Old Graves

The scar I keep 

scratching has a 

memory from when 

it was a wound-

fresh, mushy.

Waltzing with pain 

and misery.

the vulnerability, 

abandonment, and 

other perks that 

came free with the 

suffering. 

It spoke in a language 

that I once spoke. 

It smelled like the air 

I once inhaled. 

It had a microcosm 

of its own- a brain, 

a heart, and a nervous 

system that spread 

like a fungal infection 

with intentions. 

But now, it's dead. 

It feels numb, like it has 

been left with no purpose.

It recapitulates like

an old man now.

It's almost nostalgic.

I'm tempted to scratch 

deeper-

It's tempting to be 

a victim again.

It's a sin to dig old

graves, they say.

But the necrophilic 

tendencies of mine 

do it anyway.

Cost of breathing

mistakes are marks 

of evidence to say 

things are still working.

and to err, to cuss.

to take chances despite 

innumerable setbacks.

to care, to hate, and 

to miserably embrace 

our own imperfections.

to lie, to swear.

to tumble down and

spectacularly fail,

but still be humane.

and to still love and long 

despite betrayals,

and to live through 

inevitability of death-

wounds in the flesh 

indicate something 

inside is still beating-

a tiny flicker has to be

left in the night sky to insist

dawn is still not a myth.

let pain be proof of

pulse and life be a

rebellion against 

indifference.

Becoming of An Unbecoming

And to love you and 

let you go.

To yet preserve a 

longing and carry that 

weight around-

 

What does the bird 

that flies away know 

of a void it left 

in the prison?

And to sing the same 

song again and again 

to the bird that 

never returns. 

To feel the warmth 

of her skin and sculpt 

it on stone and to

burn it on a canvas

with paint.

Oh, it must be tiring 

to do something like that.

A habit grown out of hand.

A compulsion that 

becomes art.

The hum that keeps 

rampaging without the 

need for validation and 

goes everywhere but 

to her. 

And even if it does, 

she doesn't get it. 

And when your creation,

When it goes beyond 

what it was meant for,

oh, that's love.

That's beyond love-

That's redemption of

Self. The becoming 

of your unbecoming.

Life is Inevitable

The first time I wanted to kill myself. 

Mom knocked on the door. 

I gulped down the feeling and lived 

four more years. 

The second time, I tried to kill myself. 

The cat spilled the milk in the kitchen,

And that bought me a few more years. 

An okayish time after that, I guess. 

The third time, I was overwhelmed by 

a fresh poem. I had to scribble it down 

Before I could do the honours.

But then, between that poem and 

the next few hundred, 

I got few collections published, 

and they are alright, I suppose. 

Well, the fourth attempt was pretty 

serious, but she called after a decade, 

and I married her eventually. 

Marriage is a demise in a way, 

but may not be equal to killing oneself.

Then I slid through life: children, wife, 

school and whatnot. 

I think about my fifth and sixth, 

but bloody hell, neither I get any 

time or privacy to ponder over 

my intrusive thoughts. 

For the seventh, I made up my mind but

In the final moment, I started laughing.

That's after standing on the stool with 

the noose around my neck. 

Life looked pretty small from up there. 

Life indeed was laughable. 

But more than that, Death was more 

worthy of that laughter,

For I have mocked it many a time.

So I climb down at my good sixties.

Or bad? I don't know. Averaging an 

attempt for each decade. Yet, 

shamelessly missing my intended aim.

Sometimes, doesn't it seem that 

Life itself is inevitable? 

And death, at most, 

Is an accident that didn't happen 

to you on good days.

Breathing is a Flex

No rivers want you

You ugly fuck. 

And no graves wanna 

bed you out of love.

The nooses hate you.

Knives n blades too.

So do poisons, reptiles

and electric sockets.

So don't bother 

Killing yourself.

Get your ass back 

Normalcy and carve

a forceful smile.

The god of death

Hates a little joy-

So better condemn 

Yourself to something 

Fun-

Look at that 

Newspaper, 

Your favorite team 

In Red has won. 

Barge on the kitchen 

and eat those idlis,

Because who doesn't like 

Mom's idlis, right? 

Your friend is calling

You from the streets and 

There's a new bar 

opening up tomorrow-

offering free booze for 

a week. 

Breathing is a flex-

Inhale. You gotta 

Chill the fuck out and

 Just exhale.

Bravery vs Stupidity

Stupidity and bravery are two sides of the same coin. But if you're not brave when you're stupid- that's cowardice.

If you're aware enough and still not acting, you're just a dud.

And if you're not stupid enough to be brave, and aware enough to restrain- you haven't figured it yet.

Then, if you're intelligent enough to figure it out and philosophize it for no good- You're miserable enough to be a poet.

Thrift shop

I saw God in a 

Thrift shop.

Blue jeans, dirty jacket.

Doubtful, unsure-

Negotiating the price of 

Blessings for all the 

Half-hearted prayers--

Needs of parched 

Farmers discounted 

From the fate of sailors 

who despise rain.

Tears of mothers,

Compensated out of

The debauchery of 

Chauvinistic men.

The cry of animals for 

Carbon footprint 

Left by private jets,

And the death of soldiers 

From foul-mouthed

Politicians.

I saw him beg for 

Mercy for kids against 

A caricature of POTUS, 

To no effect-

But he stood his ground

Counting coins of

Patience to bet it all

Against a hope that was 

Nowhere to be found.

Because when miracles 

are outdated-

If he doesn't look for

them in a place where 

things are useful again-

Who else would?

Fragile Weapons

But what if you are

wounded by a smile,

bruised by a glance.

Intoxicated by her 

eyes and drowned in 

feeling of how you 

felt around him?

What if you're moved

by the aura of jasmines,

shaken by the flutter 

of butterflies?

and to melt in 

someone’s arms,

to gasp over unhinged 

confessions-

To watch the moon

and be sad over 

the nostalgia you 

can't enjoy-

You'll be damned 

when the definition

of all traditional weapons

fall short against a 

certain fragility-

Really damned,

when gentleness

cuts through the swords 

and you die because 

someone was kind.

Postponed Life

If the world doesn’t 

end tomorrow,

I would spit out the wad 

stuck in my throat 

to scream my guts out.

I would climb a mountain,

walk into a forest,

throw myself off a plane

and dive into the deep 

sea just to hear how 

silence would sound.

Maybe I would call 

you too and as a 

final act of love I might 

rip my heart out to

place it at your feet to

sing blasphemous 

confessions.

This life stuck in 

the nose that I can't 

sneeze out-

I need a new hammer 

to break it open.

I gotta run, jump, fall

to jolt me awake to

a radical change..

So lemme reiterate-

If the world doesn’t 

end tomorrow,

I would begin again.

properly start the life

I keep postponing.

But aghast!

it always seems

it'll end tomorrow,

or next hour,

or right now.

every breath feels

like a countdown.

always on my toes-

waiting for an apocalypse

that never arrives to 

postpone a life

that never begins.

Jigsaw Fit

The craving for a 

drop of water

on a thirsty tongue.

The burden of an 

ocean, when you're 

filled.

The dryness of 

a song upon your ears 

as your heart is 

yet to be bruised?

The flowers are 

brooding and drooping 

because the bees 

have lost the sense 

of longing.

You too have a flaw

and I do too-

and only with our 

missing parts alone,

the world is complete.

The jigsaw fit for 

each other always lies 

elsewhere.

Why else would winds 

move from somewhere

and it rains here.

Blunt Knife?

After each sin, 

God sharpens his knife. 

But does it mean 

it turns blunt after 

each good deed? 

And if death is inevitable

won't the virtuous be 

killed by a blunt knife? 

If so,

which is more painful, 

Death with a sharp knife 

or blunt one? 

Well. Well. Well.

That's why that fruit was 

forbidden in Eden.

Isn't it? If it invoked in 

humans, logic.

and God didn't like 

counter-questions.

He had to abandon us

for our loud mouths.

We don't know it but

Freedom of expression 

is a punishment-

We've been left to 

Ruin ourselves by 

Too many opinions of

Ours.

Left Slipper

When her slipper from 

from the Kumbh stampede,

got away in the crowd.

Kicked around across

the road.

A dog took it

to the next street.

It found a way

to the sewers,

then to the nearby river,

and was gulped

by the ocean.

It reached another city.

A tramp found it

by the shore.

Placed it on his left foot

to check the size-

wore it along with

the right sandal he had 

picked up elsewhere.

A new story began.

A journey of walk, run,

and hustle in the rubble.

The slipper saw

new gods, new dirt,

and streets that

never slept.

It carried hunger,

dust, and songs

of cheap liquor shops-

the chants of Kumbh

long washed away.

tore open shortly.

found a landfill now.

beside a broken idol

and a torn tricolor

and a skull-

Faith, nation, and bones.

all used, worn, and 

misplaced, and replaced-

a story that got as 

human as it could.

Sherlock of Poetry

I interpret, reinterpret,

misinterpret my thoughts

to find meaning 

where there is none.

I dumb down rationality,

deduce spirituality,

call out others for double 

standards while I rot in 

my own hypocrisy.

I am Sherlock Holmes of 

poetry who doesn't take

the job seriously.

all my cases are unsolved-

But that’s the charm, isn’t it?

to chase the echo

and not the voice,

to name the ache

and call it art.

I build metaphors

like makeshift shelters,

stay in them till it rains,

then move to another

half-finished verse.

Some days, I think

I’m writing to heal,

other days, just

to sound clever enough

to be left alone.

Still, I keep at it-

dissecting silence,

romanticizing misery,

putting rhythm to what 

should’ve been therapy.

And when I’m done,

I look at the mess and smile.

another case unsolved,

another poem pretending

to know why it exists-

Nihilist versions intermixed 

with existential ones-

and the urge of absurdist

to breakout like he's the 

Only one that matters-

The result- an embargo.

But maybe that’s enough-

to keep investigating meaning

in a world that keeps

burying evidence.

So cheers to

another case unsolved.

another cigarette lit in

the ruins of a thought.

maybe hell is poetry’s 

just-paperwork for 

the lost.

Absurdist advice you will not follow

Bite your tongue 

intentionally and act like 

it’s the end of the world. 

Pinch yourself on the 

left thigh and announce 

how strong you are. 

Eat 10 green chilies 

at once and write about 

how salty the tears are. 

Sit beneath a banyan tree 

for a day and announce you 

are enlightened.

Thereafter, declare to

your family that you're 

renouncing the world-

and eat like a glutton, like 

you would be an ascetic 

the next day. 

Then, leave your home 

at midnight. Walk away 

barefoot and by noon-

when you feel hungry,

ask for alms, and if they don’t 

offer any, come back to 

your cozy bed. 

Look in the eyes of the

faces in the house that don’t 

have any remorse.

Smile at them and say 

thank you for watching,

like you were a side 

character of a TV serial-

And then, this is important.

get to your room.

turn the blinds on-

Incognito, jerk off.

Get under the blanket 

and thereafter cry.

Transcendent Grief

When your father is 

Bedridden in the hospital 

And you can't stand his 

Suffering.

Sitting in the hallway 

Listening to the 

Heart monitor beep-

Every once in a while, 

Scared to a jump,

Thinking,

It has stopped. 

Do we have a word for 

That feeling? 

When he passes away,

And you gotta console 

Your mom, but the words 

Don't come out-

The blood thickens in 

Your veins, rushes into 

Eyes, but tears fail to

Come out.

When these languages 

Fail and the senses 

Give up-

When you feel like 

Stranded in your 

Mother tongue-

Where do the feelings go?

Do they transcend 

All these situations,

Compulsions and confines 

Of the words? Or

Do they keep lingering

And finding vents-

Till one day when you

Realise, you walk like him

And dress like him, and

Carry the same attitude-

And you wonder about 

The grief that never left 

But learned a quieter 

Language like empathy 

and gratitude.

Moral Onus

Good people always 

Suffer and bad people 

Get away with their

Acts.

People keep saying 

That.

But who's good and

Who's bad?

The rich?

Crooks with silver spoons,

Bloody thieves in 

Glass castles.

Haughty, immoral and 

Not generous?

The poor?

Lazy with life,

Vices and bad behaviour.

The karma of past life has

Catched up to them?

We're perfectly 

Positioned, aren't we?? 

Not too high, 

Not too low.

From here, we can 

Look down and up,

To shift the blame on

Both sides.

Everyone is guilty,

except us. Isn't it?

Everyone cheats fate,

except us.

Everyone is stained,

except us.

This knack for 

Self justification,

As the moral compass

Always radiates out-

We shall draw a

Halo around our

Heads one day and

Worship the mirror 

That always shows

A flawed image of 

Others.

Perhaps that's how 

All religions evolved.

And nations-

We polished and the 

Mirrors got so bright-

A collective consensus 

Of not looking within 

Evolved, till the dirt 

Always seemed

Elsewhere.

Serendipity

Whatever book you 

Enjoy is the best 

Book in the world.

Whatever movie you 

Adore is the best 

Movie ever.

Whatever person 

You've enjoyed 

Your time with-

However brief-

Past, present, future.

They're the best

Person of the times.

Shed the judgment 

In the brain.

Shed the jargon.

Shed the rigid 

Intellect that says

Otherwise.

An inch beyond the

Clutter of the head lies

A playful child.

Innocence lives in

The moment 

And forgets-

Embrace change,

Accept diversity.

Go on with the flow-

Adapt, improvise

And move ahead.

Do your part and 

Wait for the sweet

Accidents that 

Unveil wonders-

Life is a journey

Not destination.

And we're more of 

Pilgrims than 

Travellers-

So hop on till 

Serendipity finds 

Us all in all the 

Unexpected places.

Forever Arrival

It’s arriving. 

It seems near-

In the next city,

In the neighboring village,

In the next street or

In the room beside me.

Sometimes,

in the cusp of my palm-

but never in my mouth.

Is this my forbidden fruit?

the forever arriving hope.

the never reaching fulfillment.

the persistent incompleteness

and uneasiness in the nose-

Sometimes I wonder

if it has passed past me.

I don’t know.

and perhaps I shall not know.

The night is long,

the breeze has been kind,

and the wait, after all,

is a worship that’s blind.

The distance between

desire and fulfillment

tending to halve after 

each leap but never 

enough to close the gap.

“Sunk cost fallacy “

said someone.

but what does a fool,

who calls himself 

a pilgrim know?

maybe Zeno’s ghost 

laughs from the edge 

of time for being 

part of his paradox.

close enough to ache,

never enough to touch.

Achilles outrun by 

A slow tortoise-

Fate always has an

upper hand.

Total Internal Reflection

When you watch 

yourself from within-

Loads and loads of

tar-loaded goo,

smothering you 

and drowning and

gulping you up.

You scream for help,

but from whom?

In an abyss that

echoes your voice 

and reflects a

person you have 

never met-

How do you escape

the absurdity

you've become?

You, yourself,

spreading for miles 

and miles-

an infinite loop

that's bent, twisted,

and turned within 

yourself-

A snare,

a void,

an emptiness.

or an open sky?

And that's a tragedy,

or emancipation,

or imprisonment-

you never know.

Wherever you turn,

you end up in yourself.

You are trapped or free,

you never know.

Travelling in yourself

to end up repeatedly

in yourself-

this re-enforced

concrete of self-

Does that make you

a better person or 

an infinite loop of 

total internal reflection 

pushes you into

narcissism?

Intent

Intent is important 

to prove a crime,

according to IPC.

Action doesn’t matter much

without the intent.

Intent to kill,

intent to love,

intent to hate.

Loving without intent,

killing without meaning to.

hating without intending 

to hate.

But what if you can’t 

love someone

despite all the intent?

What if

the action

falls short?

What if I intend to kill you 

but all i could gather 

was just a little love?

What if I'm a bad bad

guy and despised myself 

all my life for that?

But what if I intend 

to die content,

but don't actually do 

anything about it?

but what if I intend 

to forgive myself just

before my death? 

what if I actually do?

does that wash away 

all the misery?

if I intend to be happy 

just before my death,

and die wearing a smile..

would you call that a 

happy life??

Is life just a long 

preface to a single,

deciding smile?

or that's just another

beautiful lie?