Orphan?

What if you were born as a girl and
Your father abandons, your mom
For not birthing a boy?

She couldn't return to her maiden home
Out of shame and left you at a
Temple door to jump in a well.

The childless priest raises you as his
Own and years later when you wash
The stairs of the temple, as a morning ritual..

You feed a hungry old man who was
Kicked out of his home by his son.
A thought crosses your mind to make you

Wonder if you're an adopted orphan..
Then the temple bell rings after the aarti
To bring you back to your senses.

Aging

Chaos in my head is a complex
Network of drains intermingled so
Haphazardly that, I never know what
Comes in and what goes out.

It's like a slime mold spreading
Across a substratum, feeding and
Growing at the same time and occupying
Space to become one with the host.

It's a riot really. An angry mob in
Search of free will and my
Conscious self, a dictator who wants
To bring order.

And every time there's a police firing
There's a hairafall.
Use of water canons- there goes
Another wrinkle on the face.

Childhood was unhinged democracy
An experiment to figure out what's
Right, what's not.
Adulthood seems to be an autocracy,
The rebellion for change goes for
A toss to accommodate self-acceptance.

Old age is holding the free bird by
The neck to clip its wings and
The funeral of a flight trickles down
The bald head like it was a chain of
Command from someone above.

The Houses we don't leave

The first one I fell for at 

The age of sweet thirteen,

Had short hair, wore her

Skirt below the knee.

The second one after 

Two years, when she looked 

At me thrice and the guys  

Teased me with her name.

The third one at the rush
Of sixteen, when the absolute
Bomb of my class wished me for
The exams with a shake hand.
Then her letters found a way
To my home that summer holiday.
SMS in the first-ever mobile I got.
She changed the school after that
And that's that.

The intense one was after

The school. I fell for my

Best friend. A situation ship,

Friendzone and a long streak

Of emotional fog and my

Break down in Goa before

I moved on.

The best one came after a

Really long gap.

The sweetest ever really.

She was always there.

Called me cute even through

My shabbiness. She tickled my 

Imagination to weave me

Stories of fantasy.

We traveled, hiked and

Saw dreams as meteors showed 

In the Himalayan skies.

But some shooting stars were 

Angry it seems. This time, 

I fucked up and I was back to 

The blankness I deserved.

The one that got to my head

Came briefly after that.

It was brief really, there wasn't

Even a proper story.

We talked in poems and 

Cuss words of fancy and 

She often refused to tell me

About her ailment, yet left

Me enough hints.

She ghosted me after a year 

And before I felt like an ass,

Her sister sent me a text,

Saying, her sister passed away

That morning.

I didn't know what to do,

Except to leave the matter

There and punish myself

With the guilt that followed.

I flutter my wings even today

But always in apprehension

Of the anti-climactic flight

I might make.

So I sit here in my nest, brooding,

Thinking about those houses

That turn into cemeteries

When we don't leave.

Perception of Self

Not love but love like 

Experience. Not you but

Someone like you.

Orange-like juices, mango-like 

Flavors. Not the jasmine but 

Jasmine-like lavendars.

Everything is either a fancy 

Of calculation or at most a 

Guided miscalculation.

Like a theme park offering

Experience of a forest with

Different packages for 

The sea breeze and that of

Mountains.

We don't know what it's like

To be lost these days.

Through the unknown paths,

We don't know what it takes

To figure out our ways.

We don't know what we feel

About ourselves really, as

We've seen innumerable reels.

And we don't know what to

Feel about others as we've

Consumed content on DIY too.

Standing in front of the mirror,

With whispers of people

Who don't really matter.

You look at your reflection in

Contemplation, to assure yourself,

How you don't like the idea

Of you, in pursuit of someone

Like you.

A wife for someone like you,

A house for someone like 

You would have loved.

Before you transition into 

Someone else entirely, 

You still got time to exhume your 

Corpse from beneath these 

Layers of pretense.

Blow him to life, give him

A nice shower and buy a better

Mirror that can give away

A clean, naked image to save 

Yourself from a misdirection.

The Broken Heart

The broken heart is an 

Abandoned nest where 

No bird comes to rest.

The broken heart is a freshly 

Born desert where the greens 

Are scared to sprout.

With no desire to hunt or eat

Or a plan to patiently wait 

Or sleep. The broken heart 

Is a restless beast that's 

Mocked by even the petty prey.

An orphan, a tramp 

A tombstone with no one

Left to write an epitaph.

It's an empty bottle wanting 

To be filled by emptying 

Other bottles.

A conch shell on a secluded 

Beach that tries to amplify the wind 

In search of meaning.

But the music nonetheless,

Is hollow and bland.

A war-torn city in the forties,

Great Depression of the thirties.

A failed bank, even US refuses

To bail out because of the pain 

It carries.

Satan wants to develop

Here his real estate,

But the loneliness of this

Dingy Street, only hopeless

Romantics can tolerate.

So the heartbroken come here

To live rent-free for 

Assisted self-sabotage and 

Aid for sleep-deprived nights.

Cut off from the mainstream,

The broken heart is a 

A self-deprecated ghost town,

Ignored for good,

For the benefit of the people

Who can't handle reality.

Certified Tragedy.

Wet paint of fresh dreams,
Spilling all over the floor,
And I slip off in the pool
Of colors in the morning.

Ahh! Too much happiness
For a single day.

Staying grounded is
Important today,
Give me a raft made out
Of little misery.

The nightmares are gonna
Hail heavily in the night
On the soft quilts of today
Morning.

I'm afraid of these random
Pleasures thrown at me,
Thinking, must be a coy
Sent to trigger my misery.

So I ignore sunsets and
Full moons and run away
From the flowers that
Are nothing but a boon.

Scared of warm smiles,
Free hugs-- I already expect
Malice in your eyes if you
Compliment me.

I suppose, either I take myself
Too seriously or don't bother
To care at all. I don't know where
The playfulness is gone.

For the overthought consequences
Of common possibilities.
I'm a long-standing deadlock
Between me and myself.

I'm an organically grown,
Certified tragedy.

It's Really Hard to Smile

The girl in front of me on the train,

Talks on the phone, looks in her bag,
Pretends to eat sometimes.
She looks away most of the time,
And hesitates to smile.

I try to find excuses to randomly
Meet her eyes but my lips
Evade the humble desire in
My heart, and maybe I look
Creepy without a decent smile.

This happens with all of us boys.
We can laugh our guts out
And talk in roof-shattering tones,
But no one teaches us about the smooth
Transition of emotions like a smile.

The reading between the lines,
And hiding between metaphors.
How it's okay to not have an opinion,
Or mutual insult not the only
Intimate expression-

There's no shine in our eyes,
A chocolate someone offered us
Was decades back and with
Literally, no one to dedicate us
Faintest of poetic lines-

Even from the sidelines, in all
Decency..we too try. But madam,
It's really hard to smile.

Architecture of Loneliness

At first, there's an invisible
Demarcation around you,
Within which you get cozy.
Then brick by brick it rises.

This windowless room,
Going no higher than your
Head and no wider than
Your narrow shoulders.

It keeps ricocheting all your
Thoughts back at you.
It's rediscovering yourself
At first.

It's looking within yourself,
Feeling redeemed, then
The self re-enforcement
Grows a thousand layers thick.

You choke on yourself and
Intolerable boredom sets in.

But who's there to talk?
Your voice being repeatedly
Sent back at you by the walls,

You implode in yourself.

In the architecture of loneliness, 

With no shoulders to cry, 

You sulk on your own high and 

That's the saddest kind of life.

Divide

On the night of separation,

We sat across a wall,

Waiting for a storm to pass.

When it did and the wall

Came off. We were 

Changed people.

I wanted to embrace the

Calm. You wanted to fall back 

Into the same brawl.

The divide we sat across

Kept deepening its

Grasp when you asked-

Want to move on?

Overthinking

If you could describe her eyes

In your words, is she even a beauty.

And if you don't die trying,

Are you even a poet?

Her beguiled smile if it doesn't 

Break you and the arrogant poet

In you doesn't stay pissed over

The mad lover you're-

For not letting him write.

The euphoria and self-inflicted

Pain- holding each other's hands,

If they don't pull you apart.

Is it even a state of mind?

Half Hearted Efforts

The job I could have done.
The mountains I could
Have scaled. The lengths
I could have gone to persue
Her and the business I
Could have built with my
Friend before I checked out.

The pens lost, papers torn.
All the discarded paints
And paintings before
They could come to life-

All the half-hearted efforts
On a wishful stretch of life-
Seep beneath the door at
Night like flickering light.

And the kites that were deprived
Of their maiden flight, look
At the paper boats that didn't
See a rainy day-

To ask in unison about
The kid who refused to eat
The jamuns on the ground,
To enjoy the same up above
By climbing the tree.

Too Late

If you disappear for seven years
You'll be presumed dead legally.
Your wife can marry your friend
Without any consequence and

He can write four eulogies each day
For maybe the next couple of years
And have them published without
Anyone's objection.

Maybe a grave in your name
Would dig itself up, sing an
Uncomposed dirge and
Close itself without any funeral.

The winds will be afraid to
Remember your name and the birds
Would be put in captivity to
Forcefully whisper your absence.

The world would have filled
The void you had left and maybe
Your death would be celebrated
With cake and rum each year.

And if you ever decide to come to
Everyone, it would be hard for
The stakeholders to accept you.
And while you stand wondering-

About the dystopian possibilities
Beside the house you built
In the village. Maybe the dog
You had fed once-

May sniff you back into
Existence if you're lucky.
But then again, will you be worthy
Of such acceptance?

Ifs

If I had seen you arguing over
Extra coriander with the vendor.
We could have met that way for
The first time, happy to have settled
Over decent discount on
Vegetables we bought.

Maybe elsewhere I could have
Seen you, swinging on a swing
In the local garden-
We could have met while
Buying an ice cream there.

I would've caught you watching
The moon if we had our
Flats in opposite apartments.
And we could have met
While you thought I eavesdropped
On your high-pitched phone
Conversations.

Or maybe we could have met
At a remote junction waiting for
A shared auto or we could have
Met in a lit-fest fancying works
Of the same poet and bonding
Over his underrated verse.

In this imaginary game of 'ifs'
We could have at least been
Childhood friends who eventually
Marry or A Hindu Muslim who
Elope to finally get killed.

But no I had to be born in this
Grounded village and you in
Some a posch street of Chandigarh-
Only to meet on the Internet and
Have half of everything-
Love, lust, dreams.

Our love was a Schrodinger cat
You know. Alive and dead at
The same on the other side of the door.
The door was a screen and we were
2500 kilometers apart when it was on.

Now that it's been off, I fail to
Measure this thing between us.
Sometimes it's just longing and
Most of the time, a void.

The Clock

A boy roams in the streets
Carrying a clock on his back.
To remind people how much
Time they're left with.

Some are just a couple of
Dance moves away.
Some a few sails in their
Fish boats.

Some are counting hours in
The number of meals
They can have, some in
Things they can own.

The clock slowly turned into
A mirror and people started
To see themselves clearly
On their own.

Someone showed it to
The boy himself and
He became an adult and
Started counting himself on

Another boy who crossed
The street daily,
Seemingly carrying a clock
On his back somehow.

Dementia

Each sunrise brings a little

Less of you and each sunset 

Takes away a little more.

Today, seems I've forgotten 

Your nose. 

A faint memory of what it

Looked like remains-- But I'm not sure.

I can't recall if it was pierced or

What kind of nose ring you wore.

Sometimes I wonder about

The strands of hair you often 

Slid behind your left ear.

Did you really do it or it's just

A memory of you fused with

Bollywood cliches-- I don't know.

It's the entirety of your face 

These days and I'm confused about 

The spelling of your name-

Whether it should come with

'i' after D, or 'ee' - I don't know.

What a disgrace.

It's not seamless. Recalling, 

Demands deliberate efforts.

It's like sketching your image

And the artist becomes less

Skillful after each try.

The mistakes keep increasing

And the need to mend bad strokes,

Wears down the paper sometimes.

And this distance between you

And me widens like lengthening 

Of our shadows against the setting sun-

The darkness ultimately feeds on it

Into forgetfulness and the sun 

The next day brings a little less.

Baggage

What to do with my past?
Days and years stacked up
Tight like a black mold-
It's heavy. How should I go
Carrying it around?

I heard someone made a
Vegetable garden out of
His fifty years old baggage
To feed the stray cows all
The reap.

Someone I know switched
To smelting and his furnaces
Now produce cheap knives,
That weap in the battlefield
To show solidarity.

I keep fiddling with mine
Against my poor,
Entrepreneurial skills-

Sometimes it becomes
The dog feed and other times,
A factory that processes
Cattle skin.

My half-hearted efforts
Don't stick to one particular thing.
And the piled-up-unsold-shit,
Rots and stinks.

Maybe it was always meant
To be manure.
Maybe I've to rework on
My USP to sell it to the guy
Who grows vegetables.

Dream Catcher

On a full moon day
My skeleton stands singing,
Outside your open window.
I know you think it's one

Of your dreams.
But the song is so good,
You sleepwalk outside to
Check it out.

The dogs around, bark.
Sensing the danger,
Your cat smells my
Presence.

This is the last night on
Earth before I'm flushed
In the void.
You might wonder why-

I didn't just barge into
Your dreams this time.
Apparently, ghosts in dreams
Are nightmares it seems.

Each time I tried to barge in,
The dream catcher beside
Your bed didn't let me pass.
So, goodbye sweetheart.

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.

How Long?

I keep watering roses that
Refuse to bloom.
How long till you break me free
Of the chains of this longing?

The birds of my fancy keep
Falling with broken wings.
How long till you douse this
Funeral in my head?

How long till these windows
Be flung open?
How long till these walls
Eat wet paint of sunlight?

How long till the marigolds 

Stop being jealous of the Lilies 
Before they start owning 

Their own elegance?

And how long till my heart 

Stops ailing. How long till 
The Jasmines burn the cities
Instead of misery.

The prison guard has
Stopped playing songs again
And the hangman has
Started oiling his levers.

How long till you ratify
My mercy petition?

How long till you bless
My sullen garden with
Actual fragrance instead of
Bogus reveries.

Mirage

Look, Deepali,
Next time when you enter
That tunnel in search of
The light at the end of it-

You will never know where to
Enter, where to exit or
Where to turn or if you need
To keep going at all.

Cicadas will chirp even though
There wouldn't be any and
The serpents will hiss even
Through their absence.

The darkness will grow emptier
And you will listen to your
Silence screeching like words caught
In the middle of a sneeze.

And even then if you want to
Chase the madness- The faint blip
Of that meaningless light-
You may never find it.

And probably when you flutter
Your eyes in the dark in search
Of something to hold on-
Maybe you will catch my eye.

As I too would have been lost
Just somewhere there
In search of the same mirage.
But I shall be free by then

And out of the tunnel.
As I would realize, you were
That light and redemption,
All along.

But once outside, you weren't
Anywhere around.
I thought you came in search
Of me. But it now seems-

That you were there to
Wait for someone else.
What a surprise! Seems, the light 

Was a Mirage from the start.