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?

Kid in Traffic

"If you wear the silver ring

And make a wish,

It would be realized."

Said the kid who was

Selling it in the traffic.

Selling dreams for ten rupees

Seems like a fraud.

But who are you to judge

The compulsions of 

His hunger?

But when you see the 

Same kid daily twice while 

You commute.

A familiarity grows.

Your feelings soften.

You consciously keep 

A ten-rupee note in the 

Shirt pocket one day to 

Readily give it away.

But you don’t see him 

The next day.

And for many days after that.

And weeks.

And eventually, when that 

Note goes away into your 

Next cigarette.

The smoke you vented-

For a brief while, you were

Concerned about 

How the kid must be 

Breathing the same air.

Dog Evangelism

My landlord's dog looks

Me in the eyes.

Looks so deep, my butt

Quivers in angst.

Maybe it fancies looking 

Past my flesh to feel

My ribs in her mouth.

Her unconditional hate

For me, must have turned 

Into a juicy fetish and

She must be waiting 

For my ready demise.

Every time my landlord 

Plays fetch with her,

Looking at my direction-

She bites the ball so hard,

My soul from previous

Life feels threatened.

She seems to have

Created a hiccup in my

Existence already, and I 

Take the lord's name-

Every time I sneeze like 

My grandma did to ward

Off possible evil.

The little bastard has

Kicked out atheism in me.

I wonder what kind of

Evangelism is this.

Only Laughing Makes Sense

At this age and at this

State of mind.

Everything seems 

Laughable.

You know every other 

Emotion has failed you.

Anger doesn't help.

Kindness doesn't get

You anywhere.

Forever love is ephemeral.

Loyalty is opportunism.

And hate and anger 

Is more harmful to 

Oneself than others.

You fairly know how

Every other person is

Gonna behave.

You know very well how

You're gonna reciprocate.

You know pain doesn't 

Last. Happiness doesn't

Stay for long.

So you laugh at the 

Stuff you predicted and 

It turned out to be true-

You're a lowkey Buddhist 

Philosopher yourself 

By now.

And then again you laugh 

More at the things that

Fail despite all the logic 

And calculations-

You laugh at the 

Randomness.

You laugh how every 

Other random outcome 

Reenforces the belief 

This wild chaos.

You laugh because 

You're a fool.

You laugh because 

There no one way to

Fix this. You laugh 

Because you're always 

Disappointed-

In you. Others and

The universe.

Demons

So the demons visit
Me in my dreams.
They force me to
Pose for pics-

Sometimes against the
Hazy background of my
Mind or sometimes
Against the hormonal
Patterns in the night.

There's one against
My growling belly and
One against the worms
Crawling in my veins.

Every morning I find
Them hung to my gut
And I've to look at
Them real hard before
I begin my day.

Night by night and
Day by day, years have
Passed like life is a
Compulsive painting-

Dark strokes everywhere.
No room to breathe.

Light hesitantly enters at
Weird angels and leaves
Before it can brighten up
Within here-

I found myself clicking
Selfies one day.
Habitual, conditioned-
It was unbelievable.

Maybe possessions
Work like that..
Demons work like that.
Maybe art works like that.

Your face constantly
Shifting to fit into
Whatever the heck you
That wants to come out
Making a noise-

Till one day when you're
Convinced that the
Demon that chased you
Was versions of yourself-

And all art is looking
Daily in the mirror.

Fart Philosophy

Bacteriophage is a virus

That infects bacteria.

But for its population 

As whole-

The effect is just a fart.

Bacteria infect humans

As well. There's a talk

Of even superbugs now.

But at a species level-

The effect is just a fart.

We humans fight for 

Land, go for wars.

Ruckus over a marriage 

Sex and children-

But the Earth goes on

Rotating unbothered.

At that level-

Even we're farts.

Issues of planets are

Farts at star level.

Issues of star are farts

At Galaxy level.

And ultimately, when

Everything stinks down 

To one thing--

All existentialism is 

Is a way of saying how

How we're just farts.

And all amped-up 

Self-pride is just 

The other way of saying 

How we're 'The Farts'.

Identifying Hope

When a postman 

Comes in search of an

Address in a war torn

City.

All the Houses grazed

To dust.. Still able 

To find that bombed

House..

Who's the refugee here?

The bodies?

The postman?

The letter? The sender?

Or the flower that's 

Trying to grow battling 

The hopeless silence 

In the rubble?

He keeps the letter 

Under the shadow of

The flower and

Returns.

What better way to

Take cognizance of

A life than delivering 

A letter?

To seek hope when

There's none.

Even if it's ridiculously 

Symbolic..

That act outweighs

Hope itself. Life itself.

The war itself.

Shooting Blanks

Picasso had a revolver

To shoot blanks at whoever 

Asked the meaning of

His paintings.

Out of frustration he

Loaded it for real once,

To shoot whoever asks

For a meaning.

But no one asked 

Any questions that day.

Just smiled at his art

And moved on.

He felt so violated that

He held the gun to his 

Temple for quite a while 

That night.

At the final moment,

It occurred to him to 

Paint something for 

One last time.

"A revolver that shot

Flowers when fired".

The abstract was so good 

He decided not to die.

Then it was sold for a 

Record price.

And when someone 

Asked what's the meaning.

He again shot blanks to

Convey how each painting 

Saved his life.

Prayers

Give me a heart that can

Bear longing and mind that

Can handle parting.

Give me legs that can endure 

This tread and shoulder 

That can carry intentions 

That are decent.

And when the skies of

Separation cry a light so bright.

Seas of betrayal heave waves

Beyond fathomable heights.

Give me eyes that can't 

Go blind and hands that

Can swim through the 

Turbulent times.

May the tears of yesterday 

Not seep in today and

The lure of promised laugh 

Not hail on the fragility of 

The present.

My wishes are ordinary and

Prayers are simple.

May thou bless with wings 

That can take me high

And an attitude that keeps me

Grounded to remind me

Where I belong.

bRAINY

Hand lingers more than
It should.
Eyes go beyond whatever
My mind can't interpret.

Where does the wisdom
Lie though? In seeing things
As they are or re-imagining
Them into something more?

The bricks and bones of this
Dilapidated hut with a brain.
What more can this be?
A hand's yearning for another..

A phallus longing to fit into
Desperation of another to
Produce something that
Comes out crying.

The bare act of feeding
Famished Tongues was
Translated into different tastes
And now we sit here asking

Existential questions like
Condoms having flavors.

Other species must feel
Sorry for us for having a
Brain that overthinks.
Mating, eating, shitting in the
Open and not bothering

About a sleep schedule.
By letting us think that
We're the top in the chain-
They seem to be enjoying
A higher order of evolution
Anyday.

Trade Off

We live on a hill.
The rain ruins the lives of
The people below.

We sneak in at night to
Steal shoes of the dead.

We've got a winter to
Get through ahead.

Some of us succumb to
The snow anyhow.

And people from below
Wait for the hints of
Melting snow to steal
Bones of our dead.

They need them to build
Shelters against the next
Rain that's due.