Showing posts with label Hybrid. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Hybrid. Show all posts

10 July 2025

God Files Treason Against Darwin

God Files Treason Against Darwin
(for proving evolution and murdering miracles)

I gave them
Adam, and this particular 
Pastard gave them
A chimpanzee
With with bipedalism.

I said,
“Let there be light,”
He said,
“Photosynthesis.”
I carved Eve from a rib,
He said,
“uterus, cell division-
checkmate.”

One theory from him—
aland suddenly,
Floating somewhere between
Greek gods and Santa Claus-
I’m a myth??

They used to call storms
my wrath. Now it’s
“cyclonic pressure zone
over Bay of Bengal.”

I gave them
plagues to humble.
They gave me
Vaccines and said
“I’m good, thanks.”

I offered heaven for 
Obedience.
He offered Evolution
And a billion years
of paperwork.

Dear Darwin,
You killed prayers,
Turned temples
Into selfie zones.
You made them
Feel smart enough
To stop needing me.

Fine.
Let them have their evolution.
Let them trace
Grandpa’s lineage
To a lemur with abandonment 
Issues.

Let them
Map the genome,
Discover dark matter,
Build sexbots, smarter 
Than prophets.

But when they cry at 
Funerals or beg
The tumour to vanish by
Whispering my name...

A dejected grey Pigeon 
Will poop on your statue.

Because science,
For all its brilliance,
Never made a God
Who listens to 
The chemical fuck ups
In human head.

The Great Indian Cough-Off

It began
When someone started
Stealing laughter.
Quietly.
From WhatsApp groups,
Chai tapris,
Even Kapil Sharma reruns.

Jokes turned stale.
Faces forgot
How to crinkle.
Stand-up comics
Sat down in
Self-censure.

One man,
Near Ghaziabad,
Coughed so powerfully
It echoed in Parliament.
He was made Minister
of Health & Mucus.

News anchors began
Clearing throats
Instead of facts.
Debates sounded
Like TB wards.
Slogans turned to 
Luxurious wheezes.

“Freedom of Speech?”
No, no.
Freedom to Cough.
That's a thing now.

Coughers rose like poets.
Dry cough. Wet cough.
Nationalist phlegm.
Contestants lined up
Outside Ayush Ministry
for the Coughing Championship.

First prize:
A plastic lung that's 
Fluent and 
Lifetime supply
Of Vicks.

Coughing replaced clapping.
Replaced slogans.
Replaced silence.

One cough, one vote.
Two coughs, you're an influencer.
Three coughs? 
Too much freedom--
Sedition, probably.

But soon,
Coughs began to disappear.

Someone—maybe from
"Anti-national quarters"—
Started stealing them too.
Sucked them out
With nano-devices
and Section 144 notices.

That’s when it happened.

A man in Bareilly,
Perhaps god’s chosen one,
Farted during
An Aadhaar update.

The Earth paused.
And thus, began
The Age of Flatulence.

Panel discussions now began
With gaseous bursts.
National anthems
were remixed
With strategic toots.

Schoolchildren were taught
to respect loud farts
But fear the silent ones.
The PM called them
“Symbols of Organic Dissent.”

One MP spoke out:
“This is ridiculous!”
He was arrested.
His last recorded sound
was…
a suspicious squeak.

Soon,
Corporates joined in.

Patanjali launched
"Desi Gobar Gas™"
for the spiritually aligned.
Baba Ramdev
Held a press conference
With no words—
Just synchronized fart yoga.

But art suffered.
Poets were replaced
by stomachs.
Cinema replaced
with whoopee cushions.
The Constitution, now
a scratch-and-sniff.

Still, the people adjusted.
They always do.
They coughed when allowed,
Farted when blessed.
And in between,
They held their breath—
For what used to be
called Freedom.

04 July 2025

The Sole Broker

I collect chappals
From stampedes-
Not bodies.
Not names.
Just resilient soles.

Rubber. Plastic.
Faith-worn. sweat-kissed.
Some still warm with
Unfinished pilgrimage.
___

I pair them-
Left with a right.
Sometimes a Bata
Marries a Relaxo.
Kolhapuri with
A Lee Cooper.

A child’s slipper gets
A grown man’s sandal.
A woman's shoe gets
A dirty flipflop.

And like anywhere else,
Even here,
Love of course is a 
Compromise.
___

Sprinkle Holy Water for 
Bloodstains.
But don't clean them 
Entirely.
Incense for odour.
A little glitter to make
It presentable.

Loss sells better
When it sparkles
You see and fetches
More when I adorn
Them with a made up
Story-

“This survived Kumbh 2025.”
"RCB's victory parade- hola ESCN"
“This one tripped a minister’s 
Convoy in Tirupati.”
“These? Blessed by accident. 
Someone literally died on 
Top of it.”
_____

Collectors love it.
NGO execs.
Art curators.

One Berlin museum
Paid ₹1.2 lakh for a 
Pair that smelled like
Cow dung and crushed belief.

One in New York got 
Over a crore just because 
It the bloodstains were 
Still fresh.

Sometimes,
A grieving family shows up.
“That slipper… it was my mother’s,”
they whisper.
I offer a discount--
Grief should never pay retail.


People ask:

“Isn’t this unethical?”
And I say:
So is God’s crowd control.
At least I give closure 
To a sole.

I’m not a monster.
I just turn stampedes
into exhibits.
Into commerce.
Into matching pairs.

I'm human..
An opportunist,
A capitalist and
I tend to profit from 
Chaos. And why not?

When someone with
A brush can do it?
When someone with
A book, pen and 
Broken words can do it?

Why not someone
With a conscience 
And a size chart with an
Ability to find 
An able match can't?

Why can't this be
Labeled as art?
___

02 July 2025

It Was Over for Men

When Rosa Parks
refused to move from her seat—
we should’ve seen it coming.
That was the first crack
in the throne.

Then they snatched
voting rights.
Wore pants.
Cut their hair.
Took our offices
and didn’t even say thanks.
---
It was over
when Indira Gandhi
held a nuclear button
in one hand
and the parliament
in the other.
While Margaret Thatcher
turned strikes into statistics.

They became doctors.
They flew planes.
Engineers and architects.
Even lawyers till the
Divorce papers got
Real efficient.

We were done for
the moment when 
she stopped asking,
 “Can I go?”
and started saying,
“I already did.”
---
Then the internet 
Happened. 
We made a feet pic viral.

It was all accidental
But seemed like a
Crack of hope.
But we took it slow.
One step at a time.

You’ve won.
“You can be anything now.”
A slow and steady pampering
Is all it took-

"Boss babe, scientist, president, 
Fighter pilot—
But first, show us the haul.
The skin care.
The lashes.
That soft morning light
on your upper thigh.”
---
Then came the first 
Storm of hot steamy pics
On the internet.
We needed a better algorithm 
Is all to get what we need-

"Not footsteps
into parliament halls.
Not footprints
on the moon but-

Semi-nude pics with
Crushed lips. More and
More filters,
set to trending Audio to
Make them say
"You go gurllll"
---
She dreamed of Mars.
But her inbox
was full of men
offering $10
for a video
of her stepping on grapes.

She wanted to build rockets.
But her reels did better
when she whispered,

“Guess what color panties today?”
---
And while she filmed
“Get Ready With Me”
for the fifth time this week,
We quietly rewrote
The algorithms to
Encourage the same.

The lie was elegant—
It took them on a swirl
And eventually OnlyFans
Exploded.

“Empowerment is sexy, right?”
That's what we kept 
Whispering-
And so, liberation
became a filter—
not a fight.

Makes Savitribai Phule's
Ghost cry in the corner 
Today...

But, alas!
Feminism now rots
In the confines of 
Flashing flesh on screens
And we go happily 
Sipping pleasure
Over the rejuvenation of
Our sweet comfort -

Patriarchy.
----

29 June 2025

Pothole Republic

I saw a pothole,
big enough to qualify for 
Aadhaar. It had depth.
Personality.
Probably a family of frogs
and an SBI branch inside.

I reported it.

They planted a sapling
in it and the next morning,
The sapling was gone.
The pothole had eaten it—
wanted roots, not reform.

It developed sentience.
They announced.
A holiday to celebrate 
The same.
It was declared as a
Protected monument—
Older than British roads,
More enduring than promises.

Now tourists arrive.
Locals pray.
No one fixes it.
No one can fix it now..
Divine energy is passing 
Through it someone said.

"Test your spines here
Like a prayer"
"Take a hard fall here
If you want an awakening"

And whoever falls is an
Offering now.
Two bulls, a few scooters.
and a manifesto has
Drowned so far.

A poet too has tripped in 
and found a deeper metaphor.
Now he lectures at JNU
on the "existential sinkholes
of Indian democracy."

The Chinese are 
Trying are trying to 
Reach out for research 
Collaboration but 
Even NASA has been 
Put on a wait.

"The Interplanetary Society 
For Theosophical Parody"
Has made it somehow.
Right now, stuck in traffic.

The debate on who's 
Gonna take the credit 
Has to be settled first.
The contractor and
MLAs have fought over
It already.

Many national parties 
And even the PM is
Fighting for the same.
But everyone knows it.

Everyone knows,
The credit has to go 
To Nehru.