Middleman

The Gods give bribe 

To the priest to hide their 

Intentions from the devotees.

Devotees pay a convenience 

Fee for speedy delivery of 

Their prayers to the deity.

Overwhelmed by the attention 

From both sides, The priest 

Decides to act funny.

Over it, excessively burps 

And farts. Stands half-naked

And jabbers in a language 

You don’t understand.

He is a self-proclaimed 

Pampered kid of Lord himself.

Always in shady scheme of things,

Patronizing devotees-

Slowly he makes cotton 

Balls out of the prayers,

Thrusts them in the ears

Of lord-

Each plea makes the god

A bit more deaf and 

Devotees a bit more desparate.

Till one day when the

Middleman declares-

How silence is the holiest 

Answer.

And the devotees offer more,

The crowd bows deeper.

The god grows dumber.

The priest grows fatter.

And faith remains-

Stripped, milked,

But forever obedient

And utterly blind.

Pound. Pound. Pound.

First, put on a layer.

Say that's for protection.

And that's okay.

Then another layer 

In the name of 

Social utility.

Pound. Pound. Pound.

A thick layer of concrete upon 

Both- Name it ethics, 

Morals, and idealism.

Then go on pounding 

Many layers -

Religion, language,

Culture, marriage,

Nationalism.

Till you grow out

Of your origins.

Then despise the

Nakedness. Despise 

The blunt truth. Despise 

Straightforward acts.

Rounds and rounds of

Lectures on sensitisation,

Sanitization and

Political correctness.

Pound. Pound. Pound.

Till they can't look

In the eyes.

Pound. Pound. Pound.

Till silence is virtue.

Till obedience is pride.

Till fear is renamed

Civility.

Pound. Pound. Pound.

Till the body is no body,

Till the self is no self,

Till the living are

Half-dead statues applaud 

For standing still-

And walking dead.

Male Gaze

A direct line of sight 

With a girl, in a local

KSRTC bus is rare.

But once a decade,

On a rare summer day,

It does happen.

Decent looking with

A crooked smile.

Almost a flirty nose.

But why a serious,

Knotted face?

Why does she look

Agitated?

The heat?

All male gaze?

My ugly face?

Grappling with my

Urge to look-

Standing in the aisle-

Clutching my hands

For support.

The crowd, 

The jerk of legs

That sway with the 

Motion of bus.

Yet my eyes fixated 

On her.. waiting 

For hints.. 

Trying to hold on.

Waiting for her gaze

To meet mine.

Then that sweet

Moment arrives-

The question on her

Face finds an 

Answer when she,

Throws up.

A spray of vomit.

The curry leaves 

And indigested 

Onion on the people 

In the blast radius-

Radiating smell 

Finding hairy noses

With or without 

Moustache-

Bus stops. 

Many rush out.

Few curse her.

My eyes still manage

To look at her again

In the aftermath-

A gleaming face.

Crooked smile.

A firm stare that 

Screamed-

How everyone 

Deserved something 

Like that.

Ape Meat

The best meal of 

China and the most

Expensive-

As claimed by my 

Friend, Hoooli Foook.

Cost him a fortune.

But he arranged it

For free, as a

Goodwill gesture.

The waitress who

Looked like a Midwife,

In the deep sea

Exotic hotel-

Served the hot

Omniotic soup first,

Followed by the 

Air-Fried-Umbilical 

Nachos.

Apes in this part 

Of the town, taste 

Better, said the 

Mermaid-faced Manager, 

While he instructed 

His crew to serve 

The main course.

The hype for 

The big reveal was 

Intimidating when

The waitress who 

Looked like she just

Got out of labour,

Announced "Fresh 

Out of my womb"

There were limbs,

An open head of a

Foetus garnished

With little fingers.

Took a minute to

Realize the pun in

'Best ape' but 

Snapped out of it 

To get along-

When Foook said

"What happens in 

China remains in China"

"Except for viruses"

I said to myself, 

Before I shifted my

My full focus on 

The delicacy.

DiiiiDiii

Bibliophile, Pluviophile.

She/her. Lowkey writer.

Full-time depressed.

Loud, upbeat. 

Swears a lot to look 

Cool among her affluent 

Peers.

Dogs and cats are

Didi's first love but hates

Men, like that's gonna

Up her game against 

Other ultra-feminists.

Goth look. Dark humor.

Body positivity and

'Go slay gurrrl' with overuse

Of vowels to highlight 

Her over-the-top emotions.

Upon that, an opinion on

Palestine is a must.

Gender fluidity is a

Newfound fetish and

Bisexualism is a

Compulsive dessert

Beside the other 

Delicacies of her big

Fat meal of pretense.

Mom's love is never 

Enough. Her brother 

Is always an asshole.

And of course Didi's 

Got daddy issues 

That are stacked even 

From a past life.

The food-lover,

Party animal, wanderlust.

The exotic places in

India aren't enough.

Didi has perpetual plans

To tick off ten more 

Countries before she 

Turns twenty.

High on self-awareness.

High on information.

She thinks she has 

Figured it all out by 

Being condescending

On boys who are 

Petty simps in the name

Of BFFs.

But maybe a rich-ass 

Dude, of whom she

Always dreams of-

Seems to be the only 

Solution for her delusions.

When he confines her 

To the commands of 

His mother to mass 

Produce Gol-rotis in

The kitchen-

The sweat off her brow

Would scream

How the Good dude, 

Vignesh, would have 

At least extended his 

Help to do the dishes.

Social Mobility

Before returning to

His duty in the army,

Dad bought me a 

Chair when I was five.

Shortly, when the 

Village-landlord visited

Our dilapidated house.

Which reeked of 

Cattle dung and urine-

He couldn't stand 

The sight of a

Bright blue chair.

How could a mere

Labourer's house 

Have a chair?

And when there's a

Chair, how could he

Sit on the floor with

All that ego up his ass?

He commanded my

Grandpa to serve his

Ego with a kid's chair.

My poor chair with

Small arms and legs.

Accommodating his

Big-big-butts without 

Breaking-

Trying to hold entire 

Family's respect-

Like it was my dad's 

Part-persona fighting 

The divide here.

My chair did a good 

Job in straightening 

Our spines for next 

Two decades-

Before it was passed 

On to my niece.

Who now climbs on it

To reach the books

We never had.

Incel

I don't know what to do

With the throb of my 

Blood or the frustration 

Simmering in my gut.

Hardly any work or

Self-worth. Living on

Father's money and

The disappointment 

I am to my family-

I don't know how to

Deal with this built

Up insanity- than wear 

A stoll and conspicuous 

Tilak on my forehead.

A heavy metal gada

On my wrist and

Thick moustache to

Ooze the void of 

My soul-

But what to do with

The masculinity I've 

Embraced to cope with 

The society?

How about I go

Harrassing the lovers

In parks?

Beat up comedians 

For making people 

Laugh?

What right do they've 

To enjoy while I sulk

In my sourness?

How dare they go

Un-auccounted for the

Peaceful life they lead?

They're ruining our 

Culture and I've to 

Self-appoint myself to 

Protect it.

So lemme gather all 

The incels in one place.

We can create issues

Where there are none.

We can talk louder to

Let others pretend on

Our behalf.

Most would be married 

And busy with families.

Who's gonna mess with

Guys who think with 

Their dicks anyway?

We're gonna be ruling 

These cowards soon-

Our elevation to divinity

Is just an election away.

Zoom Out

The people buried under 

The bombed buildings

Of Palestine.

A few meeting the same

Fate in recent LA fires.

The divide of political 

Opinions between the two.

If we zoom in- 

The ethical and moral

Conflicts. The pain of

Personal loss--

If we zoom out. Both are 

One of the events across 

The history of all the wars 

And better wildfires.

A hundred years into

The future- many more 

Such events-

Add a few more centuries 

Everything will be put 

Under a broad label

Of ambiguous disasters.

And a million more years 

Down the line-

When an alien species of 

Lesser order discards

Our fossils as a third grade 

Fuel for their engines-

Our history books will 

Cry in shame for being

Wasted on petty narcissism.

The Dead: This is business

To improve the general 

Level of empathy.

To increase the standard 

Level of dignity of the dead-

The government made

Necrophilia compulsory.

You gotta shag at least two

Before you got your degree.

You gotta shag atleast four

For your Social Security.

A whole industry came 

Came to life to cater the 

Needs of the public.

From half-dead to 

Fake dead. From just

Stinking to rotten for a

Month straight-

Different packages and

Flavours-

Champions were 

Announced based on time, 

Place and weather-

Did it in the dark of the

Night on a grave to

Doing it deep in the rain

And thunderstorm-

The tax proceeds on every 

Events and activities was

Pumped to finance a

War elsewhere.

More bodies and more 

Empathy for the dead

They declared.

Necromancy is next in

The line revenue-wise-

But that's only allowed 

On the corpses that are

Shagged atleast thrice.

People are on the streets 

To have the limit reduced.

For quite sometime,

They want the government 

To at least consider

One count if it was done

When the body was alive.

Family

I'm gonna have a wife who

Would wrap herself in a 

Two-meter saree.

She'd pull up the Ghungat

At my instance and 

Respectfully give up her

Last name to get mine

Gracefully.

And she'd worship me.

Toil in the kitchen day n

Night coughing-

Make me rotis on a

Chulha as they'd not be 

Tasty on the gas.

The right tea and 

Hot water at a precise 

Timing every morning.

Body massage at will

And all the other free

Services one can avail 

With a marriage.

We shall have a son who

Would hate me for being 

Unfair to his mom.

I'll not waste my time in

Justifying my acts-

He'll have to tolerate it all.

Live up to my expectations.

Study hard to become 

A corporate slave and force 

Himself into a marriage 

With the girl I chose.

Maybe he can carry all

The soreness to stop

Looking me in the eyes.

He should have at least one

Victim card to play-

Can always go on about 

How unfair I was.

I hope he'd teach his son

How to treat his wife.

The tradition of toxicity 

Should go on and on.

The masculinity should 

Thrive. Chauvinism is

A fetish one has to

Aspire for.

Thick Necks

There's a war in the country 

That produces jute.

The supply of ropes is hit. 

The suicides are down

For two quarters now.

A matter of serious concern

For a democracy here.

Fresh diplomatic conciliations

Have to be initiated.

Interim arrangements have

To be made to revive 

The wisdom of nooses.

The glut of thick-necked

Opinions in the market.

The boneless tongues 

Blurting whatever their 

Mind suggests-

Students, farmers,

Labours, unions.

Bloody freaking onions

And oil prices-

Everything has got a

Brains these days.

When they feel they 

Run out of options.

When the choke of their 

Many opinions tighten

In their throats-

They would need a

Good catharsis.

So the ropes are needed 

Before the shimmering 

Hits the street.

And if protests break

Here-

The blade production

Will take a hit and

The other governments

Relying on us would be 

Pissed-

The free voices there

Will have nothing to

Rely on you see.

Blood-letting is still

Deemed as legitimate 

Treatment there for 

Whoever freely speaks.

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'.

Invasion

Everyone has heard every joke.

Everyone knows every fact.

All the stories are familiar to

Everyone and trivial knowledge 

Of a person is no surprise.

The reels and long streaks

Of scrolling have pounded 

Our heads in n out into a

Submission and there's 

No space for new music.

Everything looks hopelessly 

Familiar. Everything sounds 

Familiarly heard.

Where are the age-old

Storyteller? Where's that 

One person in the group who 

Knew all the dirty jokes?

Do we still have a someone 

Who brought all the unfamiliar 

Gossip from distant lands? 

Did every distinct character

Of a group got dissipated 

Into an influencer with

Millions of followers online?

Has the Internet killed it 

For us this early?

The distinct stories we were

All supposed to be- slowly 

Heading into a singularity.

Soon every tongue is 

Gonna be bleached.

Every personality will be

A giant monochrome.

All languages will fade into 

The monotone of English,

Our dreams will be coded

By a big corporation and-

We'll have to skip ads to

Have access our crude 

Thoughts.

1799

I'm a 10-year-old boy.

My mother died last week.

It's hard to see my

Father sulk alone in

The Haveli.

The British are eying 

On Thousand-acres of

Zameen and these days 

Some of our own people 

Are 'Woke' overnight-

Ram Mohan Roy 

Specifically. He wants 

Us to voluntarily give up 

Our Zamindari like he did.

And of all other things, 

He's against child marriage 

And propagates widow 

Remarriage-- Chiii.

It boils my blood.

But I can't see my father 

Suffer you see.

He needs something to

Hold on to.

Someone to rely on.

So can you marry him

Please!!!

Since we're of the same 

Age and interested in

The same games..

If you kindly accept 

The proposal-

I can demand the toys

We need in Dahej.

The empty Haveli will be 

Our playground and 

We can forever be

Friends.

Apathy for Local News

Russia bombs Ukraine- 

1000 dead.

Earthquake in ASEAN- 

40O buried alive.

Crossfire in the border-

War is about to break.

Trump has put up

Sanctions- economy 

May tank.

What do you mean there's

A rape in next street?

What do you mean 

Three people died due to

Potholes this week?

Bring me a bone-chilling 

Disaster. An epidemic.

Bring me a recession.

At least a genocide or 

Plane crash with at least 

Hundred deaths.

Till it doesn't come up

In bold letters, heinous 

Graphic and an amped-up

Voice of a sold-out

Prime time anchor..

It's not news.

Not for me at least.

Suicides due to bullying. 

Child labour in a factory.

The broken roof of a

School in the village.

A dalit stone pelted--

How dare you expect me

To waste ounce of my

Sympathy on petty issues?

Give me a sex racket with

At least 200 minors involved.

Bring me a cave collapse 

With 100 trapped inside.

A train crash, a gas leak.

Better-- a pandemic.

Till the TV anchors and

Social media algorithms

Don't take up a pickaxe

To dig out my chest-

It's not news enough.

To damn with domestic 

Violence next door.

To damn with the cylinder 

Blast in the next street.

To damn with the honour 

Killing in the next village.

I've my Woofers On to 

Tone it all down for me and 

As of now I'm curious about 

What Jeffrey Dahmer does

In the next episode of

His Netflix series.

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.