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.

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.

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.

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.

Keeda

There should be unfulfillment 

in your heart and an itch to 

fill it up no matter what. 

There should be restlessness 

in your fingers to keep scratching-

You gotta keep the wound alive. 

Like how there should be a 

mountain and an ache in your 

legs to climb it up. 

Like how your hand should 

look forward to swimming in 

the open sea, at least once. 

There should be invisible wings

that flap for a mysterious flight.

There should be an imaginary 

sky that shines only for you

to keep your delusions intact.

And somewhere far away, 

by a creek or amidst a forest, 

there should be a wishful house

made of sticks and stones.

And to spend a good chunk of

your life, there should be an 

equally mad companion to 

tag along.

And after spending the first 

chilly night by the campfire,

you gotta wake up to a new 

hopeless horizon to help yourselves 

with a steamy beverage that's 

really bad.

You gotta have a special kind

of 'keeda' to romanticize it,

like you're gonna repeat it again.

And to call discomfort an

adventure. A bad drink, a tradition. 

and the cold, an intimacy-

Oh they said to stare back at 

the abyss when the abyss stares 

at you, but you went ahead and 

took a piss in it. 

And why shouldn't it be alright?

Judgemental bastard

One of my friends called me

a judgmental bastard.

I smiled in agreement.

If there were a competition

for jumping to conclusions,

I'd probably win it.

Give me half an excuse,

a delayed reply,

an unusual punctuation mark,

and I'll construct an entire

civilization around it.

A missing "goodnight."

becomes abandonment.

A changed tone becomes 

betrayal. A misplaced 

emoji can stir an agitation 

and become a national 

issue for me.

You can be good to bad.

soulmate to suspect,

lovable to character-less 

within minutes. For me,

the evidence hardly matters.

My imagination is perfectly

capable of operating

without it.

Some people wait for 

facts to arrive. Not me.

I prefer to greet them

at the destination.

I mean, why burden 

myself with uncertainty

when I can manufacture

certainty from thin air?

It's a remarkable talent.

being arrogant, haughty,

and self-sabotaging-

narcissistically adorable

but remarkable nonetheless.

And the worst part is,

every now and then, I'm right. 

which is all the encouragement

a bad habit needs to 

become a philosophy.

One successful prediction,

one suspicion vindicated,

and suddenly every irrational 

thought gets tenure.

That's how paranoia earns 

credibility.

So yes, perhaps I am 

judgmental. But look at

the stories I invent about 

people. They're usually far 

more dramatic than the 

people themselves.

They've proper arcs,

better conclusions.

Funny noses, improved faces. 

walking styles synced 

to the tunes of Bhojpuri songs.

And beyond this, if reality 

insists on being ordinary,

surely it can't blame me

for trying to improve the plot. 

at least I tried to add colour 

to some of your lives.

But imagine the audacity of

not thanking me enough for 

being such a humble painter.

But l let it pass. 

I'm sure you're not gonna 

go far with such a poor 

sense of gratitude.

Fun Poem

My niece says she's fan

Of Mri's dressing sense.

I'm fan of her hair though.

The number of birds

That can nest in her curls-

She can revive two-three

endangered species.

For the English Teacher 

she is and The P.E.T teacher

who might object my interest-

I'm more afraid of her 

tendency to correct 

my grammar-

So she can't be my muse,

As she's a grammar nazi.

Jaison, my man, I wish

You were my homie-

The corporate coolie,

Who writes love poems 

for grannies-

I would teach you the tricks 

Of Laal Salaam and

The cocktails that come

When one is totally 

Unhinged-

But you can't me my muse

as you aren't a true comrade 

of God's own country.

And ohhh my dear bhanji.

Cylindrella, Dri.

The wannabe patakha,

But Lil Momta di.

I wanna rhyme you

The way you dance.

But you're too cute 

for the cruel world.

But keep practicing 

your witchcraft on

Dolls.

You can't be my muse

Because I'd be 

called Epstein.

Well..well. well- Aditi.

How are you still part

Of Brahmin community?

Our rants and joint

poetic blasphemy screams

 you're just perfect.

It's tempting to say 

Only if I were younger 

or you were older-

But that would be gay,

As I recognise in you

a potential weenie.

 

You could be my muse

despite that but

'Bulldozer', says CM Yogi.

I could go on about 

other but no one is

age appropriate.

I could say my muse 

is me but I'm ugly and

narcissistic.

So I shift the blame on

my Kumbh mein bichada bhai-

Yo nikamma admin,

add to the group,

A millennial babhi.

The Resistance

Me and my cousin

Fancied bows and arrows.

A flexible bamboo for 

A bow and jowar stalks as 

Arrows- 

Best harmless weapons,

Yet stout for fun.

Our primary targets 

Were pigs in our backyard.

Our contention was,

Their acts of sniffing our

Asses while we shat

in the open.

So before open defection 

Was looked down upon,

We had an offensive strategy 

To hold our ground.

And when PM declared, 

India, open defecation-free,

He forgot to mention 

The members of

The resistance,

We were- to put it mildly-

A little angry.

Civilization

Study. get a job.

earn a living.

marry. have kids.

lead a life.

Why bother?

why digress?

why derail the 

conveyor belt?

Why think?

why observe the 

noise inside?

why give thoughts 

a language?

Why give a chair 

four legs? or

aeroplane wing?

why do anything 

other than just

breathe and exist?

What’s the point

of asking a question

in a world that has

mass-produced all

the answers?

That's what all

all cavemen thought. 

till a lazy dude said, 

why not?

and set his head

on fire to impress 

a girl for a 

one-night-stand.

and from the wheel

to steam engines-

the standards 

have gone up 

ever since.

the arc of history 

is bent by the 

acts of these dudes

doing crazy stuff to 

sniff ass.

Banishment

Eventually, we get married,

travel, have kids,

drop them to school daily,

and eat the best meals in 

the world.

We make love,

laugh, fight,

and nurse each other’s

angry hearts

like it’s our seventh life.

Slow walks in the park

in old age,

proud of the children’s

small victories-

then a quick, painless death,

as if we manifested it all

in our previous lives.

Then we are reborn again,

at different corners of 

the world.

We bump into each other

in China- only to realise 

It's is our eighth life.

By then, we would be

Bored and, as an act of love,

We decide to auction 

Each other on the dark web.

Maybe a cosmic lord

Would bid high and realise 

How he made his ninth

Mistake in a row with 

the same couple.

We'd laugh at his foolish 

Face again, and he would 

Banish us again to earth.

We'd meet again to fall

In the same cycle-

Ohh how addicted he's 

To the story we've 

become.

Scratching Away Life

When I thrust my hand

In search of my usual

Stout manhood,

I couldn’t feel a thing 

In the morning.

A heist around my

Groin? What went

Wrong?

I guess I was dead.

Body lying around

Without any decency.

Mouth open.

Flies entering and 

Coming out.

Drool all over the 

Pillow. And hands 

Thrust in my pants.

Did I pass away 

Scratching my balls?

Hell of a last moments

Then- Three seconds

Of replay, maybe full 

Of relieving thoughts.

My son wouldn’t joke 

About me out of 

Respect, maybe.

But my grandkid, 

That devil,

He will scream about 

My awkward posture

in some podcast-

With a thumbnail,

"Men die as they live-

scratching problems

they never solved."

Resurrection

When Grandpa got 

Bedridden, stopped talking,

Everyone began visiting-

Aunts, in-laws, cousins.

Aunts of aunts,

Cousins of cousins.

Every day sipping chai,

Talking, reminiscing,

Full meals and gossip-

Waiting for him to die.

His breath would pace up

Or eyes would abnormally roll.

And shivers in his legs-

He was in and out

While everyone waited.

Days passed and weeks.

People came and went.

Some stood their ground,

Some were frustrated

And never came back.

Some thought they would 

Return once he died.

The event became a 

Running joke eventually.

One day, he stood up.

After a while, he started 

Walking around.

Talking and cussing like

He always did.

His revival confused 

Everyone. 

To be happy or sad?

The churning of free

Sucrose while they 

Waited for him to pass-

Was it this uncomfortable

When Jesus resurrected?

Might be.

Maybe Jesus cussed 

Everyone who were 

Disappointmented by

His resurrection.

Someone took a note

And it's a religious 

Scripture now.

Ape Meat

The best meal of 

China and the most

Expensive-

As claimed by my 

Friend, Hoooli Foook.

Cost him a fortune.

But he arranged it

For free, as a

Goodwill gesture.

The waitress who

Looked like a Midwife,

In the deep sea

Exotic hotel-

Served the hot

Omniotic soup first,

Followed by the 

Air-Fried-Umbilical 

Nachos.

Apes in this part 

Of the town, taste 

Better, said the 

Mermaid-faced Manager, 

While he instructed 

His crew to serve 

The main course.

The hype for 

The big reveal was 

Intimidating when

The waitress who 

Looked like she just

Got out of labour,

Announced "Fresh 

Out of my womb"

There were limbs,

An open head of a

Foetus garnished

With little fingers.

Took a minute to

Realize the pun in

'Best ape' but 

Snapped out of it 

To get along-

When Foook said

"What happens in 

China remains in China"

"Except for viruses"

I said to myself, 

Before I shifted my

My full focus on 

The delicacy.

DiiiiDiii

Bibliophile, Pluviophile.

She/her. Lowkey writer.

Full-time depressed.

Loud, upbeat. 

Swears a lot to look 

Cool among her affluent 

Peers.

Dogs and cats are

Didi's first love but hates

Men, like that's gonna

Up her game against 

Other ultra-feminists.

Goth look. Dark humor.

Body positivity and

'Go slay gurrrl' with overuse

Of vowels to highlight 

Her over-the-top emotions.

Upon that, an opinion on

Palestine is a must.

Gender fluidity is a

Newfound fetish and

Bisexualism is a

Compulsive dessert

Beside the other 

Delicacies of her big

Fat meal of pretense.

Mom's love is never 

Enough. Her brother 

Is always an asshole.

And of course Didi's 

Got daddy issues 

That are stacked even 

From a past life.

The food-lover,

Party animal, wanderlust.

The exotic places in

India aren't enough.

Didi has perpetual plans

To tick off ten more 

Countries before she 

Turns twenty.

High on self-awareness.

High on information.

She thinks she has 

Figured it all out by 

Being condescending

On boys who are 

Petty simps in the name

Of BFFs.

But maybe a rich-ass 

Dude, of whom she

Always dreams of-

Seems to be the only 

Solution for her delusions.

When he confines her 

To the commands of 

His mother to mass 

Produce Gol-rotis in

The kitchen-

The sweat off her brow

Would scream

How the Good dude, 

Vignesh, would have 

At least extended his 

Help to do the dishes.

To a Baddie

She lights cigerettes

To burn matches.

Kills doves to invoke 

Desire. She's an overused 

UNO reverse.

She's obsession on 

Steroids... Bukowski minus 

The beers and whores.

But the dick still intact.

She's prayers yapped 

Backwards.

Satan seeks her mercy 

To doze off at night.

Jinnxed blood and 

Marrow. Crows mourn in 

Her shadow- she's doused 

Hope of tomorrow.

Every soothsayer's refuge

Before they went terribly

Wrong. She is till today 

Shukracharya's daily riaz.

Tamraj Kilwish once said

"Aditi Kayam Rahe" to

The dark and the mangal 

In Lord Shani's horoscope 

Got misaligned.

So this is a wake-up call.

There's a new force in town,

God/Demon as pronouns.

Pray or cuss- it's your choice.

But be careful while you

Open your mouth-

Stupid is allowed but not 

Boring. Roar/ cry but

No pretense.

Smut or dirt-

You'll be killed if you'd

Be cliche or cringe.

Baba of Undies

My friend left his underwear 

In my penthouse.

I'd to use it to clean my bike.

He cracked a good deal 

At his company after that 

And got sponsored for 

A free Bangkok trip.

After a year, another friend 

Did the same. I'd put

The cloth to some use.

His business boomed too.

The word got around and

Suddenly all my friends 

And their friends paid a visit 

To leave their undies in

My house and everyone's 

Fortune turned.

Did I just become an

Underwear baba? 

Beats me but

People started visiting.

Sometimes, I had to 

Symbolically clean stuff with 

Their undies and they did

Well in life after that.

Then came the skeptics

A professor, a journalist,  

A man with a clipboard.  

They left nothing behind,  

To check my validity.  

Their stocks plummeted.  

Their lovers left.

One man misplaced  

His entire career.  

Now they, too, return,  

Sheepish, contrite,  

Holding their offerings  

Like wilted flowers.  

I nod. Accept the fabric 

Fate has woven.  

At this point,  

Who am I to question it?  

When divinity passes

Through you to lead a creed.

You accept the prophecy

To happily become a 

Baba of Undies.

Zara

Zara

(Love Your Curves)

If you pedal through the passes 

Of Himalayas. Curve after curve 

The mountains unfurl their

Wilderness.

And if you could reach Hanle in

Ladakh and ready for more curves. 

You would find Umling La-

The highest motorable road in the world.

Adorable wilderness.

The bare mountains oozing elgance-

We wish we could cloth them all.

But we can clothe you.

We 'Love Your Curves' too.

Visit the nearest Zara store soon.