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 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.

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 he question is

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!