Amathia

To be opaque to new 

information, to be impartial 

to outside noise,

to not be triggered, and 

to happily bask in a certain 

kind of ignorance.

To actually take a step back

for introspection and to 

lie around listening to 

the chirps of birds.

And while you lie around 

and let the rampage of your 

useless thoughts ram-

Oh how it feels good to 

be a passenger in a train 

headed to heaven or a 

pebble falling along a 

waterfall to reach aquifers.

I mean, what a pleasure it 

is to breathe and let things 

happen or let them not-

and just then, if a poem 

travels from far afar to 

lands in your lap-

How nice it would be to 

pat its head, cook it some

broth. To nurse it, bathe it 

and put it back to sleep 

till it becomes a beast to

hail upon the world.

Womanhood

If Menarche turns

a girl into a woman-

which is celebrated 

with saree and bangle 

ceremonies-

A ritual disguised as 

a warning-

which takes a lot 

away by cajoling you

with a few petty gifts-

Does that mean 

menopause can give 

a lot by taking away 

a few petty things? 

Like you can give back 

a saree and a few 

bangles to the society 

and grow a pair of 

wings to be effectively 

redeemed?

Giving in

If the garden of longing 

calls you, you should 

consider surrendering.

If a certain intoxication 

tries to get you, you 

should playfully give in.

Sometimes if a hand 

tries to reach you in the

dark, you gotta believe 

that it's a guiding light.

And when the winds are 

ready to bring you fancy 

dreams you should consider 

building windmills instead 

of walls.

If a certain rain finds

you without a roof, 

you should resist the urge 

to call it bad weather-

Some things arrive

without a purpose.

Some doors open before 

you know what lies 

beyond them.

Some roads make no 

promises except that 

they lead somewhere you 

haven't been.

You don't always have 

to know where you're going.

Sometimes a little courage 

to be carried away can

land you where you exactly 

wanted to be.

The bird that chirps in

the morning, give it a

chance to sing for you-

A warm embrace is always 

better than a distant, 

detached admiration.

I know delusions are bad

but what if being delusional 

is the only way around?

So why be a king when 

you can be a God? I say, 

slay it the Buddha way.

Have a wife and kid, and 

walk away before it's too late.

Even peak spirituality hits 

you after a little escapism,

and a lots of wealth 

perhaps.

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?

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.