Clap. Clap. Clap.

He rubs a pinch of tobacco
In his palm and claps out
The coarse chaff.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
Puts the tobacco in his
Mouth. It's midnight.

He rubs, claps, and puts it
In his mouth and abuses
My mom at night.
Clap, clap, clap in the
Dead of the night.

It's 3.15 in the morning.
The sound, slashing
The fierce dark.
Piercing through the sleep
Of mine.

Piercing through my skin.
A cold knife down my spine.
It's a masterclass on
How you ruin a young
Lad's life.

I hear my mom trying to
Hide her sobs.
In the morning, she
Looks away and doesn't
Look me in the eye.

It's sad that no one
Intervenes. It's sad days
Become years like that.

Clap, clap, clap in the
Dead of the night.
Tobacco should cause
Cancer.
But why hasn't it yet?

And thirty years go by.
My brother says how
He still grows weary upon
Hearing those claps.
I do too.

The trauma doesn't pass.
So doesn't my dad.
We go on carrying a
Broken glass in our bellies.
And clap, clap, clap..
It churns our insides
Every other night.

Stink

You meet someone online.

Talk for days, fall in love.

Discuss dirty stuff and

Get naked on screen.

You fight, you argue 

You figure it out and fall

In love more fiercely to

Shag each other on video 

For months.

You then fall apart. Breakup. 

You just close the screen 

And there's an eternal divide.

Moving on seems easy-

But it gets to you.

Heart is heart, and you get

Frozen in a period of time.

You miss her eternally.

Her face, her eyes.

Hair, skin, bare bust 

And the way she touched 

Her crotch-

You imagine the way she

Would have touched you.

But how can you?

Touch is what you're

Most deprived.

This two-dimensional love..

The deprivation it came with.

It haunts you.

You shag yourself in

Her memory for years.

Her face fades. Letter by

Letter her name fades.

And one day it hits you.

She remains only in what

You can smell.

She's fused in the smell of 

Your semen with a hint of 

Urine.

What else could have 

Filled the vacuum?

Maybe that's the smell

Of all the hopeless romance.

Maybe it isn't.

Maybe it would have been 

Different if you had

Held her hand once.

Maybe be this is loneliness. 

Maybe that's how a 

Break up stinks.

Maybe that's how a

A touch-deprived story is

Supposed to end.

Maybe that's how 

Best of memories smell.

Maybe you never know.

Maybe that's why you

Take things in hand 

And do it again.

And maybe... that's why 

Everything goes on 

Smelling the same.

A Marriage

Like my father puts it.

Maybe I would've joined 

The Air Force.

Married by 25 and had 

Two kids, if not three.

Named them against 

The sensitivities of everyone. 

Beaten them up twice and 

Loved them only thrice.

Life would've taken a 

Backseat that way to fizzle out

In the background of a 

Not so miserable family.

I wouldn't have given

A weighed meaning to

My words and wouldn't 

Have expected too much 

From this life.

Two or three properties to 

Boast. Drinking every night 

To abuse my wife.

Advising others on why 

One should marry early

Would always be on cards.

But nah. I had to take a long 

Academic path.

Grow a knack for overthinking.

Only to sit alone on 

Park bench this morning.

To answer all the imaginary 

Existential questions of 

Marriage instead of facing 

My father upfront. 

College Hostel Holi

Holi would begin early in

The morning with some

Asshole splashing 

Colours while you were 

Still in bed.

Then you went to Mess 

For breakfast. You could 

Barely finish it and 

You were mobbed in turns

With colours.

The hostel Garden would 

Be filled with water in

Abundance by 9.30 and

The colours would be

Done with by 10.

Holi in college was proper 

Only when they dumped

You in the mud and kicked

Till every major pore got 

Some dirt.

After many mishaps and

Localised fights.

After cloths were torn

And everyone roamed

In undies for hours...

After the failed human 

Pyramids and smearing 

Of mud on hostel warden's

Bald head and stripping 

Naked the most popular 

Senior..we got to 

The burning of a huge

Caricature of 'Kamanna'

Specifically designed 

Wiith cucumber penis 

And brinjals for balls-

Everyone threw the remains

Of the clothes on that

One tree in the garden.

Seemed our yearly catharsis 

Could only be handled by

A non-animal entity.

Water

Water was always short.

We had to carry it from 

Distances.

My Attya was fierce with 

Her water fetching 

Endeavours.

Two pots. One on head

And the other on the waist.

Distances as long as 2-3 km.

Multiple such trips daily.

She wouldn't let us waste 

An extra mug. 

Bathing daily was such an 

Unheard fad back then.

The first time I could carry 

A big pot on my shoulder.

It was a celebration.

Then I learnt handling 

A bicycle. 

Eight pots in a go was

A luxury. We even 

Constructed our house by 

Fetching water like that.

Then the government 

Put up taps and 

The motors came up.

Now there's abundant 

Supply of water

Without much effort.

Though we overuse,

It feels weird to 

Waste water even now.

Feels her voice from

The Kitchen calls out for

Wasting it.

Water scarcity is function

Of accessibility.

If everyone is made to

Walk a distance to fetch 

Water..

First thing they'd give up

Would be bathing.

Then they'd resume 

Defecation in the open.

Passenger Train

I travelled in the passenger 

Train this morning.

The tightly packed general coach

Teeming with labourers.

Shabby clothes, smell of

Alcohol. Loud desi music.

Many sitting on the floor. 

Reclinerd near the toilets.

A guy sleeping near the door.

A few toppling over him while 

Boarding down. He's not 

Bothered by their cussing.

Two sitting at the door,

Swaying thier legs out.

Taking a fight with whoever 

Is spitting from the window.

Young boys with foul tongues

Laden with lunch boxes.

Headed to earn daily wages.

The system got them 

Before they could grow up.

Every face is almost a mirror.

A guilt-ridden awareness

Keeps reflecting my relative

Eliteness. 

Two college girls in Burkha 

Dare enter this male abode.

But withdraw suddenly as

There wasn't any space.

I was more anxious by their

Advent than they themselves.

Because I know all about 

The male gaze?

Seems rich of me to think 

Something like that.

Who am I to judge their 

Lives anyway?

The train spits us off shortly.

Everyone starts walking.

I see the swaying lunchboxes

In the hands of those boys.

The crumpled ticket I throw 

Falls just beside the dustbin.

My indifference gleams in it 

As I walk off.

Sense of Aestheticism

This friend in school with
Same kind of mad.
After reading a couple of
Same books and going
High on some philosophical
Quotes.

We tried to delve into the
Mysteries of metaphysical
Paradoxes against the
Volatile dance of our
Teenage hormones.

On the last day of school,
We climbed on the roof
Of sixth class to stay there
Till the orange sun
Disappeared below the
Horizon.

The sense of aestheticism
That got to us then-
We've been chasing it
For over a decade and
Half now.

Not tired of the beauty
Or bonhomie.. The things
We've experienced and
The places we've explored..

Just yesterday when we
Biked hard to catch a
Sunset on the beach
In Manipal..

We missed it because
He wanted to change
To his shorts first.
Can you believe that?

Enraged, Disappointed
I lie on the sand.
He too understands what
We missed.

But that's all right.
Good that we know what
We've missed.
Good that we know
What are we gonna miss
If we don't pursue.

That's what keeps you
Going right?
The curiosity that fuels
Possibilities..

How biking in the Himalayas
Can always start with
A feeble admiration for
Sunsets from above a
Classroom.

Book

I haven't read the book
You gifted me on my
21st birthday.

You remember that day?
You came to meet me
From Mumbai. We had
Lunch in a restaurant.

One of my friends had
Insisted me to offer you a
Flower. I did and you
Had accepted it without
Feeling awkward.

I told you about how I
Love to walk to college
All the way from the
City bus stand.

You said you'd love
To walk. And we walked
Some 7-8 km that day
In the sun.
You gifted me that book
Upon reaching college.

I couldn't read it then.
Then things turned
Worse between us.
I decided to read it when
I'd miss you the most
One day.

A decade has passed now
And every excuse not
To read it has come to
An end.

I don't miss you much but
I feel I should read the book
One of these days.

Or should I go back on
The same road to cover
The same distance
Under the August Sun.

Miss a decade of your
Absence at once.
Then sit in the college lawn
To read it.

Perhaps every finished
Page can be used to
Wipe off tears or
Burn them to ashes by
My brain-scalding ire.

Translation

Whenever she wanted to say

Something uncomfortable or 

Vulnerable. She would text in 

A random language.

Her way of hiding her trauma.

Her way of not throwing it 

Directly at me. 

Sometimes she would text in

Turkish or Spanish.

I had to translate it back to 

English to decipher what she

Meant to say.

Sometimes I would reply in 

Russian or French to hide 

My helplessness to console.

The loss in translation 

Didn't matter. Even if I could 

Understand half of what she 

Wanted to say. It was okay.

Even if she had put things in

Our slang, I wouldn't have 

Understood her pain the way 

She wanted me to be.

Maybe it was the effort to 

Understand her mattered,

More than her pain itself.

Little effort to sneak in another 

Language to understand 

Each other had some kind of 

Intimacy to it.

Maybe our own language 

Isn't enough sometimes.

Like home isn't enough and 

You gotta climb a 

Distant mountain to it sigh off

And understand and convey- 

How the trudge is mutual

And you totally empathize.

November Nights

These late November nights, 

And the mild winter that

Caresses with feeble shivers 

On the exposed skin.

My cranked-up bike on a 

Rusty Lonely Road, sailing 

Through the foggy darkness.

Faint chills of a dread- 

Fear of encountering a  

Scary stranger. Hints of a 

Ghost in my head.

Bit of hunger scratches 

The empty stomach- craving 

For a ready hot dinner.

Thank God the tyres didn't 

Give up or fuel didn't run out.

Happy to be home safe.

Bed, quilts, eyeful of sleep.

Appreciate the warmth.

In the morning, I find a pic

Of mine, deep in sleep.

But I live alone! Bonkers.

What the hell? OMG.

Another Day Maybe

It starts with a Hi, Hello,

How are you, blah blah blah.
Tea, pop culture references.
A nostalgia trip and
Blah blah blah.

The conversation peeling
Off the layers after each
Spell of boredom.
Uncomfortable silence
Pushing you a step closer
To naked vulnerability.

What a song meant.
A good day before father's
Death. Unexpressed gratitude.
And that random ass pain
That comes cluttering
Through sarcasm at first.

After everything is said
And done. The final layer
Bruising through your
Hesitation past midnight-

Your urge to tear it off,
To cry it all to him-
Then you hear him snore.

Just another day of closing
The floodgates of the river
Behind your eyes-

The invisible knife in your
Hand, a bit more sharper.
The Fourth Blank fired in
The Russian Roulette that
Goes on, in your head.

The World

In a world where there's
More to what meets the eye.
In a world where words
Can be weaponized.

In a world where algorithms
Dance like unhinged zombies,
To pollute minds and question
Feeble intentions.

In the world of FOMO,
Compulsive take on rapes,
Murders and epidemics.
Their expectations to form

Opinions on politics and
Ongoing wars.

In the world where the moon
Hesitates to transition into a
Steady evening- My mom learns
To send pics in WhatsApp-

The first bloom of marigolds
She grew for the festival of

Dasara. The yellow transcending 

Its hues to my face and 

How I smile..

Mom's Teenage Photo

Wearing a black top and skirt. 

Standing beside her mom. 

The teenage photo of my mother, 

From an old album- 

Her gleaming eyes with dreams, 

Boats and untamed seas. 

It breaks me when I see her in 

The kitchen now. 

Maybe it is the story of all 

The moms. They capsize their 

Boats. Erase their seas. 

Forget it all for a compromise.

They should all gather in a 

Place one day. To stare at this

Singularity called society. 

Stare long enough till

All of us could understand. 

Leave understanding, 

At least acknowledge.

Stare enough till the guilt in us

Oozes out like an angry river. 

The guilt of confining them, 

The guilt of hiding their teenage

Photos from themselves. 

Guilt of killing their dreams and 

Guilt of how it has been a

Systematic genocide.

Could Have Been Gangster

While he and I played under 

The tree- we four years olds.

A dispute arose around 

A toy we found.

The little conflict turned 

Serious when he ran to

His kitchen to fetch a knife,

I to mine, to grab one for me.

In the next five minutes,

We stood staring at

Each other in the street, 

Ready to stab.

His mom came out in time

To bash up both.

What a waste, ruined a

Chance of me growing up

In a remand home to pick up 

A little broken Spanish..

To utter 'Que pasa..' in 

Marathi accent before stabbing 

The final goon, in a future 

Gang war.

Inheritance of Trauma

You storm the inspection area
Your dad had prepared.
You ransack it with your gang.

In a fury, he sells you off to a ship,
That sails to unknown lands.
Holding the same grudge, you

Excel in your chores, teach
Yourself cooking. Find love,
Make children and eventually

Become a world-known chef
Of the hopeless ship that
Heads almost nowhere.

One of those big days, when
Queen of England was hosted
You were in charge-

Of the big feast. Your son topples
The buffet table on the guests
And you turn seasick..

The higher-ups ask you to throw
Him in the sea but you roast him
To feed him to the delegates.

Your deceased father is horrified
By the scene. So he travels back
In time to not sell you in angst.

But time travel doesn't exist
Does it? And all the un-addressed
Trauma never gets fixed.

So all the metaphorical suffering,
Is transferred to all the symbolic
Victims. Molehills of parents

As mountains on children's
Shoulders- a dynamite underneath,
With a trigger, God knows what.

Wishful Mirage

Your nimble fingers run over

The bare skin of yours sometimes.

They complain about this

Sack of a husband of yours.

Then you drool over the ghost of 

The dead relationship of ours,

And fail to force yourself to

Look down upon me..

Do you remember me?

Creating scenarios in your head

To break it all for once..

To run away to this place I once 

Confided you with..

You'd still find me there, 

Building castles in the air. 

Standing close, looking at me 

With your filled-up eyes to say..

How this and everything esle

Was my frigging mistake.

But I understand your frustration 

And let my long gaze convey

It all. To once again meet

You in a mirage.

Acknowledgement

Broke, lonely. Stuck in

The summer of Delhi.

The fan stops working 

That night.

Mosquitoes invade.

Irritated and sweaty. 

You sleeplessly roll around.

After an hour-

The electricity is back,

The slow soothe of rotating 

Fan makes you realize about 

The companion you were 

Really missing.

Until his absence was 

Felt, you didn't know the 

Importance of his existence.

The next day, you clean 

Him up with a cloth.

Somewhere you knew,

Gratitude is one of the best 

Way of acknowledging 

A friendship.

Father-Son

Your father is hospitalized
When you're on a trip.
You head back readily to
Assist your mom.

The resentment you had
About him melts in the
Background and a sense
Of gratitude fills you up.

The urge to utter that
Last 'thanks' gets stuck
In the clutter of paying
For the medical bills.

He recovers anyway.
Only to abuse your mom,
The way he always did.
You translate your gratitude

Into an unapologetic elegy
That doesn't materialize.
But this isn't the first time
This has happened, right?

Maybe that's how this
Father and son thing is.
This relationship,
Always dissipates-

Between the gratitude
You can't express and
The hateful elegies
You almost wrote.

Laadu

When her daughter comes
To the festive of Panchami.
Her mother doesn't ask
"Where's her husband?"

She knows how to read
Her veiled smile.

All night, both prepare
Laadu for the occasion and
Talk about the Jhulas and
Coconut Barfi of the old days.

The way they went to the
Farm to have lunch under
The neem tree, when
The Oldman was alive.

For a while, she thought of
Just asking, and the daughter
Too longed to tell all about her
Broken marriage..

But both know about the leaky
Roof above, which can't handle
The pour down of two people
At once.

So they gulp down their tears
By pretending to taste the
Laadus... For what use are
The sweets of a festive if not

To assuage salty grief?

Troy

Every time your mother tried to
Tame your wilderness as a kid.
You ran away with your cycle tire
And sat all day, at a potter's home.

Looking at his fingers mending
The puddle, on a rotating wheel-

The way he mixed the water in
The mud brought from the dried-up
Pond, mixing it up and shaping it out-
Must give him immense power to

Create something out of nothing.
A whole tribe of pots might hail him
As their Lord, who in his own way
Must have said..'Let there be light".

You felt something off about a
Red plastic mug among the lot,
Which was used to pour water.

Years later it occurs to you that
The little mug was a Trojan Horse
Sent to destroy a Civilization of Soil,
That can be deemed now as Troy.