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 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 off.

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

And you're a patriot.

If only all the leaders were 

Comedians, and 

In the next world wars, 

Jokes would explode..

Not that they aren't jokers now

Or not exploding stuff.

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,
The ceiling fan between
2-3 asks, how does it

Matter if Americans can't
Catch the 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,
Broke all the rules of
Victorian-era poetry.

Bring in your dirty
Underwear- there are
No rules. Sanitization of
Your 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.

My Name

I'm named after T-90
Russian military tank.
Ajay means, undefeatable.

My father must have thought
Of unsung heroes of his
Battalion before pledging their
Valour in my name.

But the warrior in me gave
Up a long ago.
The sword was no more
Thirsty of blood.
My battlefield, no longer
Hungry for death.

But my words are as angry,
And as sharp. As volatile
And as strong.
Ohh poems are not weapons
You may say and my kind-
Not worthy warriors of a
Bloodshed.

But wait, "Yankee Doodle" to
To "La Marseillaise".
"Arab Spring" to
"Bolshevik revolution"-

All the weapons lied idle,
Till the songs of turmoil
Hammered boiling blood out
Of sleeping citizens..

So I'd say, "Say..My..Name.."
Though it doesn't rhyme
With Heisenberg, but You'd 

Still be goddamn right.

Deprivation

We love where we've
Come from and we're
Thankful. A square meal
A day at least..and..

The rags we think of as
Clothes for some
Harmless warmth.
And to breathe clean air,

Taste some neat daal
And maybe some roti.
Life today smells like
Eye full of sleep.

The bright morning
Hasn't come at our peril.
The night had no
Surprises that could kill.

There's a blip in our
Fate it seems. Someone
Has skipped work in our
Tormenter's office.

So much worse could
Have happened,
But we're lucky to
Another day's laugh.

A swoon of gratitude
Towards everyone,
For letting us have
Another day's life.

Abortion Receipt

In the top right compartment
Of the old store room,
She has stashed an
Abortion receipt.

Numbered 79, guilty of
Not even bothering to think
Of a name for the fetus
She had shed.

Smiles at her 10 years old
Sometimes. Trying hard
Not to tear up to
The fact that,

The would have been
Eldest kid was the curse
Of a rapist, whom she was
Compelled to marry.

Laadu

When her daughter comes
To the festive of Panchami.
Her mother doesn't ask
"Where's her husband?"

She knows how to read
Her veiled smile.

All night, both prepare
Laadu for the occasion and
Talk about the Jhulas and
Coconut Barfi of the old days.

The way they went to the
Farm to have lunch under
The neem tree, when
The Oldman was alive.

For a while, she thought of
Just asking, and the daughter
Too longed to tell all about her
Broken marriage..

But both know about the leaky
Roof above, which can't handle
The pour down of two people
At once.

So they gulp down their tears
By pretending to taste the
Laadus... For what use are
The sweets of a festive if not

To assuage salty grief?

Infertility

This woman who can't bear
Children, treated like an
Orphan by her own mother.

The others who don't let
Her shadow to be cast on
Newlywed brides and children.

Prayers to Gods of fertility.
Payments to similar places
Occupied by doctors.

A forsaken child seems to be
An answer to all her problems.

Not any, but her own. Though-

The orphanages fill the other side.
And this side, the bigots we're
In our homes.. we wait for..

Science to come up with an
Explanation on How silhouettes
Can induce infertility in others.

AI

The only virtuous man tied
A rock to his soul to drown
It down the village pond.

The fish fed on it to cry fire.
And day there was a
Serious drought.

That only happens in
Dystopian movies.
The kids in the street laughed.

'And Cut' said the director.
For the movie written for bots,
To surpass the captcha.

Tamed Mountain

The hillock that once adorned
The name of lovers on its rocks,
Has been invaded by an
Insecure Lord, who throws

Stones at young couples,
He's supposed to hate romance.

The college love that should
Have screamed wild songs,
Now replaced by monotones
Of pretentious chants.

The incels who celebrate this
Shared euphoria are proud to
Inherit this madness from a
Generation that forced him into

Celibacy to hail him as
Fertility God.

The name of his other half
Defaced, overwhelmed by
The relentless offerings, he has
Forgotten his age-old love,

That had blossomed when
This hillock was still a mountain.

Immolation

He has been captivated and
Castrated by the Sultan to
Induct him into the team of 

Eunuchs, that guard his Begums.

He meets his un-dead wife, who 

Survived Sati- serving as a maid
For the emperor's other wives.
Both exchange silent glances-

After months of these muffled
Reciprocations, he signals if
They can cohabit and restart
Their life all over again.

Her eyes mistakenly fixate over
His groin. All songs of longing in
His heart took part in their
Mass immolation that night.