The Execution

Once he returned to 

South from Sindh,

He knew in his heart

that something was wrong

about the execution.

The eyes of the man 

he had hanged last week 

still stared down his soul.

The sharp look of that 

young boy followed him

everywhere-

Fearless. Unblinking.

Far too alive for someone

he had watched die.

Months passed before 

the winds from northwest

carried the truth down to 

the Deccan plateau.

By then, this hangman 

from Dharwad had begun 

to understand what

the officials had made

him do-

But isn't sometimes 

having a conscience is 

a crime? Especially when 

you're a government 

hangman?

But can a noose ever 

redeem the acts of 

another noose?

That's what the policeman 

asked himself when he

found a newspaper 

clipping clutched in the 

hand of the body-

A picture of a young man

in Pagdti. Sharp eyes,

and fresh moustache.

His name below-

If he had read it aloud,

An empire would have 

fallen then and there,

and a country would 

have born.

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?