The first time I knew I was alive

When you cut a newspaper in
A square and place a bow and
Arrow across two ends diagonally.

And paste the ends well with the
Rice paste prepared by mom.
You get a skeleton of a kite.

Then you poke two holes at
The junction of the bow and arrow.
And two holes parallely down-

You pass a thread across the
Holes- double the diagonal length
Of the kite.

Pull it out at the posterior end
To tie together the entire structure
To balance the centre of gravity-

You would need a reel-thread
From mom's sewing machine to
Set the kite in its course.

And for the first time, when
My kite soared high, it was
The first time I knew I was alive.

Time Traveller

The time traveller moves 

A stone. I wake up in

My New York apartment 

With Ana de Armas 

Asking what I want for 

Breakfast.

The time traveller moves

A chair. En route to 

Colonised Mars.

They ask me to be an

Interim president there.

Hands down. 

No complains.

Time traveller does 

Nothing this time.

He had a chance to do

Something but bored,

Tired, procrastinates

And sleeps.

I end up in misery here.

Broke, ugly, single

And still choking on 

Poems.

The third one is me.

Haven't realised it yet but 

I've travelled to the 

Present of this timeline 

For nothing.

Taj Mahal

When Shah Jahan was 

Imprisoned by his own son.

For wasting public money on 

Extravagant architecture..

Held captive in a cell facing 

The Taj Mahal so that he could 

Wither away to death 

Contemplating his creation..

Did the White-Giant diminish 

Into a hateful nothingness 

Or it became a point of 

His pride?

Swooned daily by it's 

Magnificence. The beauty 

Growing louder day by day 

Till he himself became 

The shadow of this very 

Entity he commissioned.

Leaving historians with 

The ultimate question of

Who's bigger?

The dream or dreamer.

Heart is Art

Stabbing is not easy.

And stabbing right in 

The heart is a skilled job,

Needs a lot of practice.

Ribs will come in the way

To begin with.

And kitchen knife is

Not enough to penetrate 

The sternum.

You could go for the

Throat to kill or stab

Randomly on the torso 

To open an artery.

But we're not interested 

In the kill, are we? 

We gotta get through to

The heart. Heart is art.

So when you practice 

The same on the dead bodies 

In the mortuary with a 

Special knife smuggled

From Russia. And then..

You wait for weeks to 

Isolate a victim..

Constantly running a

Simulation of her chest

To thrust the dagger 

Between 4th and 5th rib.

And at the right minute

You don't flinch, and you

Don't blink.

The reminder to yourself 

Of a blunt puncture with

Right force and angle..

Then to draw it back with

Same precision with not a

Sound from her mouth. 

Just the squirt of blood 

Oozing out gushing..

You fancy that sound.

You smile at your art that 

Just assured you the right 

Frequency of life leaving.

Last Day

On the last day.

We unwillingly kissed.

Got naked and 

Entered the shower.

We rinsed each other.

Made love like we're 

Hosting a funeral in 

Ourselves.

The hollow cascade of 

Longing..

The smoke out of

Embers that were dying.

We couldn't look in

The eyes could we?

This repulsion for 

Each other. The sparks

That don't invoke 

Emotions now..

The unloving that feels 

On the skin and under it..

Rather, I feel nothing.

There's something missing.

I say whoever pits love

Against carnal sensations 

Is wrong. Whoever 

Preaches purity is wrong.

It's all messy and dirty.

Imperfect and wild.

And if you don't feel her 

On your skin..

It's not love.

If the blood doesn't rush 

To your head at her 

Instance and if the veins 

Don't bulge...and if you 

Don't get a mild erection 

Whenever she crosses

Your mind..

It's not love. Atleast,

It's not love enough.

Ochre

Ochre-faced dreams haunt me.

I try to remember why I call it 

Ochre but I can't recall.

The quest takes me to an ancient 

Cave. Pitch dark and only a 

Kerosene torch to look ahead.

The smell of soot, cough and 

Ancient cold in tattered clothes. 

I hold the torch to the walls-

The Cave-Paintings in red dye. 

Hunting, Killing, and boiling 

Cauldrons with bodies..

A sudden slam of pale face at me.

It's my History teacher yelling 

"Ochre is Ferrous oxide..

Mineral used in cave paintings."

Ancient piss tightens my bladder.

I wake up. 10th class history paper 

And there's that question.

Occhre I write. A caveman comes

Running and slaps me for the

Spelling mistake I made.

Suddenly I am in a class at

The edge of a mountain.

Writing ochre a hundred times.

Only question in mind.. why is 

English ma'am naked?

The PE sir charges at me with 

Cuss words after that thought.

Seems they're a thing from ancient 

Times. But why the hell he would 

Speak correct English this time?

Wishes

The next time you travel
By bus at night.
May a beautiful girl occupy
The seat beside you.

May you talk all night
And hit it off well.
May she ask your number
Before you could.

Then by next weekend
May she come to meet you
And you two readily
Fall for each other.

May bike-trips happen
To you both. Late night
Convos under the stars.
Music, love, lust, fights.

And worse, a marriage.

May you have a seamless
Happy life. Two kids in a
Big home. One girl
And the other boy.

One afternoon when you
Sleep on the couch.
May one of them throw a
Steel glass at your face.

And when you wake up
Irritated, to the summer of
Power cut. May you curse
The humidity with

The sweetness of what you
Briefly felt in the dream.

The Picture

Your head rested on my

Right shoulder when we

Sat on the park bench.

A photographer captured

It from behind and gave 

Us the pic saying 

"It's beautiful."

We kissed later that day.

Our first one.

The tendency of that pic

Of turning into innumerable 

Good things-

Travel, food, party, kids.

Sunsets, mountains, beach.

Long walks after fat feasts.

This pic that has no 

Beginning or an end but 

Only possibilities. 

It's a house on lease where 

We no longer live. But I go on

Paying the rent still.

Like a zoned-out writer 

Disappearing in his story.

Drowned and dusted-

Refusing to come back.

Reality fused in fancy,

Your face becoming 

A philosophy, an ideology.

Romanticism edging towards 

A singularity. And the religion 

You've manifested in me-

I'm happy to have become 

A fanatic. 

My bigotry stands stout 

At your service now.

I want a spiritual awakening.

Secrets

This secret that lingers
In you and bombards
Demanding a safe carrier.
Day by day, gaining weight
And turning into a rock.

How do you find the right
Ears to whisper it to?
The able shoulders to
Unload it onto?

You can't just throw it
At your pillow.
It's already overburdened
With tears and your drool.

Or you can't just scream
It off from a cliff hoping
The wind would carry it
To a place of no return.

If there was a competition
For bearing such a weight
Of a secret.
I wouldn't win it.

Crushed by even hints of
Such secrecy-
Spread, surrendered
And bled out on a paper-

The urge to unburden
Myself readily. The urge
To shed extra-baggage
In order to travel light.

I want to be a feather to
Fly away when the wind blows.
Or turn me into a quill to
Do the same.

Manther

The day I died,

My soul came out holding 

Its nose, like it could

Not bear the stench.

It didn't look back or wait. 

It escaped from gap between 

Unbecoming of my name

Into a corpse.

What will this bird out

Of the cage would do?

For I haven't taught her

Any songs too.

I already see a limp

In its wings,

Can sour to the heights 

It wishes to reach?

But then it enters another 

Body before I could 

Empathize with it a bit.

Souls have no loyalty, ain't it?

Flaunting its body-count 

Like it's a Manther,

It goes on lusting for better 

Cages and skeletons, 

To collect bounty in terms 

Of carnal misery of the body 

That comes with every 

Mortal's mortality.

Good Night

Bridges from where to

Where and why?

Why they're always in

The proces of building or

Burning in the stories?

Today, in mine, everything 

Lies flat on the floor.

Reasons I don't know.

I mean, on this winter night 

Why the trudge?

Why build something 

Out of sweat? Or burn

Something to cough out

The same?

It's lazy, hopeless and

Mindless freak this night.

Lies flat with wanting 

No help or support.

Loses control and withers 

Itself to sleep.

This story is sleep deprived.

And I badly need it.

Good night.

Two Chairs

At the end of the world,

Against a fiery sky that's

Dying. There are two 

Plastic chairs.

I'm sitting on one,

Waiting for you with a

Cold beer.

At the beginning of 

The world. Against rebirth 

Of a new sky- there are

Same two chairs.

Still waiting for you,

The beer is cold still.

And the epochs pass by-

Ice-ages -advent of warmth-

The civilizations and now-

The same chairs against a

Murky sky and skyscrapers.

But you come this time.

Where were you? Doing what? 

Having flings? Kissing hoes?

Tasting betrayals? 

The beer just turned warm 

And the moment is gone.

Saying BFFs for life-

The way you've come now.

The sheer audacity.

Where are the snacks?

Entanglement

The train of my thoughts 

Has a steam engine.

Loud, shaky, and smokey

When it runs.

It forces me to cough.

The soot overpowers.

I feel asphyxiated.

But it takes me ahead,

So what's there to complain 

About?

Yes, some hop on with 

Guitars and some 

Jasmine-laden coys.

Folklores and comedy 

That I enjoy.

The hot tea and chips

That are offered and

The scenery that passes 

By when I peek outside.

But they all entangle 

Again in a short while.

Lighting, thunder and

Rain-- deluge.

Then there are sparks too-

Fire, steam, and the train

That runs. Travelling is

Messy- bad tripping too.

Validating a Wound

What good is a wound 

That heals quickly?

What good is a wound 

That didn't itch when

It shouldn't?

The helpless fingers 

Compulsively finding 

Excuses to scratch.

Healing seeming like

A petty crime-

What good is a wound 

When it's not inflicted 

By you? What good 

Is a wound that doesn't 

Remind me of you?

The reason to bruise

Myself and the reason 

To heal, when it's you-

What good is your 

Occupancy in my head-

If you don't force me to 

Push boundaries that are

Beyond the visible blue?

What good are the wings 

That don't force me to fly

Close to the sun and 

What good is the flicker in 

The heart that doesn't 

Set the world on fire?

Meaningless and loud

I like things that are
Meaningless and loud.
Enough imagination
And totally dumb.

A mountain that's ready
To cry. A volcano afraid
Of Butterflies. Petals bearing
The weight of the skies.

I wanting to be you.
You, wanting to be me.
To be parallel lines
Tending to meet at infinity.

Philosophies not afraid
Of math. Spirituality that's
As secure as science.
A villain deriving power

By square root of minus
Nine and a hero defeating
Him by dividing himself
By zero thrice.

Math books felt abused
By listening to this and
The History professor
Turned Pookie to snatch

'The Great' from Alexander,
He's a they/them, now.

Pheonix

We sit by the river in 

Silence and her eyes talk

About "How we give wings 

To passing moments to 

Make them memories."

My eyes have a different stand.

"The ticks bore each other 

And set one another on fire.

Memories are ashes,

Self-immolation of moments."

She knows it. About my

Cynicism and I know well,

How she always tries to

Fill the gap.

So she asks me to give her

A stone. Throws it into 

The lake holding my hand.

A phoenix rises shaking off

The ash. And she says-

"We're that dip and 

The subsequent flight."

September 22

This girl who's bday is

Due tomorrow.

She times blowing the

Candles at exactly 6pm.

Cuts cake exactly half 

So that, the day and

The night are equally 

Split in half.

She's obsessed about 

This day, maybe 

Possessed. Equinox 

It is she says.

Half of her 'should

Have been height',

Confused about cutting 

Her boyfriend laterally 

Or vertically to call

Him her better half.

The stuff she explains 

Sometimes pervades,

Halfwit of the humans.

So she writes verses 

Like they got a half-life.

Never-ending, infinite,

Almost finished,

Yet something left.

Half you get, half you

Can't. There's always half 

And half of something as

It's equinox.

Leap

The wet floors and
The banana peels are just
Excuses. My fickle heart
Likes to slip and take leaps.

The sunsets, the moon.
Colors and the melodies-
Spring is here and my
Garden hasn't bloomed.

Body fancies bruises that
Only you can bless,
Gleam of your eyes to cleanse
The clutter in my chest.

The pen bleeds but for whom
It doesn't know yet.
But I wait for you to smile.
A cue enough to levitate-

My fickle heart likes to
Slip and take leaps, and
Now that I've seen you,
Maybe, only at your behest.

Unchanged Odds

In a world where they
Ask the right questions in
The wrong time and the wrong
Ones at the right time.

I ask the right question
At the right time and
You don't agree to meet
Me over a coffee.

So I shift to a world where
Things are reversed.
To ask you the right questions
At the wrong time and

The wrong question at
A right time. Only to get
Rejected twice.

And in a world where
The questions and the
Answers are banned.
I bottle my emotions to
Sell them in your street.

For years no one buys
Anything. At the distal
End of an apocalypse.
When everyone starved,

And thirsty for love.
I sought you thinking,
You might need something.
Even then you chose to be

A vile bitch, who thought
She could figure it all out,
But ended up dying of
Dehydration by a creek.

Gothic Bitch

A woke who identifies 

With spectrum of genders..

Yet she doesn't get laid.

A fascist who enslaves 

Low borns but even they,

Detest her to say nay.

She can do anything to 

Get laid, this Vixen is a

Sex addict and is ready to

Be anyone's bae.

She tried to seduce the Devil 

Once but he said he's gay.

So she pulled out a weenie 

By identifying herself as male.

That too ended up in

Disappointment. So she sold

Herself to Bengali baba,

To become an enchantress.

But that came with a condition,

She can never be straight.

She's this type of lesbian now,

Who cuts male genitals to 

Use them for her scissoring 

Sessions. That's the best 

Revenge she says..to hunt

Men who don't respond to 

The nudes she sends.