Humiliation Kink

God is watching 

the world burn,

and we are praying, 

begging. In fact-

We're questioning

our very intent of 

worship sometimes.

But if God is having fun?

winning bet after after 

each kid's death.

A jackpot when there's

A genocide..

What if he never 

cared about us?

so appalled by 

Eve's disobedience,

he decided hold us

against ourselves?

the plan was always

to make her watch her 

children kill each other.

maybe Humiliation is 

God's favorite kink.

He's a narcissistic 

bitch.

Postponed Life

If the world doesn’t 

end tomorrow,

I would spit out the wad 

stuck in my throat 

to scream my guts out.

I would climb a mountain,

walk into a forest,

throw myself off a plane

and dive into the deep 

sea just to hear how 

silence would sound.

Maybe I would call 

you too and as a 

final act of love I might 

rip my heart out to

place it at your feet to

sing blasphemous 

confessions.

This life stuck in 

the nose that I can't 

sneeze out-

I need a new hammer 

to break it open.

I gotta run, jump, fall

to jolt me awake to

a radical change..

So lemme reiterate-

If the world doesn’t 

end tomorrow,

I would begin again.

properly start the life

I keep postponing.

But aghast!

it always seems

it'll end tomorrow,

or next hour,

or right now.

every breath feels

like a countdown.

always on my toes-

waiting for an apocalypse

that never arrives to 

postpone a life

that never begins.

Jigsaw Fit

The craving for a 

drop of water

on a thirsty tongue.

The burden of an 

ocean, when you're 

filled.

The dryness of 

a song upon your ears 

as your heart is 

yet to be bruised?

The flowers are 

brooding and drooping 

because the bees 

have lost the sense 

of longing.

You too have a flaw

and I do too-

and only with our 

missing parts alone,

the world is complete.

The jigsaw fit for 

each other always lies 

elsewhere.

Why else would winds 

move from somewhere

and it rains here.

Civilization

Study. get a job.

earn a living.

marry. have kids.

lead a life.

Why bother?

why digress?

why derail the 

conveyor belt?

Why think?

why observe the 

noise inside?

why give thoughts 

a language?

Why give a chair 

four legs? or

aeroplane wing?

why do anything 

other than just

breathe and exist?

What’s the point

of asking a question

in a world that has

mass-produced all

the answers?

That's what all

all cavemen thought. 

till a lazy dude said, 

why not?

and set his head

on fire to impress 

a girl for a 

one-night-stand.

and from the wheel

to steam engines-

the standards 

have gone up 

ever since.

the arc of history 

is bent by the 

acts of these dudes

doing crazy stuff to 

sniff ass.

Source of Protein

After a full day’s labour,

you reach your house-

tired wife, excited kids.

a KG of mutton in 

your hand.

Weekend luxury.

Masala ready.

Oil sizzling.

An occasional happy meal.

Then a mob kicks the door,

drags you out,

beats you senseless-

no question,

no warning.

Your head spins,

teeth crack,

vision blurs-

and just before

you fade into blackout,

one voice cuts through

the chaos-

Beef! says a 

saffron laden voice.

and that’s it-

One word. your trial, 

your verdict,

your sentence-

fuck the stairway to

heaven, when the 

source of your protein

can get you there.

Dilshad, Sudha

me and my close friend

we talk about everything-

songs, food, places to go,

the new restaurants,

the old regrets,

and the usual gossip

about life.

after the usual loop,

we always slip

into the family stuff-

the dysfunctions,

the taunts,

the tiny wars at home.

we blame our fathers

for being toxic to our mothers,

we psychoanalyse them

like two trained therapists

with pitchers in hand.

we call out patriarchy

with big words,

strong opinions,

heavy statements.

i suddenly realise,

i don't know his mom's 

name. he says Dilshaad.

he asks mine,

i say Sudha--

two decades of friendship

choked by the void that

sat in the names of women

we claim to defend-

alaas! patriarchy isn’t in 

the fathers, sons or 

those other oldies-

it quietly sits inside our 

vocabulary.

crazy how, the change

we wish to see can

begin with the awareness 

that his/her mom has

a NAME.

Blunt Knife?

After each sin, 

God sharpens his knife. 

But does it mean 

it turns blunt after 

each good deed? 

And if death is inevitable

won't the virtuous be 

killed by a blunt knife? 

If so,

which is more painful, 

Death with a sharp knife 

or blunt one? 

Well. Well. Well.

That's why that fruit was 

forbidden in Eden.

Isn't it? If it invoked in 

humans, logic.

and God didn't like 

counter-questions.

He had to abandon us

for our loud mouths.

We don't know it but

Freedom of expression 

is a punishment-

We've been left to 

Ruin ourselves by 

Too many opinions of

Ours.

Water

Every other day,

we were supposed to

fetch water-

me, my cousin,

a kilometer’s walk

from the hand pump.

Small pots on our 

shoulders, slipping arms, 

dusty feet, the road 

smelt of wet mud

and sunburnt patience.

If we did that for a 

week, the reward was 

a roti with butter

and a lump of jaggery-

a Sunday feast

we’d eat like kings.

While we fetched water,

and grandma churned 

the curd with her Kadagol,

humming some old tune

that had no beginning 

or an end.

By the time we returned, 

En route, our shadows

grew taller than us.

The house got cemented

and plastered.

Cattle were gone.

Grandma too.

The water came through 

motorised pipes,

and the life got seated

in memory-

Lingering now only as 

sensations in the legs 

that refuse to run.

Taandav

Empty vessels make noise, 

they say.

So I emptied myself.

To hear the one who's 

Been silenced for decades.

I scraped my past.

I scraped my future.

I scraped my present.

Just to hear the noise,

I emptied myself to

the core.

and when I became empty 

enough, there wasn’t 

any noise.

silence sat heavy-

dense, unmoving,

like truth refusing to speak.

Disappointed, distressed,

and in retaliation-

I started filling up again-

memories, guilt, 

half-read books,

faces that never stayed.

Slowly, the noise returned.

Not hollow this time,

but humming-

a strange vibration,

a forming self.

The more I filled,

the clearer it became-

from clutter to chord,

from noise to note.

constantly shaped and 

reshaped-

Learning, unlearning 

and relearning-

till Shiva in me made a 

round trip as Nataraj 

to force my voice

sound like mine.

Soft Ambitions

I feel tired. 

I sense my life choked

In my nose. 

I wonder how my 

Nana did it-

living alone in a farm 

for decades, 

attending to his cattle,

and narrating 

mythological stories 

whenever I asked. 

I can beat you blokes 

any day, both in 

eating and working, 

He'd say. 

He loved his buffaloes, 

cows, and hens, and 

He loved his lord Vitobha. 

His chores got him through, 

and his band of friends-

The bhajan mandali.

Sometimes late in the 

evening when I feel like 

Not eating and sleeping,

and not living-

From somewhere, 

the sound of his bicycle 

jolts me awake to a 

longing for the fritters 

He brought from 

The Saturday market. 

And once again, I start 

my life with small efforts. 

I get a pen, a poem.

A pan, an omelet-

The trick is to get going 

somehow-

The trick is to remember 

The soft ambition of

Touching the sky,

From all those days 

When he carried me

On his shoulders.

Another Year of Almosts

In another minute,

it’ll be 16th August-

my next birthday.

There’s half-eaten 

Biryani beside me,

a bottle of beer-

I don’t even want to drink.

I’d hoped you’d call,

but I know you won’t.

Suddenly, I realize-

I’m all alone. After years.

I feel utterly lonely again.

Everything seems to 

withdraw-

the disappearing moon,

the absence of 

eavesdropping ears.

the strange urge

to hand over my eyes

to someone else.

And then it hits me-

there are only two 

possibilities,

and I don’t know which 

is worse:

that you don’t remember

my birthday at all,

or that you do-

and choose not to wish.

The clock blinks 12:00-

A quiet announcement

No one wanna hear.

I scroll through old chats.

Half-written apologies,

None worth sending.

Maybe growing older

Isn’t about aging,

But outliving the noise

We once called love.

So I raise the bottle,

Not in celebration,

But as a truce

with the silence-

To another year of

Almosts, and the slow art

of getting used to being

forgotten.

Burning it up

Does burning help?

After months of fighting 

With myself.

Punishing myself for 

Letting you walk away.

Was it my fault?

Do I deserve it all?

I collected every bit of 

Your memory while I 

Kept asking myself

All the self-deprecating 

Questions in the world.

The final one:

Does burning help?

The books, the gifts, 

The memories and the

Places that remind me 

Of you.

The songs, movies, 

Snacks, and food.

In the middle of the night,

I did it anyway-

A bonfire rising to the sky,

Soot mixing with the 

Fog for days.

Then it rained.

Water carrying, charred

Mist of demise.

Deluge of knee-deep.

Black water up and rising.

The flooding-

You can’t escape the burst,

Can you? If you burn it,

You might drown briefly 

after that.

Ode to Rockstar songs

After years of wandering,

you find that one 

wholesome home to 

settle down.

The 90s Bollywood music 

you listen to, and the good 

old Kannada songs-

Western music happens,

and you are obsessively 

into a couple of bands.

Then you hit a sweet spot.

It takes over you

like a ghost of childhood 

you always romanticized.

Years pass by while it 

makes a home in your head.

You relish the indie music,

you go gaga over 

classical fusions for some time.

But you always come back 

to this homeliness of

Rockstar-

A hall of Sadda Haq with 

TV and couch.

Pirse Ud Chala kitchen,

where you cook dancing.

Aur Ho is a cozy washroom.

Tum Ho is bed and Tum ko

is a blanket.

This homeliness has always 

Been a good night’s sleep,

and a Kun Faya Kun like 

mornings you wake up to-

Nadaan Parindey like

Meals and Hawa hawa kind 

of evenings to slip in

Drinking-

Dichotomy of fame kinda

of tea.

Ohh! life has been tasty

and at ease, a toast

like Tango for Taj.

So this is goodbye

The desire in the eyes

doesn't transcend

down to lips.

The quiver of fingers

doesn't translate

the fire in my veins.

The moon doesn't wink

at your instance.

The tongue doesn't roll

seamlessly with 

wet verses when you 

cross my mind.

Somewhere, our nest 

feels abandoned.

The ship that was 

supposed to cross the 

seven seas, strands 

in the middle.

The lullabies intended

to you get caught in the 

sneezes to fizzle out.

And with failed will and 

wings, any reciprocation 

from you,

fails to take off.

I have repeatedly tried

to fix this.

But every attempt

is another excuse, that

causes more damage.

it feels hopeless,

I want to give up.

don't know if you'd 

go or try to give this

another chance 

but for now, this is 

goodbye, Moonpie.

Before everything turns 

to ashes, let's part 

on a good note.

if this stands the test

of the times, maybe 

we'll be left with a

a nostalgia we can keep 

coming back.

Persistence of Oblivion

I take pictures of 

the clock thinking 

it will freeze time.

One in childhood, 

one in school,

college, marriage, 

birthday.

But the second-hand 

always ticks-

Ebbing, etching 

something each time.

And I end up with a 

scratched

photo of mine.

Almost forgetting, 

mostly forgotten-

the eyes, nose, or 

the cheek I once had.

A void left everywhere 

for me to scream 

my oblivion-

And almost always,

there is no answer 

to a why.

Only the faint sound 

of seconds chewing 

on memories,

polite, persistent-

like an old friend who 

stayed longer than 

he should.

A friend who let

The frame collect

dust, and the dust 

collect years-

Each layer smothering 

who I was, and 

what becomes of me,

till even memory 

loses its grip

on who it remembers 

or mourns.