Making Yourself a Space

Look for a hill nearby, 

climb it up and sit under a tree.  

Feel your presence against 

the wind, fixate your mind 

on something and write about it. 

Next, find a riverbank, 

a barren land, an abandoned 

house, or a distant beach. 

Maybe you can bike your ass 

for a week or two to scrape 

your inside from all possible 

angles. 

Do this for six months or 

a year, or till all the pages 

that diary are not entirely filled- 

hunt for experiences. 

expose yourself to situations. 

stare blank, go broke,

sweat it all out in the sun-

Purposelessly sit, walk, or 

better run, or just scribble. 

Deliberately make yourself 

a razor blade, to cut your 

pre-existing thoughts to 

make space for new ones. 

Fill up the gaps by creating 

new gaps. Feel it all on 

your skin and fill up the papers.

Then when you are done, 

throw it into the ocean or

Burn it all up.

I'm sure it's gonna leave a

big hole inside you, and 

That's the space you made 

for yourself, from where you 

may never wanna return.

Places to be

It's tempting to be in 

80s New York, arriving from 

some sleepy town with a 

suitcase, a little money,

and the audacity to make a 

life for yourself.

To be young in the wake of 

a city inventing its own future,

to be part of the noise before 

it became nostalgia-

Just like, how wonderful

it would have been to live in 

19th century London when 

science was rearranging

the furniture of the world,

and the Industrial Revolution

was teaching humanity

new ways to be exhausted-

To witness history before 

it knew it was history-

Like how Paris brewed when 

French Revolution was busy 

deciding who deserved a head

and who deserved a statue.

or how Renaissance in Italy

could place you beside 

Michelangelo to tell him

the proportions were wrong.

Imagine being Cairo while 

the pyramids were rising,

watching thousands of men

move stones for a king

who had mistaken his mortality

for a public works project.

Or how about Harappa when 

a contractor was using 

poor quality material to lay

straight-broad roads.

Or just be in Badami when 

Pulakeshi defeated king Harsha 

on the banks of Narmada.

But anyways, in every era

there would be a lonely guy 

like me wondering about wrong 

things out of boredom.

Like someone in the past 

wondering about Flying Cars

of future or machines that 

talk to them to avoid 

socializing.

Self-talk for First Date

Don't talk loudly. 

You usually do.

Mellow it down. 

Don't keep on talking; 

you always do.

But for now, let her talk.

Actively listen. 

Look like you're genuinely 

interested in her.

Make her talk about things 

she's interested in by 

nudging her with 

not-so-overt questions.

Don't try to over-explain 

stuff to make yourself 

look smart. FFS, 

don't bring up politics.

Most importantly, 

don't give advice. 

You tend to do it like 

you've figured it all out, 

but that just sounds 

condescending.

Try to look her in the eyes.

Also try to steal glances 

now and then. 

Try to give small 

compliments too- 

Also, you're not good at 

receiving one, so if you 

get one, just smile. 

Never refuse or refute it.

I tried to follow my advice 

to myself today. I tried 

listening to her all day.

Sat on the sidelines to 

be very considerate for 

my own sake. 

Then out of the blue, 

she said, the cockroaches 

are scum, anti-national, 

foreign-funded. 

And, well, aftermath-

I had to search for a 

Pink drum, because a 

Blue one would be rude.

Fuck-all Life

Comb your unkempt hair,

wash your ugly face.

Put on some perfume-

for God's sake, take a

effing bath today.

Your bare body deserves

soft touch of a loofah.

A shady t-shirt, a faded 

jeans and a haughty look

to call yourself funky.

An overused duet to 

mumble in your mouth,

A crooked smile to ooze

your rizz. Little quirkiness

should be harmless but

first-

Look deep in the mirror 

to have a glimpse of 

your restless soul. 

Thrust your hand in your 

mind, and give a shape to 

that face in your head.

Then say shortest poem 

is a name and write it

in the last pages like

you're Ghalib's intern-

It's time to manifest 

yourself a fuck-all life. 

Time to at least pretend 

that you got wings and 

fly close to the sun 

till you lose it all-

Whatever you gained 

would be bonus and

and whatever you lost

was never yours-

 

But Hey, you would be

a beautiful mess again,

and we could start 

the grind again by 

combining your hair or 

by sketching someone 

else's face.

Poetic Cuss Words

ft Hindi gaalis

I Franz your Kafka,

Bukowski your Charles.

I Oliver your Mary and 

Dickinson your Emily.

And only if I could 

Wordsworth your William 

and Frost your Robert-

Down few Ghazals of 

your Ballads- 

I could comfortably

Ghalib your Mirza, and 

effing Ahmad your Faiz.

Self Blame

Main iss 'over-thought'

ka bhi achar dalunga.

Uss 'over-thought' ka 

bhi achar dalunga...

Mere 'overthinking' ke 

achar ka dera banake

Usiko khana samjh ke 

kha bhi lunga.

Aur jab khana hajam 

na ho, tab jisne bhi

khana banaya hoga, 

usey kosunga.

Music

If the world is going to 

end tomorrow by fire,

let's watch the fireworks 

from a beach.

If it's going to end by snow,

let's climb a mountain

and wait for unraveling 

for the spectacle.

Either way,

I'll handle the logistics.

You curate a playlist.

The wake of our doom

should be a spectrum

stretched between-

"No alarms and 

No surprises", and

"Your lips my lips. 

Apocalypse"-

Radiohead to 

Cigerettes After Sex..

whatever filled the void 

within us- Fire to fire, 

ashes to ashes-

Dust is all we were

but atleast, music

got to us first before 

fate could.

Hatasha, (n)Desperation

Akka goes shopping and 

I get hold of my niece,

she starts crying.

I carry her outside to

console her by showing 

her worldly things.

The boy selling balloons

and cotton candy looks

at us. My niece points her

hand at the shiny thing.

I distract her pointing 

at something else.

He keeps looking at us

now and then, but I keep

distracting her.

A silent tension builds

between him and me.

It churns my stomach to

not empathise that guy.

and just then a little girl

in rags comes to me 

with her brother asking 

for alms.

I nod her away with my

stony eyes, and she moves 

ahead in search of better 

chances-

She goes to the boy with

the balloons.

He readily gives her a 

coin and looks at me.

My face turns pale 

remembering the poem

by Vinod Kumar Shukl,

"Hatasha Se Ek Vyakti.."

and like the poet, 

maybe I too understand 

what desperation is-

But that teenage boy's 

eyes ask me-

Is understanding enough?

Midlife

By age five, I was running 

around in the street with a 

discarded bicycle tire. 

The only aspiration was to 

get a sturdier tire of a motorcycle

to flex a smooth ride. 

By ten, I gathered boys 

of my street to build a cricket 

team to challenge the teams 

from other streets. 

The only aspiration was to 

somehow win a rupee that 

would be at stake. 

By fifteen, I was in a 

residential school. 

I was head of the Blue House. 

I played table tennis and 

the only thing I looked forward 

to was to go to regionals, 

if not nationals. 

By twenty, I had no baggage.

high on hormones, stuck in

college. The teenage angst 

should have upped my game, 

but it was dumbed down by

philosophy I read that 

preached idealism. 

By twenty-five, I had fallen 

into the vicious cycle of cracking 

government exams. 

The shit hit the fan shortly.

The erstwhile aspirations got

subsided into a financial fatigue-

But fortunately, by thirty, 

I got lucky. My concerns were 

dealt with. I could focus on 

writing and a bit of travel.

I could stretch myself beyond 

my usual boundaries to 

some extent-

The existentialism I faced, 

catharsized into absurdism, 

I learnt laughing at everything 

till it became a habit. 

I am thirty-three now, 

I wish I weren't thirty five in

the next two years and 

If only I could manage to 

not behave like forty year old

to plan for my sixties-

I can still look in the eyes

of the teenager I was, 

to hold on to something 

that I haven't yet lost.

'Could and Would' Have Beens

I try to touch you, 

but you keep going away. 

I try to hold you, 

but you keep slipping.

I don't try hard though. 

I feel you would eventually 

come around and fall into 

my arms. 

But that doesn't happen 

either.

Is this entitlement? 

I don't know. Fragile ego? 

High self-esteem?

Low self-confidence 

or just laziness?

I have no idea where 

my present attitude 

comes from. 

I simply lack the fear

of losing you. I have, 

but why doesn't it 

reflect in my efforts to 

hold you?

I know I'll be hurt, and 

I'm gonna romanticize 

this pain. 

But while we are there, 

while we are at this 

absurdity that hangs 

between a casual friendship 

and a juicy affair-

The audacious possibilities 

of things fill ideas into my head, 

and I hang in there with

all possible restraints.

The 'could have beens'

and 'would have beens' 

slip into a steady rot, 

and eventually I gulp down 

my predicament like I 

loved it all from the start.

Numbing Brain

I know I can't get out of this. 

I know I'm gonna overthink 

myself into tiredness. 

I know I'm too lazy to give 

myself a jump start. 

I know I'm gonna consider 

all the alternate routes 

to my freedom and eventually 

justify conditioning of this 

prison. 

The revolt in my bones goes 

out of my dick when I numb 

my brain with masturbation 

thrice a day. 

How do you think wings 

forget their flight? 

How do you think songs dry 

in otherwise fulfilled hearts?

Pump enough dopamine 

to the brain and even

best of us are gonna drown

in self-induced restraints.

Autobiography

I search for writable 

thoughts. Not so dark, 

not so real. Nothing that 

exposes me or shows me 

in a bad taste.

Just indicative enough 

to be a victim. 

Enough lighting to be 

a protagonist.

Wounds without the 

blood, confessions without 

the consequences,

a little suffering carefully 

placed where it catches 

the careful eyes.

A little pain here.

A little longing there.

Something that looks

like a scar without ever 

having to hurt-

I dip it all in sugar syrup

and glitter, till all of it

transcends downs to

symbols and metaphors.

Nothing abrupt.

Nothing conclusive.

Just doors half-open,

the questions slightly 

unanswered-

The mirror deliberately 

tainted to set a context,

so that reflection be 

hailed with applause.

The ending shall wait 

politely outside with a

smug face for validation.

It knows by this time,

the acts in the story are

justified.

Bones of Iron, Nerves of Steel

We called her Tanji.

Though she was elder to us, 

she played with us.

She wasn't mentally sound.

Last I heard, after the demise

of her husband, her in-laws 

didn't treat her well.

She came back home and 

did farming by her own.

Reminds me of Raji too.

The dusky little girl who's 

house was beside mine.

Played with us hide and 

seek almost everyday.

She was married off 

and for some mysterious 

reasons, she committed 

suicide and that's that.

What always gets to me is 

the story of this classmate,

Bharti.

Her father was my grandpa's 

friend. She hardly spoke. 

She had green eyes and 

Everyone called her cat-eyes.

After she overhead her

husband's family's plan to

burn her for dowry reasons,

She fled the house and 

walked for two days to

be back home.

Even in my own family.

Two daughters of my 

grandpa's elder brother,

they were sold to some

rich family in Gujarat.

The marriage squeeze 

of such nature is often 

sugarcoated, but in all

bluntness, the reality was

starker as I learned more.

Sometimes I don't know 

if I should be sad over these

things or draw inspiration 

or just be grateful for not

Even remotely going through 

anything like that.

I guess I carry the same

confusion within me whenever 

I encounter one of these 

classmates of mine.

The wisdom lies simply in 

not talking to them or 

even looking at them.

Because I remember how

bad the treatment was,

when one of my mother's 

guy classmates had talked 

to her in local bazaar and

my dad couldn't keep his

shit together.

Triggering Bowels

You can always drink water 

or tea to trigger your bowels.

I guess most of India does that.

But for some, it’s beedi or 

cigarette, or khaini or gutka.

I know someone who needs 

a newspaper to set things

in motion-

As if his posh gut needs

Faces of politicians,

Bombings in Palestine or 

A statement by Sitharaman 

to get it going.

Perhaps outrage is a better 

laxative than anything they 

sell at the pharmacy.

One of my uncles can't 

do it in the toilet. 

He has to go in the open.

The way he talks about 

the wisdom of open fields,

he's one step away from 

becoming Bear Grills.

From mint of toothpaste 

to early morning bhajans,

to cranky sound of an

old radio- the diversity in

triggers was a thing.

Then smartphones started 

going inside the toilet.

And you, me and everyone 

sat on the commode scrolling-

A reel of a motivational speaker.

Then of of a wedding.

In the next someone is 

doing something impossible

with a watermelon-

And by the time when 

it's fiftieth or sometimes 

ninety ninth reel-

From scaring you into your

own impotency to teaching 

how brinjal could be a

promising aphrodisiac-

Something inside you 

loosens and the body learns 

the art of letting go,

and that's how the day 

could start on a good note.

Every Indian Marriage Ever ft my village

"My princess deserves 

a government babu", declares 

the neighborhood auntie.

It would be a banker one day, 

a low-key state government 

official the other-

Her pride would hide behind 

a high-paying manager 

in a MNC sometimes, and 

on the other, behind a 

businessman with a big 

enterprise in the city. 

And years down the line, 

finally, when this 

"Beaut-force of a girl",

is married off to the only 

son of a big landlord-

Within six months, it's found 

that he's a drunkard. 

Then our princess returns 

to her mother after a big big 

fight within a year.

There is nothing to hide 

by now. The secrets are

out in the open. 

The landlord tag was just 

"erstwhile", and what's 

left now is just 1.5 acres. 

The sunk cost fallacy of 

Indian marriages starts to 

play out well after that-

series of blame games, 

retaliation, negotiation,

and inevitable settlements.

Both the families thrust 

the pact of marriage down 

the throats of these two 

imbeciles, and within the 

next year she comes 

bearing a child. 

Then another, 

then another, and another 

till penury wakes up 

and slaps on them with

a contraception.

But yes, after that, 

They Lived Happily Ever After.

Captivity of Constipation

You sleep clean, wake up early. 

You sit on the commode like a king, 

but it doesn't rain with thunder 

like it usually does. 

You give in, come out of the 

bathroom confused, wondering

If you should have washed your 

misfired cannon or not. 

You sip black coffee to trigger 

your bowels, then sabja seeds 

to build up the pressure. 

Breakfast goes in, just hoping to 

come out, but today it's in no hurry. 

The stock market opens, 

Arnab screams in reels, 

the traffic moves, people go to 

work, and you too join the race.

But you got unfinished business.

The anticipation of which holds 

you captive every half an hour. 

You carry the discomfort into 

office, meetings, small talk, and 

even lunch-- Geopolitics, 

Climate change, who's nailing who, 

when is the appraisal? 

Everything goes on the usual 

platter, except your colon. 

On days like this, your gut 

feeling is often flatulence.

The anxiety eventually turns 

into a neat philosophy-

What is a man who has not 

defecated? Is free will real?

Should the right to defecation 

be part of human dignity in 

Article 21?

The growling in your belly

changes the relativity of time.

The time dilation reminds you

How Buddha died of diarrhea 

and you think how lucky he was.

Every decision feels blocked.

Every emotion feels backed up.

The kind of awakening you're 

pushed into by evening-

You are spiritually constipated

and every philosophical question

seems to wait to be answered 

by the same damn pressure.

And then, suddenly, late in the

night, when the body speaks-

The fluency of pressure pushes

you into a simulation-

For a while you're under that

goddamn Bodhi tree, and you 

realise that enlightenment may 

have been greatly exaggerated.

And if asses could speak,

Every fyn shyt would be a 

preaching and every bathroom 

would be a consecration.

Which, in all reasonableness,

even now, is no less than a 

place of worship.

Am I a Misogynist?

I'm a millennial villager 

who studied in a residential 

school where talking to 

girls was despised and 

reprimanded.

There was a silent 

sympathy and admiration 

for girls who wore chudi,

and our hidden misogyny 

came out as character 

assassination of 

whoever wore jeans.

But times changed and

values changed and

yardsticks changed.

Yet, I still wonder if I'm 

conditioned enough to

be a misogynist.

Like, I wouldn't want 

my wife to burn herself 

after my death-

Sati is a strict no.

But if I were in the 1900s,

would I have gone against 

the family and society 

for it? That's the question.

Like, would I marry a 

10-year-old? Hell no.

But if I were forced into

it thirty-forty years ago,

would I have opposed it?

Maybe no.

I'm in support of widow

remarriage as long as 

the widow is my wife. 

But what if it were my 

mother?

These random musings 

turn into introspection.

Introspections expose

my own biases-

Would I marry a girl of

dark complexion? 

Would I if she were a

bit overweight?

The question of virginity 

always plays out.

How about dowry? 

I know I fully oppose it. 

But if it's sugarcoated by 

layers of "How it's a gift 

to your own daughter" 

what can I do?

Would I allow her to work? 

Allow? Yes. She can work.

Can she wear make-up 

and modern dress? 

Yes, to some extent.

Saree? Ghunghat?

The kitchen? The dishes?

Children? Uhh! Enough.

I guess, if it boils down

to something simple,

my feminism might end

somewhere over how much 

work I'm gonna share with 

her in the kitchen.

And the misogyny would 

surely begin somewhere 

over her decision to wear 

a bikini or any other 

revealing dress.

Delulu Solulu

When the weight of

not having wings gets to

my bones.

The skeleton feels like 

prison.

and somewhere there is 

a man-sized nest, and on 

the days it's too much

to be a human,

I go into a hiding there.

I take up the longest 

flight amidst the clouds,

witness the best sunsets

to stackup perspectives.

Then brood in the paddy 

husk of laziness to call

it a cozy refuge.

Ohh to fold myself into 

the warmth of borrowed 

feathers, pull the silence 

over my head and pretend 

the world has forgotten 

my address-

No expectations.

No names to answer to.

No need to be useful,

reasonable or particularly 

brave.

Ohh to become a bird 

without an obligation 

to fly-

Perhaps I sleep there

until the weight of the day

forgets my shoulders.

and when I finally step out,

I carry a little sky under 

my ribs-

that's delusional enough 

to return to the unreasonable 

business of being an

existential human.

Playful vs Playing it

When you hailed upon 

me like the breeze, 

I should have felt you on 

my skin against the

evening sky.

But instead, I tried to 

build windmills.

When you arrived to 

me like a river. 

I should have dissolved, 

drowned and perhaps, 

soaked like salt does in 

the water.

But I looked forward to 

build a bridge to go

beyond your self.

When you came to me

like rain, I should have 

stood there and let myself 

get drenched.

Instead, I searched for 

a roof, measuring the 

clouds for the possibility

of a storm.

When you became

a fire in the distance,

I should have walked closer

just to feel the warmth.

Instead, I built a wall

and called it wisdom.

You kept arriving as 

something I always wanted,

and I kept responding by 

constructing something

I think I might need.

You always offered yourself 

as possibilities and I turned 

you into an engineering 

project of expectations.

If only I knew how to 

be just playful instead 

of playing it.

I would have embraced 

you like an experience 

instead of treating you 

like an experiment.

Politics in my Plate

The students have 

gone on a protest at 

Jantar Mantar, but my 

coffee is not perfect.

A bridge has collapsed

in Morbi, twenty dead,

but I see two kilos more

on my weighing scale.

I have bread to pick up

and eggs to buy,

but damn the Iranians-

why are they passive

in the news headlines?

The kebabs in my new 

air fryer were promising.

One of my classmates

got a bigger package.

Manipur is still burning

and the Education Minister

refuses to resign.

It was supposed to be a 

drought year, but it's 

continuously pouring here.

My undies are not drying.

Liberals in this country,

my foot. Sometimes,

I just want to paint my 

nerve endings saffron, 

and become stupid,

foolish, absolutely blind.

Not because I believe 

everything they tell me,

but because believing 

in nothing is exhausting 

too.

There is something

almost peaceful about 

reducing the world to 

the size of your own 

plate-

One can eat without 

thinking about famine 

in Gaza. Sleep without 

thinking about epidemic 

in Africa.

What laxury it is to scroll 

past a burning state because 

the algorithm has already 

found a better reel.

Maybe that's what politics 

eventually becomes-

not choosing what is right,

but choosing which 

suffering you can afford 

to notice today.

Anyway, maybe I can switch

to jaggery for weight loss.

The country can wait.

It's protected by the ancient 

wisdom of scriptures anyway.

Backstory for Myself

If I assume a backstory

for myself, will I be happy?

Like a village I was supposed

to have grown up in,

a father who taught me

how to fix fishing nets,

a mother who waited by 

the window every evening.

Perhaps I need something 

I can point to when someone 

asks why I am the way I am.

Like a childhood I don't 

clearly remember.

Like how I was once a 

reckless boy who ran away 

from something and found 

everything, or how a quiet 

child who learned too early 

that leaving was easier 

than staying.

Perhaps there was a girl 

I loved before I knew what 

love was, and perhaps she 

left with enough sadness

to explain everything I 

do now.

Perhaps it would be more

convenient if I were a 

shepherd, who lost his 

parents early and later 

self-taught singing by 

rehearsing to the sheep.

Every self-inflicted wound

would have a sheepish origin 

that way. Every habit would 

have a nomadic elevation.

Every passing moment 

of loneliness would have 

been simply playing flute to 

the flock in the name of 

character development,

and it would have been 

perfect if I had attained 

low-key enlightenment by 

a hut while the sheep 

ate grass unnecessarily.

But alas! I wasn't born 

in a fishing village.

My parents are alive.

No lover left me with 

crippling pain and the 

sheep I wish to have as 

emotional support are 

often juicy mutton on 

my plate.

So here I am reclined on

a chair with legs on top of

the table. Pen in a hand 

with blank pages that 

stare back.

I overthink all the 

possibilities to make my 

present version happy, 

but the only respite seems 

to be a pretentious cup 

of black coffee.

But the ghost of my 

overly concerned mother 

knows what I need is a

good cup of tea and deep

down I know mom's chai

makes me happy.

Lying Around

You lay your head on 

my lap, and my hands 

find a way to your hair

to play with the strands. 

We stay there, idle, 

as if time freezed just 

for us.

You offer me a cup of 

your solitude, and I taste it 

with my eyes closed. 

I prepare a sandwich of 

our silences, and you are 

happy to take a bite. 

I say something with

my eyes and you nod your 

head into acceptance.

I draw an imaginary 

heart around your navel 

and you pinch my 

shoulder in protest.

This intimate passing 

of time into nothingness,

challenges fate. 

This is when the God of 

oblivion misses his

monthly target-

That he had to sweep 

and dump heaps of 

memories into a nullity. 

But we kept knitting 

metaphors till they grew

wings, and they flew away 

from the clutches of time-

Now they're stars.

If Buddha were a Woman

If Buddha were a woman, 

his thoughts would have 

been declared radioactive 

and contained them in 

lead-coated walls of 

the kitchen for safety. 

His thinking would have 

been declared a public health 

hazard to confine him to 

the boundaries of a building

by his own father. 

And God forbid if he left 

the house in the middle of 

the night, his long road to

enlightenment would have 

been one heck of a treatise 

on women's safety and 

sexual harassment. 

The Bodhi tree would have 

grown conscious suddenly 

to question his chastity. 

And to maintain its own purity, 

the Buddha would have been 

asked to stay away on that 

week of the month. 

If Buddha were a woman, 

the first sermon in Sarnath 

wouldn't have gone past 

the absolutely bizarre 

conditions women have 

been put through. 

The entire religion would 

have been about methods 

to escape chauvinistic tyranny, 

and then there would 

have been four Buddhist 

councils for equal rights.

Perhaps that way, there 

would have been a religion 

to represent this half of 

humanity. But alas, 

Buddha was a man and 

he himself excluded women 

in his monasteries. 

If he hadn't, enlightenment 

wouldn't just be flexing muscles 

with meditation and the four 

noble truths of Dhamma 

would reek of hypocrisy of 

patriarchy first.

What's a marriage?

The fourth day after my 

tenth class, as I returned 

from the farm, Mom said, 

someone has come 

to see you.

Then I was wrapped in 

a new saree, powder was 

put on my face,

some ornaments around 

the neck and on ears.

They asked me to take 

tea to the guests. 

I was nervous.

Someone asked me my name.

Another asked me to turn 

around. I fumbled a bit.

I didn't know they were 

inspecting my body.

They must been 

impressed though, 

as it followed a series 

of events over the next 

few weeks-

a huge gatherings,

elaborate rituals,

visits to temples and 

big big talks on how to 

behave.

Then suddenly there was 

an ugly man, who they 

said was my husband.

He climbed upon me to 

hump me like a hungry dog.

I liked it a bit i guess.

maybe that's why I was 

punished with four kids.

The eldest one is about five,

and she asked me just now.

"What's marriage?"

I take a breath. I sigh.

I look back at of series 

of hazy, chaotic events-

A body wrapped in a 

new saree to a man taking 

control of it.

I wonder if this was the

first pause I took from 

that day?

Anyway, I don't seem to 

have any answer to that 

question.

So, I look at her and 

ask myself the same 

question-

What's marriage?

Hey Birdie

I should name you

after a Flamingo

and make fun

of your long legs.

Or compare you

to a certain Owl

in the Western Ghats

and praise

the symmetry

of your eye bags.

Perhaps

I should call you

a Nightingale

for your voice,

then remind you

that, on most days,

you are perfectly 

capable of being

a humble Crow.

How about Hornbill 

for your non-existant 

beak or Kiwi for overtly 

being an ass?

How about I call 

you a Peacock for

patriotic purposes,

and tell you how ugly 

the females are.

But you know, they

exchange gametes 

through their eyes?

In that case, eww!

don't look me 

in the eye.

Dating a Poet

First, never date a poet.

You'll spend years being

compared to weather.

You'll wake up as "autumn."

By lunch, you're

"an unfinished bridge."

By dinner, you're "a slightly 

anxious pillow."

Every argument will somehow 

become a discussion about 

migrating birds.

They'll pause halfway

through kissing you

because your left eyebrow

suddenly reminded them

of a coastline on an 

old Portuguese map.

You'll never simply make tea.

You'll become "water 

negotiating with leaves."

A headache will not be a 

headache. It'll be 

"the moon attempting to

hatch behind your forehead."

They'll forget your birthday,

but remember the exact 

shade the sky was when 

you laughed three 

monsoons ago.

They'll compare your 

silence to abandoned railway 

stations, your patience to 

furniture that has survived 

five generations, and 

your irritation to a pigeon 

with unresolved 

gut problems.

Worst of all, one day you'll ask,

"Do you love me?"

And they'll stare out of the 

window for fifteen minutes

before saying,

"You remind me of a house

that keeps its lights on for 

people who were never

coming home."

And somehow... you'll know 

exactly what they mean.

Metaphor is a Map

Every map is a confession

that the world is too large

to carry whole.

So we reduced mountains

to triangles, oceans to blue ink,

people to symbols.

Perhaps every metaphor

isn't an invention, but an 

apology for language 

being too small to hold a

living thing.

So you should know when

I reduce your name to a

a certain shade of red. 

Your face to a yellow 

breasted sparrow that visits 

my village every winter-

Maybe I've failed to 

become large enough to 

contain you, and everytime 

you're my favourite 

jasmine or guava my 

grandma loved,

You should know it is a

silent apology for my 

inability to comprehend 

you enough.

So lemme unapologetically 

make you a coastline, 

turn you into a tide and mark 

every place I kissed you as a 

lighthouse.

Every argument, a cliff.

Every return, a harbour.

Let every poem I write 

be a humble submission 

before the sky you've 

grown into.

And every metaphor 

I've ever written be a star 

I've counted, not knowing 

how many more I've to count, 

to sigh into a disbelief over 

''how infinite you are."

Mirage

somewhere I hear the 

sound of your anklets.

and I slip to sleep 

as if it's a dream.

you exist between my

dreams and delusions.

a fantasy if I close

my eyes and a daydream 

when I open.

you arrive without arrival,

leave without leaving,

linger like a question

I don’t want answered.

in that thin space

between sense and 

surrender,

you feel almost real-

enough to touch,

never enough to hold.

and I keep returning there,

half-aware, half-lost-

hoping the sound of 

your anklets doesn’t 

fade into silence.

But it does.

but it does and I go on 

chasing your shadows 

and silhouettes.

sometimes even an

outline seems enough.

but can a mirage ever 

be anything beyond 

disappointment?

well, my fancy with a

palette disagrees.

believe me, 

filling colours to the 

outlines of a person 

who doesn't exist,

Uhh! It's a habit beyond 

a certain repairing.

Distant Presence

Some fruits are sweeter

in their shade than in 

the cusp of a hand.

Possession reduces 

miracles to memories

in no time.

Oh! my distant mango 

on the tree, I would 

rather leave you hanging 

on the branch than 

devour you at once.

May the child in me 

remain throwing stones

at your branches-

never quite reaching,

never quite leaving.

May you forever linger 

on my tongue,

than be fizzled from 

my restless mouth.

I'd rather carry the taste 

of you as a promise,

than the certainty

of an emptied seed.

For desire ripens best

where distance has

no utilitarian end.

Longing is the only forever 

that doesn't come 

with conditions.

Must be

Must be the blue saree

that runs down

like a river.

Must be your eyes

that drown well the 

spread of my solitude..

Must be the bangles

and the anklets that 

land softly like feathers 

on the bed of my 

silence..

Must be the jhumkas

and your dense hair

that wrap me up in

a steady warmth to

sync themselves to the 

rhythm of my cold 

heart-

Oh how it feels to be 

music soaked in your 

distant presence.

A song learning 

itself through your 

close absence-

Must be your laughter

that keeps filling up

the hollow places in me 

with fresh flowers.

Must be the fragrance 

of the same I taste on my 

tongue like Jasmines..

Must be the way

your name trespasses

through every sense

until my sight begins

to blur with glitter..

And now that I see you

in every other face,

Must be you've colluded

with my dreams too.

But the question is-

Who are you my dear?

Where are you?

Third Grade Anomaly

They say you don't 

need a reason to love.

But I've seen her in a

wolf-cut and saree.

Jasmine flowers and 

oversized hoodies.

Jingles of silver 

anklets while she walks 

in combat boots-- 

Cargo pants go

seamlessly with the 

glass bangles that 

are dotted green.

The leather jacket

and a tiny black bindi.

Ripped jeans and

elaborate jhumkas-

She says 'Ayyo' while 

ordering sushi.

Looking like tomorrow,

carrying yesterday 

effortlessly.

Ohh! the kathakali 

adorning a Gothic 

building-

Perhaps it doesn't 

need any reason,

Just enough contradictions 

maybe.

It's a third grade 

anomaly in a 

second grade heart.

Love is a wound that 

doesn't subside but 

compels you to 

scratch.

Poster Boys

Bhagat Singh's anger is 

welcome, his atheism is not.

Azad's bullet makes a good 

brochure but his politics 

leans left and that's bad.

Zafar's Urdu is beautiful,

let's just remember him

as a weak emperor.

Everything else should 

be erased because of 

his faith.

Bose is invoked loudly.

But his complicated alliances 

are whispered selectively.

Microphones have learned 

to tone it all smartly.

Ambedkar is celebrated.

But his annihilation of caste

must wait outside the 

school Savitribai built. 

But why not restrict her 

to margins or footnotes?

Her rebellion should be 

politely described as 

social work anyway.

And Gandhi walks a tightrope 

between being a saint and 

a villain depending on which 

side of the argument a 

corpse needs to fall.

Revolution, that way,

is easier to digest once you've 

amputated its questions, 

and martyrs are useful only 

as poster boys in party 

manifestos.

History, that's why is not 

what happens. Often,

It's just what's allowed.

We can't be friends

You being sad is alright.

But if we can't talk about a

hundred ways to laugh 

about it.

We can't be friends.

You being happy is alright.

But if we can't peel it down  

to the core, to hold it 

against light to examine its 

existential vanity.

We can't be friends.

I want to know why sorrow

has such an inflated ego,

and why joy always behaves

as though it invented

the universe.

I want to get into the mess

of chaos. Swim in the ripples 

deliberately created by 

stoning the still waters.

I want a cesspool we can

regret and romanticize.

Like, if we can't laugh at 

funerals. If we can't 

philosophize bad coffee. 

If we can't interrupt our 

deepest confessions with 

the stupidest jokes.

We can't be friends.

I don't want conversations

that merely exchange

weather reports of the heart.

I want an intellectual 

vandalism that rearranges

each other's thoughts to

leave fingerprints on 

each other's worldview.

I want us to disagree 

without becoming enemies.

I want us to change our 

minds without calling it 

defeat.

If curiosity of certain kind

finds us to make us reckless 

about our explorations-

Let's end up as footnotes in 

each other's thinking.

Let's argue all about it,

till we embarrass ourselves 

into a dungeon of 

comfortable silence. 

And only if we're compelled 

to fill it up with something 

unnecessarily,

We can't be friends.

Muse is a Meta(p)whore

The poem I haven't yet 

written is 'the girl' of my muse.

She gets to my ego.

Invokes in me disgust.

Makes me unnecessarily 

haughty and unusually 

sad as well.

She pampers me, 

Hampers me. 

Tickles chuckles out of me 

till it eventually hurts.

She's dirty, she's witty.

she's always around to be

forever out of reach.

Never arrives upon my

summons, but she does

when I tend to give up.

Does she mistake

indifference for invitation?

I don't know.

My starry-eyed girl,

My moon-soaked beauty.

Slutty nurse at times

who can kill, and a 

mallu aunty on the other

who can heal.

She knows every room

inside my head.

Enters and exits anytime 

at will. She's an anomaly 

in my conscience,

who knows exactly where 

to press to keep all my 

wounds open.

Undressing my language 

down to its bones,

asking me to touch every 

word twice,

Slithering through the 

wetness of syllables,

She leaves halfway through 

a sentence-

Then it takes hours of

coaxing to pull her back.

Keeping her entirety intact 

is another full-time job.

But that's what I've 

signed up for.

Perhaps that's what a 

muse is- A relationship 

too complicated, or 

perhaps a marriage that's 

toxic, but has its perks 

if one has enough 

metawhorical kinks.

Terms And Conditions

Love is overrated.

Longing is hopeless.

Desire is a short lived

temptation that can 

damage a beautiful 

relation.

Forever is just a promise

no one lives long 

enough to keep it. 

Staying was never really 

a choice, just a delay 

before leaving.

Let's think about being 

distant friends that's why.

Let's call it convenience,

not coldness. 

Let's refuse to grieve 

things we never fully 

claimed.

Send me a piece of art, 

I'll send you mine.

Maybe that's enough 

reciprocation-

wisdom lies in 

understanding without 

having to understand.

So I propose an

an attachment that's 

detached.

Let that be a covenant.

Let it be a feeling

that lingers in the mouth 

like a taste of something 

we never consumed.

Just enough to forget you.

yet, significant enough 

to recognise a grin that

could linger upon hearing 

your street name you

had vaguely mentioned  

years ago.

I Dash you

I pomegranate you, 

I masala dosa you.

I Rishikesh you, and 

in the turquoise water

of Ganges-

I raft you, kayak you, 

and bungee jump you. 

I cheesecake you, 

I filter coffee you, 

and deep in the forests 

of western ghats by a 

campfire-

I toast you with roasted 

pork and if you may, 

you can give me a 

"beer you too". 

And to biryani you in 

Hyderabad. 

Chole Bhature you, 

in Old Delhi, and to

Ro-Sho-Golla you, 

in the streets of Kolkata-

And only if I could 

Bike you to Chandigarh,

to ice cream you in 

tender coconut, 

Then, from there, 

I can Shimla you, and 

eventually momo you

up north, to Kaza.

We can Chandratal each 

other after that. 

and that's how I propose 

to masterpiece you in 

my heart.

Ghosts Of Previous Century

Maybe you wrote a letter, 

the postman made a mistake. 

I received it, and maybe 

I chose to write a reply,

just to be quirky. 

Maybe you chose to be 

quirky as well, and wrote back 

shortly, and the postman 

didn't make any mistakes 

this time. 

Five-six reciprocation, 

spread well over a year, 

maybe we learned our

addresses by heart-

a two-thousand-kilometre 

of distance against 

an unknown longing is 

always short.

But maybe by then, 

I memorized all the trains 

that passed through your 

hometown.

Maybe you kept wondering 

about the coarseness

of my voice all the time...

Maybe we kept writing,

kept yearning and

maybe everything about 

this invoked in us 

something so irresistible, 

that one day we met

at a coastal town.

Or maybe we remained as 

prisoners of our age 

and era. Maybe you 

got married and the letters 

stopped coming.

Maybe I did the same 

and eventually forgot 

your imaginary face.

And maybe one day, 

my kid, while going through 

his school atlas, stumbled 

upon a vague town and 

asked me about it.

Maybe your kid did

the same.

And maybe at the same 

time we'd tasted the same 

sweetness, and we smiled

over the feeling of 

knowing a town that we

never visited.

Devotion

I lick stars of your sky 

and drink wine sucked out 

of your moons. 

I sniff fragrance off your 

flowers like a saint high

on prayers.

And to be rested in your nest, 

to stroll through your forest 

and to stay soaked in your

fiercely flowing rivers- 

Oh to be drawn into your 

ocean and to refuse to stay 

sober after tasting your salts-

Your mountains make me 

tread and I gasp out of 

my breath. 

Your zenith seems to be 

astronomically far and for 

today, I am satisfied 

with the elegance of your 

foothills, uhh!

Keeda

There should be unfulfillment 

in your heart and an itch to 

fill it up no matter what. 

There should be restlessness 

in your fingers to keep scratching-

You gotta keep the wound alive. 

Like how there should be a 

mountain and an ache in your 

legs to climb it up. 

Like how your hand should 

look forward to swimming in 

the open sea, at least once. 

There should be invisible wings

that flap for a mysterious flight.

There should be an imaginary 

sky that shines only for you

to keep your delusions intact.

And somewhere far away, 

by a creek or amidst a forest, 

there should be a wishful house

made of sticks and stones.

And to spend a good chunk of

your life, there should be an 

equally mad companion to 

tag along.

And after spending the first 

chilly night by the campfire,

you gotta wake up to a new 

hopeless horizon to help yourselves 

with a steamy beverage that's 

really bad.

You gotta have a special kind

of 'keeda' to romanticize it,

like you're gonna repeat it again.

And to call discomfort an

adventure. A bad drink, a tradition. 

and the cold, an intimacy-

Oh they said to stare back at 

the abyss when the abyss stares 

at you, but you went ahead and 

took a piss in it. 

And why shouldn't it be alright?

Affection

I try to imagine you as 

a child. small hands, 

soft legs, two freshly grown 

teeth ready to bite anything 

that's in reach. 

Oh, the drool, the smile, 

and the loud, deliberate cries. 

I feel your cheeks between 

my fingers, but just then 

you pee and I'm asked to 

change your pants. 

And with all tenderness, 

I tend you. 

Your constant moving legs, 

my loosening grip over 

your waist.

I manage to handle your 

rebellion by effectively 

covering you in cloth. 

and you give away 

the greatest smile.

That stupid smile stirs 

something ancient inside me.

A strange familiarity,

as though I have known you

before memory

invented names for us.

For a dangerous second,

I wonder if you were my

kid in a previous life?

But that thought seem to

be forbidden somehow.

But maybe some tenderness 

doesn't have boundaries.

Like you're an absolute 

baby sometimes and 

all I can do is hum you lullabies 

to pat you to sleep.

Social Mobility

The priestly class is 

deemed higher in any 

society and those who 

dispose the dead are 

kept lower.

But even among Brahmins 

those who assist cremations 

are kept lower. 

They can't marry 

higher up.

Then there's a priestly 

class among Dalits.

Who look down upon 

other Dalits.

A hierarchy nesting

inside a hierarchy,

This seems to be a venn 

diagram problem.

And while solving this,

somewhere a math teacher

who's a lower Brahmin,

is gonna lock eyes with

a student who's a 

Priestly Dalit.

The tension of social 

mobility between would 

give birth to a bridge, 

via which, other people 

are gonna go beyond 

caste and hold on to 

beta division-

that's class.

Rome- built and crumbled

Whoever said Rome wasn't built in a day should come visit my head, to see how entire cities can be built and converted to dust within a thought.

I get excited easily and,

get disappointed likewise.

The gap between the two

hasn't reduced.

Nor has the emotional

response optimized.

It's as though I've already

developed a fancy about

the journey and the destination

before I could even set foot

on the road.

I have named the cities.

Decorated the houses.

Prepared conversations

that haven't happened.

And assigned meanings

to things that are yet

to exist.

Then, at the first hint

of this house of cards

crumbling, I go sad.

Embarrassingly sad.

As though I haven't

watched this architecture

collapse before,

Only to stand stout

before the next nice thing

again.

The hope in me doesn't learn.

Or perhaps it does,

and simply refuses

to behave accordingly.

It is the same with you,

know that I have already

simulated all the possibilities

that can elevate us,

and all the ways

it cannot go down.

I have run scenarios.

Built futures. Made a little 

homes inside my head.

And yet, the moment I 

arrive at the actual instance,

the range of expectation,

excitement, desire,

and disappointment

all begin operating

simultaneously.

So whatever it is between us,

it is oddly stretched, torn,

intensely built up again,

and crumbled into dust.

And I speak to you through 

this architectural chaos.

So if I fumble a little,

spare it. my words,

before they make it

out of my mouth,

have already carried

furniture up the stairs,

hung photographs on 

imaginary walls,

survived a collapse,

and begun rebuilding.

Understand that I do not 

travel lightly towards people.

I arrive to you with a 

baggage you were never 

there to pack.

I arrive with entire cities 

already built inside me.

And every time reality 

fails to match my expectations,

I quietly evacuate a civilization 

that never existed to 

mourn it like I had lived 

there all my life.

Middle-class Hindu Male

I needn't watch my tone

while I talk. I needn't laugh 

with my mouth closed,

I needn't hide behind my

shame when someone

meets my gaze.

I needn't be careful about 

where I sit, how I sit, or

how far my legs have to

spread or be stretched.

I certainly needn't worry 

about my chest when

I bend or be worried about 

someone's stare while I 

walk around.

I can enter any temple

on any occasion, 

at any time of the month.

I need not worry about 

access to God's wisdom.

Even the scriptures grant me 

extra perks when it comes

to spirituality.

I won't be ogled or

unnecessarily touched

in buses or trains.

Neither the style of my

dress would be held 

in contempt.

This extra layer of freedom 

I carry by belonging to

a particular gender, class,

religion, and caste-

I needn't prove my 

nationalism or secularism 

to anyone, and the choice 

of my food would never 

become a national issue. 

The system is made for me. 

It works for me.

It protects me at the expense 

of others, yet somehow,

my existence seems to be 

under threat lately.

Do we need to worry about 

these women and the other 

minorities who go on gloating 

about their problems?

Maybe yes!

We men, should wake up 

to the new reality.

Mass mobilization of men

is necessary, and we should 

organise ourselves politically.

If you agree, Like, Share, 

Comment and Subscribe.

Give me a shoutout already,

Let's get our well deserved 

glory back.

To be XX or Not to be XY

Looking at my baby bump,

When they say, "it will be a boy",

what they mean is, they want 

a champion with a peg.

whom they can flaunt in their 

ancestry with a hidden wish

that he would light their pyres, 

as though fire itself were averse  

to a particular gender. 

What they might further mean is, 

if it isn't a boy, I would be

held against it. I would be 

shamed, disregarded, and asked 

to turn my uterus into a 3D 

printing machine of hit and trial, 

till it throws away a haughty 

little brat.

Sometimes some of them say, 

"it better be a boy".

what they mean is, I would have to 

thrust my hand in my uterus to 

pinch all the 'X' chromosomes 

in my egg to facilitate 'Y' to bind 

to 'X' of my husband's sperm.

What they'd further mean by it is, 

when the baby comes out of my 

birth canal, they would rush to 

check its genital first, and 

if it is what it isn't, they would 

immediately mourn a life 

that just bloomed. 

They might even consider,

and reconsider what to do with 

it till they run out of options, 

and after that, at most, 

they might let it exist. 

Just fucking merely exist!

And a few, who aren't even 

that considerate, would say

"It should be a boy" like it's

a statutory warning.

what the warning would 

eventually mean is,

If it comes to that, they would 

take me to a sneaky van 

outside the village for an 

ultrasound.

And if the smuggled Chinese 

machine in that detects a 

female foetus,

I might be forced to take 

certain banned medicines 

to force a miscarriage. 

and if in any case, I escape 

the ordeal to birth her-

There are always seasoned 

midwives who could choke the

baby at a cue, or throw her

into the nearby lake.

At the bottom of which 

the other baby girls might 

just be waiting to welcome her 

with better consolation.

Silent Uniform

It rains in the evening and

she has to rush to the terrace.

No one has to tell her.

No one else has to go to

fetch those dry clothes.

The rules seem to be ironclad 

and the process is efficiently 

automatised.

It rains, and she has to 

rush up, down and sideways 

to bring the dry clothes she

herself has washed.

The kids play in the hallway,

husband is hooked to the 

TV even on holidays.

Can't outsource it to the

in-laws obviously, and to crib 

about the same, by now, 

her mom is far, far away.

Ohh, it rains, and she has to

rush to gather a lot of clothes.

The variety of shirts, jeans,

uniforms, t-shirts, shorts,

socks, jersey, innerwears 

and whatnot.

The heap of it piles on a

cot and it needs to be

tended into neat folds.

It rains, and even if it doesn't,

she has to do it anyway.

Fold them, sort and keep

them separately in the closet.

and while she does that,

one day she'll realise-

How amidst the heap,

what's hers is just a bra, 

panty and a faded gown-

A silent uniform she 

wears in rotation.

Her retired jeans and

tank tops laugh for being 

reduced to this identity but 

the sarees under suspension 

comfort her occasionally by 

being unnecessarily elaborate.

How long this can go is

the question, and 

almost every time,

"what to cook for dinner"

snatches away the answer.

Beauty and the Beast

It's said one shouldn't engage 

with the beast. Don't listen,

don't empathize, don't ask for 

his side of the story.

Because the moment you 

understand him, you are already 

trapped. You'll excuse him. 

Rationalize him. Fall prey to his tactics.

That's the statutory warning.

But tell me what if the beast

is told the same thing?

Never trust beauty. 

Never be moved by innocence.

Do not listen. Do not soften.

Do not hesitate and never 

entertain a victim's justification.

What if both sides are raised 

behind opposite walls of suspicion?

What if the beast learned 

monstrosity the same way 

the prey learned fear?

And what if beneath the claws

and the growling, there is merely

a wound that never found

the courage to call itself one?

People speak of evil as though 

it arrives fully formed.

As though betrayal doesn't leave 

fingerprints.

As though cruelty isn't sometimes

grief left unattended for too long.

I am not asking for acquittal.

I am not asking that teeth be 

mistaken for kindness.

My concern around this is only

a considerate possibility-

Like, what if the beast has spent 

so long being warned against 

tenderness, that he flinches

when it finally appears?

What if every outstretched hand

looks like another trap?

What if the betrayals have 

poisoned his well so thoroughly 

that love itself tastes suspicious?

So he starves for trust.

For touch. For the simple luxury

of believing someone means well.

The tragedy, perhaps, is not that 

the beast remains a beast.

The tragedy is that some wounds 

become identities.

And after a while, he no longer 

remembers whether he is guarding

the injury or imprisoned by it.

Mistaking every chance at 

healing as another attack,

He dies hungry surrounded 

by things he was taught to fear.

Cherry

We entered gaps of songs

to stay there deciphering 

meaning according to the 

seasons of our hearts. 

We made ropes out of poetry 

to swing across tall trees, 

like we were ape-twins from 

a previous life. 

We exchanged recipes 

for disaster, 

we brew storms in teacups, 

cooked misery, and dined on 

fantasies that were 

garnished in existentialism. 

We played hide and seek 

in philosophies and 

practiced kickboxing with

delusions. 

That way we hit it off well,

Not gonna lie.

We perfected the art of 

capturing moonlight in a

a palm full of water to

freeze it in metaphors. 

We stuck at the heart of 

fate to crystallize ourselves

'time' that wasn't meant for us. 

We were briefly infinite.

But good things end, 

and great things end with

big exit wounds. 

They take away a good 

chunk of flesh to 

hurt all at once.

But pain was never 

unfamiliar to us both.

So I did what you would 

have done.

I learned to nurse it in 

rosewater. I made paper 

planes out of it.

I toned it, shaped it.

Messed around in other 

ways and painted it in red. 

But pain is pain.

It never fails to hail.

And when it does, I bite 

my tongue to taste an 

imaginary cherry in your 

loving memory-

The sweetness bolsters 

my delusions and 

yet again, I become this 

person who still checks 

the rearview mirror,

even after the road has 

run out of its journey.

Judgemental bastard

One of my friends called me

a judgmental bastard.

I smiled in agreement.

If there were a competition

for jumping to conclusions,

I'd probably win it.

Give me half an excuse,

a delayed reply,

an unusual punctuation mark,

and I'll construct an entire

civilization around it.

A missing "goodnight."

becomes abandonment.

A changed tone becomes 

betrayal. A misplaced 

emoji can stir an agitation 

and become a national 

issue for me.

You can be good to bad.

soulmate to suspect,

lovable to character-less 

within minutes. For me,

the evidence hardly matters.

My imagination is perfectly

capable of operating

without it.

Some people wait for 

facts to arrive. Not me.

I prefer to greet them

at the destination.

I mean, why burden 

myself with uncertainty

when I can manufacture

certainty from thin air?

It's a remarkable talent.

being arrogant, haughty,

and self-sabotaging-

narcissistically adorable

but remarkable nonetheless.

And the worst part is,

every now and then, I'm right. 

which is all the encouragement

a bad habit needs to 

become a philosophy.

One successful prediction,

one suspicion vindicated,

and suddenly every irrational 

thought gets tenure.

That's how paranoia earns 

credibility.

So yes, perhaps I am 

judgmental. But look at

the stories I invent about 

people. They're usually far 

more dramatic than the 

people themselves.

They've proper arcs,

better conclusions.

Funny noses, improved faces. 

walking styles synced 

to the tunes of Bhojpuri songs.

And beyond this, if reality 

insists on being ordinary,

surely it can't blame me

for trying to improve the plot. 

at least I tried to add colour 

to some of your lives.

But imagine the audacity of

not thanking me enough for 

being such a humble painter.

But l let it pass. 

I'm sure you're not gonna 

go far with such a poor 

sense of gratitude.

Things I imagine when you stopped talking

Maybe your mother found out, 

but she already knew. 

Or maybe your brother found it

through her, and he created 

a ruckus? But it wouldn't be 

this serious, ain't it? 

Or maybe your dad found out 

and locked you in your room.

snatched away your mobile, 

cut your Wi-Fi, and made you 

swear on your mother's life,

to make you stop talking to me.

Well, hell, am I overthinking? 

Maybe I do, but what if that 

sneaky little friend of yours hit it 

off and you fell in his groove? 

Maybe you both are a thing now 

and that's why you withdrew. 

But you wouldn't stoop so low, 

would you? It feels like a stretch

to assume something like that.

but I can't stop thinking about 

the possibilities. 

What about that toxic BFF of 

yours? Did she spew any venom 

against me? Or your therapist 

warned you against staying close 

to me because you got 

daddy issues? Maybe yes. 

Maybe no. 

And that makes me come to 

the last option, which is the 

never-ending mess that is me. 

I look deep within myself to see 

if I was the problem all along. 

It's a scare to be honest.

But maybe that's the simplest 

explanation. Maybe I was not 

a safe harbour and you had 

to sail your ship. 

But I have a duty to protect 

myself too. So I pack my 

obsession to find closure.

sink in all the reasons and 

justifications beneath the sea,

to take deep breaths that

are seasoned in sadness.

Ohh how wonderful it is to

stare at the setting sun. 

The sunset from an empty harbour 

was always a spectacle, I guess. 

Maybe somewhere you are 

doing the same, I guess.

Maybe you're more relieved.

Or maybe you're heartbroken.

Or perhaps you're too busy 

deciding what to order for dinner.

I wouldn't know. 

Maybe I wouldn't want to 

know this time. 

Maybe that's closure, or maybe 

One doesn't actually find it.

But in the process, maybe one 

simply grows tired of carrying 

questions that refuse to 

become answers.

Nangeli

Kerala had a tradition of taxing Dalit women who covered their breasts. Nangeli rebelled against it by cutting her breasts in protest.

They ask me why I cut 

my Breasts, as if the story 

begins there.

As if blood is the cause

and not a consequence.

They ask me why I cut 

my Breasts, and I

look at my sickle that

wasn't sharp enough 

to cut anyone else.

They ask me why I cut 

my Breasts but they don't 

tell you how the kingdom 

decided to measure 

them first-

I remember the hands

of the accountant 

fondling my breasts,

to assess how much tax 

I had to pay for bearing 

them on my chest.

I remember, how at the

cost of our humiliation,

the tax had to be served on 

a banana leaf with utmost 

respect.

The untouchability, 

no temple entry,

hundred other taxes levied 

besides other subjugations-

They even forbade

the shade of certain to

trees for us.

So it boils my dead heart,

when they ask me why 

I cut my Breasts.

And I say, they deserved 

a spectacle-

A blood-oozing wound 

might stick better in memory 

than slow oppression fits 

into history.

But why does history 

remember the breasts

and forget the tax?

Why does it remember 

the blood and forget 

the caste?

You may ask the same 

question too. 

and in all humbleness, 

I shall serve you my severed 

Breasts to you as well.

That's how I want to break 

the fourth wall to ask

you this-

You've been subjugated 

by similar taxes too.

What's the mode of your

protest?

Why your dicks still intact? 

Or you've come already cut?

Red shift

Waves compress when 

things move toward us. 

Frequency rises, and the world 

sharpens itself into arrival.

But when things begin leaving,

the wavelengths loosen.

The pitch drops. 

Even sound cannot hide 

separation.

Astronomers know this well.

They stare into distant galaxies

and measure loneliness

through redshift.

Light itself reddens while 

fleeing away across 

expanding space.

Entire stars confess their 

departures without language.

And perhaps human beings

carry their own Doppler 

effects too-

Like how your voice 

sounded different

when you loved me closely.

Every word arrived brighter,

compressed with attention,

alive with blueness.

But now- even your silence

feels stretched.

As if distance itself

has entered your frequency.

But the blue light of your 

arrival still hangs in me,

unable to decide whether 

it belongs to the past

or the future.

So here I stand with a 

telescope pointed toward 

your absence,

watching your redshift

grow deeper each day.

The hopeless observer 

I've become in search of an 

astronomical miracle-

There must be a law the 

universe forgot to write, 

where, things that recede 

forever can somehow 

still be coming home.

Wave🤝 Particle

The observer effect says

nothing remains untouched

by the act of being seen.

Even electrons lose their 

composure under attention.

As if observation itself

demands performance.

Photons colliding. Detectors 

interfering. Measurements

leaving fingerprints

upon being measured-

As if the universe, when 

watched too carefully,

forgets how to remain fluid.

Perhaps that is why

I fear being understood

too completely.

Maybe people are not

so different from particles.

Leave us unobserved

and we remain expansive-

contradictory, wave-like,

full of unrealized selves.

But the moment someone 

demands certainty.

asks us to define our exact 

trajectory, 

something collapses-

We harden into identities.

Tell me how much of love

survives observation?

How much tenderness

disappears the moment

we try too hard to name it?

Perhaps intimacy itself

is a delicate experiment.

Too much scrutiny,

and the mystery recoils.

Too much definition,

and affection stiffens

into expectation.

Maybe that is why some 

feelings survive longer

in glances, half-finished 

sentences, and lingering 

silences.

Because the moment we 

drag them fully into language,

they stop behaving like 

wonder and start behaving 

like witnesses under oath.

Shortest Distance

The shortest distance between 

two points on a flat surface

is a straight line says, Euclid.

I keep thinking about that.

I keep thinking about your eyes.

and how, I could look straight 

into you with just a stare and

understand you right away.

But isn't that wishful?

Could it ever happen?

Can it ever be that easy to

understand each other?

Perhaps, a certain distance 

could afford such honesty.

But If Euclid could draw a line 

between our beginnings 

and endings, and called it 

optimal-

We could both have easily 

surrendered to such mathematical 

efficiency and laughed ourselves 

loose through all possible 

geometrical angles.

But we've emotional detours.

Curves of memories that

push us in loops to take us through 

scenic routes of denial, ego, 

and longing.

The destination remains 

unchanged, but we arrive 

exhausted from unnecessary 

weather, because life or love hardly 

aligns well on flat surfaces.

The Earth curves.

Space-time bends.

Gravity distorts trajectories.

And, even light learns to bow

around massive objects.

And I know the thing between us- 

if not massive, it's not easy 

at least to come around it.

Every short path of mine

has warped my universe to

become something stranger

every time I've tried to 

reach you.

Every effort to reach you directly

only taught me how deeply 

the reality bends around desire.

Perhaps that's why I still 

circle you instead of arriving.

Maybe some people cannot be 

reached through straight lines 

alone. Love perhaps is a loop-

and through a beautiful distortion 

of distance and return,

I shall learn to spiral better 

to reach you again.

Paisas, Annas, Rupees

When Dadabhai Naoroji

sat pondering over the 

economic state of India.

Reflecting, contemplating over 

the things he had seen. 

Referencing and cross 

referencing the things 

he had experienced in-

"Poverty and Un-British 

Rule in India"

His theories stretching

beyond mere arithmetic-

towards the quiet starvation

of an entire civilization-

the estimate itself must have 

trembled his hands.

If he had to put in numbers

Twenty rupees he would 

hesitantly write.

Twenty rupees per year

as the per capita income,

He would gulp it down

like hot coal before he came

out of his room in fury.

And as he walked down the

corridor- his thoughts 

lingering between rupees,

paisa and annas-

entire civilization shrinking 

down to a mathematical 

humiliation-

He must have encountered 

his personal assistant 

cleaning the floors of his 

posh bunglow-

He must have looked into 

his deep eyes.

The desperation in his eyes

must have asked for better 

wages for the first time.

And Dadabhai must have 

given away sixteen annas 

to hide his own guilt.

And that's when his

Drain Theory must have 

stood up to slap him,

and Dadabhai must have 

given two more annas in a

hurried miscalculation.

But did it make up for the 

rightful twenty rupees? 

Or down the history,

the wisdom of averages

overlooked it for larger good?

Pi and Richard Parker

When you grow too curious and 

hold your ear against the fabric of 

reality in search of a higher purpose, 

you're thrown into a desperate ocean. 

You and me ended up in these

existential waters, like that.

Helpless, drifting and hallucinating,

while trying make meaning out 

of this salinity.

But the waves here aren't made 

of water. They reek of confession, 

compulsive guilt and self-humiliation 

that comes after forced sarcasm. 

You made gods out of language, 

fed meaning to every passing cloud, 

Tried to tame the wild thing in me 

with tenderness. and without noticing 

Didn't you become 'Pi' like that? 

And I, Richard Parker. Not fierce,

just an animal, too wounded to admit 

I have grown used to your companionship. 

And this raft between us-

these exchanged poems, 

these metaphors stitched together as 

survival manuals. 

We fed on verses like it's a wisdom 

that guide us out of the abyss.

and somewhere between casual words 

and crafted poems, our instincts 

disappeared and we became witness 

to each other's drowning. 

You fed me your attention, and I circled 

your loneliness, like I would worship it forever. 

And, to be frank, I survived the ocean 

because of you.

But somewhere I know why 

a beast should never forget his teeth 

out of gratitude.

That’s why I keep warning you.

That, one day, land will arrive-

Reality will return like a coastline

neither of us asked for.

And when it does, I'm afraid my 

old instincts will crawl back into me.

The instinct to vanish, to ghost.

To walk into the jungle without turning back.

Not because you meant nothing.

But because creatures like me only know 

how to survive through departure.