Child Labour

My son is not 14 yet.

He can't work.

Government orders.

He needs free and 

Compulsory education.

Government orders.

Upon that, he can't 

Even work in hazardous 

Industry till he's 18.

Uhh! What a waste.

His contribution could have

Added some Ammonium 

Nitrate to the world..

But alas! We got one

Bomb less because 

Of government orders.

The chaos in the world 

Is threatened by too 

Many takers of peace.

Pussies..!

Better to settle in Africa 

To take advantage of

His small hands.

Might at least be helpful 

In rathole mining of 

Some high-value ores.

His exploits need to

Be capitalized at least 

Over Gold and Diamond.

I mean, if adolescence

Is not wasted on 

Disruptive acts-

The age is dust

Scattered by farts.

Descendence

We were direct descendants
Of Gods. Apple of Brahma's
Eyes and Gospel of Alla's times.

And the Sinned Children of Christ
Inhabiting Holy Mother Earth-
Around which everything revolved.

Then HMS Beagle reached
Galápagos Islands.
Darwin declared us as
Descendants of monkeys.

Such blasphemy to
Make us slaves of our own
Reasonable mind?

We could heal the wounds,
Live longer, and not just walk
But fly on in and out of water.

But how dare we live on our own
Terms now? How dare we
Solve metaphysical problems
On our own?

It was Godly to die en masse
In famines, epidemics, and
Religious wars.

How dare we associate
Ourselves with monkeys and
Fall down to newer highs?

Human Misery

Chengis Khan is credited 

For controlling an eventual

Population explosion as

He killed millions.

Norman Borlaug is blamed 

For the Green Revolution as

He might have saved a billion

From starvation.

The famines and plagues

Have eaten up a good number 

Of people often. To keep the 

Population in check.

And something as simple as

Washing hands with soap

Has doubled life expectancy 

Within no time.

Where should we draw the line?

Who should we categorically 

Blame for the miseries of

Humankind?

The pandemics, disasters.

Modern medicine and the 

Wars that were stopped.

Could we have planned them all?

Should we think at a species 

Level at all or leave it to chance 

To simply eat, mate, reproduce 

Till we're flushed into the

Existential indifference?

Or we should up the game 

To blame someone better?

Like the stars, planets or aliens. 

The spaceships anyway 

Are on their way.

Worship

When I see a flower bud.

I pluck it and put it in water to

Force it bloom within hours-

I've a God to please.

The vibrant petals lose 

The color after some time.

The wilting kicks in.

The petals fall inward.

Turn black and dry out

Into a demise eventually.

Should I be held responsible?

I should be. Said the Lord.

The sheer cruelty of plucking 

A plant's reproductive organs-

Phallus for phallus he said

And hung me by the balls.

He had a target to reach 

Today and I was the last

Sacrifice to his Overlord.

Everyone up the chain is

Interested in phallus to have

Themselves pleased?

Explains a lot phallus worship 

In our traditions.

Seems at one point of time

All worship must have been

Mindlessly throwing around 

One genital at the other.

No wonder why all the 

Religions are a cover-up 

Jobs like fake orgasms.

Meaning

Five thousand years ago

A bored little girl,

On the banks of Indus 

In the North Western province.

Wrote poetry on slabs

Of stone and threw them

Around.

Meaningless strokes of

Etchings that meant 

Only relief from daily 

Chores.

Millennia later, 

Archaeologists, Historians 

Getting hold of those to

Decipher the meaning.

Reaching consensus over

The assumption that 

They're records of day to

Day transactions.

Why didn't they consider 

The possibility of innocent 

Folly of a bored little girl?

Did we grow so high on

Our own intellect that

We're compelled to give 

Meaning to everything?

Is that why these civilizations

Fall, evolve, and arise?

Maybe yes. If it is yes.

Then it's such a tragic yes.

The Almighty Lord

Before he had any name.

Before he became

Predominantly male.

He was formless. 

He was nature once.

Then a mountain, a hill.

A stone worshiped on

Field or street.

The erstwhile omnipotent 

Omnipresent, omniscient.

Now divided, shred and 

Shrunk into certain 

Holy books, walls, domes

Tribes and religions.

When did he became 

Absolutely parochial?

The poor must wait in line 

For the darshan while 

The rich can bribe their

Way into sacrosanct?

Menstruating women

And widows are declared 

Impure too along with 

Some other castes?

The growing distance from 

The truth that he himself 

Was supposed to preach. 

Our God. The Almighty Lord...

Then infinite. There after

Limitless, unbound and

Now barely independent.

Who's gonna believe him?

But everyone does.

Now more fiercely than ever.

The supposed redemption 

To closeted bigotry-

What a downfall.

One Language

In the house that was 

Cozy and vast.

We had 10,000 windows.

Maybe more.

Then they said,

Tinting with aluminium 

Frames would be nice.

One at a time, 

over the years,

The clean blue sky

Turned pink, red, pale

And what-not.

Before we could realize 

What was at play,

That's what the nation 

Wants they said.

You gotta see through 

Our eyes and speak

Through our tongues.

"One Nation. 

One Language."

And when they gave 

The final makeover to

Our last window,

The last hope of clean light 

Shone bright at our faces.

But we didn't have a 

Vocabulary of our own

To scream a protest.

And when the last word of 

My language fell flat on 

The road- with the final 

Window down.

They checked if the last

Person can dream in

My lang and reciprocate.

And when there was 

Nothing.. 

They hosted a funeral on 

The graveyard of our 

Tongues to celebrate

National integrity..

Unity in diversity was 

The theme.

Om Mangalam

In my region, everyone's 

Surname is of a distant village.

And if you ask them why

They'd tell you a story of 

How their ancestors killed 

Someone and fled their 

Original settlement.

My own Lineage goes back 

To a neighboring state. 

My grandfather's 

Great-Grandfather killed

Someone and fled his village.

Everyone has the same story.

Most of them at least.

And I hope it's the same 

Across the country. 

Or maybe across the world.

We're all refugees it seems.

Guilty of crimes. 

Seeking a place to hide. 

Maybe the entire world 

Is an asylum like that.

Maybe that's how the 

Civilizations here began.

Maybe we fled Mars after 

Killing all the trees.

Guilty of doing the same here.

GENES!!!

Maybe be the first man on

Earth was called John Mars

At some point of time.

Or perhaps he was a 

South-Indian named Sreenu.

Aka Mangalam Sreenu.

And maybe that's why 

Mars is always pissed off

In our astro profiles.

Mangalam Sreenu is antagonist 

In the movie Puspa 

Mom, Gran and..

It's the weight of daily 

Chores or burden of idealism 

Imposed within closed doors?

The cry of babies or the noise 

Of wanna-be boys and men

That weighed her down?

Why is she hesitant when 

Someone asks her name?

Who was she before she

Could be a mom or gran?

The magical mystery, who

Reeks of round rotis and

Balance of a perfect sambar.

Something loud-mouthed

Consumed the syllables of 

Her last name.

Found only in her school 

Certificate maybe. 

But the paths to her school 

Is erased-

Childhood defaced and 

The backstory of how she was 

Before she turned a Misses is 

Fed to the Wolves.

What remains now is an

Ageless face. Her wageless

Labour and hints of onions 

In her expression..

Which doesn't go beyond 

A couple of sulphated tears 

In the kitchen.

Nost-algia

The tall building on the 

4th street has my book and 

Pencil-- I never gotta 

Go to school.

The villa near the water 

Tank has trophies I 

Never gotta win.

The temple near the Lake 

Has shoes and a uniform 

I never gotta wear.

The High school by

The Panchayat office has 

Memories of my crippled leg. 

Damaged when one of 

The walls fell.

The childhood that's 

Rubbed away by the bricks 

I carried from the kiln-

When I walk these streets,

A streak of nostalgia 

Gets to me-- like I almost 

Met my school crush.

But alas! She too had to 

Carry bricks for the 

New Mall that came up 

In the city nearby.

We can almost hear the 

Sound of the movies.

And the whiff of popcorn 

Popping inside.

Sometimes we sneak in

To get a peek at the other side,

But it seems they always 

Shoo away our kind.

Sense of Humour

At first, parents will come to

Snatch your sense of humor.

Then those teachers and 

Well-wishers.

Advisors and other elders, 

Who can't handle your wit.

Sometimes the siblings and

Some friends. Your dog,

The family deity who can't 

Take a little offense.

They can't handle the ridicule.

A bit of sarcasm seems

Like a mirror, and they don't 

Want to be exposed.

Then there's the government.

The most afraid and intolerant.

Anything that reeks of life,

They want to tax it.

Sales tax on whoever laughs

And slabs of GST on whoever

Makes them laugh.

They love you on crutches

Don't they? A compliant mind 

That doesn't question..

A "Yes sir' without any arguments

To label you a patriot.

If only all the leaders were 

Comedians, and 

In the next world wars

Jokes would explode-

Not that they aren't jokers 

Or stuff isn't exploding stuff now.

It's just, no one is laughing. 

As the joke is on us. 

Skilled Labour

They don't make children's 

Movies these days.

Seems everyone feels a bit 

Overly adult each year.

All the toys and dolls be

Reduced to a nullity soon.

All the cry and naivety be

Banned because who wants 

To be child anymore?

There would be ultrasonic 

Classes after conception.

The foetus should learn 

Mandarin by the second 

Trimester.

The world's running out of 

Skilled labour- one has to 

Process Raw-Data if they

Want decent exit from their 

Mom's vagina.

Ohh! We need to beat machines 

And AI modules you see- 

Teaching mental agility to 

These LittleShits is the only 

Way to save humanity.

Our wars are spiritual,

We're our own enemies.

Need to give up vanities,

Ignore emotions. 

Focus on mental awareness

And cognitive orgasms.

So, here, you wanna be 

Freaks. Take these 

Quantum Nuclear Codes.

Mug them up and don't leak.

If there's an explosion,

Contain it in your head.

And that's a test for your 

Enrollment in first grade.

Loose Ends

Hunger after the stomach 

Is full. Thirst after it has 

Been quenched.

Where do clouds go when 

They can't pour down?

Where do the poems that

Couldn't make it to paper 

Find their abode?

These unsent love-letters

In the closet, 

Slowly turning sour.

Where did the unheard 

Songs go? and the 

Un-answered prayers?

And the innocent kids that

Die after the bombing?

Do they ever hail heavy 

On the gates of heaven?

Or they're sent to hell?

For not being capitalised

In a religious reckoning.

Subtle Art

When the first man chipped away 

The edges off a rock to roll it.

Another playing with stones, 

Sparked the first fire and ate baked 

Flesh for the first time.

Centuries later, a dude capitalized 

Both phenomenons to boil water 

In a tank to move around on steam.

The refinement of the same,

Passing through various minds of

People with passion-

Suddenly you've innumerable options.

Wheel-wise, size-wise, engine-wise, 

Fuel-wise- lots of categories.

And when you complain now about 

How you're anxious to choose from 

The myriad of choices you've-

I say, be thankful sis.

One asteroid is all it takes to bite

The dust- to wander naked in Eden-

Cold. Hungry. Ready to get 

Cursed again by God, for eating 

That forbidden Apple- and a

Whole replay of this simulation.

To say all of that to invoke a sense

Of gratitude in you- Mansplaining is 

A subtle art you see.

Gets better if one knows how to 

Flaunt when the other is 

Under-confident and meek.

Sab Changasi

Ours is a sleepy town,
The worst that can happen
Is a bad cup of tea and
The best is a good cup
With a plate of Girmit.

We don't have big malls,
Traffic jams, skyscrapers,
Or critical infrastructure.
Streets are not tangled,
You can hardly get lost.

Wokeness of English
Hasn't seeped in our language.
So cripples are not
Special abled here yet.
They do the same things
Ordinary people are supposed
To do.

Feminism hasn't invaded
The households and women
Are busy making homes
Than forming opinions
That are politically correct.

Kids don't hesitate to stone
Mating dogs disgusted by
Their interlocked genitals.
And the men walk in their
Banyans, with their proud
Fat bellies-

The only duty they got is
To transfer their chauvinism
To the next- GenZ and counting-
Everything is all right till the
Round rotis keep coming.

Masters

A few kilograms of rice
And maybe some daal.
A hundred or a five
Hundred note at times.

That's how we sell our
Votes to rot in the same
Hope, again and again.

The fire is costly and
Hunger is cheap.
And the value of life is
An overlookable stat.

Life doesn't improve.
Livelihood too.
Had to take things in hand
To etch fate on our
Foreheads in bold.

But God complains,
Says it's illegible, to
Outsource the task of
Reading to doctors.

Nothing changed though.

Bodies piled up and
The Doctors in turn ruined
Their handwriting in
The process.

Retakes

''Cut, ready for a retake.''

'Cut, Retake. The make up

Is not right'

"Cut, Retake, in the next 

Scene, tear up a little less."

I don't want an exaggerated 

Sob- says the director.

Is this the 19th take?

Who cares. All you can feel

Is his hands on your bust.

Intended brush on the hips.

This hasn't changed in ages.

Cry a little less? How?

Your every effort to suppress 

Each drop of tear,

Bursts open another fissure 

That wants to laugh.

Laugh and laugh, till all 

The tormenters are deaf?

Molesters turn blind and 

The divide that comes with 

Gender is neutered?  

But you can't laugh. 

Can you?

All the efforts you put up

To cry a little less in the next 

Take, when you've an 

Ocean to pour down.

What's more ironic?

Inability to laugh or 

Cry a little less?

Or the fact that the director 

Says 'scene' and you're

Ready again for 

The next nineteen. 

Or God knows how many!

Taming a Local identity

The capital, the city, the king,
The prime minister- they suck
Everything from us.

They make us grow, and
Compel to sell us at a price
Decided by them.

They steal our plates and
Self-esteem. They savour it
To fart in English and Hindi.

And if we hold our noses
In disgust, they hold us
In contempt for talking-

In our dialects, while their
Mouth is an actual ass that
Gives away loads of shit.

One language, one religion,
One spectrum of stench,
At the expense of my village?

With a knife in our throats,
You snatch our Golden Goose.
And in the name of nationalism

You force us to believe,
That we stole your eggs?

Sanitization of Words

The moon needn't be in

The poems today.

The bulb in the room

Often feels betrayed.

The swish of cool breeze 

Needn't hail heavy,

The ceiling fan between 

The speed of 2-3 asks 

How does it matter..

If Americans can't catch 

That reference?

Bring in that shabby pillow,

Your bag and socks.

The bucket too wants 

To be hosted here.

The first time someone 

Debuted a TV in verses, 

Victorian era poetry

Felt utterly betrayed.

So bring in your 

Dirty underwear today.

There needn't be any

Rules.

Sanitization of words

Is just pretense.

If your toothbrush hasn't 

Made an entry yet.

Your poetic exploration 

Hasn't been enough.

When Bystanders Wrote History

There was a hole in

The king's immortality.

Pores in his Teflon imagery.

He wasn't that godly 

After all. He too had a

Butthole and his shit stank.

When the bystanders

Wrote history- their hunger

Screamed loud.

Their dilapidated huts 

Against the state's 

Glittery gold-

Their birds with, deprived 

Wings learned to fly 

And sing out loud.

Erstwhile blasphemous 

Acts oozed wisdom.

Earth was no longer flat.

Sun could not revolve

Around the earth.

The crownless could be

A prince in the stories,

And the last princess did 

Marry a poet of her fancy.