Sleep

“One more client,”

says the pimp.

“No,” says the half-awake

sack of a body.

“You should" 

he insists.

“No,” she retorts.

The heated argument

turns physical.

Her tired body,

aching for sleep-

The scuffle slips

out of hand.

She hits him

with a vase.

Then she sleeps-

sleep is important

than a killing.

'n' number of things

can happen in 

the morning.

But right now,

closing eyes

is everything.

How to Civilize a Nation

Enter a country

in the name of trade.

Find holes in their social fabric

and take over the authority

eventually.

Find gaps in their learnings,

thrust English

into the possibilities

of their dialect.

Tell them how uncivilized they are,

and keep repeating

how you’re their saviour

till they forget

their history.

Build railways for their labour,

schools for your propaganda,

and churches for your guilt.

Call it development.

Call it destiny.

Call it discovery-

till the robbed start

thanking the robber.

Leave monuments

that bear your names,

and minds

that bear your accent.

Teach them to bow

at invisible crowns,

to measure their worth

in imported manners.

Then leave-

but don’t really leave.

Stay inside their textbooks,

their grammar,

their corporate meetings

and dating apps.

Let your empire

live rent-free

in their metaphors.

When they rise again,

apologize formally-

with hashtags,

Netflix documentaries,

and guilt-washed accents.

Rename your conquest

as connection,

your looting as legacy.

Then smile,

because they’ll still

quote you

to sound intelligent.

And centuries later,

when they speak

your tongue

better than you-

call it progress.

So what?

We stole some tissues
from the restaurant, so what?
We got a handful of sauf
wrapped in it, so what?

Once we stole soaps from
the hotel room, and the towels,
and the water bottles,
and the toiletries, as there was
nothing else left,
so what?

We are Indians, and the blood
that runs in our veins
demands it.

In fact, we deserve it.
and because we have spent
money, and if we can't make it
a paisa vasool affair-
the one last paisa is gonna
shame us down.

and because we have paid,
and we deserve it all-
the waiter should wait on us
like we are royalty,
the servant should act like they
are our slaves.

You may call it indecency,
so what? It's cruelty, so what?
It's tradition and culture, and it
runs back to five lakh years
Down in history.

And that's a fact, if the fact
is incorrect, so what?
Lying is a bad virtue,
so what?
We've licked hypocrisy like
It's ice cream and are
In a shameless peace.
So what?

We are and will be
Proud of our conduct...
so what?

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.

Palatability

Toilet, bathroom, 

Washroom. Once loo, 

Now restroom-

The language keeps 

Getting sanitized.

Everything must be 

Palatable, softened, 

Perfumed, polite.

Crippled, handicapped, 

Disabled. Now, 

Specially abled.

Who rinses these 

Words in glitter?

Fired. Laid off. 

Downsized.

Talent restructuring.

Servant. Maid. 

Housekeeping.

Domestic help.

And now-

Home assistant.

Like we're gonna 

Treat them better 

With new names.

Bombing. Airstrike. 

Precision strike,

Collateral damage.

Ah yes, 

Surgical strike.

The political correctness,

To feeds the masses

The right kind of words

To sell the wrong 

Kind of truth.

The politeness in

Our words that 

Hide our intensions-

"Little boy".

"Laughing Buddha".

Guns painted in pink.

Violence rebranded

As revolution.

The facts strategically 

Placed in the gaps

Of headlines-

For the appeal of

The front page-

Cruelty now has a 

Smile.

Bon Appetit

If someone offered you 

A live chicken-

Would you cut it?

Would you hold it as it flutters.

Watch it bleed out,

Dip it in boiling water to 

Pluck the feathers?

Would you skin it,

Chop it into neat little pieces,

Boil it, spice it,

And enjoy your dinner?

Or would you rather 

Have an MNC to outsource

The work to its local

Branches-

To standardize a recipe.

Engineer a taste for 

Your tongue before you

Go gaga over the 

Illusion of flavor?

So what would you prefer?

The outsourced guilt

From a supply chain to

Supermarket. 

Or actual fingers buried 

In the blood before it

Lands in your tongue??

A packaged palatability 

For your conscience?

A raw Savory for its

Untamed taste??

Our compulsive acts,

Thrust down a system to 

Rinse them down with

A language that

Suits our morality-

And because a bullet 

Directly in the head 

May come with lots of 

Moral terpitud-

We shall outsource 

The work to remotely 

Controlled drones.

And the war crime 

That had become

Collateral damages 

Shall be game points

Soon-

So Bon appétit to 

The hunger spiced 

With lobbies.

Happy meals.

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.