Existentialism

No one is important here

No one is unimportant.

The thin line that divides 

The right from the wrong-

No one is categorically

Good or just bad.

Logic seems to sometimes,

Shake hands with irrationality

And everything seems 

Random.

Some made-up patterns

Inturn have blown out of

Proportion too-

Nothing is real here..

There's no illusion too.

The universe might just be 

An atom and the atom seem 

To be high on it's own 

Vastness.

Some look up in the sky

To swim in the saline water

And some get into the sea

To conjure the stars that

Do not matter.

Everyone's their own hero

Here and every other is an 

Unintended villain.

You're less than a nullity in 

The grander scheme of 

Things and at the same time-

Everything.

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?

February

The wail of the withering trees in 

The autumn, can't be left unseen.

And the prison of the thick clothes

On flesh is not so redeeming.

So the spring has set her sails in 

The far reaches of the sea.

Beseeching in front of the autumn

It has decided to summon the greens.

The last leaf in the bareness of

The skeletal almond tree smiles 

A goodbye to the budding new leaf-

As the first human strips open her 

Smothered body to the warm intimacy 

Of the month of February.

Contradictions

For insomniacs, sleep is 

A prayer.

In the kingdom of the blind

Vision is illegal.

A romantic poet in the

Long line of hangmen was

Honored with a noose

Made out of silk.

The goat that escaped

From the butcher shop

Became a mystical lord 

For a while..

So the devil started 

Punishing the bad men.

They were being punished 

With stolen plotlines

From Murakami's novel

For being too good.

Why Fly Beyond?

Why don't you slash
The ceiling of the sky and
Fly to the beyond they ask.

And the Seagull says, as
The sun paints the evening
With its hesitant red-

About the new lovers across
The river that can no longer
Talk with their eyes.

And about the dreamy wanderer
In search of a shelter, lost
On trails of rugged grass.

The messenger of God astray,
In search of feeble prayers
In the dark hearts.

And the old woman worried
About her wool not passing
The eye of the needle.

Then the aged cattle, hungry cats
And the redundant dogs
Suffering the same misery.

The Seagull says-
When I'm the hesitant lover,
I'm the dreamy wanderer.

When I'm the messenger
And even the dark heart.
The cattle, the dog, and the cat.

When I'm the unsung, unable to 

Find my song in my own land.

What are the chances beyond?

The Pride in Question

The Well awaits for
The newly wed bride.

But there is no water on
This summer day-
It has run dry.

The white clouds in
The clear sky fleet restlessly
To bring the nimbus laden.

The sparrows attempt
Songs of Tansen to hail
Upon the rain god.

To protect the village's
Pride, even the village
Goddess is on fast.

The bride steps out of
The threshold with the pot
Gifted by her mother.

The trees in the street
Wish her luck and the thirsty
Cattle wish her luck.

The Well awaited for this
Moment, it wants to wish
The bride, luck. But

On this fateful summer,
The clouds fail to gather
And there's no water.

Stray Stories

He knows someone is watching,
When he goes past that house.

From the backyard of the house
And the darkness of the kitchen.
Threads of her gaze seem to
Hail upon him to heave his heart.

The tonal sounds of her breath,
The rhythmic touch of her foot.
Her unseen face and imagined
Persona stomps on his chest.

So his bicycle breaks sometimes,
His chappals wear. Sometimes
The stone in front of her house
Bleeds his toe and he has to

Take there a moment in pretense
For his sweet pain.

She too wants to rush out to
Directly catch his gaze.
But the neighbouring aunt doesn't
Call out for her in time,

Neither the wanderers come
In time seeking alms.

And the days pass, years roll.
The longing in the eyes never
Transcend down to the hesitant feet.
Never tending to meet-

These stray stories linger
Restlessly in the same street.

Parallel lines

Her lambs sometimes come
Grazing the tender maize
In my field.
My sparrows go to her courtyard
To feed on Jowar grains.

And that's how in stories
We meet.

Her caste is low and mine
Is high- The chasm between
Our streets are parallel lines
That never meet- elders say.

But why the moon on her roof
Sometimes sneaks from
The broken tile to steal a
Glance on my behalf?

And the stars from her dreams
Lead me into a cosmic trance
To make believe in things that
Are not obvious and otherwise?

And when songs late-night,

Carry a tinge of her aroma-

A considerate definition of 

Those parallel lines get to me-

Where they tend to meet at 

Infinity.

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.

To A Friend Who Killed Himself

But he was just here yesterday,
Debating about inflation
Farm bills and rural distress.
He had a beer and danced
Like hell to "Dhan te na"
From Kaminey.

Suddenly he was sad for a bit
Concerning his mother.
And was excited again to
Talk about the new deal
He cracked for a big ass
Client.

And in the morning when
It was said he hanged
Himself to death,
Quoting no reason or clue
As to why he did it.

It was shocking, surprising
And mind-boggling.
Disappointing above all.
How could he go without
Saying anything?

When I see his mother-
Her pale eyes brimming
With tears- writing apologies
To empty cradles thinking
It's her mistake-

I try harder to stick my
Ears into the void he has left,
To listen to the possible echoes
Of his unsaid goodbyes-
All the unasked questions
Go unanswered and

The condolences like caged
Birds flutter to mock my
Emptiness that keeps coming
Without a formal invite.

Innocent Crime

This girl in my class, had
Scribbled in her class-book
"I want to marry Ajay".
The other girls found it
And brought it to my notice.

This was in the second standard.
I was the class monitor.
It was a big issue. I was
Embarrassed and kept crying.

The whole class booed her,
She ran out of the class.
I caught up to her to beat
Her up with my chappals-
Innocent mishaps can be a
Big crime in a rural setting.

The incident didn't end there.
My aunt went to her house
To create a ruckus- my
Family Pride was in danger
Because of a little girl.

How unfairly a girl of hardly
Seven can be treated?
I feel ashamed of it.

Sometimes when she passes
By my house with her kid,
Head down.
I too look away, out of shame.

Maybe in a parallel life,
We exchange awkward smiles.
But in this one, the damage
Is done.

Farmers' Cry

You make us grow, and
Compel to sell us at a price
Decided by you.

You steal our plates and
Self-esteem. Savour it
To fart in English.

And if we hold our noses
In disgust, you hold us
In contempt for talking-

In our dialects, while
Your mouth is an actual
Ass that gives away loads of

Shit.

Skeptic

I'm not a cynic or out of bound 

Positive person in any way.
Romanticist for sure but many a
Times a sense of existentialism
Keeps getting at me to make
Think I'm a nihilist.

I'm that person who doesn't
Want the roses to die.
But not the one who believes
That its beauty can indefinitely last.

I'm a realist that way but I
Also have this urge to glorify
Elegance of that rose and
Believably explain its
Aesthetic impact.

But then again I'm afraid of
The thorns too- so there's always
A sense of restraint from
Any form of attachment.

And sometimes the fear of
Thorns stretches so much that
They take the shape of a ghost
To haunt me at night.

Amused by the freshly arrived
Spring and equally haunted
By the autumn that would
Shower dry leaves-

I tread carefully between
The narrow lanes of two faces
Of a coin. I know it's head
Or tail any given day.

But I overthink about the thin
Rim of the coin that might decide
To beat the two definite odds.
I'm definitely a skeptic that way-

But am I?

I remembered God

You always gotta remember
'Vithoba' he would say.
Whatever you do, wherever you're.
While eating, shitting, traveling.
Specially before you hop
Into a vehicle. You gotta
Remember his name.

My mother's father- he was
The most spiritual and
Humblest man I've ever met.

He spent most of his life,
In a small farmhouse.
The trees, cattle and poultry
Is all he needed he would say.

He taught me how to- climb
A tree, graft a sapling,
Pick cashews and roast them
To the right taste.

Those winter mornings and his
Little sessions on the tricks to
Cut grass and bundle it in small
Parcels so that I could carry it.

The mythological stories he would
Narrate in the evenings.
About the King and four shepherds.
About the demon who would be reborn
From each drop of his slain blood.

Sometimes he would ask some
Mathematical questions from
His time. And if you answered
He would declare you're the smartest
Kid around.

When he passed away last summer
Due to prostrate cancer,
I received the news late,
As I was elsewhere in a
Meditation camp.

While I waited for the bus to
Return home for the obituary.
I hated the fact that I couldn't cry.
The smell of oily fritters, when it
Wafted past my nose-

I remembered those Saturdays
When he peddled to the local bazaar
To sell vegetables and bought
Fritters and other snacks.

I uttered Vithoba's name while
I stepped into the bus.
The atheist, I'd become as I grew-
It was the first time in years
I remembered God.

End of the world

At the stroke of midnight
Empty beer bottles pile up.
The stench of half-eaten biryani,
And the dirty dishes all
Over the floor.

The shearing pain in
The head of the hangover,
You can't handle-
Orphan written
On your forehead as you
Can't remember your
Father's name.

She comes to mind and
The life you couldn't have
And the unborn children
Scream and you roll over
The floor and cry.

At ten past two,
You think you're gay and
Try to kiss your drunken
Friend beside you.
He slaps you first and
Consoles you into a weird
Sort of existentialim.

An hour later something
Gets into him- he convinces 

You that the world is gonna end.

Douglas Adam takes over
Your drunken head and
Takes you both to
The restaurant at
The edge of the galaxy.

You order masala dosa
And cutting chai and write
Each other eulogies in a hurry
On tissue papers.

At the end of the world,

By nine past four, you understand-
All the fireworks were just
You puking heavily without
Understanding why and
The eulogy sounded so good, 

You really wanna die.

Poems are your children

Poems are your children-
The, could have been,
Would have been and
The actual ones.

The ones you would have
Laughed, cried, and silently
Missed all along.

And as they learn to walk
Through you- some fall
And rise.
Some tumble off a rock
And break their head.

Some come out with a
Limp and you gotta hold
Hands to say it's okay.
Some turn out to be
Mute and blind-

To accommodate them
You learn sign language
And Braille.
Some will top the class,
Some, commit a crime.

The one you wouldn't
Have wanted will make you
Laugh and one you revered
Will, maybe drag you down
The street naked.

But is it immoral to have
Them?
Are you even worthy of
Making that judgment?

When you yourself- a poet-
A bastard out of an
Orgy in your head.
Why not let them take-

Birth out of the random sparks
In your head to run across
The lanes of their fancy?

To reach unintended places

To trigger more sparks-

That might melt down, all

The miserable strongholds. 

The Unborn Child

Met this girl.
Rose-toned, rain-scented.
And things happened.
Love, lust, dreams.

Yeah, dreams.
Rushing in a tiny home
By the edge of the city.
Near a creak.

We dreamed together of
Petting a small panda.
We dreamed like we
Petted it in fact.

And one day. Like all those
One-days in parentheses-
That inevitably happen-
We fell apart.

Goodbyes stretched across
Length of my city,
Reaching only the closed
Doors.

It's been years now.
This house could have been
Bigger and baby-proofed.
The little panda sometimes-

Comes in my dreams to
Rest on my right arm.
The next morning my
Hand aches-

Like the sourness of a half
Remembered memory that
Stares like a cat all day from
Below the dining table.

To Those Who Look Down Younger generations

I miss the old days when we
Killed for food, land and
Most importantly, religion
And God.

There was an emotion in
Picking a weapon of choice.
Machete to a hatchet- neat.
Practicing all through the day-

All through childhood,
All through life-
To kill sometimes and
Mostly die.

We raised children to be
Brave, raised them to stab
In the hearts and we raised
Them to proudly die.

We took pride in killing
While we stared them in the eyes.
And we saw in the eyes while
We raped their wives,
Daughters and mothers.

And when the onslaught
Stopped for a while sometimes-
In the evenings, on Fridays
And maybe on the first week of
Rainy days-

We had our moments to
Store food, pile up wood
And fuck to breed fighters.
How will you understand?

Your generation, who got it
All easy.
How will you understand
What is it like to live?

Loving dogs, appreciating art,
Overeating, obesity and
Cardiac arrest at eighty?
Is that even a living?

Real living you know is-
Killing, dying, and starving

To death before the thirties.
Debating over gender fluidity..
And preaching your kids
Political correctness.

How cute. Learn from us.
Build bombs and destroy
Cities. Get a life by
Destroying everything.

Unconjured Ghost

As a kid, I had fallen in a
Pit full of cattle urine in
The backyard when I was three.
If my uncle hadn't pulled
Me out in time, I was gone.

The buffalo that everyone
Cautioned against,
Got me when I was five.
The horn tore my jaw,
Threw me across and
Some I survived that.

When I was seven the tractor
Ran into the electric pole
While I sat in the driver's seat,
With my father.
Got lucky there too.
I survived.

Later as I grew old.
The electric sockets that
Were kind. The near brush-off
A speeding truck while I
First rode the bike.

The waves that took me
On the beach, and threw me
Back.
All those flues, fevers,
Typhoids and smallpox.
Many die on hospital bed
For medical mistakes-

But thanks to all the nurses
And doctors, who were careful
And sane while treating me.

The dent in the fabric of
The space-time that wants
To flush me out,
Keeps forever waiting and-

My ghost stays unconjured.
And maybe a kid my locality
Sleeps alone at night with
No worries and his bed stays

Dry for another morning.

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?

Anarchy

Every season when migrants
Come to my village to cut sugarcane.
The Socio-economic scenario of
My village changes.

The chicken prices go up and
The demand for liquor skyrockets.
Those who know a bit of Hindi
Get a bit of importance and when

Someone from their clan utters
A word of our slang, our faces lit up.

One can see makeshift huts
By the road. Kids in messy clothes,
Unkempt hair- who takes care of
Even smaller kids and a bit older ones
Armed with machetes to cut and
Load cane.

Smoke off the burnt stubble in
The evening and small talk in
The street corners and pan shops
Finding usual, unusual references
To the affairs of our men and
Their women-

The smell of anarchy in the air-
Bit of intermixing with outsiders
Exposing the cracks in our social fabric-
And before the concerns-

Get out of hand. It starts pouring in June.
Our seasonal guests would be gone.
Chicken prices come down as
Monsoons become proper resets.

The turmoil in many homes, over the
Inflated prices and debauchery of men
Settles and the reason for tears in
Many kitchens would be owned by

Just the onions again.

Toys of Deprivation

When something glares up

In the night sky and 

The kid who knows about 

The shooting stars makes 

Wishes.

He wishes for more and

More toys.

And after each bomb,

The children who survive,

Run from one end of the city

To the other in search

Of their wishes from

The previous night-

An unlimited supply of

Toys in the form of

Empty shells- Only to 

Fight over better variants-

The ones with a tinge of red 

Over the soot-loaded 

Blackened scraps- it could 

Have been the blood of

One of their parents.

But it doesn't matter,

I guess.

When the streets are washed 

In blood and hunger goes

Beyond stomach and gets 

To ones head. 

Crimson becomes another 

Shade of red and for 

The children without a home,

It's just paint.

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.

Grind

Why does the dough listen to
The commands of my mother?
Like the clay mixed with water
Dances to the cues of a Potter.

Why do the long woolen threads
Follow the thoughts of my grandmother?
Like those bricks falling in line
To the dictates of a mason.

Like the tones of a nightingale align
With the break of light in the dawn.
Why does the axe follow the hands
Of my father towards the intended

Marks on the wooden log?

And the marbles dance impeccably
On kids' fingers in the street and
Kites fly higher and higher with
Each jerk of the tread.

Why do my words run seamlessly,
Upon your instance like
Hailing of fragrance in the garden
Of longing.

And the dreams run wild and
The rainbows adorn the dull sky
As if you walk past my house
Every midnight.

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.

Sanctioned History

Some histories are hidden
Between the gap of
One thought and the next.
The ones- all the pens
Fail etch on the papers.

The tongues lose them in
The silence of the pauses,
Like it was collateral damage
To the mute citizens.

The stands, taken and
Not taken in the record books-
The words that are bought
And the narratives, sold.

Cuban missile crisis at
One point was important,
Only because Churchill didn't
Get his cigars in time-

My country was half-done
As it didn't have any oil.

And the bullies who write
History gulp down the gaps
Like coffee.
The blood of indentured labor-

On each cup is often,
Overlooked and the bitterness
Is dumbed down with
Extra spoons of sugar-

As the sweetness of words
Can romanticize even
Well-planned genocides.

Zone

When you listen to a good song

And it rings in your head and
The world for the next
Twenty-four-hours rhymes.

The leaves fall in melodies and
Noses on the faces dance rhythmically.

The same goes for a good movie.
It's like walking with a Polaroid
Next day- just the shade and color
And elegance coming your way-

To stay for some time.
You forget for a while of all misery
Of the world and your own
Disposition - blue and pale.

There have been World wars in
The past and there are ongoing
One or two.
But people have still managed-

To cook food and have lunch.
Flowers still bloom and
The butterflies learn to fly
Daily, a couple of times.

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.

May a story get to you

May the good stories
Find you like the incessant
Rain off the coastal towns
Of Orissa.

May the plotlines get to
You like North Eastern winds
And unimaginable names
They give to cyclones.

And the water level as it
Rises, alarming the chances
Of a flood-

Knees deep, above the waist.
Then over the belly and
Chest to reach your mouth.
This story, may it get on

Over your head to down,
Like an unintended climax.
And leave worried in a
Good way-

Like the taste of coffee on 

The tip of your tongue,
For the rest of your life.

Humble Way

Your slender pale hand,
Brushes your hair constantly
To put them behind your
Left ear.

It's snowfall on an already
Snow-clad mountain,
Which falls to make sure
It looks more beautiful.

Did you learn the act from
The snow or did the snow
Learn it from you??
I'm sure the latter is more likely.

But look how humble you're
To deny that.

But when I tell you,
I sometimes look in your
Eyes with a hope of little
Cozy warmth and in return-

You've always given me
Starlight.

Would you deny that too?
In your humble,
To-smile or Not-smile way?

Or you'd like to deprive
The stars some credit?

Odd Chances

That one flower in the garden
That didn't want to bloom.
The rooster that didn't want
To take up the responsibility,
Of waking up the world.

That one matchstick that
Didn't want to burn instantly,
And that man in the Nazi army
Who refused to salute.

One Nerd chose to observe
The Apple Fall and the Butcher
Who fell in love with his sheep
And chose not to sacrifice.

These rebels without a cause
Trying to create a ripple
In the empty expanse of
Nothingness-

There was a big bang to
Create astronomical giants.
And one insignificant,
Pale-Blue-Dot decided to

Give a chance to an
Amoeba first and with
Evolution, what followed
Is the rest.

Redundant Deity

Grandma once told me about
A deity outside the village
Who cured the children
Who uncontrollably cried.

He was offered oily Bajjis        (=fritters)
She says and my father
Was named after him
To stabilize his cry.

The other deities in the village
Have got elaborate temples
And rituals over the years-
To become lords and

The overlords to the wishes
And prayers of the seekers.

But not him.
Roofless, faceless.
No hands or legs or a
Statue that oozes charm.

This deity is just a puddle
Of a rock upon whom
Vermillion is smeared and
The left-out oil is poured-

When women return from
Seeking all other Gods.

Our shapeless deity who is
Just a rock had only one job-
The doctors now give medicine
To the children who cry and

The oily Bajjis are advised
Against a healthy diet.

Nightmare

Sometimes I wake up

Unprepared for my physics

Exam and as the dread

Of failure drips as sweat

Off my brows-

I wake up in relief as 

It was only a dream.

But wait, is it fifteen

Past elven?

I'm already an hour late

To my office.

With the manager's angry

Face in my head.

I run to grab my brush-

Slip off the wet floor-

Get hit in my dizzy head.

The alarm goes then-

The priest calls my name

Aloud at a funeral and

I fail to reach anyone to

Mark my presence.

Soundproof coffins-

What a mess and

This time why the hell

I can't wake up?

Am I really Dead?

You'll never know

She tells him stories that

He doesn't understand but

He nods his head into 

Submission all night.

He wants to know why

An unicorn copulates with

Cats and Why the Ravens 

Switched to the rap instead

Of their usual caw-caw.

He doesn't understand why

An alien army would invade,

By telling jokes that don't

Incite any laugh and about-

The paradox of why some

Plants volunteered for

Domestication to colonize

The species that thinks

It is too smart.

And she goes on and on

About the monkeys enslaved

To forcefully fart and flowers

Moulded into firearms for

Battles they never fight.

The stories never end 

The sun never comes up.

He doesn't complain and

You'll never understand

Why this has to be a poem.

Life must go on

The doctors gave up.
All savings dried up.
Children, where?
At this time he doesn't care.

He peers at what's left
Of his life and the heaps
And heaps of loneliness
Terrifies him--

So this Oldman chokes
His ailing wife to death
And kills himself to escape
The inevitable misery.

Elsewhere, another Oldman
Screams daily thrice
From the kitchen to take
Cooking lessons from

His bedridden wife,
As life must go on.

Owning a Consequence

I keep tossing a rupee coin
Repeatedly to see if
I could change the odds

Heads, tales, heads, heads,
tales, heads, heads, tales
Tales, tales, tales.

This one time it balanced
Itself vertically without giving
Any results and I thought
It was beautiful.

I thought it beat the odds.
Maybe it is one way of
Taking a pause to ponder
Over the overwhelming stuff-

One's going through.

Yes, the end is inevitable.
It's this or that- in the end
Of this journey, there's a
Car crash.

But prior to that, the decision
To stop and weigh a choice
And own a consequence,
That matters.

Your wish to become
Something- head or tail-
It matters. Even if the inevitable
Fate is exactly the opposite.

Act of Randomness

Sometimes you fly so high,
That, it makes sense if you
Fall a little.

Sometimes you live so much
That, it seems normal
Even if you die a little.

And you've been sad,
And miserable all along.
If someone gives you-

An orange that's already
Been peeled. Take a slice
And enjoy a little.

You deserve it.
Even though it doesn't
Look so. You do.

Take it without any judgment
Or hesitation. Without any
Need for self-pity.

It's an act of randomness.
A favor of probability of
Large numbers.

Only so much sadness
Could have been thrown
At you that, eventually-

A little happiness was
Destined to reach you.

Dark Places

Let's spread some sheets
And pillows near the window
And lie there with our legs upon
The windows sills.

Fiddling with our toes and feet
We'll make a list of all the dark
Places we shall make love.

Maybe in the alley in the city
Of Gotham where Batman's
Parents died and between
The pages of Rorschach's journal
From where nothing good
Comes back.

Sometimes amidst the spoils
Of Rome and the dread of
Irish Famine and Black Fridays
Of each nation.

Maybe one elaborate session
In a dystopian Nazi Germany
Where all the bigoted history
Would be stacked.

I'll undress you in the section
Related to the First World War
And grope you against
The Treaty of Versailles that
That didn't materialize.

And in the section where
The tone for the Second World War
Wouldn't have set- we'll let our lust
Chronologically mock the tragic
History that followed.

And elsewhere, when we
Amorously makeout.
Maybe in the caves of ancient
Scandinavia where all
The witches were burnt for their
Vile incantations on the kids.

I'll ask if you can you can
Scare me with your hungry cat.
Maybe you can say Abracadabra
To feed me to its delight.

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.

Defeating the Dark

I close doors and windows
Pull down all the curtains
And make it all dark in my room
In the broad daylight.

Then from around the window
I let sunlight pass through
A small hole and I sit on
The floor to just stare at
The incoming ray of light.

That's one way to reassure
Myself about how sometimes
The faintest of light can defeat
The darkness.

Then in the process,
I understand, how there is
No darkness at all.

The supposed darkness,
Is just the absence of light-
Confines of walls, curtains,
Closed windows and doors.

Do you understand me??
Do you understand what
I'm getting at?
Sometimes, all you've to do-
Not even do.

Just remind yourself to open
That door, the window.
Just remind yourself to
Light a candle or lamp
Or the fluorescent light.

Or maybe you can
Just smile and that's how
You can defeat the dark.

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.

Edge

Every night the fan off
The ceiling shivers out in
Anticipation of my death
By hanging.

Sometimes it asks me if
It could withstand my weight.

And the little bit of empathy
That's left within me tries
To eat less and workout
To shed calories for its sake.

All the while the sleeping pills
Wait for me from within
The drawer for the streak of
My insomnia to get to my head-

Things sink and rise.
They repeat till I reach
An edge. But the sad warrior
In me is not brave.

Seems like he's addicted to
The comforts of his breath.

And the train tracks and
The bus-tyres wait in vain.
While the box cutter on my table
Out of frustration wants to

Voluntarily retire.

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.

Makeover

Throw away your phone,
Go into hiding. Lose all the people
And break all the bridges.
Don't buy anything new to see
If you can live without vanities.

Go on without eating for a day.
Try holding your breath for a minute
And still better, try not to speak
To anyone for a couple of weeks.

Pack your bags, buy a ticket to
The general railway coach or
Better travel ticketless.

Climb a small mountain alone.
Talk to strangers, make friends
Drink, party and leave without
Exchanging any modes of contact.

And remember her too, then let her go.
Torch all those memories.
Rub the leftover ash on your body.
Dig a six feet ditch and bury

Yourself till you don't make yourself
Anew next morning.

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.

The Other-side

With a beer on this beach,
I think about myself sitting in
A room biting the cap of my pen
In search of words.

Or all I can do is sit here thinking
About that beach and the eight
Percent of alcohol between
My teeth, as I do now.

This wishful thinking of being
Somewhere else, watching myself
Hike through a mountain in a
Third-person perspective-

It keeps passing through my
Mind constantly like a simulation,
Wondering about all the un-eaten
Mangoes. Untrodden places-

Unmet people and
The unheard voices.

The urge to chase down all the grace
On one hand, and the urge to
Hunt down all the patience with
Impulsive hate on the other.

The fancy of silence in traffic
And the wisdom of the crowd
When I sulk in solitude.
This vacuum of things happening

Elsewhere when I'm here..
It boggles me.

It boggles me when I think about
The other me who's erasing this poem,
While I'm on the edge of penning
Down the final word here.

Staying Alive

To love life when you don't have

Stomach for it. Everything you 

Build, when it crumbles

Like a sand castle against

The feeble breeze you loved.

And your gut aches, your heart 

Fails and the air that wants to 

Get inside feels so thick in your

Throat that you just want to

Vent it out, than inhale.

And the things you want to do,

All your goals and aspirations,

They lose all the meat there was

To sulk in a corner celebrating

The glitter of accumulating dust.

Even then you gotta rise up 

To the occasion to hold tight

Your old buddy-- This Life.

To calm him down with a peg of

Some old-fashioned whiskey.

Feed him half-fried omlettes,

Boiled peanuts and chicken lollipop 

To say cheers all at once to 

Jolt him back to this tragedy 

Called life.

Let the Evening come

Let the mellow light of
The late afternoon filter through
The gaps in the neem leaves
And its bitter fruits.

Let the dancing shadows form
An intricate modern art on
The freshly painted wall that's
Facing the west and let
The evening come.

Let the chickens go to brood
In the corner of the barn.
Let the bullocks and carts take a
Relieving sigh after their
Treadfull draft.

The moon must pat down
The crying kids to sleep.
The stars, let them thank all
The mothers for the supper
They've cooked.

The cicadas might be wanting a
Silent stage for their daily cry.
And the ghosts- the doused flicker
For their late night dance.

So let the evening come to pat
Down some of us to sleep and
Wake others in their dreams.
Let it come like it always has been.

And sometimes in many ways it
Always hasn't been.

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.

Reading a Good Poem

There's nothing like reading
A good poem-

There's nothing like learning
How the moon slips silently into
Someone's black and white
Childhood photo.

And there's nothing like realising
How the salty breeze of
The sea might smell like
Over-aged Jasmines and how

The boat by the desert can
Carry dreams from the realm
Of sleep to reality with the sailor
Always missing.

There's nothing like appreciating
The funeral in Dickinson's head.
Or the way Linda Pastan listens to
The silence of the eggs that hatch.

And the Bukowski's whores that
Are as romantic as the Faiz's
Pristine damsels or Ghalib's
Misery draped in silk and-

How Billy Collins compares
Forgetfulness to his memory's
Retirement to a little fishing village
Where there are no phones.

And like that when it heaves
The calm oceans of your heart,
To come crashing down on your throat
To finally, break into just a bit of

Moist feeling in the eyes as
Happy tears. You too will declare
That there's nothing like reading
A good poem.

That's Why

When I make you a cup of tea,
What I mean is,
I can only do so much that's
Close to cooking and

What I mean more is I often
Bite my words between my teeth
And say I care for you by
Offering this hot beverage.

And when you showed me that
Dried petal of Rose you had preserved
For over a decade in your diary.
Did you mean, this is kind of-

A secret that I'm sharing only
With you or do you generally
Flaunt that to everyone to indicate
How you're a big keeper?

I don't know. But I think it's
Something. The whole act of
Preserving fragile things,
It's definitely something.

And then maybe one day,
I'll talk to you about the moon.
Not just the moon but about how
He shines across the horizon

Of the blue sea, soaking his
Milky white in the deep blue
To feel the calmness in
The depths.

I'll definitely be not knowing,
Why I would say something like that.
And maybe, if you understand
Why I would have done that-

You may show me a fleeting
Feathery cloud one afternoon
To ask me if it looks like a shape
Of a unicorn.

And if I say, "maybe yes".
Then say that's why.

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.

Mind of Seasons

As the April sun shines over
The ripe and unripe mangoes.
As the dusty roads lead to
Fruit-bearing shrubs and
Fully grown Jamun trees and
Those sweet blackberries-

You should have the mind of
The summer to understand
Those parrots who leave
The cashew-apple half-eaten.

And as it rains and the July sun
Shies away to the gloom
Put up by the nimbus clouds.
The kamikaze go into hiding
To bring out the paper boats-

One should have a mind of
The monsoons to understand,
The shudder of the lush greens,
That's transferred to the dogs
And the drenched vultures.

The December sun who withdraws
Himself as the fog surrounds
Everyone's better sense.
The kids that refuse to wake up
Early in the morning and
The dew drops on the Chickpea leaves
That call for the harvest-

One should have mind of winters
To understand those sheeps
That lent you their wool to warm
You in a shawl your uncle brought
When he went to hitchhike in
The terrains of the Himalayas.

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.

Letting Ironies Meet

I try to sit on my chair,
With a book and pen with
Its lid open- To try to
Corner my thoughts with
A hope to make something
Out of them.. like it really
Matters.

It does though.
It doesn't too.

The writer's face I assume,
Wears away and comes
Back constantly while
I try to ponder over
The existentialism of this
Entire exercise.

Not the wind and the rain
Not the rivers and
The mountains, Please!
The way I've exploited them.
They should slap on me a
Harassment case.

I hear the vehicles honk
In the distance.
The boys chatter as they
Play cricket.
The neighborhood lady
Washing clothes- clink
Of her bangles.

I try to bring the barking
Street dogs.
But they've made many
Guest appearances and
Comeo roles.
On any random day they
Might just decide to give me
A taste of rabies for
Using them without any
Rewards.

Then I keep drawing shapes
On the paper without any
Fresh ideas.
A tree in the corner appears,
A circle, square and
A vague geometric house.

I think about you and I
Like I haven't written enough.
A long list of my family members
Cross my mind too, without
Triggering anything.

After everything was compared
To everything else.
After the leaves became feathers,
The flowers became damsels.
All the old men became
The village banyan tree and after
You became a chill goddess.

The rusty engines, the dry grass,
Dilapidated huts and
Looted ancient temples.
Ahh! It's tiresome!!
To not find correlations.

And then I thought I would
List all the things I'm tired of
Writing and ended up
Writing about the same-

Compelling the obvious ironies
Face each other before 

I let them die without any 

Glory.

The Science of it

This distance- the kilometers of it.
Nautical miles of it.
Light traveling for years of it.
The longing- the depths of it.
Width of it and ever sinking,
Irrational, Pie value of it.

And of this bleeding heart,
The lub-dub of it,
The crimson ooze of it.
The effing ache of it and
The indifference to the ebbs
In ECG of it.

And this desire burns like a
Blue flame.
The absent black soot of it.
The fusion reaction that
Got out of hand and
The hydrogen breeding
More and more helium of it.

The love, the idealism,
The unfelt grit of it.
The unconditionality of it.
The abrasive nature of it.
The urge to chase it down
In all enclosed compartments-

Its presence and absence 

At the same time.

The enigma of it.
The Schrodinger cat of it and
Heisenberg's uncertainty of it.

And the rush of my lust
That spreads all over the floor- 

The fluorescence of it.
'Newton and Apple' kind of
Obsession of it.
Time dilation during an
Orgasm and the sheer fucking
Relativity of it.

Death at Will

Can you foresee your death?
One fine morning, can you know
That you'll be gone by
That afternoon?

Does the Buddhist bird on
Your right shoulder whisper
The time and the place of
Your demise and the way
You'll pass away?

It seemed so in my
Grandpa's case.

He woke up that day.
Visited the family barber whom
We still paid in grains.

Had his bath,
Put on a new shirt
Which was very unlike him.
Then applied Vibhooti on
His forehead and visited
All the temples in the village.

On the way back, met his
Usual friends. Sat with them
Under the Banyan tree by
The end of the street.

And when he was back home
By mid-day, we kids were
Dancing off to really loud
Music put up by my father.

For some reason Grandpa
Got irked by it and got into
An argument and a brief fight
With my father-

A classic case of Indian fathers-
"I don't know how to hug you
But this is goodbye, son."

Then he ate lunch served
By my grandma in the kitchen.
I hope he really thanked her
In his own way and pleaded
Sorry for the stuff he put
Her through.

Then he went to the other
House for a nap.
There was urine on the floor
When Grandma went to
Wake him up.

He had passed away
In his sleep.

Quick and painless and
Didn't burden anyone.
People in the locality
Called it a good death.

I too agree if you ask me.
He should've emptied
His bladder before his nap though.
Maybe the Budhhist birds
Wanted the scene to be
A bit messy to avoid suspicion.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Act of Listening

The other day I talked to a
Sparrow who told me all about
Her morning Riyaz and her
Favorite ragas.

Met a Hyena later on who
Flaunted his art of deception,
Tricks of fake tears and
How one should be ruthless.

The ants went on about
The importance of teamwork.
And the bees about their
Productivity hacks.

A wooden log by the street,
Told me all about his uncle still
Standing in a place for over
Five years and counting.

This act of listening to
Everyone seemed interesting,
Till I met a stone lying idle
On the road who started to

Boast about his ancestry at first.
That his forefathers formed
The foundation stones of
Monuments of Hampi.

How his friend is being employed
As a brick in Ayodhya Ram Mandir.
His boast slowly turned into
A sad rant eventually about..

How he's jobless even after
His younger brother got an
Employment offer to pound
Ginger and Garlic in a kitchen.

The problem was too relatable
So I asked him to forward his resume
To my mom by that evening,
And next day he was sitting under

One of the legs of my table to
Level the extra ground clearance.

Divergence

Through the mist and dust and
The dead leaves. A path that
Carved itself out of the forest
Aspiring to become a road-

With re-enforced cement or
An asphalt overlay hoping to
Reach a distance city.
Now it chokes in a tiny room.

And the timber of the pine,
That wanted to be reams and
Reams of paper be part of
One of Murakami's novel

Now sits on some professor's
Desk hosting a research paper
Claiming- how refusal to watch
Black people porn-

Is an obvious measure of
The racism in your veins.

One of those dinosaurs,
Must have dreamt of becoming
A red giant maybe. Then it
Ate dust on that fateful day-

And now it's a fried chicken
On my plate.

One of those primates that
Aspired to be an alpha to
Rip those bullies and to have
New damsels daily as trophies-

Somehow ended up as my
Father and his sperm that
Won must have had hoped
To be a cool brat at least.

But no, he had to be a poet,
Philosopher and a loser.

Bygone

The unlatched door of 

My room that opens to 

A wide terrace.

It sways back and forth 

To the swish of the 

Incoming wind.

The Hinges grate,

It creaks- grr grr..

Like an Old man's

Snore to his disappointed 

Dreams. Who knows,

That no one is ever going to 

Come to meet him.

Blurry eyes- 

Even the light is

Hesitant to enter.

Runny nose- 

The air is afraid of a

Seamless exchange.

The winds come 

Constantly and Dreams 

Knock regularly but 

Both overlook all the usual 

Hints- In search of 

Something that has 

Greater meaning-

Eventually ends up, 

Alone and waiting.

Unlatched and creaking.

Once in a while, had he

Listened carefully..

He would have heard

Her song and latched

The door and

Slept early beside her

Without any nightmares

Or snore.

Overthought Things

There is something about
Giving meaning to things.
Chasing rains to feel the grit
Of water between fingers.

The texture of air on the skin as it
Passes in the evening and
The threads of mellow sunshine
On the face in winter mornings.

Painting those mountains in the flesh
And taking up a long trek to
Hug them for just being there with
Their gigantic elegance.

Imagining the slow flow of
A river as our own thump of blood
And assuring it a safe journey
Back home.

Autumn's assault had just ended
And the spring had regained
Access to the lush greens.
The clouds rose in heaps to

Look themselves up in
The mirroring lake.
Thinking the earth is finally
Ready for a date.

Then it rained as if
The love language of nature
Lay in the inevitability of
Rain.

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.

Dharwad Rain

It was too much heat and
It became cloudy.
Suddenly there was lightning,
Thunderstorm and rain.

It rained over and across
The roads of Jubilee circle
On the metal head of
The Ambedkar statue.

The tin roofs of the Chigri bus,
Got the hammering from
The silver nails too.
Sending rhythmic tones

To whoever sat within it.
It rained on the dusty old scooter
Unveiling its name to the world
"Bajaj Chetak"- like it was a fossil.

The kids in the white shirt and
Blue shorts ran around to collect
The ice cubes of the hail.
It rained on their tiny heads.

Over the tripling college boys
On their Splendor Plus and
Over the empty Kingfisher bottles
To mock the chill out of the beer.

It rained on hospital signboards
That said 'do not honk.'
It rained over a punctured tyre
That just wanted to burn in fire.

Over the pigeons and the crows
And the maize feed that they
Wanted to eat- that's how
Their hot meal turned cold.

It wanted to rain on Elliot's
Wastelands too and Silvia's
Pig tree before it could even
Branch out more.

Even on Bukowski's whores
And wine and on that
Frost's road not taken and its
Fresh grass; till one could-

No longer tell the difference
From the other one.
But it strictly wanted to be local,
For some reason.

So it let Karim Mulla's grave
Drench and Chakkadi Balya's
Thirst quench.
By the smell of Mirchi Girmit
It let the crowd elate.

And one of those tractors
To pass playing a Janapad song
On full blast- It let itself
Loosen up a bit to have-

A little fun for a while and
Dance in Tappanguchi style.



Mirchi Girmit- local food prepared from puffed rice
Janapad song- Songs in local slang often played in tractors

Tappanguchi- local free style dance

What If

In another life, we would have
Ended up in the same house
Maybe the green or the blue
House of our school hostel and

Fought over, the toilet duties,
To carry over the sourness
Throughout the school life.
Or maybe you would have been-

That friend of mine back then,
Who gifted me a Reynolds-Gel-Pen
Every Bday and had lunch with
My family on parents' day.

Who eventually victimized
Himself, blaming the system
And lost in touch after school.

Even worse, the part-time
Bully of our class would have
Shown interest in philosophy
And poetry and like a nerd

Explained those juniors about
The stars and the night sky.
Eventually listening to too
Many songs to lend his playlist-

To hitch me on conversations
We now go and go on and on.

I would have completed the
Spiti circuit on his bike you know
And you from your own
Bystander life would have-

Laughed at us for being so gay.
As you wouldn't have had
Anything other than that to
Get at us in one of those

Trolling sessions of our
School reunions.

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.

Carrom Coin

By the bench in the park,

Found a carrom coin this morning.

My math teacher would've liked 

To know the probability of getting-

A white coin, only a black coin 

Or the one other than the pink coin-

The simplest answer to that 

Question is 'one' and the coin

I found was the Queen.

Somewhere on a tattered board 

Her black soldiers and the white ones

Might have been waiting for her tirelessly

And the striker might have already-

Slipped into existential questions

Of why or for whose sake it must 

Strike purposelessly.

And the four jobless blokes 

Sitting around the board

For an afternoon session,

With talc powder in hand-

Might be considering the option of

Elevating ranks of one the

White soldiers temporarily

By painting it in pink or otherwise.

The Queen meanwhile sits here

On my table offering me 

A chance of revenge over all those,

Childhood bullies-

Who never let me win 

In a fair game.

Raqeeb- The rival in love

He plays the flute
Standing on an old
Telephone booth to ask
The wind often, if 'she' can
Hear him play.

He plays it like a smooth
Refuge of warmth on a
Winter night. He plays it like
Slide of a water drop
From molten ice.

He plays it like capitalism
Wanna stop running and
Catch up some
Music lessons ASAP.
And he plays it like-

The dustbin nearby
May wanna fall asleep.
But the plastic wrappers
Inside don't let it
As they wanna dance.

The dogs have heard it.
The birds have admired.
The dragonflies have given up
Their flight to listen him 

Play all night.

Not bothering with anyone's pleas.
The wind swirls deaf.
When asked 'why' it says-

It has been in love with the same
Moonlight-soaked beauty-
The boy wants to send 

His song to.

And the tune is so good,
Out of jealousy-
To her, even out of mistake
It can't convey the song.

Prank

The sunset on the horizon
Turned out to be a LED bulb
With faulty wiring that mislead
Many insects into hiding.

What looked like hunger was
Just an erection in the pants that
Just wanted to sexualize everything
With the hump in a shiny attire.

The crude romance was just
A free hitchhike,
She left the pillion when her
Luxury bus arrived.

What looked like a dog was
Just a boy who had changed
His pronouns and now he has
Learnt to bark.

The blue mountain in the distance
Was just Diwali smoke flirting with
The fog- just like that friendship
That felt like a prank -

Done with two rupees
Plastic lizard.

What seemed like a dream
Was a stink of reality-
The water park experience of
Me wetting the bed by morn.

Removing Tropes

This time, the hero will not
Come running and jumping,
Thrashing a couple of
Local gundas-

There is no entry scene
Planned.

The heroine will be clothed
Normally. She doesn't have to
Reveal her mammary glands or
Adipose of her thighs.

There is no item number or
Rape scenes thrust.
No need of any social commentary
Or political philosophy.

No one is gonna come to diffuse
The bomb in the temple.
The lovers in the climax will not
Be able to marry this time.

The fallen hero will not wake up
To the wail of his lover.
Things somewhere got real
Real and he had to die.

The boy who read in the streetlight
Couldn't make it big and the
Patriotic don couldn't defeat
The evil Mafia lord-

All the stories dried up by
The time the tropes were removed.

And Basanti danced out of her
Free will to marry Gabbar and
The hand pumps stood in protest
For unnecessarily portraying,

Them as weapons.

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.

Novembers

Novembers are the monsoons
Passing the baton to the winters-
One leg on the boat that sailed
And the other that's poised to leave.

Novembers are the sleeveless T-shirts
Inviting the cozy sweaters for
Their brief retirement party,
While you keep tuning-

The right speed of the fan, cursing
The technology for not figuring
Out a regulator with a speed notch
Between two and three.

Autumn would have taken out
The horses out of stables by now,
To hitch a ride to conquer
The lush greens of the trees.

Meanwhile,
The Novembers become
The oceans that refuse to lend
Any water to the winds.

And the angry air blows dry-
To beat the land with its cold.

The Novembers finally turn as
The agents caution.
One has to store the fire-wood,
And the requirements of food.

Some may start carving for
That one lost person and
Some might start getting closer
To the one beside them-

As the Novembers turn out to be
The agents of longing too.

Quick Gun Murugan

Two cats stand face to face,

In the empty passage,
Of the neighboring alley.

Roaring at each other from
A distance.
They stare at each other
In fury.

It's a western in slow-mo
In my head by now-

Both, ready to pull out
Their revolvers from the
Holsters to take out
The other first.

Somehow it feels like
The other one would be
Quick and Clint Eastwood
Would die in this duel.

Broom-Sweep-Punch

Ten-Thousand hours is
What it takes they say.
Beethoven did it to perfect
His symphonies.

So did Picasso. Maybe,
Even Modiji.

I can't help but to think
About my grandmother.
Who lived for over a
Hundred years.

Her meticulous morning
Routine of sweeping
The front and the backyard.
And then the cattle-shed and
Disposing the cow-dung.

Her daily grind with the broom,
Would have crossed her
Ten thousand mark,
Long ago I suppose.

If her broom were a guitar,
She would have been
A bassist maybe with
The Pink Floyd.

If it were a paintbrush,
Maybe the Italian Renaissance
Would have spread around
My village.

And Thank God it wasn't
A potential weapon.
She would have fought
Alongside her mother to
Defeat the British Raj.

And sometimes when I
Overthink about the whole
Scenario, I can't help
But imagine that terrified
Face of Bruce Lee-

When he first heard about this
Bent-Torso-Straight-Leg
Broom-Sweep-Punch.
The one 'Ten-Thousand times'
Practiced move-
He wanted to be afraid of.

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.

Uncertain

From somewhere, the age-old
Conquest of rust will get to
The brakes of your bike and you'll
Forget to have it serviced
Before the next trip.

A bullet with your name written
All over it will somehow
Remain in the magazine,
Despite hours of practice
In the firing range.

Against your good fortune,
Another virus from a
Chinese lab is gonna find you
In a pin-pointed stroke of
Fate.

And despite all the precautions
And planning and those hefty
Insurance claims- A bee will sting
Your ear on the wrong side of
The state highway.

And that's it my friend,
Thirty years of your life will
Flash before your eyes in just
Three seconds and all those
Beers you're supposed drink-

Will be in luck, if they find
A refuge in the belly of your
Best friend- who might toast
Every year in loving memory of
The time you guys spent.

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.

Remembering You

Tomorrow when I sit at
A South Goa beach after
Taking the Karwar route
On my not-so-good bike.

I'll weave together strands
Of my longing into a shack,
To sit and relax around to
Write about-

The texture of the sand,
Angular gravel, soft seashells.
Birds other than seagulls
That haven't yet gotten-

Bored of sad lovers.
And about how the wind
Smells of salt though
It doesn't.

And about how I whispered
Your name in a couple of
Empty bottles that echoed
Your address and-

If a letter- written on a
Banana leaf-ever finds you,
With the stink of cheap beer,
Know that,

Even in the bustle of
Vanities offered by this city,
I managed to scratch a
Couple of old wounds-

To remember you.

Itch

This urge to scratch the
Itch on the other hand,
Bite nails and chew the
Hardened skin around them.

The itch on the thighs, and
Around the groin and the ass.
The itch around my head,
Because of too much hair
And entangled thoughts.

The urge to scribble on the
Margins of books because
Of the itch in my mind
That just keeps saying
"Why not?"

The itch of lust hiding in
The pretense of love and
The want for love that
Wants to scratch but never
Gets a chance.

And the itch of the
Stomach of course that's
Not confined to the usual
Roti-Kapada-Makan.

And then the itch of bigger
Ambitions that have
Tentacles spread across
Far-fetched horizons
To have it all-

Like the one to dig tunnels
In search of a meaningless
Light and when found at
The end of it.

Sit there waiting for the
Moths to test the validity
Of it, as there's also a itch
That thinks it might just

Be a mirage.

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.

Union

The broken lover, 

Out of grief sits scribbling,

Her name on the beach-

Persistent, till the sea

Remembers who she is.

In the middle of the ocean,

From around, another

Part of the world.

Another lonely name,

Finds this one and now

There's a new affair.

The onslaught of the

Saline water that often

Subsumes things-

Has made an exception

To write a new story

And named it as rain.

Watchful Gaze

Your image flashes in my mind,
Constantly like fluttering of eyelids.
It's almost, as if, you're
Watching me from within myself.

And under your watchful gaze
I have become conscious of my
Day-to-day things.

So when I wake up and stand
In front of the mirror to brush.
I don't spit it all over the sink.
It's as if you're standing beside to

Guide me through the process,
Like a high school math teacher.

My hands reach my back properly,
While taking a bath.
Rinse my hair thoroughly while
Applying coconut oil.

The maroon shirt goes tucked in
The Light-grey trouser with a
Tie that's purple or blue. And then
The bike with a helmet always to
Protect my not-so-important head.

Sometimes,
A wishful urge comes along,
To do things differently, messy-
Like I always do--Unkempt hair.
Dirty socks. Unwashed dishes-

Deliberately, I spill some milk on
The breakfast table,
Thinking, that you would come
To tease me into a correction.

But it almost, always, never happens.
Your murky angry face,
Never takes things in hand and like
Always the next day resumes again-

As it should-
With the jeans going along
The right shoes and eating rice in
The lunch with a spoon.

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.

Dogma

Belly crushed, insides
Exposed- you lie there.
Wriggling and grappling
For life.

Just beside you, I stand
Cursing the driver for
Not even bothering to
Look at his mishap.

Despite all the turmoil-
Out of sheer repulsion.
I fail to reach you and
Choose to pass by.

Maybe my gut would have
Churned a bit more,
If you were a cute little dog.
Or a sparrow or a pigeon
With a broken leg.

But who cares for a
Piglet right?

The empathy in my heart,
Seems, it can only be bought
With gold-plated tears.
And it goes unsold today-

Making even your blood
Worthless- over the dogma
That comes with you
In my surroundings.