The Ink Outlawed

My pen refuses to 

stay neutral. 

It refuses quietude, 

inertia, routine, or 

any emotional paralysis. 

It invokes rebellion 

against stillness and 

whispers songs of 

revolution in my ears. 

It's a beast in hibernation, 

fragrance in aestivation.

A calm before the storm, 

a tremor before an outcry.

It pushes me inward,

to bring up all of it in 

the open.

But Alas!  

The government has

banned ink and dyes.

And the stony silence 

lingers, searching rocks 

to inscribe.

But rocks are holy

and only meant for 

statues, says the mob.

So my pen grows teeth

to bruise the air-

The words, tethered,

shall blow over the skin 

to scar memories.

The ink, outlawed, 

shall paint in red the 

pages of history.

The Haunting

My father's unvented ire, 

mom's unshed tears, 

my own suppressed angst 

found me. 

And the unintended jokes 

of friends, 

the passing comments 

of strangers, became a 

knife to hold me 

accountable. 

The image of that 

school bully gleams 

upon my face sometimes.

and the laugh of my 

math teacher hails over

my trigonometry again.

The other ghosts I hid 

in the kitchen cabinet 

come to get me, and 

the same useless gods 

conspire against me 

for being too holy.

All the rooms I enter

are infected with my past.

And the moment I 

try to escape,

they unlock a new door 

that has a bigger demon- 

And I'm compelled to

fall deeper within myself-

while they ask

"Why can't I smile?"

Humiliation

Thirst trap me and 

punish me with the lure 

of your wetlands. 

Give me sleepless nights, 

Offer me reasons to 

invoke my self-pity. 

Corner me to push my

boundaries. 

Reach my insides to

pinch me where it hurts.

Bring out your 

God complex,

I am ready for a devotion 

that's close to slavery. 

Blur the lines between 

prayer and submission. 

Render me defenseless.

Hoard me in a 

bondage of carnal 

pleasures. 

This night, 

laced with charm, 

my senses suspended, 

reasons fed en masse to

rampaging hormones. 

Gut me like a goat.

Ask me if I am ready 

for my ultimate humiliation.

If I don't comply with 

a hard on-

Punish me further till 

I actually suffer from 

pain.

Half Half

The overjoyous heart 

poises itself as a tear. 

The excitement in my veins 

tingles in my fingers. 

Legs ready to run 

towards you.

Arms ready to embrace 

your intimidating mind.

The feelings outrun 

the confines of language.

Logic spills over from 

the vessel of reasoning. 

Lips want to say much 

more than needed but 

the words fizzle out. 

I am so overwhelmed 

by your presence here-

I pant in a language only 

you understand but 

Slip away in the one 

I fail to express.

My pulse becomes

an impatient translator,

beating against the ribs

for a clearer sentence.

My eyes rehearse

confessions in silence,

hoping you will read

what my tongue cannot risk.

The air between us

grows dense with 

everything unsaid-

Half-fluent in courage,

Half-exiled in awe.

I stand here carrying 

a storm in a cup-

If I step closer,

I might dissolve.

If I stay still,

I might explode.

Becoming of An Unbecoming

And to love you and 

let you go.

To yet preserve a 

longing and carry that 

weight around-

 

What does the bird 

that flies away know 

of a void it left 

in the prison?

And to sing the same 

song again and again 

to the bird that 

never returns. 

To feel the warmth 

of her skin and sculpt 

it on stone and to

burn it on a canvas

with paint.

Oh, it must be tiring 

to do something like that.

A habit grown out of hand.

A compulsion that 

becomes art.

The hum that keeps 

rampaging without the 

need for validation and 

goes everywhere but 

to her. 

And even if it does, 

she doesn't get it. 

And when your creation,

When it goes beyond 

what it was meant for,

oh, that's love.

That's beyond love-

That's redemption of

Self. The becoming 

of your unbecoming.

Unseen Labour

What to do when 

the mind refuses to 

rest when it's asleep? 

What to do when 

thoughts circle over 

the same question till 

they lose their shape? 

Time slows, 

night lengthens, 

silence is crowded and 

quietude is a diarrhea 

of incomplete answers.

The unseen labour, 

sustained pressure, 

a friction that produces 

fatigue without movement. 

The body lies tired, but 

the mind doesn't find

closure. 

In comparison, 

isn't hell overrated? 

Give someone immortality 

and take away their sleep. 

Make them stranded

in their own head by 

giving infinite hope with 

inevitable despair. 

Ask them to carry the 

boulder up and down by

infecting their mind with 

ideals of persistence. 

And when they ask a 

counter question, 

tell them-

"One must assume 

Sisyphus happy."

Ikk Kudi

I listen to 'Ik Kudi' and I remember you. 

I hope you are fine. Wherever you are, 

I hope you aren't lost. 

I hope you aren't missing from yourself. 

I hope you still reek of those Avadhi words

That loosely translate as love for self. 

May the fire in you find a calm embrace,

And the silence in you get enough weight 

To reciprocate with storms.

I hope all the wonders and mysteries 

Unravel in you with all their intricacies.

I hope all the heavenly beauty embrace 

Your imperfections.

I hope you carry the summer and winters

Alike and I really hope you accept 

Your gods and demons alike.

I hope the world is not just a stage for

You and you don't have to perform.

I hope that's your homecoming.

I hope you realise, you found yourself 

Not because you were lost but you

Stopped looking everywhere else.

Simpy put, I hope you become what

Shiv Kumar Batalvi wished when the

Song reaches its high with-

Ho surat osdi pariyaan wargi,

Sirat di oh mariyam lagdi.

Hasdi hai taan phul jharhde ne,

Turdi hai taan ghazal hai lagdi.

Life is Inevitable

The first time I wanted to kill myself. 

Mom knocked on the door. 

I gulped down the feeling and lived 

four more years. 

The second time, I tried to kill myself. 

The cat spilled the milk in the kitchen,

And that bought me a few more years. 

An okayish time after that, I guess. 

The third time, I was overwhelmed by 

a fresh poem. I had to scribble it down 

Before I could do the honours.

But then, between that poem and 

the next few hundred, 

I got few collections published, 

and they are alright, I suppose. 

Well, the fourth attempt was pretty 

serious, but she called after a decade, 

and I married her eventually. 

Marriage is a demise in a way, 

but may not be equal to killing oneself.

Then I slid through life: children, wife, 

school and whatnot. 

I think about my fifth and sixth, 

but bloody hell, neither I get any 

time or privacy to ponder over 

my intrusive thoughts. 

For the seventh, I made up my mind but

In the final moment, I started laughing.

That's after standing on the stool with 

the noose around my neck. 

Life looked pretty small from up there. 

Life indeed was laughable. 

But more than that, Death was more 

worthy of that laughter,

For I have mocked it many a time.

So I climb down at my good sixties.

Or bad? I don't know. Averaging an 

attempt for each decade. Yet, 

shamelessly missing my intended aim.

Sometimes, doesn't it seem that 

Life itself is inevitable? 

And death, at most, 

Is an accident that didn't happen 

to you on good days.

The Resistance

Me and my cousin

Fancied bows and arrows.

A flexible bamboo for 

A bow and jowar stalks as 

Arrows- 

Best harmless weapons,

Yet stout for fun.

Our primary targets 

Were pigs in our backyard.

Our contention was,

Their acts of sniffing our

Asses while we shat

in the open.

So before open defection 

Was looked down upon,

We had an offensive strategy 

To hold our ground.

And when PM declared, 

India, open defecation-free,

He forgot to mention 

The members of

The resistance,

We were- to put it mildly-

A little angry.

Unknown Yearning

There are things in the world we will never understand. There are things in the world we can understand but never experience. 

Whenever our eyes meet, I try to look you in the eyes- to understand and experience- what? I don't know. 

But I will tell you this. When reasons fall flat and meaning is rendered irrelevant. When definition of words grow thin because any one language isn't enough..

Am I making sense? 

It's like you are somewhere far away and we haven't met. But I feel your teeth on my neck. The intoxication of your lips on mine and how I taste them like honey..

Well, yes, it doesn't make any sense for now-

But just so you know, it's something like that. It's an unknown yearning I try to fight through denial. It's kind of a compulsion I don't wanna escape.

It's something I can touch but can't reach. The forever incomplete feeling I carry. My attempts to fill it takes me places and I seem to always stop here.

And I'm happy to stand here waiting. You take your time, Stranger.

Leap

Enough overthinking.

Enough hesitation.

Enough streaks of

Lazy days and nights.

Enough practice.

Enough obsession.

Enough rehearsals to

Get it finally right.

On the day of

Deliverance-

When the ghost of

Consequences stare

Into my soul-

When the hiccups in 

My head and cough 

In the veins peek

Through my sweat-

I shall shed defenses,

Forget my weapons,

Extend my hand,

Tighten my legs-

Close my eyes to 

Look within myself for 

One last time, and 

When it's about time-

I shall take a leap to

Leave it all to chance.

And when the others

Ask how I did it..

I shall look them in 

The eye and say-

"I got lucky".

Reverse Photography

I don't remember when

I took that photograph.

It looks like a selfie, but

It isn't when I look closely.

My eyes are blue.

The tip of the nose is red.

Why do I have profuse

Hair on my head and

Where the eff is my

Moustache?

Did the pic blink just now?

I looked closely into the eyes-

Our eyes got locked.

Why can't I blink?

Why am I frozen?

Suddenly, I'm thrown 

Away, and there's snow

Everywhere.

It's hot and the snow

Doesn't melt.

My footprints vanish 

As soon as I make them.

People pass through 

Me without asking 

My name.

Wasted, abandoned.

Feeling like I'm being 

Systematically erased.

I shout, but my voice

Seems to go nowhere.

That's when someone 

Takes out a camera in

The distance-

Click. Click. Click.

The flashes go out-

Like light is being

Eaten away.

The camera,

Sucking in memories-

The cameraman says

"This is reverse photography."

"You're in a whirlpool 

Of oblivion".-

Smile please!

Click. Click. Click.

My face disappears.

I don't feel my skin.

No sensation in my feet.

But there's this strange 

Feeling that screams-

Am I no one or

Everything?

Breathing is a Flex

No rivers want you

You ugly fuck. 

And no graves wanna 

bed you out of love.

The nooses hate you.

Knives n blades too.

So do poisons, reptiles

and electric sockets.

So don't bother 

Killing yourself.

Get your ass back 

Normalcy and carve

a forceful smile.

The god of death

Hates a little joy-

So better condemn 

Yourself to something 

Fun-

Look at that 

Newspaper, 

Your favorite team 

In Red has won. 

Barge on the kitchen 

and eat those idlis,

Because who doesn't like 

Mom's idlis, right? 

Your friend is calling

You from the streets and 

There's a new bar 

opening up tomorrow-

offering free booze for 

a week. 

Breathing is a flex-

Inhale. You gotta 

Chill the fuck out and

 Just exhale.

Bravery vs Stupidity

Stupidity and bravery are two sides of the same coin. But if you're not brave when you're stupid- that's cowardice.

If you're aware enough and still not acting, you're just a dud.

And if you're not stupid enough to be brave, and aware enough to restrain- you haven't figured it yet.

Then, if you're intelligent enough to figure it out and philosophize it for no good- You're miserable enough to be a poet.

Final Act of Love

As a final act of love,

I've learned saying 

Your name without 

Making an ounce of 

sound.

I've learned to deal with 

The emptiness without 

The need to fill it up.

And to love without 

Expressing it,

To yearn without the

Need to show it.

To remember without 

Collapsing--

The art of conversing 

Without the need for 

Reciprocation-

Silence is new language,

And healing is just

Accomodating wounds.

You're not longer a

Scar, just a space

I like to carry.

And perhaps that's 

What love becomes 

When it outlives the

Destination-

A steady embrace of

Letting go..

Wishful Fantasies

My garden blooms 

with memories. 

Sky fills with hopeful 

reveries. 

The weightlessness of

my heart must be a hint

of an unknown longing. 

The urge to fly- 

must be a sign of a 

distant love arriving. 

The persistent chirps of 

sparrows from the balcony,

The fresh shoots on the 

Almond trees-

Spring must be an 

anomaly of her feelings.

Sometimes, through my 

stained window, 

When I see a rainbow in 

the sky- I wonder if 

she put it up there.

Do seasons still wait 

For her approval?

The weather still complies 

To her instructions?

It almost makes me

Believe,

That somewhere,

She too thinks about me.

And the earth, 

Briefly bends in our 

Favour.

Keep it moving

One word at a time, then a sentence, a follow-up sentence, and then another. You stutter in broken sentences, than plan something grandiose. 

The moment you start giving importance to creating something extraordinary, you become a victim of that. Create average, create mundane- shit, vomit, and spend words like it's dust. 

Then mold, edit and reshape it into something good. This is wrestling, this is boxing, this is dirt racing. This is a constant battle with laziness. This is to keep the pen moving.

Let it move, don't think, don't put your mind to it. Let the pen do the thinking. Action, that's the only thing that matters. Go on and on about how something is this, that, or whatever - or how it can't be. 

This is needed. The only redemption is to keep the pen moving. The only redemption is to let the pen think. The only redemption is to just blast it out of your head while you do the etching. 

Remember- One word at a time, then a sentence, a follow-up sentence, and then another. There's no secret ingredient. Miracles don't happen, if you aren't ready to get your hands dirty.

Unbecoming

to gently dissolve 

like salt in water,

to gently disappear 

like fragrance in air-

the way your name 

tastes on my tongue,

and the way your face 

is imprinted on my walls.

to escape in your 

reveries and be lost,

and to trace you back 

to reality and adore-

my days roll by like this.

and months, and years.

to know someone exists

and to yearn for 

something that's yet 

to happen-

the river of my time 

once touched your feet,

and by the sound of 

your anklets- my life's 

unbecoming.

Pen and Ink trails

The tip of my pen 

slides on a blank paper. 

The trail takes me 

nowhere to anywhere,

to everywhere-

I am where my 

pen moves. 

The wet sand on feet,

The snowy breeze 

of the Arctic. 

The mellow sun shining 

upon a hill and 

Flamingos flying en masse

to Lake Baikal--

I could go to space if 

The trail takes me or

spend nights in my grave, 

if it's deemed necessary--

I am what my pen 

make out of me.

My mind seems to be 

a dark room and 

Only ink can guide 

light there.

and until I put it on paper, 

I don't even recognise 

my thoughts. 

It's my face or a mask,

I don't know. 

I hardly know what I feel. 

and if you sense it

after reading-

let me know.

Displaced. Rehabilitated.

If I could begin again 

I would walk on the 

same roads.

Eat the same berries,

and rejoice the same 

fragrance of jasmines

that reek nostalgia 

of my village. 

I would adore the same 

cattle while they return 

by evening and 

I would be a little more 

curious about the small talks 

of women while they 

fetched water from 

the distant borewell.

If I could begin again, 

I would fly the same kites 

from near the village pond. 

Hang with the same friends 

with small dusty legs and 

have the same thorns 

poked in my feet while

I played with them.

But alas! The water from 

the dam rose one day and

overnight my village got

submerged.

we got dislocated.

we're rehabilitated,

the government says-

But the absent hunger 

in our full plates,

begs to differ.

So do the chirps of 

sparrows that lack

authenticity.

Third Eye

I bet you think about me.

those days when you 

complete your chores,

watch all the TV there is.

Done with those 

Daily items by 11 am,

While you kill time out of 

Boredom-

From one corner of your 

Mind. From the visuals 

of your third eye-

I sneak in your thoughts.

But you’d hate it, 

Wouldn’t you?

You conjure your acts of 

distractions,

Hold me by the neck to choke 

me up and try to rub me off

Like I'm a bad stain--

Dying like that from 

your hand,

It would be a pleasure.

But you don't do that,

Do you?

You can't just ignore me

and flush me down a

limbo.

You find my ghost

Lingering in your drafts-

Half a sentence. Half a sigh. 

Words thought but never 

Penned. Never sent-

You try to wipe it all,

Thinking you’ve erased me,

but I still hum between 

your thoughts, 

Like static on a radio.

You’ve moved on,

You say-

But moving on is just

another form of haunting.

And maybe that's why.

You hold me hostage 

in your ribcage.

to treat me like a trophy. 

or maybe as a 

contingency plan?

Oh Bloody Hell!

The sleep is gone.

Dreams restlessly dance.

The days flirt with 

The evening breeze and 

The sparrows sing in my 

Heart- it churns.

I dress up well to have 

a glance of you-

Jitters, butterflies-

The sky isn't blue anymore.

My yearning has painted 

The world in your colours. 

There are feelings 

Better than this I bet.

But now that it has 

Happened to me, 

How I wanna scream 

about it.

How I wanna lace up my 

words in your reveries,

and float away in the 

Paper boats I made while 

I was unbecoming.

A star has just fallen 

for me asking 

If this is love-

I'm Buoyant. Baffled

Bamboozled-

Ohh bloody hell!!

I have no one way of

saying this, but 

Yes, yes. Hell yes..

Thrift shop

I saw God in a 

Thrift shop.

Blue jeans, dirty jacket.

Doubtful, unsure-

Negotiating the price of 

Blessings for all the 

Half-hearted prayers--

Needs of parched 

Farmers discounted 

From the fate of sailors 

who despise rain.

Tears of mothers,

Compensated out of

The debauchery of 

Chauvinistic men.

The cry of animals for 

Carbon footprint 

Left by private jets,

And the death of soldiers 

From foul-mouthed

Politicians.

I saw him beg for 

Mercy for kids against 

A caricature of POTUS, 

To no effect-

But he stood his ground

Counting coins of

Patience to bet it all

Against a hope that was 

Nowhere to be found.

Because when miracles 

are outdated-

If he doesn't look for

them in a place where 

things are useful again-

Who else would?

Luck

The journey is sleep, 

Or sleep is a journey.

For me, I don't know.

I sleep in buses..

I sleep in buses, and 

I hear my co-passengers talk:

Drunkards complaining 

About the price hikes,

Women despising their 

Adamant kids.

Grumpy old men 

Negotiating ticket prices,

And middle-aged 

Boasting about their 

Sturdy crops.

My villagers in the bus,

Who doesn’t let me sleep 

With their small talks,

Often warn me about 

The old witch in the 

Front seat.

They tell, she steals 

Luck by touching 

Whoever is asleep.

They fear, but I don't 

think I have to.

Luck has always been

a contagious disease,

and maybe she’s 

just the cure.

I hate talking to you

Maybe I hate talking to you 

when I can't write. 

Maybe you are a mirror 

that reflects my face

whenever I can't write. 

What I mean to say is 

I start running away from you 

Because I can't face you 

with writer's block. 

Maybe you challenge the 

only purpose I am left with

and maybe that kicks a 

small midlife crisis.

Maybe you demand me to 

become worthy of a 

conversation, and when I 

Get away in dejection- 

And eventually when 

sentences land on 

fingers like melodies-

There's this urge for 

validation that brings me 

back to you.

Should this feeling have a 

name or it shouldn't? 

I leave that to failed 

Therapists.

 

I am just happy knowing-

you make me write,

and I can breathe in peace 

for one more day.

Justification for a Marriage

Do I have to be a

Cornered dog to 

Get married? and

Do I need grow a 

Spine to live alone?

You think I haven't 

Thought about this?

You think I haven't 

Sung a rebellion before 

I could accept the

Obvious?

Expectations of the 

Family. Sentiments.

Middle class aspirations-

My teenage rebellion 

Dissipating as I aged-

What if a laid-back,

Mundane life is an

Armour for the Wars 

I wanna fight?

What if I live by every 

Vow I take?

What if I learn to weave

My poetries in her

Braids?

What if all my cynicism 

Will be dodged by a

Daughter I'm gonna raise,

And be content with the

Cheers of the pitchers 

I'm gonna enjoy with 

Friends I don't forget?

Of all the overthought 

Outcomes- IFs and ORs, 

AYEs and NAYs.

As the world paints itself 

In grey-

May be redemption lies

In taking a chance.

And because history 

Will repeat itself and 

Every boy is cursed to 

Become an adult 

Like his own father-

Maybe I'm gonna get 

Drunk and recite to

My wife tender poetries of 

The people I adored till

My daughter is gonna

Believe-

What cynical poets 

Can become when they 

Become a parent.

Alternate Names For The End

Doors slammed shut, 

Opportunities lost before 

you could act.

Last nail in the coffin and 

Momentary lapse of reason. 

Epilogue, eulogies, 

Epitaphs. Graduation and 

Unemployment hand in

Hand. Then birthdays to 

Remind you how 

Depreciating you are.

Death, demise, 

Passing away, fading, 

Forgetting. 

Sheer oblivion and then 

There is apathy. 

A marriage, a child, 

a justification when it's 

Not needed. 

And the need for a God, 

When common sense 

pretty much does the job. 

Your presence felt like 

a menace. 

Absence, indicating relief. 

Hope where it shouldn't-

Love, lust, and other such 

Nonsense to indicate 

Everything is alright.

Dreams sent to archives.

Meaning lost to labels.

Somewhere between 

Farewell and full-stop-

A breath that never 

Returns.

Cursed to Endure

I remember counting 

the last pages and

closing the book. 

I remember very well,

how the story had a 

dramatic end-

Death, justice 

and redemption.

Yet there is a sunrise 

on the horizon. 

The birds seem to be 

chirping again. 

Flowers blooming

and fresh paint like

hope smearing itself 

on the canvas..

For what? I don't know. 

The redacted memories 

keep resurfacing. 

The healed wounds 

keep finding new openings. 

The closure I wanted 

edges itself into a 

continuation and the water 

I drank out of thirst 

reinforces it again. 

Caught between a wanting 

and a desire unfulfilled. 

I stare at the ceiling

beseeching the end this 

for once- 

And for a moment, 

image of Ashwatthama 

flashes before my eyes. 

And I understand how-

 

Some stories are beyond 

Beginning or an end-

You just have to endure.

Shakespeare's Ghost of Bhishma

My decision made in 

haste was sealed 

By ceremony- Drums,

Garlands, Applause-

They lifted me onto a 

pedestal overnight

and called it greatness.

I watched my choice

harden into a role.

Watched myself become

an adjective- steadfast, 

incorruptible, eternal.

Every celebration

tightened the knot.

How a man is trapped

not by chains but by 

applause.

Duty grew louder than

Desire. Responsibility 

Felt stronger than

My inner voice-

So I stayed. 

I stood guard over 

The decisions that were 

no longer mine to 

Protect futures that

Excluded my own.

But what good is a 

Resolve without 

contentment?

What good is a decision 

without happiness?

A vow without revision 

is a virtue disguised

as violence-

So beware of the sour

Old men who have no

Respite for reflection.

And remember me not

For the Resolve I made

But for the Warning

I became.

Blurr

She slept on my lap in

The college lawn once.

Hugged me under the

Streetlight at night.

Dragged me to the biggest 

Romantic movie of that

Time and took me to her

House to make me 

Meet her mom.

It was all new to me.

Hesitant. Awkward.

And totally on backfoot-

But it was nice. I think.

On a college trip, 

She made me carry her 

Near the waterfall.

Everyone around cheered.

Months after that

When she said it.

Said it aloud like it was 

Obvious- I froze.

I snapped.

I said nothing.

I didn’t accept or deny.

Maybe I wasn’t ready.

Maybe I didn’t trust myself-

my future,

my ambitions,

my unfinished plans.

Maybe I was afraid

of it becoming real.

Then I pretended I

moved on.

She moved on faster.

Got a job, changed city.

She got married and 

Now has a kid.

A decade later, when 

I think of her sometimes.

Not as regret or rejoice.

But as a loose recapitulation.

It's just a blur.

On cold nights like this,

when memory returns 

uninvited, I can’t tell

If those moments truly 

happened or I imagined them.

I wanted something

beautiful to have happened

to me once. And it did.

But revert back to reality 

Like it didn't.

This constant lingering 

From doubt to fancy-

A poem is the worst thing 

That can happen to you

On lonely nights.

Or the best, depending 

Upon the levels of misery 

You're dealing with.

Instructions for Dividing a Country

(to Radcliffe over the Indo-Pak border)

The scaling for this activity 

On the map- one inch equals one mile.

So keep the pencil sharp.

A millimeter here can throw 

A village elsewhere-

From Graphite to uranium enrichment,

They may never forgive geometry

Or geography.

Clear your throat before you begin.

Do not cough.

A cough can move a mosque

behind a temple,

a temple behind a mosque to

turn prayers into knives.

Check your eyes.

If they blur, pause.

Wear your glasses.

Weak vision can send a mother

running with a child on her hip,

can decide which side

her husband will die on.

Make sure the lamp is bright.

Dim light turns homes into targets.

It decides whose Urdu becomes illegal,

whose Hindi becomes suspect,

whose name is enough

to drag them out at dusk.

Drink water.

Dry hands shake.

Shaking hands redraws citizenship.

Shaking hands make people choose

between Kalma and survival.

Do not think of trains.

Do not imagine compartments

sealed with silence,

filled with bodies that reached

the right country too late.

Do not picture women

cutting their hair,

smearing ash on their faces,

jumping into wells

to avoid becoming trophies

of victory.

Avoid names.

Names are dangerous.

Names decide whether a door opens

or set houses on fire.

If you feel tired, stop.

Fatigue invents massacres.

Fatigue makes people believe

this separation is temporary-

that they’ll return after things settle.

Well, they won’t.

The houses they lock

will be occupied.

The fields they leave

will be renamed.

Their dead

will belong nowhere.

Do not imagine gods.

They will be invoked anyway.

They will be dragged into this

with slogans and fire,

forced to watch believers

kill other believers better.

Sign quickly.

Fold the map neatly.

Leave before consequences arrive.

If you stay, you'll be worshipped 

For the favour you've made.

They must not know,

You're their Messiah.

Temporary Address

Do that in your 'sasural'

Says Mom.

We tolerate you, but 

Would your in-laws?

Chuckles Dad.

Once you marry,

The room will all be mine-

Declares my loving Brother.

But should that be

Alright?

When these windows

Remember my childhood,

And the walls echo my 

Tattered first words-

Should the air rehearse

my exit? Should the mirror 

Constantly remind me, 

How my rent is due here?

Why would everything 

Repeat itself to 

Pack me away?

Home these days is a

Conditioning draped

In care.

A departure dressed

As destiny-

A quiet loosening,

As if the roots should 

Learn early, how to 

Apologise for growing.