Unsaid. Unheard.

I've questions
I don't wanna ask.
Answers she might
Not wanna know.

So I sit here locking
Things in metaphors.
Knitting wings to
My words.

So that they can
Linger around and
Can never be
Unsaid or unheard.

See You There

If you see beyond
Your pompous 'I'.

Before the horizon
Of your ego.
There's a place that
Holds your attitude.

To the left
Make a diversion.

Don't take the bend
Beside the prejudice.
Or the one that's
Opposite to gratitude.

That one leads to an
Island of arrogance.

Take the one that's
Left of hate and to
The right of envy.
And just beside love-

If you find yourself
At a place called 'us'
Let me know.
I'll see you there.

Apocalypse

Sealed the mouths.
Pens snatched.
Papers seized.
All the poets were
Surrounded and
Burnt to death.

A metaphor was
Born out of the
Ashes.
It radiated poems.
Like it was a
Radioactive decay.

Gags removed,
Chains melted.
Free thoughts
Survived.
The rest couldn't
Breath the clean air.
It was too toxic.

Porn Mania 2

Eleventh class in Navodaya, during our times was just a long struggle from class to computer lab. "You owe yourself lots of computer lab"  that was the philosophy. And on a lighter note it was acceptable by everyone, even teachers. At that age of wide awakened adolescence, only hormones lead one's way through the computer.

The year was 2009 and by then internet was a thing. Though the connection was not profuse in the campus, it had made its presence to the extent that its absence was felt. And this absence was rampant in computer lab. Fortunately the Vice Principal's chamber had a good connection. But that place had become point of everyone's aspirations. From teachers to students, everyone wanted poke their nose in there. And at any given time a teacher was present, specially the then PGT chemistry Mr. Pulin Nath.

Amidst this silent fray of students and teachers, it was one such morning which wanted to give chance to teenagers. At that right stroke of the clock, two guys got that opportunity. Or should I say they grabbed it. Somya and Satya when they found out VP's son Aravind was sitting in front of the computer, Somya knew what to do. Well, any other guy wouldn't have dared but he was a good bully. He knew how get at the nerves of people. And it was nothing of an effort for him to sway a sixth class kid like Aravind back to the classroom.

Tech support Satya caught hold of the computer and the muscle power monitored for the potential human threat that might enter the VP room. Satya browsed through some videos. Hit the download, selected the autoplay option and waited for the process to get over. But well, well, well, guess who kicked a surprise. Pulin Nath sir made an royal entry and took a seat as if he was rightful heir of the throne.

The damned autoplay option while downloading had put both of our guys into a life and death situation. Thanking the slow internet for buying some time, Somya rushed to the classroom and explained the gravity of the situation. Then, few guys who understood chemistry and few audience like me who had no interest in chemistry made our presence in VP room. 

The plan was to ask doubts and divert attention of the teacher. Satya would ambush from the other side and cancel the download. So this went on for a while. Guys would poke doubts one after one. Sir hesitantly would look at them and say something then on to his business. He wouldn't give up the mouse. This happened over and over his bloody right hand was all attached to the mouse. Right at that moment someone came up with a problem that involved some calculations and formula. Well, this time he had to. He looked at it, seems he also found it intriguing. Right hand made it's move, took a pen and Satya cancelled it.

Seemed like the doubts of the whole class for then whole year were cleared at once. Just another day, another mess up and another escape. All hail eleventh class.

Verbal Carnage

Through the darkness,
I stare at the ceiling.
It can't get any emptier.
And the silence spreads.
Smothers my mind
With a blank paper.
A blinding white.

A lonely echo from
Around the corner says,
Darling, you don't need
A pen to carve
Your words tonight.
I'll just make you bleed.

And this carnage
Goes on very night.
And you my friend,
If you ever fall short
Of words, come. Collect.
There's enough
Bloodshed.

Sail Away

You fix my wings,
I will fix yours.
And one day,
We will fly away.
Just like that, we'll
Go away my love.

Somewhere far.
Beyond the horizon.
Beyond the clouds.
Beyond the
Shackes of logic.
Beyond the
Ironclad morals of
Right and wrong.
Let's fly away.

And we'll ride a
Shooting star to
A place in eternity.
We'll camp there.
Let's bleed pain,
Let's drink love.
And smoke time
To breed
Some memories.

We will fly away
My love.
One day
We will fly away
And live.

The Summer Companion

By the time summer was set in Delhi, in 2016. I was in a bad shape. Because of the isolation, I was lonely and to some extent home sick. But the goal was to keep aside everything and concentrate on the classes and the exams. And as the days rolled by the condition worsened.

My emotional state was bad, that was one thing, upon that Delhi's scorching heat was really getting on my nerves. Imagine, riding a bicycle in 40-42 degree celsius, make it through the traffic. You come to the room, go to the bathroom, let the tap run and quench your feet. And the water is killing hot. The amount of irksome that shoots up your spine is god level. 

But that was not the worst. The nights were a torture. Besides the heat, the mosquitoes joined the fray. Though fan was a relief, it also vent hot air. The irony was I had to lay half naked, can't switch off the fan, can't pull over a sheet. Heat and mosquitoes teamed up, it was a real onslaught. The only companion by my side was the ceiling fan. There was a cooler but that damn thing used to increase humidity and it was another kind of torture. Few hours of successful sleep was the only win I wanted out of that mess. And most of the times, I used to have some sleep.

One of the nights, past midnight, I was about get sleep and suddenly there was power cut. The forever presence of the squeaky sound of the fan was gone. That made me aware of my surroundings for the first in a while. The buzz of mosquitoes, sweat off my brow and the sound of vehicles from a far away road. In one word it was a vacuum. I was helpless, left alone in the fray and I roamed around restlessly to save myself from the mosquitoes. 

The ceiling fan that was present round the clock had made it's absence felt. The little thing that was always a button away went unnoticed almost every day. Maybe that was the loneliest I have ever felt. Suspended in my thoughts, then I lay dead on my bed. Then a faint light from the window reached me, there was relief. The squeaking of the fan filled the vacuum. There was peace.

The next day morning, the forever old companion was not just an equipment. I looked at it, the way Pi would have looked at his fierce companion Richard Parker. I helped myself with a chair, took a cloth and wiped the fan clean. Why not a small gesture of gratitude.

Wish We Were Real

I wish we were real.
Not the two,
Behind the screens,
Thanking and whining
And listening to each
Other's lamentations.

I wish, the thing
Between us, was not
As sublime as the
Words consumed by
The backspace.
Emotions contained in
Characters and
Expressions thrust
In emojis.

I wish, there was more.
Shade of your anger,
An elegant blush.
A comfortable silence.
A talk over tea, fight
Over breakfast, then
A traveling spree maybe.

Drown in dreams and
Consumed by each other.
I wish you were here and
We had some rough
And raw moments.

I wish we were real.
I wish we had a life.

A Walk Through Books

I've developed this habit. On Sundays, I wake up and go to some place around. Usually I go sit in a quite place, write whatever comes to mind in my diary. This time had Daryaganj Sunday book market in my mind. So by 9 in the morning I found myself in Karol Bagh metro, changed to yellow line from Rajive chowk and got down at Chauri Bazar metro station. Chauri Bazar is beside Chandani chawk where Jama Masjid is located. From metro stations I usually don't take auto to reach anyplace. One reason is, to save money. Other thing is, I love walking. It's exciting to get lost in a crowd as stranger. Behaving has innocent as possible while enquiring about a place and as matured as I can while bargaining for something. Adding ''Arre bhai main toh roz ata hoon. Yahi ka hoon'' to for a effective bargain.

Daryaganj is in old Delhi. Generally Delhi's streets are not much crowded on Sundays. But old Delhi is an exception. It's narrow streets invited me with huge crowd. Didn't miss to devour  delicious ''Das ke do Samosa'', as again old Delhi is know for it's street food. Overall it took about half an hour walk from metro and couple of innocent '' Daryaganj kaha?'' (broken, incomplete sentences portray your innocence)  sentences to reach the book market.

I reached a junction. Right side of it there were book vendors displaying books on footpaths in front of closed shops. Some still were brining huge bag of books and searching for place for display, some already had their first sales. All old editions, most of them English. Books of all genres arranged in all possible symmetry with a fine coat of dust settled on them. The vendors didn't hesitate to walk on books. It was usual for them. Since they stood amidst books, to reach other end they couldn't help but walked on books. 'No sentiments, it's business' I said to myself.

Starting from a corner I slowly  examined for the names of books and authors I had in mind after all these years of learning. I badly wanted to buy 'One Hundred Years of Solitude' by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. So, that was on top of my mind. As I was scanning through a lot, my eyes caught  'Oliver Twist'. I readily grabbed it. It was like finding an old friend among strangers. While my scanning continued further, I paused by 'The Kite Runner' by Khaled Hossani. Yeah! Seems someone had recommended it to me, so got it. Also got O Henry's story collection. Couldn't resist to leave one by Thomas Hardy and another by Mark Twain. So five books for 200/-.Raising my eye brows in pride I slowly paced towards the next street. Then I walked for 2km besides the footpath filled with books, books and books.

While passing by, for my surprise I saw a board, "Any Book for 10/-". That can be the worst sarcasm on books. But didn't found any interesting book in that lot. Then moved ahead. I was kind of mad now. I wanted to buy every book I came across. Dan Brown, Tagore, Rowling, Paulo Coehlo and other classics by Dickens, Hardy, Jane Eyre. I know money was the problem. I thought enough and thought of walking away and came other side of the footpath, moving ahead, gazing the books at the other end. Suddenly a word caught my eye 'Gabriel'. I paused, took breath and cast my eyes for a moment. Aghast!, 'Gabriel Garcia Marquez', I rushed swiftly. But the book was 'Love in the time of cholera',  what a despair? I can read that I thought, lifted it cursing the dust. Beneath, there it was, ''One Hundred Years of Solitude''. But was not lucky enough. The old man, the vendor didn't gave up his claim of 150/- for it. When there were so many items available for same price there was something within telling me, 'may be next time'. It was difficult to let it go. But next time, I said and distanced myself from the never ending row of books. Yet again, casting my eyes on the books I paced ahead towards the metro station.

11th May 2016

Ode to Crush

I saw her on a
Winter day.
Tying her bun,
She stood there.
How elegant!

Sight of her, sets
A throb in my heart.
The shine of
Her eyes. Gleam
On her face.

And that incisor
That pops out
When she smiles.
I'm a big fan.

A wink, a smile
Or even a smirk,
Might give me
Wings one day.

God! she knows,
Laws of buoyancy.
She makes me
Float.

Dichotomy

Too ashamed
To hold back,
Too afraid to let go.
Here I stand on
The cliff of
My setbacks.

Right foot poised,
Left aback.
I find myself,
Astride fate's
Invisible line.

Just a matter
Of courage.
A little push or
A look back.
There's a
Second chance.

But I guess
I'm a coward.
Too afraid to let go.
Too ashamed
To hold back.

Geophilous

You're the winters.
I'm the monsoons.

But I know,

For both, the thirst of the
Summer within is same.

Why not quench
Each other?

You get drenched,
I can use some cool.

Global warming is a thing.
And only together,

We can make it through.

Transience

Reading our chats,
I've been lying idle.
And smiling like a fool.

I wonder about love.
About life.
And imagine your
Cute cryptic smile.

I know we agreed
To depart. But
Are you really gone?

Won't you ever ring the
Notification bell and
Peep on my screen?
Saying "There? I'm waiting."

Our story is being
Eaten away by oblivion.
Doesn't it ache?

And now, don't say,
It's destiny. 🙄

Taste of Blood

A nightmare woke up Jay. It was so intense that he had a restless feeling in his chest for the rest of the day. He was not able to remember any details except, a faint whisper, "Have you ever tasted blood?" The sound of it made his veins quiver. And that feeling remained with him for a while. 

Jay is a guy who has hardly seen blood. He knows it's red because of RBCs and all. But he has never been in real life situation which involved blood. He had heard tales from his friends about how some people faint by the sight of it. He even remembers his grandpa's  hilarious tale of Bhimshi. That, once Bhimshi seeking revenge, put a sickle to Ramappa's neck. And by the sight of the overflow of blood, fainted on the site. Though Ramappa died, Bhimshi was caught in a terrible state.

The trivial memories like this kept haunting Jay now and then. Deep inside even he had a gut feeling that, by the sight of anything like that, he would faint readily. But seldom expectations and experience go hand in hand.

That evening, the usual quarrel between his father and mother took a different tone. By the tone of his father, Jay got agitated and put himself into the argument defending his mother. His drunken father, who had a glass in hand, turned so furious by the intrusion of Jay that, he broke the glass with the hand. Blood started to ooze out of hand and his helpless mother quickly got up to stop the bleeding. There was too much of blood and his mother couldn't stand it. Jay, though hesitant, had to go and hold his father's hand to stop bleeding. Meanwhile his uncle too rushed in the kitchen hearing the noise.

By the time his uncle came along, Jay's hands were all bloody. Readily, they rushed to the hospital which was five minutes away. While treatment was going on, Jay came out to wash his hands. Twitching the viscous red, he was thinking why didn't he faint by the sight of it. Suspended in his thoughts, he took a good look at his hands. It was more than just a look. He felt that blood. And before he could realize, his bloody forefinger reached his tongue. Suddenly a feel of disgust hit him and he repeatedly washed his hands. Whatever it was going inside him was overwhelming and beyond his understanding. 

Mind boggled, he sat on the bench, waiting for his uncle and pretentious father. After a while when they came out, he accompanied them. After reaching home, he didn't feel like having dinner. He went upstairs to sleep. While he spread the bedsheets, he saw a broken piece of mirror in the corner. Though it wasn't supposed to be, he had an unusual spike of emotions for it. He reached for it and grabbed it with the right hand. It was handful. He held it tight and looked at it. Stared at his own reflection like he's meeting a stranger. Looking in the eye of his reflection, he said, "Ashy metallic taste". 

Yearning

Up on this peak,
Mountains are asleep.
And the sky is
Wide awake. So am I.

The moonlight is
Melting me down.
Streams of memories,
Your face among the stars.

I miss you.
I wish you were here.
To fill my light-years
Deep longing.

Solitude

Stranded in
Our own thoughts.
We always end up
In ourselves.

The places we go,
The people we meet,
In search of a refuge,
The feelings we breed-

Are just excuses.
Means to an escape.

Let your lonely self,
Speak to the lone you.
Solitary days ahead.
Get used to it.

Waiting... Awaiting

Waiting.
Awaiting...and
Progressively,
Time is stretching.

A minute feels
Like more than
Sixty seconds.
And
Sixty minutes,
I don't know
How many hours.

Boredom yawns
Over me. Turning,
Each moment into
An unbearable
Ghetto.

I see ages
Pass by me.
An era says Hi.
A millennia bids
Me a goodbye.

An epoch has
Fallen short for
The next tick of
My watch.

And God!
Time is slow,
When you,
Keep a track.

We'll Make It

I wish, I could
Walk down the
Aisle of your mind,
And hug the
Little bunny
You've Been hiding.

Just to reassure her,
That everything is alright
And say, 'we'll make it'
No matter what.

I wish it could have
Been easier. Like-

Buy her an ice cream.
Make her comfortable.
Then pat on her back
And make her sleep on
My shoulder.

Just to give her
Some warmth she needs.
To make it through
The cold and lonely.

Even if it is for only
One night.

Let There Be Rain

It's scorching.
I'm done with Sun.
I'm frozen.
There's emptiness around.

I but pray for some rain.
Crave for some love.

To find myself stroll
On a drenched road.
Maybe to laugh on myself
And kick a stone.

Let the moon sigh
And wink at me,
Let the safe crowd
Under roof smirk.

I don't care.

Just wish to walk
And walk and walk,
Kicking, singing, jumping,
Dancing and screaming-

'Let there be rain'.
'Let there be life'.

The Incomplete..

Somethings,
Remain incomplete.

Some don't
Have answers.
For some, answers
Can't be found.

Some are answered
By wrong person.
Some right-answers,
Come in a wrong time.

Some just remain
With a question mark.
Most of the time,
They're meant to be
Incomplete maybe.

And they're beautiful
Incomplete. The,
Stunning mysteries,
They behold us.

Debt

I'm an
Indebted poet.
And you're my
Greatest lender.

Right?

For the words I've
Borrowed and the
Metaphoric loans
You've availed-

The stories I make
And the poems I write.
Are just the
Interest payments.

Apathy

It's not sweet, salty.
Sour or bitter.
It isn't even tasteless.

Thing is,
It's simply not there.
A pure indifference.

Consuming the light,
Like the big-black-void
Of outer space-

Of all love and hate
In the world,
Apathy hurts the most.

You know what's Sexy?

Why are you silent?

You’re fed up talking?
Or you think
I’m tired of
Listening to you?

Am I not a
Worthy audience?
Or you’ve been
Underestimating yourself?

Can you not carve out
A dagger-like-smile
To slash away,
This Awkwardness?

Between sullen faces
And dodgy eyes..
Angry disguise and
Pretentious smiles..

You know what’s sexy?
A conversation.

Beyond Sanity..

Like an incantation
Gone wrong.
I suppose you're
An accident.

Or;
Was god high
On weed; when
He made you?

I wonder,

How a flawless beauty,
Such a you.. can be
Carved by someone,
In his conscious self?

I don't know.

I'm just a mortal.
Limited by my own
Senses, instincts and
Imagination.

You just question
My sanity.

Middle Path

I'm not so easy.
Not so difficult.

Not much skeptical.
Not too careless.

Bit balanced.
Bit not.

I'm somewhere
In the middle-

Little fucked up
And a little not.

Gone with the Winter

The memories of
Those late night talks,
The rain did sweep.

And the unconditional
Sweet-little-warmth,
The winter did freeze.

There's a cold calm,
A stab of apathy and a
Kind of murky-charm left.

Like a scenery contained
By the withered leaves,
This feeling too is-

Beautiful. Colourful.

To the Future Me

I've locked you
In a metaphor and
Have hidden it in
An old diary.

If you're ever lost,
Come, find it.
See what it felt like
To be yourself.

Petrichor

Some one has
Rained down;
On my unsung lands.

And has
Written a song.

Tuned my guitar
And has poked
Some chords.

Like the smell of
Thirsty soil after
A drizzle-

This feel has
A life. Melodious.
No more empty.

Let it Rain..

Let it rain,
In the barren lonely lands,
Of the aloof;

In the darkness laden
Corners of minds of
The ones smothered in
The dust of dismay.
Let it rain.

Breaking the walls of
Empty thoughts and
Suspended emotions-
Let it rain.

To clear the haze
Of melancholy,
That has stalled lives.
Let it rain.

In the hearts that might
Bear fruits and
Spread wisdom.
Let it rain,
To prevent a bitter,
Cold cacti invasion.

Oh mighty rain!
Pour down.

Pour down,
Ebb away this monster,
Feeding on emotions.

Pour down to blossom
The souls shrivelled.

Pour down to usure hope.
Pour down to assure life.

Pour down to spread love.
And pour down to spread beauty.

Dreams n Job

Even after reaching
My destiny,
This journey seems
Incomplete.

Missing home like
Never before.

If life's a really long
Round trip back home.
I wonder where
I am headed.

If dreams are as
Costly as a home.
They be worth it.
But this job?

I don't know.

Speak Up

Speak up, you moron.
Speak.
Your words-

Let them poke,
Leave a stroke.
Hang upside
Down.. till some
Egos choke.

Let them touch,
Let them caress.
Let them leave a scar,
Rejoice a memory..

Let them,
Fall in an argument.
To put up a fight.
Duel with tongues,
To see some
Bleeding gums.

Let broken teeth
Be their abode
For a while.
Dirty mouths give them
A taste of the world
That's flawed.

Stop whining
All the time.
Lift those walls,
Grow some balls,
Be a man!

Let the words
Crawling in your
Veins burst open
To write a revolution.

The insights hitting
Roof of your brain
Start another phase
Of evolution.

Throw down

Your walls.

Hold on your ground.

Speak up

To hurt tonight.

Speak up...

To love.

Quench the Unsung

I was,
A rhymeless poem,
A wandering tramp.
A stray thought in
An empty mind.

You came in;
Showed a dream.
Wrote a song.
And Pfff! Gone like
A cut lose kite.

Now a stage set,
Guitar is tuned.
My feelings are ripe..
Ahh! In here, It's a
Rampage of desire.

Ye! The angel from
The lands, unexpected.
Stop haunting me
Like an unexpressed
Grief.

Come over for a while,
Give me a sign.
Poke the guitar,
Sing a song,
To quench the unsung.

Walking Elegance

After you made me
Sleep, I woke up
In a dreamy fantasy.

Enchanting smile
Spread on the tan
Of your face.

Scintillation of
Your eyes, cutting
The gloomy shades.

Like a craze that
Questions my sanity.
Draped in the reds-

You were,
A walking elegance.
Flawless. Infinite.

The Unsung

Thoughts are
Running wild
To fall into words.

And I'm tired of
Becoming just
Another verse again.

I want someone
To come, to
Usher some rains.

Not to write,
But to sing.

I want to dance.
I'm tired of
The unsung.

Void

Here we sit across this
Unwavering silence.

And there's a lot of
Noise inside me.

Do you feel the same?

Only if you can really listen.
I can pour my oceans to you.

Can you lend your ears
And be my infinity again?

Let's Become a Story

Let's become slaves
To this night and
Be lost in each other.

You wink, I'll gleam.
You blush, I'll laugh.
Let's talk from the
Moon to the stars.

You sigh, I'll pant.
The duel of our breath,
Let it drown us in
Luxuries this night.

As the darkness fades
And the moon grows
Jealous..
Let one more story
Of us grow wings..

To take a refuge,
In Brown pages of
My diary.

I'm a Life

I'm good. I'm bad.
Between the
White and black.
I'm a shady
Recline.

I'm not a
Quantifiable piece
Of meat bag.

I'm love. I'm pain.
I'm melancholia.
A rainbow.
A celebration,

Also, a pitch memory
Of darkness.

I'm dark strokes
On the canvas.
Also the mess in
The palette.

More often,
The discarded scribble
On the paper, than
The well-aligned
Parts of my verses.

I'm a story that
Made love under
The fan and
Hung itself to death
Later that night.

I'm this, I'm that.
Beneath, under,
After, before.
I'm a boundless
Beyond.

And sir, or madam.
If you think.
You've understood me,
Then, congratulations.

You've just become
An artist.

Where are you from?

I am from
A place with-

The longitudes
Of heart and
Latitudes of mind.

I'm from
Within myself.

Where are
You from?

Prison

What if you
Fall in love with
The prison
You escape?

Will it..
Still be;
The freedom
You longed?

But, again-
Isn't love a
Prison too?

Blame

I suppose,
Blaming others is a really
Funny evolutionary adaptation.

When we emotionally fail
We say heart is shit. Should
Have listened to my mind.

When we logically fail we say,
Should have followed heart.

I mean wtf is this?
Both are fucking part
Of the same freaking mind.

Maybe blame is a evolutionary
Mechanism to move on with life.

At Ease

The smile hidden
In my mind faces
No hassle to make
It onto my lips.

Breaking the ice,
My words dance
On my fingertips
With utmost ease.

I don't know if
It is the weather but
Today, I feel as light
As a humble feather.

What a disposition.

Wannabe Blues

To have glistened
Daily in your
Elegant shades.

Like a canvas,
I wish I were
The evening sky.

Woven in the blues
Dim, dusky and
Yet, pleasant.

Un-containable Vacuum

Lift that veil
From your eyes and
Ebb away that gloomy
Shade from your face.

Look up, the
Heavens are hung,
The Life around
Has dried up.

Why don't you
Carve a little grin
On your gentle lips
To light it up around.

Please,
Can you break
Your silence and
Fill this vacuum.

Let there be a moment.

Just Be There

You be like that.
Undefined.
Unspoken.
Indiscernible.

Riding my
Utopia.
Feast for
My thoughts.

To be special,
You don't have
To unravel
Yourself.

Just be there
To Inspire.
Like a stunning
Mystery.

Lol

Your pics
Without filter.

Un-combed
Messy hair.

Face with a
Shade of anger,

And the eyes
With lots of kajal.

No wonder I
Started believing,

In the Ghosts.

'Bud'dies

While waiting alone
At a lonely bend and
The time was passing by
Having no ears to lend.

On the long nights; to
Keep your demons at bay.
And some empty
Thoughts away.

Sticking around the neck;
To shield you from toxic men,
The earphones that stood
For you, like a hazmat suits-

Are also called buds for
A reason my friend.

Give Me My Pen

A poem has set
It's pace in me.
Finding a way out,
It's poking around.

It has sneaked in
Every corner.

And soaked in the
Biases I've breathed,
And the opinions
I've consumed,

It has made my
Blood thick.
Veins about to burst.
It's throbbing.

And before it's spilt,
And it's a mess.
Give me my pen.
Let me speak.

Dear, Mr. Monday

Who wants to
Work after Sunday?
Dear, Monday; are you
Not tired of yourself?

Agreed,
Pope was your father.
Childhood was a trauma.
Doesn't mean-

You've to be
'A kick on the nut' face?
And clapper to the
'Let's run this race.'

If only, you
Hadn't made my
Morning tea sour and
Yourself a weekly bore.

I would have Befriended
You. Dear, Mr. Monday.

Cli-mate Change

Remember the days?
When life was life.
Fun was fun, And
Fights didn't go to head.

When I was I, You were
You. We were us.
Lots of food; music.
And time was smoke.

Life was easy,
Everything was simple.
Fog in the winters.
Rains in the rainy season.

I don't know,
When did we become
Global warming and
Lost our summer.

Loop

I'm bored and
Time is slow.
Inside; lots of noise,
My mind might blow.

My what's app is
As lonely as me.
Cliche; even movies,
I don't want to see.

Present playlist is
A sheer monotony.
To go on a trip,
Monies, I don't have any.

So..
I'd to give away myself
To the incognito tab,
Only to meet my
Sweet guilt again.

God! every freaking day,
Is the same. Like a loop.

Porn Mania 1

From holding the paper cuttings of actresses as hostages in our books to stashing the adult books that we read in turns under the bed- adulthood had hit every one of us in different frequencies. Sooner or later we all did it. No matter how disgusting some things were, it’s all just pure fun when we look back. Most of these things happened after we entered the senior house in 2007.

Back then when the internet was still a story we read in books. Asiq banaya apne video song was a popular talk. It took a life full of effort to watch that in my friend’s PC; who was a staff-child. After all what good is a staff child if he didn’t help you to access some explicit stuff like that?

Somewhere around that time, we heard for the first about the blue films aka BF. Yeah! Suck it up… aptly.. I know it, you know it... between calling it BF and porn, we all grew up.

One day, some of the B-section guys started talking about a porno. The migrated guys had managed to pull off a show in the computer lab that morning as they had a CD. One guy narrated the incident to me. He said, “After we settled down in the computer lab, I felt a vacuum around me and when I saw through it; all eyes were fixated on it. And when I laid my eyes on it, the screen literally poked my eyes. It was disgusting, yet irresistible. There was a kind of warmth and quiver in the body. Next period was Jodaddi sir’s. His one-minute silent prayer before the start of the class was a horror. It was like someone had put a mirror inside us to reflect our own guilt. I shivered through the minute. And it was not just me.”

---

Though the computer lab was one place, the usual magic happened elsewhere. Different batches had accessed the stuff in different ways. Usually, the first time happened because of the legacy of senior batches. Our senior’s legacy was the maths lab. It had become a porno adda ever since it was newly established and a PC was put in it.  It was an ideal spot because it was like an outhouse. Totally isolated from the school building and no one paid a regular visit there.

A rod from the window was removed. It was wide enough to slide through it. It was engaged all the time. Things were done so surreptitiously that I suppose for about a year at least; no one had a clue. Most of we A-section boys watched one at the end of 10th class. February 5, 2009. Weird; I remember that date. 

Two guys were inside the lab, operating the PC. Group of we peeped through the window. It was a Tarzan porno. When everything was heating up; a guy beside me who was bit sensitive; started to make weird noise subconsciously. The sight of the clip was so disgusting that it was difficult to watch it continuously. Yet, there was the irresponsible grasp that conditioned the mind. Aftermath, of course, the guilt was there. But we all get used to it, ain't we?

Standing at that last window of maths lab; the first time is memorable as hell. Last week when we had gone to the school after a marriage. Some of we took a moment to peep through the last window. The ten years challenge was practically complete. Also, literally. The date was February 10.

Dharwad

On the darkening blue,
An orange inlay.
The sun's setting
Birds on their way.

Dharwad; No difference.
Smells all the same.
The Mirchi-girmit invokes,
The good old days.

The taunts we made
And laughs we had.
Ran and Roamed around,
Worthy of some pretty scars.

Without any signs,
There was a last day.
Blink of an eye;
Careers, Responsibilities-

Life's now a long drag.

Born Free?

It's easy to
Break out of a prison
That contains us.

What can be done
When we ourselves,
Contain a prison inside?

Or worse.

What if we ourselves
Are a prison!
Disguised as men?

I mean, what better way
To captivate someone?
Than to-

Blow some life into a
Ribcage, give hope and
Convince them that

That they're born free.

And like the cogs of a
Ceaseless wheel,
A workforce is ready.

Real Orphans

Only sleep
Can be a real
Homely refuge.

Without it,
You don't
Really belong-

To a day.
Neither,
To a night.

Not even to
Your home or
To yourself.

And maybe
That is why,
I suppose-

Nobody is as
Orphaned as,
The insomniacs.

Agents of Time

Death is
The final nail;
In the coffin.

Oblivion is
The Rust;
That follows.

One to end.
One to efface.

Only time is
Immortal.
Rest all are
Its victims.

Breathless

You're an
Abrupt surge
In this perpetual
Calmness.

A sudden
Suction of
My serene
Solitude.

In an unwavering
Contempt of life,
You're my dear,
A kick on my gut.

Can't breathe in.
Can't breathe out.
You take my
Breath away.

Cyclic Psyche

How many times
Have I not said to myself
'It doesn't matter'.
And I've brushed away
Your memories?
The songs I've skipped .
The pics I've deleted.

To restrain myself from
Not looking at that turn
We had met.
How many times have I not
Died a thousand times?
Taking shortcuts.
Searching new routes.

And I don't know
How many times
Should I have to squeeze
My beat-box, let it lay out
To dry; before I let you go?
To vent a careless sigh
To tell myself, it's over.

I don't know what's
A thing, most hopeless.
But I think, convincing
Yourself a lie when you,
Already know the truth,
Is one of them and
I'm caught up in it.

Novel Appeals

Sometimes,
The same hunger
Needs to be
Satiated differently.

Need for new eyes,
To perceive the same
Horizon creatively.

Coffee tastes different
On heights.
Even shit costs more
In flights.

Food is poison if
Out of place.
Even a hunter is
Hunted outside a context.

Same stories from
Different mouths,
Sound different on
Same the ears.

Same tears on a
Different face has
Made the Hyena,
A hypocrite.

And when it all

Came down to

A simple question.

It was never about 

The taste of water.

The answer lied in

The appeal of thirst.

A Ravi Day

"Get down at the first bus stand and ask for Toranagatti sir's home. Anyone will point you my home" said Sacchya. Ravi hung the phone, took a tempo. Extending a ten rupees note to the conductor, he said "One Neginahal" and had himself seated in a back seat. Both had been friends since a very long time but had never been to each other’s home. It was some kind of a ceremony in Sacchya's home and Ravi was in no position to deny his insistence. It was hardly half an hour journey. When Ravi got off at the bus stand, the day was approaching 1200hrs. There were shops around, a flag pole in the middle. Few people stood talking in the shade. A man, bright and shine, stood to wait for a bus near the flag pole. Around 40, brown, the white attire of his was quite an impression amidst the usual setting of the place. Ravi thought of asking him for the address. As he approached him, he could see a golden chain around the neck, that was clearly showcased to poke the eyes of people. The pomp of his patriotism was visible on his shirt pocket in the form of a tiny tricolor badge. Clear attributes of a landlord Ravi thought. In a decent tone, Ravi asked the person, "Sir, where's Toranagatti sir's home?" He took a good look at Ravi. Re-adjusted his buccal cavity; to gather some space for words amidst his beetle juice. "Just beside the overhead tank," he said pointing at a faint trail of a road. Ravi took the road. After he walked down for a short while, he saw Sacchya standing in front of a house. Sacchya took him inside saying 'no one is in the home’; everyone has gone to the temple. "Such a big house! What are you a landlord..? Must be having quite an acreage of land too?" Said Ravi in a funny yet awed tone. With a faint smile, Sacchya said "Some twenty-five to thirty acres I suppose". Rolling his eyes with a sigh, Ravi asked, ”All on the lease ?" As he knew Sacchya's father is a teacher. "My uncle used to manage it all. Now that he passed away last month...will have to see.." Sacchya said, looking at the front wall.... Following his gaze, Ravi was asking him about what happened to the uncle when Sacchya got up saying, "Wait, I'll bring tea..." Ravi was no more paying attention to Sacchya. His eyes were fixated on the wall. Specifically on a photo frame. There was a Garland around it. The gold chain....the tricolor badge... the white dress...the man.. Ravi had a stroke like an ache in his heart. He looked around, Sacchya was coming with a cup of tea. Instinctively, Ravi's gaze searched for Sacchya's feet..."Did he have six fingers all these times?" He said to himself. But that wasn’t the concern… he was feeling the presence of a third person.

Masterpiece

Somewhere. Somehow.
There's a story that
Wants to be found.

A poem that wants
To fall suitably,
Into your words.

A painting,
That's awaiting to
Fit into your shades.

And no matter,
How stupid; how boring.
In all your subtleties-

You; in yourself are 
A piece of work.
Yet, unveiled, unfolded.

Grace of Rain

Is this the warmth
After freezing cold or
The calm after
The scorching heat?
It's serene.

It's the rains.

An escaped grace
From among the
Curses of the
Wrecked sailors
And the prayers of
The poor farmers.

Psalm of a Week

Monday is
Melancholy.

Tuesday,
A total trash.

Wednesday, oops!
Tomorrow's Thursday.

Thursday,
What the fuck is this.

Friday is...
Oh yeah!

Saturday...
Hurray!!!

And there's Sunday,
It's Rewind time.

Bomb in Udaygiri

(Koli is a popular form of punishment. Aka murghi in Hindi. It's a position where one has to bend, pass one's hands from behind the knees and hold the ears. Guess the pressure points...)

Shri-BTW must have welcomed that Sunday saying, Aaj kuch toofani karte hain. These sorts of incidents were nothing new to him. They’ve happened to prior to this one. They’ve happened after. But this one from 2009 gets the top slot. The story looks so dramatic and perfect that; many might think I have created it. In fact, it actually happened like it was scripted.

Though Akash Gupta, the migrated boy, was the real victim. The incident was so appealing that Shri-BTW had to be a victim too.

So, that Sunday noon; in the mess. Over a silly argument with our migrated boy, Shri-BTW had to summon him to his house; the mighty Udaygiri. And Akash Gupta, the cute-little-skinny-childish guy was every senior’s favorite. He was always bullied and was asked to recite shayari.

Shri-BTW’s Hindi was horrible. Maybe because of that Akash Gupta didn’t easily couch for his commands. Otherwise too, Shri-BTW was a very easy going guy. Even in the house that day, no one took Shri-BTW seriously. Otherwise, someone like Akash Gupta
in the den of 11th guys would have been ripped apart to tears. On the contrary, others were enjoying Shri-BTW’s Hindi.

As I said, he wasn’t couching well for Shri-BTW’s commands. In broken sentences, Shri-BTW would say, ’Shayari.’ He would say, “Bhaiyya it’s urgent. I’ve to go to the toilet”. Infuriated, Shri-BTW would search for Hindi words and say, “Shayari otherwise, (what’s the word….?) koli.” Akash Gupta would retort, “Bhaiyya it’s urgent. I’ll come after going to the toilet.”

Shri-BTW, took it as a usual excuse and thought he was lying. Also, see, he was getting offended as he was under observation. So, Shri-BTW had to insist; as his reputation was at stake. And he said, “First Koli, then Shayari”. Guptaji had to; as there was no escape. The pressure was building up, everyone had their eyes on the tough guy and the tough guy had a pompous smile that sounded like, “Who’s the daddy now?”

Guptaji wanted to give away what was demanded to escape from there. And from the database,he selected a perfect shayari and threw it away on Shri-BTW’s face. While he was still in the not so comfortable koli position, he summoned good energy in his vocals, and said,“Patthar se na maro mere diwane ko. Bamb ka jamana hai. Udado saale ko”. (Shayari referring to a song from the movie Prem Rog.)

The gush of the wind that followed the last word of the shayari literally created a stampede. The eyes that were cast on the scene were poking away their noses. The atmosphere in the house was scented. There was a grave silence that contained two victims. The one who had the bomb and the one who had detonated it.

Your Gallows of Apathy

I've become
A prisoner of
Your unsaid words.

Before you choke me
In the gallows of
Your of apathy.

Grant me;
My last wish.
Speak to me.

Quench this
Craving and
Absolve me.

Time Heals?

Sometimes,
Time is not enough,
To heal the wounds.

You need to
Shed masks or
Wear new ones-

To move on.

PaperCut

Between the
Unsaid words and
The un-spilled colors.

With our ego.
We carved our ways,
Out of a blank paper.

Guess,
Of all the paintings,
We could have been-

We were destined,
Only till the
Blinding white.

Here and Now

Right now,
I could be; anyone.
Anywhere.

The good. The bad.
Something better,
Or maybe worse.

But I'm here.
At this moment;
I'm just me.

And it has taken,
A lifetime;
To be here. To be me.

A Free Breath

Mind's on the
Wrecked past.
Eyes; cast away.
A bleak future.

Sitting with
A cup of tea.

And,
Sip by sip;
Breathing away,
This moment.

Euphoria

Sometimes,
I wonder;
If you're the colors
Themselves....Or,

A painter,
Who has painted
This perspective
Of mine.
.....
Clouds, the rains,
Winds and
Some shades-
Inexplicable euphoria.

Just Passing By

While I ride the
Wheels of time.
Life's passing by
Like the wind;

Sometimes slow,
Sometimes fast.
Up and down.
Hot and cold.

Is there a destiny?
I don't think so.
We three are,
Just passing by.

Mind and Heart

Aren't we little
Blinded by
Our emotions...

Bit..
Crippled by
Rationality....

And overall,
Totally...
Fucked up?

Mind and Heart-
Halves of same den,
Light years apart.

Agitation

Late in the night;
You come to taunt,
My healing wounds.

Making these scars glow,
You haunt me like
An unexpressed grief.

Powerful; Raging.
A wanna be contained,
Tired storm.

A Storm in a Teacup

Right. Wrong.
Good. Bad.
To be. Not to be.

Decisions. Confusions.
A daily tussle
With thoughts.

Mind is a
Battlefield; and
I'm a war prisoner.

Hiraeth

I'm a wounded poem,
Wandering around;
In search of a
Rhyme-less melody.

If you are one-

Can you give a refuge
To my ailing metaphors;
And aid them with
Your lullabies?

Can you?
Can you be that home?

Judgemental

Increased contrast;
One side it's black.
Brighter; the other side,
It's a blinding white.

Who has erased the
Subtle shades;
The colours that
Lied in between?

Despite our pompous
Sanity; why are we
Still veiled by our
Monochromatic myopia?

Has the world been
Confined between
The '0' and '1' ? Already?
Is there no hope beyond?

Someone

To give refuge to
Those 2 o'clock thoughts.
To cleanse your-
Dust stricken insides.

And to set you free,
From yourself.
One day; someone
Will come along.

And all those songs,
That meant nothing.
All those broken lyrics;
Will make sense.

And then, it'll rain.
Past your cheeks,
Wind will blow for you.
And the birds will sing.

The Stranger Within

Growing up,
Everyone was like-
Beware of strangers!!

No one ever;
Warned me;
About myself.

Everytime; I think
I know myself,
A stranger from within
Pops-up to say hi.

Seems,
Ram is just a
Face of the Ravan,
I already am.

ಕಲಹಗಳ ಕುರುಕ್ಷೇತ್ರ

ಬೆಳಕಿನ ಆಚೆಗೆ,
ಕತ್ತಲಿನ ಈಚೆಗೆ.
ಇಣುಕಿ ನೋಡು ನೀ,
ನಿನ್ನ ಅಂತರಾಳದಲಿ.

ಅತ್ತ ಕೌರವರು,
ಇತ್ತ ಪಾಂಡವರು.
ಮನಸ್ಸಿನೊಳಗಿಹುದು,
ಕಲಹಗಳ ಕುರುಕ್ಷೇತ್ರ.

ಮಹಾಭಾರತವೀ ಜೀವನ.
ನೀನೆ ಕೃಷ್ಣ,
ಈ ಕಪಟ ನಾಟಕದ
ಸೂತ್ರಧಾರಿ.

Robert Frost Parody

Whose phone is this,
I think I know.
The memes might be
In the gallery though.

My good friend mustn't
Think; it's queer to
Look at his phone
Without permission.

I'm alone and
My battery's down.
The longest night
Of the year.

The memes are lovely,
Dank and deep.
Miles to scroll down
Before I sleep,
Miles to scroll down
Before I sleep.

Devaraddi and A Typical Morning

The nap after the morning PT was peace. Sometimes because of irresponsible juniors, it did push me to limits. As it happened that day.

Damn! It’s 7:15. Why didn’t you fools wake me up? Cursing my juniors, with a towel and soap I rushed to the tank. And before I could have contributed anything to world’s water scarcity, I was in front of the mirror cursing my damned necktie.

When my not so shiny black shoes entered the mess, it was over 7:25. Avoiding the cold stare of the principal, holding my plate extended, I moved all shriveled. The last thing I wanted was a confrontation by the knotted face that stood near the counter.

So, I move without demanding extra uppittu from Prakash anna. Thinking, the principal might say something, I take one pickle myself- I hated pickles- as there was no one to serve. I poise to turn and my self-defense instinct sees it coming.

Before his hand hit my face, I stepped back and it hit my chest. The gush of thoughts. Perplexed! What did I do? Before my brain sang possible reasons, I had to face the stare of the audience. A 12^th guy getting a blow is worth a watch for the juniors for sure. And for my classmates; what can I say, they still laugh at me for that.

Knowing no reasons for that- whatever- thing, I was feeling like that Cuban kid from the Kannada movie Ulidavaru Kandante.

Later, laughing at me, someone told me. That, I entered the mess after the principal warned everyone to not have the pickles; as there was no one to serve them.

Well, amen to that.

Hypocrisy

Just because-
Erect, bipedal and
Infected by a little sanity.
Are we human enough?

An attribute to a noun.
Hypocrisy at it's best.

Our barbarism;
Honey coated; with
The justifications of
Our evolutionary triumph.

Until someone else
Writes our histories-
Heaven will go by favor.
And we'll always be-

The 'human' beings.

Limbo

The road that
Enthralled travellers,
Is lost in itself.

The river that
Quenched the needy,
Is athirst herself.

The light that
Lead the seeker
Has turned blind.

Nihilism to be
In the air-

The life that
Was in a flow
Rests in a limbo.

Omni-

Everywhere;
Even when
Everyone isn't.
You're there.
Like always.

In the nights,
For the days.
When I'm alone,
Even in a crowd.
You're there.

And if you hadn't
Come with the
Freaking silence.
Maybe I would 've
Loved you more-

Miss Lonely.

An Unsung Seagull

She was a
Beautiful song
I'd longed to sing.

Lost beyond
All the words,
I'm the ruins.

An,
Unsung Seagull.

Suicidal Head Cage

Should I let these
Blunt thoughts cut open
My veins and run it dry.

Or from this mysterious
Ceiling, choke this
Noisy head to quietude?

Will it be easy to
Intoxicate the insides
And surrender to sleep.

Or off a cliff
Should I just ask the
Gravity to do the job?

What should I do?

Give away myself to
This passing moment or
Laugh at it and let it go?

Why am I not
Brave enough to commit
This act of cowardice?

Any motivational speakers?

Ire

And judgements
Were thrown.
Pride was targeted.

Knives of words,
Hammers of taunts,
Thorns of smirks.
I've contained
Them all.

Having kept in
Mind everything,
Poised behind a
Drop of tear,
My rage awaits;
Simmering.

Don't misread,
My expressions.
Until I can
Actually smile.
You wretches deserve,
The one I've carved.

The Lofty Twenty Thousand

Twenty thousand. The death comes demanding a lofty price.

Those words ricocheting in his head, Mr. Nagappa returned home from the funeral of his childhood friend. The sight of the burial had reminded him of his own old age. Until now, he had never thought of it. For a while, he had stood aloof; like death was staring right through him. He imagined about the crowd around his house. Will there be enough crowd? What about my wife and children? Will they contain that burden?

But more than anything, he was boggled with the words of a peer.

At the funeral, while he got involved in a random talk with his peer group. Someone said, five years back when his father was dead, he had to spend nearly sixteen thousand rupees. The amount elevates because no one wants to come around to help if there’s no alcohol, said another in the group.

Looking at the son of the dead, another said, look at that poor fellow; he doesn’t even have the freedom to express his grief. Given his economic challenges, I wonder how he’ll manage the expense. These days, man is not free even after death. The death comes demanding a lofty price.

After the funeral, all Mr. Nagappa had in mind was the Twenty thousand. Not that he didn’t know about the rough estimates previously. It’s just; he had never really paid any attention to that. Now that he is relating himself to the situation, he’s too concerned. How will my son manage after my demise? The question had turned him weary.

By the time he reached home, it was dinner time. He took a quick bath before entering his home; ate some food mechanically. Without bothering to talk to his wife, he spread a mat in the kitchen and laid down his aching body. The death comes demanding a lofty price. Twenty thousand said the glow of incandescent bulb.

After his wife went to the backyard to wash the utensils, he surreptitiously, sneaked in the hall; opened his old sanduk (metal box). Found his way down to some notes he had stashed. He started counted them. Some new, some old, some crumpled and some worn out. Then he reached for his banyan pocket for few more notes, shuffled them all to count. In the dim light, diving through the quietude…the rustle of currency paper preceded a meek voice,.. one.. two.. three.. four.. five…

Nostalgia

Doesn't this
Lavish lush of
the greens and
The gentle gush
Of the winds...

Tickle some old
Melodious memories?

The monsoons,
Dancing on the roof,
And the birds
Rolling heads
And chirping...

Invoke the forgotten?
Scratch some scars?

While a cup of tea is
Coloring this evening.
Nostalgia is riding it.
Few sweet. Few salty.
Some mixed vibes.

Insomnia

The days are not
Like days anymore.
The nights are not
Like nights anymore.

I'm just,
Differently awake.
Differently asleep.

Thinking of the days
I was alive,
Waking up in the
Worst nightmares.

Most of the times,
I'm more dead
Than alive.

Me Freaking Myself

In my cranium,
There's a den;
Full of beasts.
Some are hungry.
Some athirst.

They feed on,
My emotions
And grow.

The one that
Thrives on
My silence
Is too noisy.

The one
Feeding on
My loneliness
Is most violent.

The one
Brooding over
My insecurities
Making me inferior.

And the one
Trying to control
All of them is
Freaking me out.

Transience

Love, longing,
Letting go.
Why is life this
Obliviously rude?

Why this limerence,
All little emotions,
Were meant to
Fade away one day?

Beyond our emotions,
What are we?
Just stacks of bones,
Sacked in rags of skin?

Tables Turn

A good, a bad.
A strong, a weak.
A demon, an angel.

It doesn't matter,
At what end of
The gun you're.

In the end you will
Also be a good hunt,
For a better hunter.

Predator to a prey.
A matter of time.
In between lies life.

Withering to Sleep

I wage wars on
The ceiling of
My room.

Write theories
On walls with
The flutter of my eyes.

I wrestle with
My pillow from
Left, right to wrong.

My bed knows it all,
About the
Bloodshed in my mind.

I don't fall asleep
Just like that.

Caught up in the
Whirlpool of
Over-thinking.

Fighting the
Leech-like
Thoughts of mine.

Dreaming,
Drowning,
Hoping, Choking.

I wither to sleep.

Answers

Went to the
Mountains
To find
Some peace.

Hit the bottom
Of the river,
In search of
A purpose.

Slept under
The night sky,
An attempt
To find myself.

And then
I found you.

The reflection
I was keen about;
The depths
I wanted to drown in;
And a place
I wanted to belong;

Your gaze
Contained it all.
A world.
A home.

Night- Bike- Chills.

My job involves conducting farmers meetings occasionally. Usually, we conduct meetings in the evening. Yesterday, the meeting got a formal start around 8 pm and was stretched up to 10 pm. And I started my return journey on my bike by 10.30pm. Winter night, cloudy sky, empty roads, slow ride and upon it I sat shivering. Counting down the kilometers covered, all I had in my mind was to reach home without getting robbed.

My home was some fifteen kilometers away I suppose; when I spotted a man standing his hands extended. Giving someone a drop at that hour, I was skeptical. As I approached him, he almost tried to block me. So, I had to stop by. He was a well-built adult; in his 30s I suppose. Looked like a farmer. Tough I was averse, I couldn’t deny him the ride. Then the usual conversation began. He said why he was stranded there. Where he was heading. What he does. Then about his family.

He said he will get down at Neginahal, which is five kilometers before my village. As I talked with him and became familiar, I was relaxed. Yet, in some corner, I had some sort of suspicion. Our conversation took a different turn when he said, sir don’t travel late in the night in this route.

Me: Yes, I have heard of thefts. But my job demands this sometimes.

He: Thefts are okay sir. But there are spirits too.

Me: Oh! Come on man. People just tell stories. Tell me if you yourself have seen any.

He: (In an assertive tone) I have not sir. But a couple of days back one of my closest friends did encounter one.

Me: (In a denial tone) Oh like that. (I knew he would tell the story in which I had no interest at all)

He: He was on his bike late in the night; coming back from Bailhongal.

Me: Was he drunk?

He: Yes he was but that’s not the point.

Me: (sarcastically) So, he was on his bike late in the night and he was stopped by someone asking for a drop?

He: That’s what he said.

Me: (Cliché) go ahead...

He: While the stranger sat on his bike and both were deeply involved in the conversation. Suddenly the stranger stopped talking. And there was grave silence all of a sudden.

Me: (sarcastically) Must have fallen down on the way.

Then, he didn’t reply readily. I waited for his reply for a while. His village was another kilometer away and I was waiting to get rid of him. But there was no reply from him. I thought he got offended by the way I talked to him. Then to break the ice, I said, Annara(bro!). Yet, there was no sound.

His village was hardly a minute away when I asked him if he has to be dropped in first bus stand or second one. There was no response. Calling him a couple more times, I said to myself what’s wrong with this man.
I made a decision to stop by the first bus stand. There was no one there. Supposing he is upset with me, I was imagining his knotted face that would bid me adieu. Expecting the same, I looked back. There was no one. I searched around there was no one.

Head full of rushing thoughts. Confusion, anxiety, chills down my spine and I could feel my heated up ears and churning insides. The bike in the first gear roared. I raced the accelerator.

His words were ringing in my head. Late nights... Spirits... Empty roads... Grave silence.

The Kidney Thief of Neelgiri

Kanakappa entered the school when we were in the eighth class. He was from a really poor family. He way of social interaction depicted that. The questions he asked, the answers he gave; his ignorance and innocence incited lots of laughter.

He belonged to Neelgiri house. Back then, Neelgiri house was a refuge for the peons on the night duty. They would sneak into the house to take power naps in the night. Given their familiarity with all, they used to often get involved in random fun talks and pranks.

One of the popular pranks they used to was removing the pants of sixth class kids when they were asleep. The waking them up to laugh on their face.

One night. Past midnight, they were trying the prank on a kid. Unfortunately Kanakappa- who was oblivious to this sort of things- was shocked when he saw it. As he was a later entry guy, he didn’t have much knowledge of how things work around. If it were another kid in his place, things would have been too normal and mundane. But here we are.

The sight of someone gigantic in winter wear trying to remove someone’s pants; seems his childhood nightmares knocked down his sanity. And all he did was screaming as loud as he can. Calling for help from his seniors in a whiny tone, he screamed, “Yappa, ellaru eddelro yaro kidney kadyak bandar”. Meaning, Wake up ye’all, someone is trying to steal kidneys.

It was loud and shocking that the peons were petrified. They feared being reported that to the principal. But then first Kanakappa was consoled by other inmates. Then he was convinced to not to report with the housemasters or any other teachers.

Sure the guy had pulled the peons’ inside out.

Pretense

I suit up a
New kind of conduct.
Make up myself with
New masks daily.

There's an office
Attire and
A different kind of
Smile in home.

Content expressions
Socially and
Bitter ones
Within the walls.

I've been pretending
For so long that,
Even in a mirror,
I don't see myself.

Hid beneath layers of
Unfamiliar skin,
Seems I've become
A visitor in my own mind.

Let's Walk and Talk

One day.
One random, ordinary day.
I'll steal you from yourself,
And surrender me to you.

Then, we'll go on a walk.
A walk that's not contained
By the shackles of time.
A walk that's not pre-destined.

We'll talk from
Our mouths to hearts.
The moon to the stars.
About the myths of the gods
And glow of our scars.

About how butterflies,
Set themselves in flight.
And fantasies in the
Mysterious nights.

I'll sketch some moments,
You fill the colors.
I'll read the clouds and
You sing to the birds.

And that's how my dear,
We will stash our memories.
In a journey that's deep.
In a life that's bitter-sweet.

You're a Redeemer

It was monsoon. Again.
There was rain,
There was hope.
And in front of me,
There was you.

And there was me,
Seeing you,
Awed and confused.
Clenching my frozen heart,
Afraid and consumed.

Seems you were
A redeemer.
Hammered,
My stupefied heart to
Set the bird inside free.

Now,
There are symphonies.
A hauling storm,
Ricocheting rhymes,
And sheer harmony.

Warts, lots of them.

Where,
There should
Have been
Colorful stains of
Our taunts and fights
And
Souvenirs of our
Cute little mistakes-

There,
Now are just warts.
The kind of drab
Sensations when
Something as
Beautiful as you
Walks away with
No promises of
Returning.