Alpha

While I rode from my home
On my bike, a crow maybe
In a hurry like me, it fled into me
And hit my helmet.

The impact was bad,
I almost managed not to fall.
Gasping its guts out in pain,
It fluttered and flapped its wings.

Against the beating, its
Breath spiked and in dread
I too stood all blurry trying
To process the whole thing.

It could have been me-
Hurting, helpless, and trying to
Conjure every bit of breath.

The crow could have been
On the bike, riding and
I could have been a
Mere crow running into
Fast-paced vehicles.

Who knows, if it was me
From a parallel world
Who had to sacrifice himself
To save me, to balance out a
Ebb in the multiverse.

Did I just call myself,
The alpha version of me?
Every other version should
Try to help and save me?

Maybe, yes.
Till I'm alive, maybe I'm.

And when I'll sacrifice myself
To amend another ebb.
Let someone call himself
An alpha then. Till then-

You got favors to return.
So call me daddy and serve.

Prayers Aloud

He was playing the piano,
When the city was bombed.
The half-composed melody
Got stuck in the rubble
When the roof collapsed.

The kid was playing with
His dog when the city was
Bombed.

His toy train was orphaned
When the leftover innocence
Of the world was crushed
By an electric pole,
That fell upon.

The rotis and the rice
That was on the stove still
Wonder about the hunger that
Didn't return by lunchtime.

And the broken wall clock
That's stuck at two past ten,
Thinks if it's rude to be still
Right, each day twice,
With the dead all around.

The muffled hymns stuck
In the stopped hearts of
The devotees at a church-
When somehow tried to
Reach the lord-

They were disappointed by
The fact that they couldn't
Be loud enough to hail upon
Their deaf almighty god.

But who's gonna tell them?
That the ongoing bombings 

Are already prayers aloud 

To please someone else's-

Non-existent God who can 

Neither hear nor talk.

The Political Poem

This was once a political poem.
It wore a black-shirt,
Red-ribbon on the forehead.
Picked stones on the streets to
Aim at the glass castles.

It rolled around like tar on the roads
Venting off anger like trapped heat
Of primordial earth.
It was hungry, it was poor with
Rags and unkept hair, that learned
To run among dilapidated huts.

It made effigies of leaders to
Burn them on poorly made highways.
Ran marathons to raise funds for
The education of the blind children.
And donated pocket money to
The welfare of HIV-ridden sex workers.

It often took turns to keep watch
On the potential frauds.
Commemorate the Martyrs,
Did candle marches to commiserate
With acid victims and
Commensurate its own eliteness.

Once, this was indeed a political poem,
When the blood didn't refuse to boil.
Wings didn't refuse to fly and
The simmer of thoughts didn't hesitate
To make noise.

Then it caught cold like teens
Getting affected by chronic adulthood.
And now there's no time to think 
Anything beyond one's own runny nose
And the constant urge wipe it off
With a hanky that's clean.

Men in Thirties

Men in their thirties learn to accept
Themselves and what there is.
They listen to the same songs
From college over and over again
And advise the schoolgoers to
Just have fun.

They hesitate to look at their
Ugly selves in the mirror and
Those good-looking young girls
As they remind them of their own
Age that's pacing past.

Men in their thirties learn to be
Not excited about Birthdays
Or New Year's. Or about a
New movie or a book.
There's nothing more to learn
Or to be surprised about.

Everything they encounter is
Just an addition to their pre fixated
Mindset. The un-mouldable
Lump of clay they become-
The left, remain left and the right
Lifelong accuse liberals and the rest.

The married, regret their decision,
The unmarried learn to drink alone.
The money isn't enough,
The time isn't enough.

They sometimes want to sit for
A while to talk to themselves at ease.
But are often afraid of the potential
List of regrets that might pop up.

More closer to being fathers
Than sons- between the child,
They couldn't be and the adult
They don't want to become.

Men in thirties spend most of
Their time in a struggle to
Gather themselves through,
This transition of life.

The Silence that won

The king sent a proposal across
His kingdom to create silence.
Declaring, the silentest of silence
Shall be rewarded.

Someone emptied colors off
A rose and brought it to the king.
And another brought the heart
Of a friend who was betrayed.

The blood-soaked soil off a battlefield
Seemed enough at one point.
Till someone offered the thirst of a
Sailor amidst the sea of water.

Someone split particle of a dust
To show there's more to it,
Which was contested by dried-out tears
Of a mother whose son had died.

A Chinese monk came off with his
Meditative mind and when the judges
Entered inside, his disciples
Scraped noise off other silences-

To offer more assertive silence,
That imploded everyone's thoughts
Into emptiness. And that won
The final prize.

Brinjal

Mom listen, why it has to be
The damn brinjal always?
Almost every day, it's like
Every other vegetable is on a
Protest, retired, or died in a
A bomb-blast.

What happened to Bhindi?
Did the government ban it
Because it looked like a phallus?
Or the chauvinists cancel it
Because of too much of
Feminism in its English name?

Did the potatoes fall prey to
Irish famine again or
The Israeli forces employ them
To make bombs that could
Feed the hungry children of
Palestine?

Ridge-Guard is my favorite.
But you know that already.
Why hasn't it seen the inside
Of our kitchen for weeks??
What do you mean it refuses
To visit a secular home?
Has it already joined the bigots?

If it makes you feel any good
Let me tell you how even
Sadguru has categorically said
That eating Brinjal affects the brain.
The way he talks utter shit,
Looks like his mom fed him too much
Of it to him when he was a child.

I'm paraphrasing him so that
It is godly enough for you to
Understand why I'm unable to
Do good in exams.
Maybe that's why people in
Hyderabad use it as a cuss word.
Can you understand my
Frustration here?

And you know what I think??
Maybe God cursed humanity to eat
Brinjal, when Eve ate that
Forbidden fruit and made you
The guardian to make sure
Everyone ate it daily.

Is that why they say,
God couldn't be everywhere,
So he created moms. Why??
Because you're his agent
To feed us Brinjal?

Selling Pain

One of my friends is
Seeing a therapist and
He laid out in front of me
The cost of his therapy.

The aggregate amount he
Spent over the past three years
Was nearly two lakh rupees,
That got me into a calculation.

The per cost of his pain
And depression was around
Two hundred per day.
That's almost double-

The per-day cost of my
Breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Pain is expensive I realised.
I bought a weighing machine
To quantify every ounce of mine.
Kilograms of pain and tons of

Misery every week-
In lumps, sheets, and heaps.
Clogging bathroom drains,
Some, as stench under my bed.

Some of it soaked, wrung
And put on the railing to
Eat sunlight. Some of it
Swept in a corner to discard.

Some of it spread on paper
With pen and ink and
Sometimes colors and
Blood-ridden cravings.

Sitting in my melancholic hill,
I saw someone frame his
Mental state in a Gallery to sell it
To the geeks who find in it meaning.

I wish there was Khatana Bhai
To stop my Janardhan to waste
His pain over the samosa chutney
And instead, make him hold it

In his loose fist to throw it
At rock music. As Jordan
Was just the pain that was
Sold well.

Good Boy

He talks about politics,
History, policies, finance
And inventions.
About Bitcoin and NFTs.

It seems like, he has
Figured it all out.

He eats with spoons,
Knows how to use a fork
And knife. His etiquette
Is impeccable-

He even knows how to
Smell wine.

The fake smile that goes
With the blue tuxedo and
The Italian shoes.
The borrowed hairstyle-

And the watch that shows
Nothing beyond time.
The charade almost
Looks real.

Then sip by sip the wine,
Goes in. It takes over and
His facade falls and
The termites from inside

Come out bearing his l
Local slang.
Licking just the pickle
He now orders, Old-Monk.

Stands on the table to declare
How the system is wrong.

Seemed like a political
Commentary until he retched
Real hard and puked out
Everything like he was a

A primetime news anchor on
A retainer.

Wound-less world

And sometimes when you

Run out of the words,

Unable to scratch-

When you run out of your itch..

The cells that are in a

Hurry to heal- engulf the vent 

To ascertain a blockage-

Healing can be smothering.

The ideas that try to bounce

Are hit on the head into a

Submission of inexplicability.

The red embers of thoughts-

That hitch with raw rush

Of emotions are doused 

With cold fetters-

Mental stability is slavery.

And you wait and wait like

A prisoner of a non-violent

World - A hostage in this

Wordless cage.

Smothered by the gags of

Un-bled blood- 

Anti-healing slogans in 

Your veins convince you-

That the pens are mightier 

Than swords.

But the government that

Hates pain and preaches 

Positive thinking has

Machine guns on steroids.

Fearing which- despite

Growing wings, 

The words refuse to fly.

And the poem intended

To be written is a martyr 

Even before it put up a fight.

Reflections

The boy is not guilty of
Stealing the money from
His father's pocket.
His Oldman meanwhile
Isn't guilty about his act
Of taking bribes.

The village headman is
Not guilty of using
The public funds for his
Daughter's marriage and
The daughter is not guilty
Of rejecting his lover
For a rich husband.

The boyfriend meanwhile
Is not guilty of leaking
Her nudes on the internet,
And his friends are not
Guilty of sharing them to
Show solidarity in his revenge.

The priest is not guilty of
Censuring devotees wishes
Or complaints and God in turn
Is not guilty keep tabs on
Everyone despite being
Omniscient.

Everyone knows all well,
What are their crimes
But can they carry it all-day
In front of their eyes?

A hiccup in everyone's
Conscience. Guilty reflections
Are bad for smooth conduct
Of business.

So today marks the day
Of deliverance. Everyone,
Has to stone their mirrors
In the village graveyard.

Reflections, from now onwards
Are banned for a lifetime.

Poetic Ends

When you cut open 

Your veins, the blood
That oozes is always
A shock of crimson red.

And when you hang yourself,
Your neck will crack.
Body will bulge, covered in
Excreta you'll stink.

There's nothing called
A poetic end.
There's no refinement
To the crudity of it.

It will hold your face in
Its hands and stare you
Like Anthracite coal-
The blackness of it will

Stick its tongue to make
Your throat thick- pull your
Intestine to choke you on
Your own breath and

Command you to count
Numbers in reverse.

So when the next time
One of those poets tries to
Serve you pain in an
Ornate thali-

Hiding the crude redness
And snapped neck of it-
Between the shades of
Water Lilies and Bougainvillea pink.

Take a moment to reconsider
The romanticism.

Either give him a hug to
Absolve him from his
Own pain. Or better
Kick on the nuts

Till he clenches his gut.
For caricaturing pain into
Cute dolls to plant them
In people's minds like

Time bombs.

Cheat Day

My kitchen knife is a
Vegetarian.
Prefers to cut onions,
Tomatoes and potatoes.
Refuses even to consider
Working on the paneer,
To flaunt its vegan-ness.

But occasionally it
Slips off a bit to cut
My finger a little,
Claiming it's a cheat day.

It's just like my tongue-
Preference to just a bit
Of salt and sourness-
Abstaining from any
Form of sugar.

But then again,
Its boneless attribute,
That takes it everywhere
Makes it tumble sometimes-
Utters the 'F' word without
Any restraint.

My pens that lie and
The glasses that colour
My sight sometimes.

My Uncle- Uncle Sam,
Comes to my mind.
Who breeds doves,
Preaches peace.
Holds conciliations to
Sign treaties.

But then, when he drinks
A little on weekends,
The chauvinism under
His pink coat comes out,
Knocking on random doors-

Compelling him to rape
A couple of those
Poor countries, quoting-
Their cigarette smoke is a
Potential mushroom cloud.

Let Her Fool Around

As she sits there curled up

Beside the couch with
Half-eaten dog feed in the bowl
Looking at the distance, lost..

Take a moment to stare
In her eyes.
Do you see the blankness?
The loneliness?

The fancy collar on her neck,
Ornate leash with a grip.
The cuddles you give and
Hot water bath you provide.

The poop you pick to feel good
About yourself and-

While on the morning walk,
When she wants to smell
The genitals of the fellow street dogs.
Why do you pull her away?

You, yourself waltz announcing,
Your pronouns on your social media
Profile. Is that why you want to
Make your beloved dog sterile?

Wake up, you moron.
At least for the love of some
Woke-God. Let her fool around
With those ugly street dogs.

You go on performing everything
From Missionary to Alabama-Hot-Pocket,
And deprive her the pleasure of 

Her own authentic Doggy style?

Grow some sense you condescending
Piece of Hypocrite.
If she makes babies tomorrow,

You must know that you can 

Flaunt them on Instagram-

As puppies have far better
Engagement than adult dogs.

Vigil

You can cover your face
With a scarf outside but
The walls have keen eyes
And they have seen it all.

You whisper your secrets
Into the ears of a vague statue
Of an unknown God.
But even the devotion in

Your fickle heart has holes
That can amplify lies.
And for long, you fixate over
The possibility of

Deafness in your lord.
But fate is playing
The game of chess with you.
And it's all tactical-

Lets you beat the queen
And bishops of the black but
That one insignificant pawn
Has been waiting with a plan.

You tie your shoe loose
Thinking it's all right and
When the vigil is gone-
A checkmate from the pawn.

You'll be done in a battle
You never fought.

Simulation

Canary, a yellow sparrow-like
Bird sacrificed in the coal mines
To test the levels of carbon monoxide.
Rats in our laboratories of course
As tin cans to test fire our
Experimental medicines.

Haven't the dogs been our
Long-standing first line of defence
Against those heavyweight carnivores?
And the cattle of course
Butchered into meat to satiate our
Not-so-starving needs.

Have we been held hostage in
This ranch called Earth too?
By some higher civilization-
To test against the level of
Oxygen and temperature rise?

To derive a formula for optimal 

Resource allocation through

A false means of fair competition?

Who are you sitting above in
A surveillance room studying our
Simulated lives?
Can you please delete the footage?

From the previous night.

I wasn't supposed to pee standing up,

I accidentally identify myself as male.

Real, Inverted

A convex lens casts a real
Inverted image on a screen-

A pointy skyscraper can
Look like a ball pen.
A large Banyan tree, like
A buds of broccoli.

Women walking in skirts
Turned upside down but
Why hasn't it revealed
Any pale parts?

A God-man who passed by
Looked virtuous through it.
But you should imagine how
Distort his reality might be right?

A biker on the go seemed
Like having an anal with
The bike, clearly
The bike was winning.

And maybe someone
Looking at your eye from
The other side may get
Surprised at the strange-

Genitalia with lashes
Fluttering on the vulva.

Nudes

Searching for her
Fuckable body in the poems
She writes,
You slide in her DM-
Literature as your pretext.

Persistent in your intent-
Leaving hints in the usual
Conversations,
A peek behind her dress is
All you need-

Everything else is just
Pretense.

Out of pity or respect.
Maybe she was in it too
Or she wanted to make a
Statement out of sheer
Disgust.

When the image of her
Bare bust glares on your
Screen with a missing breast.
Sneaking past the edges of

Your own guilt-

The reflection of your face
On the black mirror-
Shriveled the same way,
Your erect meat in your
Right-hand did.

Able Form Of Expression

I didn't cry when my
Grandpa died. I couldn't,
Even when Grandma passed
Away Infront of my eyes.

Tears like frozen packs
Of ice and dead expanse
Of desert refuse to
Yield any water.

The consolations, though
Take off from the bottom of
My stomach, often they
Dry down in my throat.

The dark clouds of this
Unexpressed grief refuse to
Pour down on the aridity
Of my cheeks and the brittle-

Strands of my beard still
Find solace in flaunting
My masculinity- which screams
For help each day-

Without finding an able
Form of expression for
The condolences that
Rot in my belly.

Boy becomes his Father

Out of dread for those
Serious eyes, bold beards
Heavy moustaches and
The dictating voices-

Every boy, who hides
Behind his mother's saree
Is revolutionary.

Feeling his mother's grief
In the feeble variations of
Taste of daal- very resolute
To change the precedent-

Wanting to throw stones
At the village altars and
Clean shave before even
Adolescence hits hard.

Then as the the fierce
Command of manhood
Takes over his face,
Mind and groin-

And by the time he brings
Himself a wife-
Yelling at her from the bathroom
For not giving him Chaddi
And banyan in time-

His father and grandpa
Smile from the mirror
In total approval of the
Man, he has become.

While his kid in the hall hides
Himself in the saree of
This woman who had just
Become his mother.

Hunger

In the noon while I strolled in my
Backyard, a roti fell from the sky.
I looked up in wonder and there was
A crow cawing- must have slipped
From its grasp.

My father immediately asked me to
Rush back inside the house,
Mom joined him to say how-
Lord Shani might change his position
To haunt my astro-profile.

And from a distance, precariously as
I watched, wth a quick dive, the crow
Picked up the roti to fly away.
The emotion of hunger there was
That simple.

Crude as coal and pure as gold.
Devoid of any dubious morals or deceit-
Hunger often is the shortest distance
Between the stomach and the food.

A compulsive affair of desperation
And hope on repeat.