The Arc of History

The arc of history bends toward justice.

I think I believe it.

Liberal winds outlast conservative walls.

However tight the scripture, however loud the bigot, 

however sacred the redundancy-

Sati had to go. Widow remarriage had to come.

Feminism was inevitable. Equality and human dignity 

were always the aspiration.

Sometimes I suspect it isn’t morality at work-

Just market optimization, cruelty becomes inefficient 

and compassion scales better.

Reform, perhaps is capitalism discovering 

empathy is profitable. Still, even if the motive

is impure, the outcome inches forward-

It's a fair bet I guess.

See, I'm a cynic in the short term but an 

optimist in the long term. I see chains of 

slavery disappearing, feudalism subsuming 

into itself.

Customs that once called themselves eternal,

now survive as footnotes and we got better 

lives now, than any medieval king at his prime.

So yeah. It's fair to reiterate as the old gods

shrink, old chains rust, old certainties crack-

And though slow, reluctant. 

Rarely noble or perfect- the arc of history 

bends toward justice.

But you're condemned to study, find a job and

toil hard to feed your misery, so that some 

future generation can enjoy the amenities you're 

currently deprived of-

Then smirk from beyond the graves when 

they say the previous generation had it 

better.

Why do you wanna go?

I wanna hold you in 

my arms, but you say,

you have to go. 

Why do you have to go? 

I wanna drown in your eyes, 

but you withdraw and say, 

it's late, you gotta go. 

Why do you have to go? 

The sun hasn't painted 

the evening sky yet, and 

the moon hasn't 

conjured twilight.

The big black clocks 

want to stop for a bit

and even the road to

your home wants to lose 

your memory for a while,

so give it a rest.

The waves crashing in

the distance are yet to start 

an affair with the shore,

and the words stuck under 

my tongue want to 

compose you songs.

The secrets I wanna 

confide in your braids 

and a hundred pauses 

I wanna measure against 

your breath-

The redness of your 

cheeks needs to be

tended with kisses.

But you say, you gotta go.

Your fondness for my

bruised heart is at

work with hurt, 

But you say, you gotta go.

Why darling, why do you

have to go?

Fun Poem

My niece says she's fan

Of Mri's dressing sense.

I'm fan of her hair though.

The number of birds

That can nest in her curls-

She can revive two-three

endangered species.

For the English Teacher 

she is and The P.E.T teacher

who might object my interest-

I'm more afraid of her 

tendency to correct 

my grammar-

So she can't be my muse,

As she's a grammar nazi.

Jaison, my man, I wish

You were my homie-

The corporate coolie,

Who writes love poems 

for grannies-

I would teach you the tricks 

Of Laal Salaam and

The cocktails that come

When one is totally 

Unhinged-

But you can't me my muse

as you aren't a true comrade 

of God's own country.

And ohhh my dear bhanji.

Cylindrella, Dri.

The wannabe patakha,

But Lil Momta di.

I wanna rhyme you

The way you dance.

But you're too cute 

for the cruel world.

But keep practicing 

your witchcraft on

Dolls.

You can't be my muse

Because I'd be 

called Epstein.

Well..well. well- Aditi.

How are you still part

Of Brahmin community?

Our rants and joint

poetic blasphemy screams

 you're just perfect.

It's tempting to say 

Only if I were younger 

or you were older-

But that would be gay,

As I recognise in you

a potential weenie.

 

You could be my muse

despite that but

'Bulldozer', says CM Yogi.

I could go on about 

other but no one is

age appropriate.

I could say my muse 

is me but I'm ugly and

narcissistic.

So I shift the blame on

my Kumbh mein bichada bhai-

Yo nikamma admin,

add to the group,

A millennial babhi.

Thousand Times Over

Our eyes meet and 

they talk about rainy 

promises.

the blooming gardens 

and hidden colors in 

the skies. 

Our breaths reciprocate 

and they exchange 

heavenly wisdom of 

stars. 

Time, obviously, is 

slow here and light 

bends in the shape 

of our hearts. 

Our skins touch and 

the tingles carry 

vulnerability that even 

Gods are jealous of. 

Spirituality without a

carnal caress is an

eternal thirst they

haven't yet solved.

And this is how we 

complete each other-

The winter of my 

summers, 

breezy evenings of

my lazy nights.

I wouldn't choose you a 

thousand times over. 

One lifetime is enough. 

I'm sure we will live it a 

thousand more times 

in this one 

over and over again.

Sinking

You know you are 

no good. 

You know you can't 

do it. 

The judgment has 

been passed and 

you've accepted it. 

But you gotta try it

one more time.

You know it's for no

good but you conjure

that last ounce of energy 

and give it a try.

You do it with all the 

shame and disinterest. 

You do it, and you 

see it crumble again. 

You have seen this 

innumerable times before 

and this is no surprise. 

You anticipated this. 

You knew this is exactly 

how it was supposed 

to happen, and it did. 

And you are disappointed 

in yourself again. 

You trusted yourself, 

but can you, again? 

This is sad. 

This is a new fall, 

a new low, 

a deeper abyss you 

don't wanna stare at.

And then you smile. 

the hollowest smile 

in the world.

Only you know how

Hollow it is-

It ain't a black hole.

Yet, equally efficient 

in consuming light.

For the Age in Question

The longing of hesitant eyes,

The weight of unsaid words.

The language that fractures

before it becomes words-

and your gentle failure to 

read my compulsive intent.

The urge to drown in your 

arms, followed by the fear of 

being mocked for the same-

The desire to have all of you

dodged by the self-shame 

that gleams in mirrors--

Some stories dissipate 

like that. 

When speed itself is shamed,

and any thoughts in favour 

of anti-gravity are

branded as taboo-

Not everyone can garner 

escape velocity to reach the

moon you've become.

and for the age in question-

I'm seventy years too late

to become an astronaut.

and maybe seventy years 

too early to be compelled to

worship you from a distance.

So here are my redundant 

offerings- 

Prayers and wishes.

and if devotion is love enough-

I know you'll be considerate.

Old Graves

The scar I keep 

scratching has a 

memory from when 

it was a wound-

fresh, mushy.

Waltzing with pain 

and misery.

the vulnerability, 

abandonment, and 

other perks that 

came free with the 

suffering. 

It spoke in a language 

that I once spoke. 

It smelled like the air 

I once inhaled. 

It had a microcosm 

of its own- a brain, 

a heart, and a nervous 

system that spread 

like a fungal infection 

with intentions. 

But now, it's dead. 

It feels numb, like it has 

been left with no purpose.

It recapitulates like

an old man now.

It's almost nostalgic.

I'm tempted to scratch 

deeper-

It's tempting to be 

a victim again.

It's a sin to dig old

graves, they say.

But the necrophilic 

tendencies of mine 

do it anyway.

Cost of breathing

mistakes are marks 

of evidence to say 

things are still working.

and to err, to cuss.

to take chances despite 

innumerable setbacks.

to care, to hate, and 

to miserably embrace 

our own imperfections.

to lie, to swear.

to tumble down and

spectacularly fail,

but still be humane.

and to still love and long 

despite betrayals,

and to live through 

inevitability of death-

wounds in the flesh 

indicate something 

inside is still beating-

a tiny flicker has to be

left in the night sky to insist

dawn is still not a myth.

let pain be proof of

pulse and life be a

rebellion against 

indifference.

Reciprocation

The things I wanna say, 

steal them from my eyes. 

The things you wanna hear, 

translate them onto my skin.

The things you wanna say, 

place them on my lips.

And the things you may 

wanna hear-

They're are stashed in 

my heart, thrust your hand 

and savour them away.

For each of your khaki 

confessions, I shall make 

fluorescent promises-

Bright enough to blind

our hesitation.

Ask me if I have secrets, 

and I shall lay myself bare 

for an espionage of

of your interest. 

And if you have any, 

you should know-

I am good at pulling off 

a juicy heist. 

Interrogate my pulse.

Decode my breath.

leave your truths under

my tongue to 

obliterate distance.

Let the alibis collapse,

disguises melt.

Let our staged honesty

pass into submission

of love, even if it's

fake.

Weight

If you take a Y shaped 

wood and fit the two sides 

with strings of rubber.

You get a slingshot.

Everything becomes 

a target from there on.

Street bulbs, bottles.

Pigs, dogs and cattle.

You take aim at crow

eventually and it

falls down wriggling.

punctured breast.

oozing blood.

So much for a young

mind to process.

Twenty years down 

the line, every night 

it still caws in your 

dreams.

Tell me, if you kill a

bird and carry it's 

weight in you,

Did it die or started

living in you?

Tell me, when you

kill a bird, if your

soul dies too.

The caw caw in your 

head, tell me if it's 

kind of incarceration.

Witness

To feel the warmth 

of her skin and sculpt 

it on a stone.

To witness the fire 

in her eyes and burn 

the canvas with paint. 

Once I glanced into 

her heart and the 

way my guitar cried- 

the lullabies born 

cleansed my soul 

a thousand times. 

It took a lot of patience 

and impulsive spurts 

to understand her. 

The storms I hurled 

were calmed with her 

smile and the silence 

I hid was nursed with 

a satin touch that 

wreaked walls.

Her contradictions

are acts of love and 

my unguarded heart 

is a refugee in hers-

to witness a new

tomorrow every day 

like it's my birth right.

Fragrance

If you dive deep

inside someone and 

plant a flower.

perhaps a jasmine.

and if it stays and 

survives and endures 

the forces of longing 

on good or bad days-

a subtle fragrance 

emanates. 

a yearning stretched 

across time-

surviving delays, 

denials, and onslaught 

of non-reciprocation-

a thirst that doesn't 

seek relief or validation.

ohh! this scent in my

unguarded heart.

a wound that refuses

to close, to remind me

what once felt-

it talks with the gentle 

wind that blows from 

the west and 

settles deeper in

folds of memory like

quietude after a

heartfelt laughter.

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".