Intent to Preserve your Gaze

I've stolen your gaze,

And I intend to 

Preserve it.

I've wrapped it in my 

Favourite songs.

Soaked it in the fragrance 

Of the flowers I've 

Adored.

I intend to nurse it 

With my nostalgia and 

Nourish it with the presage 

Of great time that's 

Ahead.

Ohh! How I wish to be

Seen by your eyes

Again and again.

How I want my name 

To be uttered along

With yours.

How I want be stolen,

Intoxicated and 

Drowned in your depths.

And if only, redemption

Didn't lie in this yearning-

How I wouldn't even 

Dare fall for you--

But I do. I do. I do.

Intimate Peace Out

You keep your eyes

Set on me, and you

Look deeply- teasing 

Me for still having my

Clothes on.

The curve of your 

Wicked smile,

Already has the spoils

Of my persona-

Like I'm ready for a

War.

Well, I am.

Our fingers entangle

Searching for the 

Warmth our tongues

Battle for. 

And the legs spread

Aligning and realigning 

Repeatedly-

To transcend the barrier 

Of our skins.

We hurl at each other 

Our evil intentions 

Like soldiers on

Opposing teams-

Only to be humbled by 

Our panting breaths.

And our rush ceases 

Into a realisation that

We're just two refugees,

Seeking home in 

Each other--

So we peace out 

Into a submission of 

Feeble touches and

Happily sleep.

Head Lice

My tenant. Who was my 

Teacher as well at the convent.

She was fond of me.

Gave toffees, and

other eatables.

Would catch hold of

Me whenever I scratched 

My head to pick lice

In the evening.

I would offer her flowers

Randomly. It felt nice.

That winter, Mom went to 

Her maiden home for 

The third delivery. Dad was 

In the Army like always.

Felt forgotten and aloof

For months in my big joint family,

And only Ma'am felt like 

Family in the absence of 

Mom.

After the summer holidays,

When I returned from 

Visiting mom.

Ma'am wasn't there.

Married off. Gone.

I waited for her as my

Aloofness grew louder 

In the house--

The itch in my head 

Wouldn't stop.

I insisted on shaving 

My head in the following 

Month, when Grandpa

Took me to the barber.

Something broke me

That day and I suppose 

That explains, why I hate 

Shampoo to this day.

God Files Treason Against Darwin

God Files Treason Against Darwin

(for proving evolution and murdering miracles)

I gave them

Adam, and this particular 

Pastard gave them

A chimpanzee

With with bipedalism.

I said,

“Let there be light,”

He said,

“Photosynthesis.”

I carved Eve from a rib,

He said,

“uterus, cell division-

checkmate.”

One theory from him—

aland suddenly,

Floating somewhere between

Greek gods and Santa Claus-

I’m a myth??

They used to call storms

my wrath. Now it’s

“cyclonic pressure zone

over Bay of Bengal.”

I gave them

plagues to humble.

They gave me

Vaccines and said

“I’m good, thanks.”

I offered heaven for 

Obedience.

He offered Evolution

And a billion years

of paperwork.

Dear Darwin,

You killed prayers,

Turned temples

Into selfie zones.

You made them

Feel smart enough

To stop needing me.

Fine.

Let them have their evolution.

Let them trace

Grandpa’s lineage

To a lemur with abandonment 

Issues.

Let them

Map the genome,

Discover dark matter,

Build sexbots, smarter 

Than prophets.

But when they cry at 

Funerals or beg

The tumour to vanish by

Whispering my name...

A dejected grey Pigeon 

Will poop on your statue.

Because science,

For all its brilliance,

Never made a God

Who listens to 

The chemical fuck ups

In human head.

The Great Indian Cough-Off

It began

When someone started

Stealing laughter.

Quietly.

From WhatsApp groups,

Chai tapris,

Even Kapil Sharma reruns.

Jokes turned stale.

Faces forgot

How to crinkle.

Stand-up comics

Sat down in

Self-censure.

One man,

Near Ghaziabad,

Coughed so powerfully

It echoed in Parliament.

He was made Minister

of Health & Mucus.

News anchors began

Clearing throats

Instead of facts.

Debates sounded

Like TB wards.

Slogans turned to 

Luxurious wheezes.

“Freedom of Speech?”

No, no.

Freedom to Cough.

That's a thing now.

Coughers rose like poets.

Dry cough. Wet cough.

Nationalist phlegm.

Contestants lined up

Outside Ayush Ministry

for the Coughing Championship.

First prize:

A plastic lung that's 

Fluent and 

Lifetime supply

Of Vicks.

Coughing replaced clapping.

Replaced slogans.

Replaced silence.

One cough, one vote.

Two coughs, you're an influencer.

Three coughs? 

Too much freedom--

Sedition, probably.

But soon,

Coughs began to disappear.

Someone—maybe from

"Anti-national quarters"—

Started stealing them too.

Sucked them out

With nano-devices

and Section 144 notices.

That’s when it happened.

A man in Bareilly,

Perhaps god’s chosen one,

Farted during

An Aadhaar update.

The Earth paused.

And thus, began

The Age of Flatulence.

Panel discussions now began

With gaseous bursts.

National anthems

were remixed

With strategic toots.

Schoolchildren were taught

to respect loud farts

But fear the silent ones.

The PM called them

“Symbols of Organic Dissent.”

One MP spoke out:

“This is ridiculous!”

He was arrested.

His last recorded sound

was…

a suspicious squeak.

Soon,

Corporates joined in.

Patanjali launched

"Desi Gobar Gas™"

for the spiritually aligned.

Baba Ramdev

Held a press conference

With no words—

Just synchronized fart yoga.

But art suffered.

Poets were replaced

by stomachs.

Cinema replaced

with whoopee cushions.

The Constitution, now

a scratch-and-sniff.

Still, the people adjusted.

They always do.

They coughed when allowed,

Farted when blessed.

And in between,

They held their breath—

For what used to be

called Freedom.

The Sole Broker

I collect chappals

From stampedes-

Not bodies.

Not names.

Just resilient soles.

Rubber. Plastic.

Faith-worn. sweat-kissed.

Some still warm with

Unfinished pilgrimage.

___

I pair them-

Left with a right.

Sometimes a Bata

Marries a Relaxo.

Kolhapuri with

A Lee Cooper.

A child’s slipper gets

A grown man’s sandal.

A woman's shoe gets

A dirty flipflop.

And like anywhere else,

Even here,

Love of course is a 

Compromise.

___

Sprinkle Holy Water for 

Bloodstains.

But don't clean them 

Entirely.

Incense for odour.

A little glitter to make

It presentable.

Loss sells better

When it sparkles

You see and fetches

More when I adorn

Them with a made up

Story-

“This survived Kumbh 2025.”

"RCB's victory parade- hola ESCN"

“This one tripped a minister’s 

Convoy in Tirupati.”

“These? Blessed by accident. 

Someone literally died on 

Top of it.”

_____

Collectors love it.

NGO execs.

Art curators.

One Berlin museum

Paid ₹1.2 lakh for a 

Pair that smelled like

Cow dung and crushed belief.

One in New York got 

Over a crore just because 

It the bloodstains were 

Still fresh.

Sometimes,

A grieving family shows up.

“That slipper… it was my mother’s,”

they whisper.

I offer a discount--

Grief should never pay retail.

⸻

People ask:

“Isn’t this unethical?”

And I say:

So is God’s crowd control.

At least I give closure 

To a sole.

I’m not a monster.

I just turn stampedes

into exhibits.

Into commerce.

Into matching pairs.

I'm human..

An opportunist,

A capitalist and

I tend to profit from 

Chaos. And why not?

When someone with

A brush can do it?

When someone with

A book, pen and 

Broken words can do it?

Why not someone

With a conscience 

And a size chart with an

Ability to find 

An able match can't?

Why can't this be

Labeled as art?

___

It Was Over for Men

When Rosa Parks

refused to move from her seat—

we should’ve seen it coming.

That was the first crack

in the throne.

Then they snatched

voting rights.

Wore pants.

Cut their hair.

Took our offices

and didn’t even say thanks.

---

It was over

when Indira Gandhi

held a nuclear button

in one hand

and the parliament

in the other.

While Margaret Thatcher

turned strikes into statistics.

They became doctors.

They flew planes.

Engineers and architects.

Even lawyers till the

Divorce papers got

Real efficient.

We were done for

the moment when 

she stopped asking,

 “Can I go?”

and started saying,

“I already did.”

---

Then the internet 

Happened. 

We made a feet pic viral.

It was all accidental

But seemed like a

Crack of hope.

But we took it slow.

One step at a time.

You’ve won.

“You can be anything now.”

A slow and steady pampering

Is all it took-

"Boss babe, scientist, president, 

Fighter pilot—

But first, show us the haul.

The skin care.

The lashes.

That soft morning light

on your upper thigh.”

---

Then came the first 

Storm of hot steamy pics

On the internet.

We needed a better algorithm 

Is all to get what we need-

"Not footsteps

into parliament halls.

Not footprints

on the moon but-

Semi-nude pics with

Crushed lips. More and

More filters,

set to trending Audio to

Make them say

"You go gurllll"

---

She dreamed of Mars.

But her inbox

was full of men

offering $10

for a video

of her stepping on grapes.

She wanted to build rockets.

But her reels did better

when she whispered,

“Guess what color panties today?”

---

And while she filmed

“Get Ready With Me”

for the fifth time this week,

We quietly rewrote

The algorithms to

Encourage the same.

The lie was elegant—

It took them on a swirl

And eventually OnlyFans

Exploded.

“Empowerment is sexy, right?”

That's what we kept 

Whispering-

And so, liberation

became a filter—

not a fight.

Makes Savitribai Phule's

Ghost cry in the corner 

Today...

But, alas!

Feminism now rots

In the confines of 

Flashing flesh on screens

And we go happily 

Sipping pleasure

Over the rejuvenation of

Our sweet comfort -

Patriarchy.

----