless. 

He was nature once.

Then a mountain, a hill.

A stone worshiped on

Field or street.

The erstwhile omnipotent 

Omnipresent, omniscient.

Now divided, shred and 

Shrunk into certain 

Holy books, walls, domes

Tribes and religions.

When did he became 

Absolutely parochial?

The poor must wait in line 

For the darshan while 

The rich can bribe their

Way into sacrosanct?

Menstruating women

And widows are declared 

Impure too along with 

Some other castes?

The growing distance from 

The truth that he himself 

Was supposed to preach. 

Our God. The Almighty Lord...

Then infinite. There after

Limitless, unbound and

Now barely independent.

Who's gonna believe him?

But everyone does.

Now more fiercely than ever.

The supposed redemption 

To closeted bigotry-

What a downfall.

Life is 10th class

One more year of struggle 

And life would be set-

The preparatory exam is

Due tomorrow and you 

Haven't read anything yet.

Teachers say you should 

Study hard. 

The principal says yours 

Is the worst batch.

You try to put yourself into 

Blinders to stay focused 

But Neha keeps coming 

To mind.

There's still a lot of syllabus 

To cover but all your

Head can muster is ways to

Wish her "all the best".

Unable to recall the value

Of Sin 30 and Cos 60..

Unable to understand 

What's "Quite India" all about..

Somewhere you're still that

Teen of class 10.

Secretly praying for grace

Marks, you still believe that

Choosing humanities would 

Make your life easy.

But you don't know yet,

How misery does salsa 

Even there.

Ray of Hope

The words have decided 

To abscond from the 

Pages of my diary.

The photographs have

Decided to fade away from 

The old albums.

An invisible hand holds

The face of all the memories 

Against a wall and rubs it up

Till the skin comes off.

What's left is a white blanket 

Of salt- sour and saline.

But despite the douse 

And despite the dusk.

Something inside makes

A strong appeal for 

Resurgence.

Who's there? It asks.

Who's there?

And there's a subtle 

Knock from the other side.

And that seems enough.

It's someone's presence

That challenges the 

The stink of inevitable..

Like fragrance.

Like a single breath is 

Mightier than death.

A thought of you beats 

The shit out of oblivion.

Two Emotions

If you laugh when you 

Badly wanna cry.

Is it still sadness?

And sink within when you

Really wanna laugh it out. 

It's still happiness?

And when you cry so

Hard sometimes.

Your tears flowing down

Your nose.

Mixing with the nasal

Fluid and finding 

Way to your mouth.

The salty taste that

Invokes mother's 

Brutal beatings from

Your childhood...

The silent laugh from 

Your eyes that doesn't 

Translate on your lips-

What do you call it?

This gap in your 

Language that can't 

Handle two emotions 

At once.

What do you call it?

One Language

In the house that was 

Cozy and vast.

We had 10,000 windows.

Maybe more.

Then they said,

Tinting with aluminium 

Frames would be nice.

One at a time, 

over the years,

The clean blue sky

Turned pink, red, pale

And what-not.

Before we could realize 

What was at play,

That's what the nation 

Wants they said.

You gotta see through 

Our eyes and speak

Through our tongues.

"One Nation. 

One Language."

And when they gave 

The final makeover to

Our last window,

The last hope of clean light 

Shone bright at our faces.

But we didn't have a 

Vocabulary of our own

To scream a protest.

And when the last word of 

My language fell flat on 

The road- with the final 

Window down.

They checked if the last

Person can dream in

My lang and reciprocate.

And when there was 

Nothing.. 

They hosted a funeral on 

The graveyard of our 

Tongues to celebrate

National integrity..

Unity in diversity was 

The theme.

Om Mangalam

In my region, everyone's 

Surname is of a distant village.

And if you ask them why

They'd tell you a story of 

How their ancestors killed 

Someone and fled their 

Original settlement.

My own Lineage goes back 

To a neighboring state. 

My grandfather's 

Great-Grandfather killed

Someone and fled his village.

Everyone has the same story.

Most of them at least.

And I hope it's the same 

Across the country. 

Or maybe across the world.

We're all refugees it seems.

Guilty of crimes. 

Seeking a place to hide. 

Maybe the entire world 

Is an asylum like that.

Maybe that's how the 

Civilizations here began.

Maybe we fled Mars after 

Killing all the trees.

Guilty of doing the same here.

GENES!!!

Maybe be the first man on

Earth was called John Mars

At some point of time.

Or perhaps he was a 

South-Indian named Sreenu.

Aka Mangalam Sreenu.

And maybe that's why 

Mars is always pissed off

In our astro profiles.

Mangalam Sreenu is antagonist 

In the movie Puspa 

Shooting Blanks

Picasso had a revolver

To shoot blanks at whoever 

Asked the meaning of

His paintings.

Out of frustration he

Loaded it for real once,

To shoot whoever asks

For a meaning.

But no one asked 

Any questions that day.

Just smiled at his art

And moved on.

He felt so violated that

He held the gun to his 

Temple for quite a while 

That night.

At the final moment,

It occurred to him to 

Paint something for 

One last time.

"A revolver that shot

Flowers when fired".

The abstract was so good 

He decided not to die.

Then it was sold for a 

Record price.

And when someone 

Asked what's the meaning.

He again shot blanks to

Convey how each painting 

Saved his life.

Her Superlatives

The way they call her a

Juicy meat-

Dogs must be feeling

Her between their teeth.

Someone said she's a

Cute pussy-cat,

Rats must be terrified of

Her presence at night.

Pristine as primordial fire. 

She saves demigods from 

Conditional hypothermia?

Soothing as breeze.

Light as a bird's feather.

Intoxicating like a flower.

Someone even called her

Soft as a baby's butt.

And the way they touch 

Baby bottoms on live TV..

She must feel abused

Everytime there's a 

Diaper-ad.

Ochre

Ochre-faced dreams haunt me.

I try to remember why I call it 

Ochre but I can't recall.

The quest takes me to an ancient 

Cave. Pitch dark and only a 

Kerosene torch to look ahead.

The smell of soot, cough and 

Ancient cold in tattered clothes. 

I hold the torch to the walls-

The Cave-Paintings in red dye. 

Hunting, Killing, and boiling 

Cauldrons with bodies..

A sudden slam of pale face at me.

It's my History teacher yelling 

"Ochre is Ferrous oxide..

Mineral used in cave paintings."

Ancient piss tightens my bladder.

I wake up. 10th class history paper 

And there's that question.

Occhre I write. A caveman comes

Running and slaps me for the

Spelling mistake I made.

Suddenly I am in a class at

The edge of a mountain.

Writing ochre a hundred.

Only question in mind.. why is 

English ma'am naked?

The PE sir charges at me with 

Cuss words after that thought.

Seems they're a thing from ancient 

Times. But why the hell he would 

Speak correct English this time?

Why Not?

We live in poems and die.
We dance sometimes and
Sometimes cry.

There are drums and guitars
In the corner. Knives and
Nooses on the other.

Divine worship and the
Invocation of Satan that
Goes hand in hand..

We're no one's favorite.
Hate can live long enough
Here. Love can readily die.

Romanticism is our kidnaper
And we got Stockholm
Syndrome diagnosed.

Poetry is a spectrum to
Choke on in search of
Meaning of life.

The wormholes placed in
Our words to enter one world
And exit through the other..

The full exploration of
The universe on our platter
May seem sweet.

But it's Salty and Sour.
And toxic at times.

Why so you may ask.
And our reply would
Always be a 'Why Not?'

Prayers

Give me a heart that can

Bear longing and mind that

Can handle parting.

Give me legs that can endure 

This tread and shoulder 

That can carry intentions 

That are decent.

And when the skies of

Separation cry a light so bright.

Seas of betrayal heave waves

Beyond fathomable heights.

Give me eyes that can't 

Go blind and hands that

Can swim through the 

Turbulent times.

May the tears of yesterday 

Not seep in today and

The lure of promised laugh 

Not hail on the fragility of 

The present.

My wishes are ordinary and

Prayers are simple.

May thou bless with wings 

That can take me high

And an attitude that keeps me

Grounded to remind me

Where I belong.

Enchantment

What eyes have cast a bad spell 

On me. I do not know. I stand in front 

Of the mirror often and smile.

What shadows have colored
My beliefs. I do not know.
I question myself often and sigh.

There are doodles in the
Last pages of the notebook.
There's a name dancing on my lips,

I don't want to say aloud.
Fresh bloom of roses in my garden.
The lilies are open for an affair.

What witch has unleashed her
Enchanted cats on me,
My head full of rats is on riot.

The resistance inside asks if
It can bell the cat and I almost budge
To the onslaught of demands but

Something tells me to loosen up
A bit. I do not know what makes
Me go crazy these days-

Just wanna throw my hands
In air and artlessly dance.

bRAINY

Hand lingers more than
It should.
Eyes go beyond whatever
My mind can't interpret.

Where does the wisdom
Lie though? In seeing things
As they are or re-imagining
Them into something more?

The bricks and bones of this
Dilapidated hut with a brain.
What more can this be?
A hand's yearning for another..

A phallus longing to fit into
Desperation of another to
Produce something that
Comes out crying.

The bare act of feeding
Famished Tongues was
Translated into different tastes
And now we sit here asking

Existential questions like
Condoms having flavors.

Other species must feel
Sorry for us for having a
Brain that overthinks.
Mating, eating, shitting in the
Open and not bothering

About a sleep schedule.
By letting us think that
We're the top in the chain-
They seem to be enjoying
A higher order of evolution
Anyday.

Wish we could be friends again

Before I saw rainbows

In your eyes and 

Bloom of roses in 

My heart.

There was an island 

Where we could casually 

Talk, laugh, cuss and

Gossip.

There wasn't anything 

Special about the things 

You did.

Not receiving a call for

Weeks wasn't an issue.

Even talking to you

For hours didn't build up

Any expectations.

Then a fantasy grew.

Things changed.

Our island got infested  

By butterflies.

And when you ask why 

Can't we be friends..

I don't know what to say.

The dangle of earrings, 

Carve of your lips.

God! How your smile is

Enchanting these days..

I wish I can ignore 

The strands of your hair 

Caressing your cheeks.

I wish your persona

In the black attire 

Doesn't hamper my

Heartbeat..

If you can tell me

Convincingly why the 

Hell we can't be a thing..

I'll tell you exactly why

Can't we be friends 

Again.

Till then adios my

To be or not to be 

Friend/lover with an L.

Adulting

Somewhere I'm still a
Confused boy who's
Not yet bothered about
The consequences.

I refuse to be a grown
Adult man.

Still biking around the
Supposed places with
My BFF, still believing
All the fun will be
Permanent..

The urge to become
A shepherd in the
Himalayas doesn't
Subside.

The longing to be a
Monk as an escape to
This reality is still on
Cards.

Somewhere the kid in
Me, running in the
Narrow streets of
My village with a tyre..
Has seen the adult me
Grow wings.

I flap and sour high.
Dive down screaming..
The air rushing to my
Face and tears drying
In the periphery of my
Eyes.

I lock eyes with him
And nod.
He smiles in approval.
Heck of a life.

Sense of Aestheticism

This friend in school with
Same kind of mad.
After reading a couple of
Same books and going
High on some philosophical
Quotes.

We tried to delve into the
Mysteries of metaphysical
Paradoxes against the
Volatile dance of our
Teenage hormones.

On the last day of school,
We climbed on the roof
Of sixth class to stay there
Till the orange sun
Disappeared below the
Horizon.

The sense of aestheticism
That got to us then-
We've been chasing it
For over a decade and
Half now.

Not tired of the beauty
Or bonhomie.. The things
We've experienced and
The places we've explored..

Just yesterday when we
Biked hard to catch a
Sunset on the beach
In Manipal..

We missed it because
He wanted to change
To his shorts first.
Can you believe that?

Enraged, Disappointed
I lie on the sand.
He too understands what
We missed.

But that's all right.
Good that we know what
We've missed.
Good that we know
What are we gonna miss
If we don't pursue.

That's what keeps you
Going right?
The curiosity that fuels
Possibilities..

How biking in the Himalayas
Can always start with
A feeble admiration for
Sunsets from above a
Classroom.

Homecoming

My boy doesn't seem
To walk on the ground
These days.
He likes to levitate.

Shit-talking about random
Girls has stopped.

Looks at earrings in
Thrift shops than
Window-shopping
Second-hand bikes.

He doesn't stone the
Mating dogs these days.
Talks about the nostalgia
Of Kishore Kumar songs.

Oils his hair and wears
Better bright shirts and
Wonders why his shit
Stinks after he shits.

My boy has become a
'Bwoy' it seems.

The other day he cleaned
His own puke and swore
Upon his mom to give up
Drinking.

He was a good goddamn
Cement-Wall with shards of
Glass to insulate himself
With feminine curses.

But somehow a witch has
Gotten to him bad, like
Periwinkles leaving cracks.

We're taking counter
Measures though..

Confident, his sailed ship's
Gonna capsize in about
Six months. Or maybe less.

We're getting ready on the
Otherside to relish a
Drunk night full of his rants
About her betrayal.

We know he's gonna sing
English songs after the 4th peg.
His homecoming has to
Happen with an orchestra.

So we're busy tuning our
Instruments now.

Book

I haven't read the book
You gifted me on my
21st birthday.

You remember that day?
You came to meet me
From Mumbai. We had
Lunch in a restaurant.

One of my friends had
Insisted me to offer you a
Flower. I did and you
Had accepted it without
Feeling awkward.

I told you about how I
Love to walk to college
All the way from the
City bus stand.

You said you'd love
To walk. And we walked
Some 7-8 km that day
In the sun.
You gifted me that book
Upon reaching college.

I couldn't read it then.
Then things turned
Worse between us.
I decided to read it when
I'd miss you the most
One day.

A decade has passed now
And every excuse not
To read it has come to
An end.

I don't miss you much but
I feel I should read the book
One of these days.

Or should I go back on
The same road to cover
The same distance
Under the August Sun.

Miss a decade of your
Absence at once.
Then sit in the college lawn
To read it.

Perhaps every finished
Page can be used to
Wipe off tears or
Burn them to ashes by
My brain-scalding ire.

Men In Love

I don't want this night to 

End. I don't want this 

Conversation to run out

Of steam.

The moonlight reflecting 

From your eyes and

The enchantment your

Lips have cast..

There's something about 

Today's sky. 

Something about you in 

This cold-stricken passage 

Of time.

The sways of your hair 

Against your cheeks.

My heart playing tricks 

With my senses..

It's hard to express.

Your persona building a

Nest in me like you're a 

Sparrow and my yearning 

Finding excuses to make

You origami crafts.

Damn this feeling.

Why would anyone 

Stereotype men as 

Strong and haughty?

They clearly haven't seen 

A guy fall in love. 

Smooth like fragrance.

So soft, even a thousand 

Feathers can't match 

The caress.

A man falling in love is

Like a little girl's dream

Translating on her face 

When she's asleep.

You gotta be careful 

To capture it.

It's a momentary lapse

Of reason. 

A little rush and 

He'd be conscious.. 

And you may never see 

That blush again.

Well, till maybe when 

He'd be blessed with a 

Daughter in some 

Imaginary future.

Mom, Gran and..

It's the weight of daily 

Chores or burden of idealism 

Imposed within closed doors?

The cry of babies or the noise 

Of wanna-be boys and men

That weighed her down?

Why is she hesitant when 

Someone asks her name?

Who was she before she

Could be a mom or gran?

The magical mystery, who

Reeks of round rotis and

Balance of a perfect sambar.

Something loud-mouthed

Consumed the syllables of 

Her last name.

Found only in her school 

Certificate maybe. 

But the paths to her school 

Is erased-

Childhood defaced and 

The backstory of how she was 

Before she turned a Misses is 

Fed to the Wolves.

What remains now is an

Ageless face. Her wageless

Labour and hints of onions 

In her expression..

Which doesn't go beyond 

A couple of sulphated tears 

In the kitchen.

Your own Magic

After a while, you get
Handy with seamless
Operation of gears and
Clutch.

It occurs to you, how a
Better braking system is
Not merely for stopping but
Upping the speed.

After a while, you realize
How you spend your days
Is how you spend your Years,
Decades and Lifetime.

And how sometimes
Consequences don't matter.
Putting yourself in a cocoon,
Having yourself an image.
Doesn't matter.

Age can be counted on
Number of places you've
Visited and number of times
You've aimlessly danced.

You realize if you could
Have stretched your hands
A bit more, you could have
Grown a pair of wings.

How if you could have
Eased yourself with life,
Things could have fallen
In a better place.

After a while, when you
Find yourself utterly alone.
You realize, how no Priest
Or God can help you.
Nor a president or PM.

You realize how you
Need to work on yourself
Till the feather of
Luck comes to rest on your
Shoulder like it's a
Whisper of Buddhist bird.

You realise how
Wonderful it is to be
Your own wizard and
Magic.

Trade Off

We live on a hill.
The rain ruins the lives of
The people below.

We sneak in at night to
Steal shoes of the dead.

We've got a winter to
Get through ahead.

Some of us succumb to
The snow anyhow.

And people from below
Wait for the hints of
Melting snow to steal
Bones of our dead.

They need them to build
Shelters against the next
Rain that's due.

Soot

Fed up, ashamed.
Feeling gross about
What I've written in my
Diaries all these years..

Decided to burn them
Page by Page.

There goes 3rd December
Of 2015 and 28th Feb of
Another leap year of
The past decade.

Faces of people I almost
Recognize along with
The fade of my own.
Words turning into flares..

Erasing them line by line,
Soot rising in the air.
Seemed I was a blank slate
For a while.

Shortly it rains.

Water-soaked char of
Memories clogging drains
And stinking. Seeping in
Dreams and haunting to

Remind me how I can't
Escape the past. How flushed
Memories can turn into ash,
And force you to cough.