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?