Pothole Republic

I saw a pothole,

big enough to qualify for 

Aadhaar. It had depth.

Personality.

Probably a family of frogs

and an SBI branch inside.

I reported it.

They planted a sapling

in it and the next morning,

The sapling was gone.

The pothole had eaten it—

wanted roots, not reform.

It developed sentience.

They announced.

A holiday to celebrate 

The same.

It was declared as a

Protected monument—

Older than British roads,

More enduring than promises.

Now tourists arrive.

Locals pray.

No one fixes it.

No one can fix it now..

Divine energy is passing 

Through it someone said.

"Test your spines here

Like a prayer"

"Take a hard fall here

If you want an awakening"

And whoever falls is an

Offering now.

Two bulls, a few scooters.

and a manifesto has

Drowned so far.

A poet too has tripped in 

and found a deeper metaphor.

Now he lectures at JNU

on the "existential sinkholes

of Indian democracy."

The Chinese are 

Trying are trying to 

Reach out for research 

Collaboration but 

Even NASA has been 

Put on a wait.

"The Interplanetary Society 

For Theosophical Parody"

Has made it somehow.

Right now, stuck in traffic.

The debate on who's 

Gonna take the credit 

Has to be settled first.

The contractor and

MLAs have fought over

It already.

Many national parties 

And even the PM is

Fighting for the same.

But everyone knows it.

Everyone knows,

The credit has to go 

To Nehru.

First Day

If I were in the first 

Year of college today.

On the first day and 

In the first class-

Among the band of

Those lean girls with 

Deep eyes..

You would be there

Too-- soft cheeks

And a bright smile.

Not hesitating to

Laugh gracefully with

Those feeble lips.

Not at all bothering 

To mark my humble 

Presence-

Casually playing 

With the strands of 

Your hair to cook

Guys like me..

Who would still be 

Thinking, infatuation 

Is a crime.

Maybe I would slip

Into a whirlpool of 

Fantasy to fall for you 

Eventually, and never 

Conjure up any courage 

To confess about the 

Ocean I carry.

And maybe after 

Brooding for over 

Four years-

On the last day of

College, in the

Farewell Program-

I would gather just 

Enough voice to ask for

A pic with you and

My wingman would 

Mess with the camera..

And your persona in

The blue saree would 

Forever go fading in 

Memory for years or 

Perhaps for decades.

Male Gaze

A direct line of sight 

With a girl, in a local

KSRTC bus is rare.

But once a decade,

On a rare summer day,

It does happen.

Decent looking with

A crooked smile.

Almost a flirty nose.

But why a serious,

Knotted face?

Why does she look

Agitated?

The heat?

All male gaze?

My ugly face?

Grappling with my

Urge to look-

Standing in the aisle-

Clutching my hands

For support.

The crowd, 

The jerk of legs

That sway with the 

Motion of bus.

Yet my eyes fixated 

On her.. waiting 

For hints.. 

Trying to hold on.

Waiting for her gaze

To meet mine.

Then that sweet

Moment arrives-

The question on her

Face finds an 

Answer when she,

Throws up.

A spray of vomit.

The curry leaves 

And indigested 

Onion on the people 

In the blast radius-

Radiating smell 

Finding hairy noses

With or without 

Moustache-

Bus stops. 

Many rush out.

Few curse her.

My eyes still manage

To look at her again

In the aftermath-

A gleaming face.

Crooked smile.

A firm stare that 

Screamed-

How everyone 

Deserved something 

Like that.

Ape Meat

The best meal of 

China and the most

Expensive-

As claimed by my 

Friend, Hoooli Foook.

Cost him a fortune.

But he arranged it

For free, as a

Goodwill gesture.

The waitress who

Looked like a Midwife,

In the deep sea

Exotic hotel-

Served the hot

Omniotic soup first,

Followed by the 

Air-Fried-Umbilical 

Nachos.

Apes in this part 

Of the town, taste 

Better, said the 

Mermaid-faced Manager, 

While he instructed 

His crew to serve 

The main course.

The hype for 

The big reveal was 

Intimidating when

The waitress who 

Looked like she just

Got out of labour,

Announced "Fresh 

Out of my womb"

There were limbs,

An open head of a

Foetus garnished

With little fingers.

Took a minute to

Realize the pun in

'Best ape' but 

Snapped out of it 

To get along-

When Foook said

"What happens in 

China remains in China"

"Except for viruses"

I said to myself, 

Before I shifted my

My full focus on 

The delicacy.

DiiiiDiii

Bibliophile, Pluviophile.

She/her. Lowkey writer.

Full-time depressed.

Loud, upbeat. 

Swears a lot to look 

Cool among her affluent 

Peers.

Dogs and cats are

Didi's first love but hates

Men, like that's gonna

Up her game against 

Other ultra-feminists.

Goth look. Dark humor.

Body positivity and

'Go slay gurrrl' with overuse

Of vowels to highlight 

Her over-the-top emotions.

Upon that, an opinion on

Palestine is a must.

Gender fluidity is a

Newfound fetish and

Bisexualism is a

Compulsive dessert

Beside the other 

Delicacies of her big

Fat meal of pretense.

Mom's love is never 

Enough. Her brother 

Is always an asshole.

And of course Didi's 

Got daddy issues 

That are stacked even 

From a past life.

The food-lover,

Party animal, wanderlust.

The exotic places in

India aren't enough.

Didi has perpetual plans

To tick off ten more 

Countries before she 

Turns twenty.

High on self-awareness.

High on information.

She thinks she has 

Figured it all out by 

Being condescending

On boys who are 

Petty simps in the name

Of BFFs.

But maybe a rich-ass 

Dude, of whom she

Always dreams of-

Seems to be the only 

Solution for her delusions.

When he confines her 

To the commands of 

His mother to mass 

Produce Gol-rotis in

The kitchen-

The sweat off her brow

Would scream

How the Good dude, 

Vignesh, would have 

At least extended his 

Help to do the dishes.

No Ash, No Phoenix

The way I wanna 

Lose you.

The way I wanna 

Let you go.

But the urge to

Preserve and 

Remember you

Forever-

Like rose petals

Leaving hints of

Presence through 

Fragrance.

Songs leaving 

Traces of memories 

In the tones that

Don't wanna fade.

But the monsoons

Convincing me,

I can't hold you 

Any more-

The way I wanna

Make peace with

A drab feeling 

In my bones-

I write, rewrite 

Your name on my

Skin, but its tendency 

To disappear,

Again and again-

Time does his 

Job well, you see. 

The way he rubs

It off you, 

Doesn't leave any 

Stain.

He's a slow pacifier 

On a couch,

Smoking a cigar,

That doesn't need

An ashtray.

There's no phoenix 

Without ash.

And the way you're

Fading away-

No scars are left,

To scratch.

Social Mobility

Before returning to

His duty in the army,

Dad bought me a 

Chair when I was five.

Shortly, when the 

Village-landlord visited

Our dilapidated house.

Which reeked of 

Cattle dung and urine-

He couldn't stand 

The sight of a

Bright blue chair.

How could a mere

Labourer's house 

Have a chair?

And when there's a

Chair, how could he

Sit on the floor with

All that ego up his ass?

He commanded my

Grandpa to serve his

Ego with a kid's chair.

My poor chair with

Small arms and legs.

Accommodating his

Big-big-butts without 

Breaking-

Trying to hold entire 

Family's respect-

Like it was my dad's 

Part-persona fighting 

The divide here.

My chair did a good 

Job in straightening 

Our spines for next 

Two decades-

Before it was passed 

On to my niece.

Who now climbs on it

To reach the books

We never had.

Aftermath

It's been five years 

Since she died, and 

I haven't moved on.

Today is the last day 

Of Dashami, and 

I'm sitting here,

Wearing her Red saree 

and seven bangles

On each hand.

That's what the 

Tantrik said.

A Mandala made 

Out of Haldi and 

Kumkum. 

Soil from her grave 

In the middle with 

Limbu and Mirch-

After myriads of

Attempts, I invoked 

Her spirit successfully 

This time.

It was so good to

Hear her voice.

Her translucent body

Looked hot.

Everything was alright-

Till she sobbed and

Asked me in a 

Coarse voice:

Why did you kill me?

Readily, I threw on her

The enchanted ash 

To set her on fire.

The spirit, too, had to

Be killed to unlock 

The ancient treasure-

That's what the last

Page of the book,

Grandpa left me said.

Facts vs intellect

This year Mahanavami, I was aghast to see a warning board when I entered the temple of my village Goddess. It said, "Women are not allowed in the sanctum".

I slipped into a furious state of overthinking.

How can they say that?

How can they break away from the tradition?

Did the national politics enter my village already?

Did a loudmouth force his campaign into the temple?

Every year women from every household visit the temple. For nine days, they pour oil into the lamps allotted to them in specific slots in the racks. The temple shines, adorned with thousands of those lamps.

Even inside the sanctum there used to be rows and rows of lamps all these years. But this year, no. They excluded the sanctum with the warning sign that said women aren't allowed inside.

In the backdrop of Sabarimala temple and its a ban on entry of menstruating women. I thought the question of purity invaded even my village.

My bias against right-wing politics added tadka to my emotions. This made me take a pic of the warning board- to make noise about the same on Twitter.

But before I could post, I thought of enquiring about it first. And when I asked my father about the same expecting an answer I wanted-

His answer was more flabbergasting, to my shock and surprise. He said-

Because a new idol of the goddess has been installed. Women are prohibited, as they often touch the idol with oily hands. They've restricted the entry for nine days to prevent a mess.

Such a face-palm moment. Sometimes the problems are more basic and practical. That's why logic, reasoning, and intellectualism should always be backed with facts.

Roasted Liver

The dead body in the 

Backyard calls my name

In the night.

Asks me why I kill?

What do I tell? 

I like the smell of 

Raw flesh?

The sound of oozing 

Blood?

How I wanna give 

Sharp metals a better 

Purpose? or

My own lust has its 

Way to manifest me 

A greater revelation?

Ohh! It's such a 

Pristine compulsion.

What do I tell it?

Can it even understand 

The gravity of passion?

What a rush it is to

Isolate a subject.

Stab them in the heart.

Drain out all the blood 

Through just an ooze.

Run out of breath in the

Act. Feel hungry as hell

After that.

Then roast just the 

Liver on low flame with 

Just salt and pepper-

To feel my art on

My tongue.

Ohh! Great art is all 

Hunger and food.

Passion translating into

Juicy fetish in your 

Mouth- 

Good art is a 

Roasted liver for 

The fancy of one's 

Taste buds.

Dog Evangelism

My landlord's dog looks

Me in the eyes.

Looks so deep, my butt

Quivers in angst.

Maybe it fancies looking 

Past my flesh to feel

My ribs in her mouth.

Her unconditional hate

For me, must have turned 

Into a juicy fetish and

She must be waiting 

For my ready demise.

Every time my landlord 

Plays fetch with her,

Looking at my direction-

She bites the ball so hard,

My soul from previous

Life feels threatened.

She seems to have

Created a hiccup in my

Existence already, and I 

Take the lord's name-

Every time I sneeze like 

My grandma did to ward

Off possible evil.

The little bastard has

Kicked out atheism in me.

I wonder what kind of

Evangelism is this.