Broom-Sweep-Punch

Ten-Thousand hours is
What it takes they say.
Beethoven did it to perfect
His symphonies.

So did Picasso. Maybe,
Even Modiji.

I can't help but to think
About my grandmother.
Who lived for over a
Hundred years.

Her meticulous morning
Routine of sweeping
The front and the backyard.
And then the cattle-shed and
Disposing the cow-dung.

Her daily grind with the broom,
Would have crossed her
Ten thousand mark,
Long ago I suppose.

If her broom were a guitar,
She would have been
A bassist maybe with
The Pink Floyd.

If it were a paintbrush,
Maybe the Italian Renaissance
Would have spread around
My village.

And Thank God it wasn't
A potential weapon.
She would have fought
Alongside her mother to
Defeat the British Raj.

And sometimes when I
Overthink about the whole
Scenario, I can't help
But imagine that terrified
Face of Bruce Lee-

When he first heard about this
Bent-Torso-Straight-Leg
Broom-Sweep-Punch.
The one 'Ten-Thousand times'
Practiced move-
He wanted to be afraid of.

The Misplaced Tile

The misplaced tile in the
Newly laid footpath.
It bothers me.
Who in their right mind
Could do that?

Did the Masons think
It was okay to put it in there
Without any thought?
Or the engineer deliberately
Planned it, to mess with
The passersby?

The red and black tiles
That alternate throughout
In perfect harmony-
Now, have a sudden ebb
Of surprise.

An older couple on the
Evening stroll might
Suffer a stroke by
The shock of that sight.

The conspicuous oddity
Of a red tile in place
Of the black can even
Attract aliens who admire,
Geometric maladies.

I'm more worried about
That one over-aged man-
Who might after years,
Become a child for a while-
And decide to walk only
On the black tiles.

And before he could
Smile over his little feat,
Step on the Red one
For no fault of his,
To have his day ruined.

Scapegoat

My landlord invited me to
Ganapati Pooja.
Giving the final touch to the
Decorations in the mandap-

He aligns the position of
The statue one last time,
To declare, Bappa can't be
Moved till the fifth day.

Incense sticks were lit,
Aarti was brought, camphor
Was burnt on a coconut and
His daughter started singing.

She shouldn't have but
She did. Even the lord
Seemed pretty scared.
Maybe he wanted to run-

But he was bound by a
Coarse voice's command.

I stood there hands folded,
Imagining situations in
My head. Trying to control
My laugh.

But the laugh as it
Hammers on the wall of
My mouth- unable to
Find an exit-

Rams on my nose with
Heavy cough and drool.
And laugh of course.

The song stopped,
She cried, everyone
Hated me for what
I did.

The Lord wanted to
Rescue himself from the
Whole act- to which he
Sacrificed me like a lamb.

Weirdest Headlines

The fresh dead bodies,
In white robes have taken
The night off to dance it off,
In a distant resort.

The lady of Led Zeppelin,
Eventually couldn't afford
The stairway. Had to actually
Die to make it to heaven.

Elsewhere, someone opened
The gates of the sky,
The pigeons in angst had to
Take refuge in the cages.

The girl who cried daily
To conjure evenings, suddenly
Stopped to check it out
If it had been morning.

Skin wrinkled and cracked,
A man grew old overnight.
Repeated past in head is
Living too much, one can-

Age thrice as fast.

A farmer in the countryside,

Has gone mad anyway.

It's said he had to use an axe 

To read between the lines-

The book that caused it was

The Prophet by Khalil Gibran.

Idle

A man by the roadside
With his broken car,
Instead of fixing it,
Tuning his guitar.

Fisherman, instead of
Baiting the fish,
Trying to tame the ocean
With fish-nets for what?

A rat in a painting is
Now homeless by
Eating up the canvas in
The night.

A fence in the locality
Has turned jobless again,
By grazing up the only
Apple farm.

A terrorist became
Kind after listening
To Sufi songs and a
Nazi with sore feet,
Has failed to trample
Fresh thoughts.

Like a monkey with
No lice to pick on-

Characters like these
With no closure,
Sit idle, wasted in
My stories-

The way I do with
A pen in my hand,
Instead of a broom to
Clean my dirty room.

Lonely introspection

A TV running blank in the 

Empty house and the 

Incandescent bulb burning

Without purpose.

There's a stool. Two shoes,

That avoid eye contact.

An old telephone hanging

In the air by the spring-cord.

A man past his fifties has

Cut his face in half, holds it,

Like bowl of soup- to search 

Meaning of life with a spoon.

When the only conversation

All day has been a dry fart

In response to a cold sigh.

The loneliness like a-

Drop of sweat goes down

The trails of his spine to talk

To someone- only to get

Choked in the ass. 

Alas! Hips. 

Why can't you talk?

The Hand

My hand moves without

My cues like it has got a brain.

Its itch often hops on to scratch-

A compulsive habit of exploration.

It browses my back, brushes 

My hair. Reaches my groin,

Just check if everything is

Alright.

Duels with fingers of the 

Other hand, picks on the nails.

Sometimes reaches the foot

To dig into the toenails.

The pinky finger loves mining

It seems. A couple of times daily,

It has to dive in my ear to dig

Into the wax, which eventually-

Is rubbed off to the chair,

Wall, windowpane, or the table.

The other digits are no less.

The thumb and the forefinger,

Form an alliance to reach my nose,

Like a search party for missing 

Ammunition.

The booger that's found is rolled

Into a wad to be catapulted 

Towards the distal wall. 

And it coincidentally to hit,

A Housefly-

The entire species must have

Slipped into an illusion that 

They're on the movie sets of 

The director Rajamouli sir.

Helmet

To all my fellow bike riders,
Who have made an effort
To point out my poking,
Side stand.

Who, while coming from
The other side, warned
With passing glances,
The presence of the police.

The ones of help when
The tire was flat.
Gave a lift despite the
Trouble of a triple ride.

Even more to those who
Managed to hitch a ride,
By pushing it by one leg,
When petrol was out.

You guys deserve a
Place in heaven.
Like me who rode the
Bike without helmet.

Fate

I kicked a stone on
An empty road.
It rolled around tumbling
And disappeared on
The sidelines.

I kicked another that
Rolled to the wheels of
Approaching car.
The driver threw at
Me a fiery look.

I took one more in
The line of action.
Upon a kick it,
Took off to hit my
Friend in the head.

Now he's on the
Hospital bed.
Who I am? He asks.
I smile awkwardly
To hide my deed.

Years and years later,
When he realised
It was me. To return
The favor, he kicked
A stone at me..

Which bounced off
A running truck and
Hit his head again.
Who he is? He asks.
Looking at him, I smile.

His pending revenge,
It might take a couple
Of years again..
While another stone,
Might be waiting for him-

With his name written
All over it.

Role Change

Abusive fathers

Have turned to

Doodling and

Caring mothers

Are looking for

Amends by cooking

Really bad food. 

All the uncles 

Have stopped

Giving free advice.

Aunties have 

Stopped poking

Noses in personal

Lives.

The grandmas

Are forcing up

Sugar-free diet.

The site grandpa

Bought for 5k is

Over a crore now.

Friends have all

Turned decent and 

Stopped drinking.

Winds of change

Has gotten to me too.

I'm not masturbating.

OCD

Sometimes, it feels like 

My chair has a set of eyes.

That it creepily stares at me

To suck all my dreams.

It feels like the wall clock,

Has a pair of ears.

Makes me uncomfortable,

Thinking if it knows my secrets.

I wonder if the gas-cylinder 

Has a nose that sniffs off

My stink and snorts up 

Whatever ambition I'm left with. 

The metal-lock, perfume-bottle. 

The helmet, the iron-box.

The more I look at them and

Think, the more creepy they become.

I freaked out one day and

Accidentally came in front of

The mirror..

My eyes were a pair of chairs.

Two clocks in place of ears.

I sneezed out of shock and

The gas off my nose caught fire. 

Give away

Open your palm 

And slowly clench it. 

You may wanna

Catch the wind.

Look at the moon,

And slowly close 

Your eyes. 

You may wanna 

Preserve that light. 

As you sit there,

Reclined. A leg, 

Upon another..

And as you lift one 

Ass-cheek..

To comfortably,

Exhale, from 

The other vent-

Hold your breath. 

You owe the

Moment to others.

Let them have an

Opportunity,

To rinse their noses

With primordial 

Gas of your belly

That's scented with 

Hydrogen sulfide.

Post-Nut Clarity

To be or 

Not to be

Is a different kind

Of sanity.

You either have it,

Or you don't.

There's nothing

Called vanity.

You may brand

This generalisation,

As a flawed

Philosophy.

But I know, 

You'll be convinced.

If I tell you,

It's just

Post-nut clarity.

Smiles

Guns are for the weak,

Pens are for the meek. 

The real machoism lies

In the eyes..

That's why girls slay

Us with their smiles. 

Logic

All logic ends in the

Middle of the kitchen.

Where arguments with

My wife often begin.

Wall paint in small

Bottles, to apply

On the face can

Cost a fortune.

While the theory of 

The earth being flat 

Is sold at the worth 

Of a Brinjal.

Einstein must have

Died waiting in a 

Shopping mall before

Proposing relativity.

Van Gogh must have

Sliced his Is ear in protest.

He didn't have a wife.

But I understand the

Emotion.

Use your head 

For once, I said 

Out of frustration.

She did. 

Poured all her logic,

To make a point.

Earth didn't quake.

Her head didn't explode.

But she got to dictate

Her terms again.

Starting with

I volunteering to

To drain my scotch

Down the toilet.

Olympic Dream

I open my zip

To take a piss.

Simultaneously,

I spit.

The spit and 

The urine collide.

My Olympic

Dream is still 

Alive. 

Marriage

This shade of loneliness 

Hits you in your late 20s.

Feeds on insecurities to

Make your life compliant.

You accommodate yourself

In family trips.

Suddenly try to socialize

With strangers with

Sips of cheap drinks.

You form political opinions,

To fit in a group.

Watch cricket to blend in.

The mainstream is an

Inevitable end it seems.

All the girls you could have 

Had in college.

The moves you didn't make.

The words you couldn't say.

A feminine touch can

Only redeem you,

But your mirror 

Rejects you again.

Your only friend 

Succumbs to a girl.

And now you're really

Fucked in the head.

The loneliness sacrifices 

You to a societal mess.

And you decide to

Get married for sex.

Time is slow in Dharwad

Roosters are lazy.

Mornings are not

So early.

Time is slow in

Dharwad.

No one here is in a

Real hurry.

You wake up,

Go in search of

Breakfast with friends.

Hours simply pass,

As sipping chai 

Takes a lot of laugh.

So comes lunchtime,

Roti, curd, rice and

Sambar.

Food here is a wormhole.

Noon-nap that follows

Is a blackhole. 

You just belch, yawn.

And mysteriously you

Slip to the evening.

Sleepy eyes as the

Light fades,

Can anything get slower

Than this sombre?

Gurmit-mirchi-chai

And some more

Laughter..and 

You're back to bed

After a fat dinner.

Dreams bore fruits

Only in sleep.

Fed-up,

The monk who couldn't

Grow beard, 

Decided to leave..

Saying..

Even leaves take

Their own time 

To fall..

Time does really pass

Slowly in Dharwad. 

Uncle-hood

The number of 

T-shirts has been

Reduced to two.

The jeans in my closet,

Are disappearing too.

The themed vests 

Are being replaced,

By white banyans.

Fit full-sleeved shirts.

And well stitched,

Formal pants have

Invaded my space.

Clean shaved face,

Thick mustache.

A tuft of grey hair,

Left un-attained..

Beer belly is a

New reality.

Self-acceptance is

Now a philosophy.

Age stole my 

Ripped jeans,

Adulthood is gone..

A kid in the street

To call me uncle..

I've become

My father.

Bday Gone Wrong

It's her birthday

And she must
Be expecting a
Gift.

And I'm all
Caught up in
My head,
Preparing a list.
..
The song I
Wanted to write
Hasn't come in
Handy.

For the train I've
Been waiting,
The signs haven't
Been so dandy.
..
My rhymes are
Still broken.
Words,
Incomplete.

The tones are
Out of sync.
I have run out
Of ink.
..
It's been three
Hours,
Sky is turning
Pink.

She must be
Waiting for
Long..
Her hopes
Shouldn't sink.
..
The train did
Reach late and
She didn't quite
Really wait.

But I did sing
A ballad on 

How they kicked me
Out of her
Hostel gate.
..