POV

I like the Third-Person-POV 

Of mine who goes on 

Scribbling word after word.

Sentence after sentence.

Stopping for a while to

Search for words and then 

Go on in rhythms with a 

Set flow.

This simulation that runs

In my head, flowing around 

Like a river in search of 

New oceans.

I feel the tones, the pauses.

Breaths taken when I 

Run out of words and swish of 

Wind when a good sentence 

Strikes my head.

It's an unstructured play of

Aligning lines, before something 

Translates on the paper.

While I stood looking at

The burst-crackers in the street

From the previous night's

Celebrations-

I toppled over an idea and 

The subsequent stream of 

Thoughts landed me in this 

Poem.

Manther

The day I died,

My soul came out holding 

Its nose, like it could

Not bear the stench.

It didn't look back or wait. 

It escaped from gap between 

Unbecoming of my name

Into a corpse.

What will this bird out

Of the cage would do?

For I haven't taught her

Any songs too.

I already see a limp

In its wings,

Can sour to the heights 

It wishes to reach?

But then it enters another 

Body before I could 

Empathize with it a bit.

Souls have no loyalty, ain't it?

Flaunting its body-count 

Like it's a Manther,

It goes on lusting for better 

Cages and skeletons, 

To collect bounty in terms 

Of carnal misery of the body 

That comes with every 

Mortal's mortality.

Otherwise

Woke up, and went on a walk.

Made myself a cup of coffee

And had a good frothy bath..

It could have been otherwise.

Watched a movie later on,

Wrote something for myself.

A good lunch. A deep nap

After a long time..

It could have been otherwise.

Plugged in the earphones,

Hopped on an old playlist and 

Remembered an old friend while 

I sulked alone in the evening.

Called him this time.

It could have been otherwise.

He joined me later on.

A bike ride to the distant bar.

A beer, kababs and biryani.

Talked for long.

It could have been otherwise,

But I called him, and we had a beer.

Can live in relief for another 

Month at least and maybe 

Many more.

Good Night

Bridges from where to

Where and why?

Why they're always in

The proces of building or

Burning in the stories?

Today, in mine, everything 

Lies flat on the floor.

Reasons I don't know.

I mean, on this winter night 

Why the trudge?

Why build something 

Out of sweat? Or burn

Something to cough out

The same?

It's lazy, hopeless and

Mindless freak this night.

Lies flat with wanting 

No help or support.

Loses control and withers 

Itself to sleep.

This story is sleep deprived.

And I badly need it.

Good night.

Sense of Humour

At first, parents will come to

Snatch your sense of humor.

Then those teachers and 

Well-wishers.

Advisors and other elders, 

Who can't handle your wit.

Sometimes the siblings and

Some friends. Your dog,

The family deity, who can't 

Take a little offense.

They can't handle the ridicule. 

A bit of sarcasm seems

Like a mirror, and they don't 

Want to be exposed.

Then there's the government.

The most afraid and intolerant.

Anything that reeks of life,

They want to tax it.

Sales tax on whoever laughs

And slabs of GST on whoever

Makes them laugh.

They love you on crutches,

Don't they? A compliant mind 

That doesn't question.

A "Yes sir' without any arguments

And you're a patriot.

If only all the leaders were 

Comedians, and 

In the next world wars, 

Jokes would explode..

Not that they aren't jokers now

Or not exploding stuff.

It's just, no one is laughing. 

As the joke is on us. 

Orchards

Somewhere, there's a memory 

Of waiting with Mom for a bus

To her maiden home.

Somewhere there's a memory 

Of Dad carrying me on his 

Shoulders to buy me chocolates.

Grandpa, showing me how 

The buffaloes are milked.

Grandma, giving me 25 paise

After I help her with chores.

A memory of running around 

With cousins and bruising 

My knees. Mama gifting me my 

First pair of Pargon-chappals

As I tagged along while 

Harvesting paddy.

The brief shudder of calm in

My veins every time I remember 

My childhood. Feels like,

I still sneak into those orchards

To steal mangoes. So delicious

That I'm forever thankful.

The fleeting moments

Do we ever become worthy
Of something? Love, kiss, a hug?
A decent talk maybe, to be a

Day-to-day person?

Why does the mountain of
Expectations weigh down on
The fleeting moments?

Get a job or earn something
Before you could deserve
Something-

The wait, till you turn 25,
The wait, till your dog goes,
Through second pregnancy-

It seems I waited too long for
Things to happen to me.
Took me long to realize, how..

Life happens between fleeting
Moments. The messy palette
Before it manifests into art.

The pleasure of chaos in mind
Before something thoughtful
Arrives.

The blue, pink, red, yellow that
Passed in front of you while you
Waited for that perfect girl to

Land in your life.
The undermined beauty of
Monochromes before

The rainbow did or did not
Happen and the feel of the
Colors that forever remains.

True Love

I don't believe in true love.
The unconditional kind.

l like the idea of it though.
I like the fact that some
People believe in it.
I like the fact that my friend
Still believes it.

One person's unhinged
Passion for the other.
An almost obsession
That wants to cross
Boundaries.

Longing for each other
Like it's a rage.
A radical communist if
Love was an ideology
Leaning left.

Like belief in God.
Come what may- logic
Science or rationality-
Or other religions that
Denies one's belief-
Thy lord is supreme-

No one stands a chance.
You can't negotiate
Those terms or plant
A doubt in the mind of this
Plain blindness.

I hate, I can't do that.
I hate, I can't believe in God.
I hate, I can't truly fall in love
With you and worship you
Like you're my Almighty Lord.

I hate, the fact that I can't
Truly surrender to you
When you say- "Lemme
Love you" and when you ask
"Who's your mommy?"
I hate I can't truly be a
Child.

Lost Decade

Tell me forgotten friend,

About the decade we lost.

Tell me about the weather 

Of far-off places and of

The same place when 

We were far off.

Do other people sound 

The same? Does the movie 

Experience with others

Get better?

Did you buy a PlayStation 

To play with your roommate?

Or started together a

Business?

The beer didn't taste 

The same for me. 

The pillion of my bike 

Remained forever empty.

I lost interest in the video 

Games. Even my girl left

Me as she couldn't fill up

The void you left.

A pitcher forever waits for 

You in beside a half-plate 

Biryani, in every bar I visit.

Tell me if you miss me

The same. Tell me if there 

Are chances to amend.

Tell me if there's hope.

Tell me if we can meet again-

To bike around in the mountains.

Eat, laugh and bitch about 

People in different places,

Like we always did. 

Missed Diwali

How was it this time?
I asked my brother after
Missing Diwali for years.
He said-

The cousin with the funny
Nose had come and we
Made hot-air-balloons like
We did as children.

Grandma took charge of
Of the kitchen to prepare
Her signature once-in-a-year
Vermicelli dish.

Mom planned an elaborate
Rangoli- I helped her fill
The colours - she teared up
While she put your name
In the bottom.

Dad of course was
Grumpy all morning.

He did test everyone's
Patience yesterday evening
While he made all of us
Clean the house.

By 11 am today when
Everyone gathered to offer
Flowers to your photo.
Dad broke down for the
First time in three years.

I haven't cried it out yet.
And I've stopped bursting
Crackers. And just like
The future ones would-

This Diwali was grand too
In your memory.

Playfulness

At first, you battle with your mind-
Trying to enslave your thoughts in
In tough words.

Forcefully attempting to knit meaning
In metaphors. Hoping they would
Grow wings one day.

But can clipped wings fly?
The caged birds sing?
The arrogant poet you're initially-

Not knowing the art of letting go-
The edgy arrogance smoothens out
To give way to a playfulness eventually.

You surrender to your mind and
Let yourself flow in uncharted
Territories.

The erstwhile Lake becomes a river
And you give it a chance to join
The ocean. Standing on the sidelines-

Slow, observant. Ready to borrow a
Glass of water from the eternal flow to
Make it into a verse.

Unsure always to declare it as a
Full-fledged poem-- Not being sure
Opens up innumerable possibilities.

Now you can be the Beginning, the End,
Or the middle. Or All of it, None of it or
Simply the in-between.

Quietude

Somewhere there's this quietude.
Waiting on a hill, looking at a nullity-

Sitting by a lake, waiting for
The ripples to come, touch your feet-

Imagining yourself in a dark room,
Eyes closed. Searching for something.
Searching for what?

This quietude you can't listen to.
Quietude you can't feel or touch-

Trying to translate it on sheets and
Sheets of paper. Not satisfied with a
A pen or colour or your intent.

Ending up relating yourself more to
The blankness of the paper than any
Of the stories written-

Each paper, screaming, louder than ever.
And you, growing quieter every time
You scribble.

With each appeal and attempt-
Between the noise and silence.
The void, getting bigger and bigger-

The artist in you, smaller and smaller.
Till one day when you disappear from
Your art. Consumed by the void.

Only then it's complete.
Only then peace. Only then a poem.

Skilled Labour

They don't make children's 

Movies these days.

Seems everyone feels a bit 

Overly adult each year.

All the toys and dolls be

Reduced to a nullity soon.

All the cry and naivety be

Banned because who wants 

To be child anymore?

There would be ultrasonic 

Classes after conception.

The foetus should learn 

Mandarin by the second 

Trimester.

The world's running out of 

Skilled labour- one has to 

Process Raw-Data if they

Want decent exit from their 

Mom's vagina.

Ohh! We need to beat machines 

And AI modules you see- 

Teaching mental agility to 

These LittleShits is the only 

Way to save humanity.

Our wars are spiritual,

We're our own enemies.

Need to give up vanities,

Ignore emotions. 

Focus on mental awareness

And cognitive orgasms.

So, here, you wanna be 

Freaks. Take these 

Quantum Nuclear Codes.

Mug them up and don't leak.

If there's an explosion,

Contain it in your head.

And that's a test for your 

Enrollment in first grade.

Two Chairs

At the end of the world,

Against a fiery sky that's

Dying. There are two 

Plastic chairs.

I'm sitting on one,

Waiting for you with a

Cold beer.

At the beginning of 

The world. Against rebirth 

Of a new sky- there are

Same two chairs.

Still waiting for you,

The beer is cold still.

And the epochs pass by-

Ice-ages -advent of warmth-

The civilizations and now-

The same chairs against a

Murky sky and skyscrapers.

But you come this time.

Where were you? Doing what? 

Having flings? Kissing hoes?

Tasting betrayals? 

The beer just turned warm 

And the moment is gone.

Saying BFFs for life-

The way you've come now.

The sheer audacity.

Where are the snacks?

First Date

We had so many things

In common.

Cup cakes over any other.

Bike over cars. 

Ice cream after tea in

The winters and long

Unplanned walks than

Waiting for buses.

We hit it off well, 

That evening.

"Lunch Box" over any

Other movie.

Periwinkles anyday than

Daisies.

We sat for long, 

Discussing how marriages 

Are scams and where all 

One can travel with all 

The saved money.

We decided to meet

Again after a year,

In the same place if

Things work out.

I was almost leaving,

Disappointed.

Then you appeared on

A bike suddenly asking 

How about Ice-cream 

After tea? And I said

To Ma that night,

Bahu mil gayi.

Loose Ends

Hunger after the stomach 

Is full. Thirst after it has 

Been quenched.

Where do clouds go when 

They can't pour down?

Where do the poems that

Couldn't make it to paper 

Find their abode?

These unsent love-letters

In the closet, 

Slowly turning sour.

Where did the unheard 

Songs go? and the 

Un-answered prayers?

And the innocent kids that

Die after the bombing?

Do they ever hail heavy 

On the gates of heaven?

Or they're sent to hell?

For not being capitalised

In a religious reckoning.

Recluse

A Japanese company claims 

It can disappear you. 

Like the woosh of the wind-

Erasing traces from existence.

I'm thinking of erasing me to

Relocate myself elsewhere.

Somewhere low-key, where 

People grow just rice and 

Vegetables for a living and die 

Without fighting the nature when it 

Embraces them with a wound or 

A disease. And maybe when I 

Spend twenty years like that-

Weary enough of the wildness.

Craving for Dosa and Biryani

Getting out of hand-

I would write you a letter,

As I wouldn't have access to

A cell phone or your number. 

It would be scripted in English

But the language would be a

Local tribal slang.

And when you read it out loud,

As per the instructions.

Those fancy-sounding words

Would always mean-

"Fuck you in the ass with a 

Poisoned dart". As you were

The reason I'd to go recluse.

Pessimism

Standing alone at the balcony

With a cigarette. Ashtray on

The railings. Peeking hesitantly 

At the window of the apartment 

Infront of you-

A family having dinner with 

Elders and kids.

You don't even recall what's it

Like to have a partner now.

Been years since your wife passed.

And you're not sure if you deserve 

Love again this late in life.

This woman you've fallen in love,

Twenty years younger.

The long letters you write her

And tone down before sending.

Why can't you meet her despite 

Her insistence?

So used to driving your broken

Car that when the mechanic 

In a distant road offers to fix it-

You let it pass. 

So afraid of another breakdown 

After getting it fixed-

You're weary of hope invading 

The cucoon of your comfort. 

So you carry your ruins on your 

Back to tell yourself that the light 

At the end of the tunnel is another 

Train coming to crash your life.

Pretty neat pessimism to avoid 

Conflict in life.

Hiraeth

At the edge of the world,

The house we built when

We were on good terms.

I stopped there for a while 

When I was passing by tonight.

A dinner table in the hall,

Two tea-cups that aren't 

Empty. Bindi on the mirror,

An arm length wreath of 

Jasmine that wants to find

Solace in your braids.

The small geoid marked 

With places we wished to go.

It still rotates.

The door is forever open

And the doormat still flaunts 

'Welcome' in colours.

The kid of our fancy calls 

Your name and I haven't 

Lied to her yet.

"Mom has gone shopping"

I repeatedly say and 

Believing my words, 

She goes on playing in 

My head.

Subtle Art

When the first man chipped away 

The edges off a rock to roll it.

Another playing with stones, 

Sparked the first fire and ate baked 

Flesh for the first time.

Centuries later, a dude capitalized 

Both phenomenons to boil water 

In a tank to move around on steam.

The refinement of the same,

Passing through various minds of

People with passion-

Suddenly you've innumerable options.

Wheel-wise, size-wise, engine-wise, 

Fuel-wise- lots of categories.

And when you complain now about 

How you're anxious to choose from 

The myriad of choices you've-

I say, be thankful sis.

One asteroid is all it takes to bite

The dust- to wander naked in Eden-

Cold. Hungry. Ready to get 

Cursed again by God, for eating 

That forbidden Apple- and a

Whole replay of this simulation.

To say all of that to invoke a sense

Of gratitude in you- Mansplaining is 

A subtle art you see.

Gets better if one knows how to 

Flaunt when the other is 

Under-confident and meek.

Pickles

I had to accompany you that day.

You forced me in fact, saying

You want me to accompany you

Till your hostel in another city.

As we sat giggling and talking,

Our faces so close- I could feel

Your breath and the brush of 

Your hair on my cheeks.

It could have been a kiss.

But I wasn't ready for something 

Like that - consciously maintaining 

A distance, freeing my hand

From your clutch-

Did I have an aversion to touch?

Beats me. I've let go of too many 

Could have been and would 

Have been moments like that.

These incomplete moments,

That swell in my veins now-

Ready to blast. But for what?

Fresh flowers as homage to

Graveyards in my heart?

And what should I do with

This fragrance of regrets?

Preserve it in another bottle 

Of brine? - Pickles to taste again,

In the future when I 

Reminisce about these lost 

Moments because I overthought 

About the consequences?

Translation

Whenever she wanted to say

Something uncomfortable or 

Vulnerable. She would text in 

A random language.

Her way of hiding her trauma.

Her way of not throwing it 

Directly at me. 

Sometimes she would text in

Turkish or Spanish.

I had to translate it back to 

English to decipher what she

Meant to say.

Sometimes I would reply in 

Russian or French to hide 

My helplessness to console.

The loss in translation 

Didn't matter. Even if I could 

Understand half of what she 

Wanted to say. It was okay.

Even if she had put things in

Our slang, I wouldn't have 

Understood her pain the way 

She wanted me to be.

Maybe it was the effort to 

Understand her mattered,

More than her pain itself.

Little effort to sneak in another 

Language to understand 

Each other had some kind of 

Intimacy to it.

Maybe our own language 

Isn't enough sometimes.

Like home isn't enough and 

You gotta climb a 

Distant mountain to it sigh off

And understand and convey- 

How the trudge is mutual

And you totally empathize.

Sab Changasi

Ours is a sleepy town,
The worst that can happen
Is a bad cup of tea and
The best is a good cup
With a plate of Girmit.

We don't have big malls,
Traffic jams, skyscrapers,
Or critical infrastructure.
Streets are not tangled,
You can hardly get lost.

Wokeness of English
Hasn't seeped in our language.
So cripples are not
Special abled here yet.
They do the same things
Ordinary people are supposed
To do.

Feminism hasn't invaded
The households and women
Are busy making homes
Than forming opinions
That are politically correct.

Kids don't hesitate to stone
Mating dogs disgusted by
Their interlocked genitals.
And the men walk in their
Banyans, with their proud
Fat bellies-

The only duty they got is
To transfer their chauvinism
To the next- GenZ and counting-
Everything is all right till the
Round rotis keep coming.

Beyond Reason

Let us hide in the gaps

Of languages. Where our 

Emotions are untouched and 

Undefined.

Life beyond four letters,

Livelihood beyond 

The day-to-day stutter.

If there's a word for a

Yearning for a non-existent 

Home, let's skip it.

And for the smell of rain

After touching scorched soil.

Let's forget it.

There must be some language 

Of the world where,

They might not have confined 

The meaning of love yet.

A longing that isn't limited 

To mortal sensibilities.

Let's outgrow what we can

Speak and read and touch.

Let's outgrow what we can

Feel and express. 

They say, beyond the shackles 

Of logic and reasoning,

There's a marijuana field. 

I'll roll for you, you roll for me. 

We'll smoke up the earth to 

Call it an apocalypse.

Ripping it

That morning I turned myself 

Into a butcher, to chop flesh

Of my memories as pieces of

Songs I've been in love.

The bloody hassle down this

Nostalgic path to find you 

The best songs- to curate you 

The best playlist 

It's hard not to expect you

Yap about the music and

Scream about it from a 

High tower of your city.

But I gotta keep my expectations 

Low you know? I always get 

Ahead of myself in these things.

Only to sit and wait for others to 

Catch up. Then regret and 

Curse myself in frustration.

For hopping on such a journey 

To begin with.

This euphoria fails to subside,

But when it does my eyes hurt 

And my head blurs as if I'm in a 

Caffeine withdrawal.

This strange attitude of mine 

To feel deeply. Outlive four-five

Oceans despite knowing,

A mere drop is our reality..

It comes with a cost. 

Goes on leaving its marks.

I attach myself deeply and

That's why, feel betrayed easily.

Participation Time

You're an incarnation of 

A star that died.

Maybe I'm a misfired bullet 

In an astronomical war.

Perhaps everyone here

Is cosmic-apocalyptic-dust 

Forced with life.

Trees culture us to feed 

Themselves carbon dioxide.

They're CCTVs deployed to 

Monitor us. Mitochondria-

Connected to a giant dictator's 

Mind. Earth sure is a lab.

You and me are 

Test subjects, for an evaluation 

Of side effects of love 

That's wild. 

Come on love..

It's participation time.

I want to

I want to let out a
Warm sigh on your neck
While I play with
The strands of your hair.

I want to stay buried in
Your touch while you
Complain about your day
At work.

I want to recite to you a
Romantic poem written
By a rogue poet to

Tell you how I wish to write
Something that great
But unable to pen down.

All I want is, to trace
Back every romantic
Thought of mine to your
Presence. Or absence.

Might sound like a bogus
Fantasy of a hopeless poet.
Come to me once, 

I'll show you-

How the warmth of

My thoughts, 

Down your creases,

Can make you melt.

Shower of my passion 

To invoke a desire 

Can make you wet.

Why the Midlife Crisis?

The first time your friends
Mock the bulge of your belly,
You say you ate more.

The next time you find out
A couple of extra KGs,
You land the blame on
The high density of bones.

The denial goes on for a
Few years while the shirt
Size changes and the waist
Goes beyond thirty-two.

Acceptance knocks on
Your door after a while and
You open it- you gotta, after

Your hand made countless
Slides down the curves of
This parabolic paunch that's
In making.

And when you sit down now-
The folds of this adipose,
Tightening around the waist
To make its presence felt-

You laugh it off, imagining
This fat insulation coming
In the line of sight while peeing
And you can no longer

See your weenie.
That's a legit catharsis of
Every man in his 40s and
You ask why the midlife crisis?

Choices

This is the second time

You've come in my dream now.

We met at your college this time.

Which was located in a place

I remember from the mountains.

You were attending your 

Classes. Surprisingly I was 

Attending too. My homie was 

Roaming around in his own.

We stole glances now and then.

For some reason, it wasn't 

Awkward at all.

In fact, we mysteriously sat

Together, had lunch and

Read a couple of poems.

He asked me a couple of times,

'Who's she?' I couldn't tell.

Then, we three roamed around.

Talked to one of your friends 

Out of suicide.

Then we saw a rain-soaked 

Path and followed it.

We three were climbing a 

Mountain in a short while.

But when I reached the top,

Found myself alone.

Did I lose you two? 

But why? Surely,

Not because I was fast.

Do my choices have to be

This exclusive? One of you 

Against the other?

Finally to end within myself?

Do I have to be forever 

Alone?

Entanglement

The train of my thoughts 

Has a steam engine.

Loud, shaky, and smokey

When it runs.

It forces me to cough.

The soot overpowers.

I feel asphyxiated.

But it takes me ahead,

So what's there to complain 

About?

Yes, some hop on with 

Guitars and some 

Jasmine-laden coys.

Folklores and comedy 

That I enjoy.

The hot tea and chips

That are offered and

The scenery that passes 

By when I peek outside.

But they all entangle 

Again in a short while.

Lighting, thunder and

Rain-- deluge.

Then there are sparks too-

Fire, steam, and the train

That runs. Travelling is

Messy- bad tripping too.

Ghosts

I invoke thy old ghosts

And the new.

The one that made me wet

My bed and the one

One that hides in the

Caffeine withdrawal now.

I plead, ask, and I demand 

What's their problem? 

They ask me in return, 

What's mine?

Addiction, fear and 

The way you make me 

Feel like shit, I say. 

And surprisingly their 

Answer is the same.

I had to hug them to 

Let them go.

I've decided to dig up my

Other hidden graves too.

To host a party to peace out 

With these hoes.

Biggest treaty since 

World War One.

Reparations greater 

Than Versailles and stuff.

Hope the consequences,

Don't lead to another war.

If I'm spared to myself,

I'll stay withdrawn.

Masters

A few kilograms of rice
And maybe some daal.
A hundred or a five
Hundred note at times.

That's how we sell our
Votes to rot in the same
Hope, again and again.

The fire is costly and
Hunger is cheap.
And the value of life is
An overlookable stat.

Life doesn't improve.
Livelihood too.
Had to take things in hand
To etch fate on our
Foreheads in bold.

But God complains,
Says it's illegible, to
Outsource the task of
Reading to doctors.

Nothing changed though.

Bodies piled up and
The Doctors in turn ruined
Their handwriting in
The process.

Little Things

We kept on arguing over
A perfect flavour.
A perfect flower and fragrance.
A perfect house and
Homeliness.

A flawless you for a
Flawless personality of mine.

Our un-met realities against
The imagined fantasies,
That fizzled out some humble
Possibilities-

Between what you said
And what I heard.
What you expect and
What I could offer-

Truth is a bird that grew
Wings to fly away.

And we sulk here wingless.
Complaining about
A mirage, that could have
Been our big flight.

We can hug and cuddle.
But no. We wait for a
Perfect moment to come
For our initiation.

Small steps for a big leap-

But we're obsessed about
Cleaning our feet first,
Than walking with disregard
For the dirt.

Idealism killed us, our love
Is incomplete that's how.

Life Goes On

Happy or Sad. Married or 

Unmarried. Homeless, 

Broke or abandoned.

Everyone finds something 

To live by in the end.

Everyone finds their niche,

To operate around at least 

Some minimal needs. 

And after a point, it's just

One more day of breathing. 

One more night of surviving,

Before seventy years go by 

Without you realizing.

 

Yes, death is inevitable.

But even life, the very 

Act of living or surviving-

It's stubborn. One can't 

Simply give up, can we?

To live somehow. 

To find love, even if it's 

Just a bit. If not in a mansion. 

By a roadside shelter-

And if not under the 

Streetlight. We manage it

Under the flicker of a lamp 

Discarded by a passerby.

Retakes

''Cut, ready for a retake.''

'Cut, Retake. The make up

Is not right'

"Cut, Retake, in the next 

Scene, tear up a little less."

I don't want an exaggerated 

Sob- says the director.

Is this the 19th take?

Who cares. All you can feel

Is his hands on your bust.

Intended brush on the hips.

This hasn't changed in ages.

Cry a little less? How?

Your every effort to suppress 

Each drop of tear,

Bursts open another fissure 

That wants to laugh.

Laugh and laugh, till all 

The tormenters are deaf?

Molesters turn blind and 

The divide that comes with 

Gender is neutered?  

But you can't laugh. 

Can you?

All the efforts you put up

To cry a little less in the next 

Take, when you've an 

Ocean to pour down.

What's more ironic?

Inability to laugh or 

Cry a little less?

Or the fact that the director 

Says 'scene' and you're

Ready again for 

The next nineteen. 

Or God knows how many!

Wish You Happy Deepawali

I wish you a Happy Deepawali.

I wish all your siblings holidays,

To make it home this time.

I wish those cousins and friends 

In the village, gather in your 

House to fill up the space.

I wish your dad makes you clean 

The house, put up those lights,

Wash the vehicles and fight

With everyone a couple of times.

I wish you play Uno with people

Around and be blessed with 

The luxury of gully cricket in 

The high school playground.

I wish those aunties bother you

With questions of marriage.

Grandparents force you to touch

Their feet, only to give you twenty 

Rupees like they always did.

I wish you a lazy morning 

With the preview of the match 

Playing on the TV. And the smell from 

The kitchen invade your senses 

When you're not hungry.

I wish you realize what's a home.

The smell of Oily Vada, the taste of 

Mix Mithai. The hints of light

That binds you in a fraternity.

I wish you all the mundane things

That come with a home.

I wish you a hungry stomach 

And blessings of a mom's kitchen.

More than the festival, I wish you

The sensibilities of it. I wish you

Completeness of all the emotions.

I wish a very Happy Deepawali and

The warmth of a home.

Validating a Wound

What good is a wound 

That heals quickly?

What good is a wound 

That didn't itch when

It shouldn't?

The helpless fingers 

Compulsively finding 

Excuses to scratch.

Healing seeming like

A petty crime-

What good is a wound 

When it's not inflicted 

By you? What good 

Is a wound that doesn't 

Remind me of you?

The reason to bruise

Myself and the reason 

To heal, when it's you-

What good is your 

Occupancy in my head-

If you don't force me to 

Push boundaries that are

Beyond the visible blue?

What good are the wings 

That don't force me to fly

Close to the sun and 

What good is the flicker in 

The heart that doesn't 

Set the world on fire?

Introspection

In the desert of my

Solitude. I watered my

Silence once.

And it sank deep,

Imploded. Exploded..

It grew eerie though,

I could hear it now

And then. A couple of 

Years passed,

I could see it from 

My third eye.

Eventually, when an

Invisible hand from within,

Started to extend itself,

Into the abyss in seek

Of a connection.

The silence touched

Me for the first time.

And that's how,

I found myself.

Redemption at last.

November Nights

These late November nights, 

And the mild winter that

Caresses with feeble shivers 

On the exposed skin.

My cranked-up bike on a 

Rusty Lonely Road, sailing 

Through the foggy darkness.

Faint chills of a dread- 

Fear of encountering a  

Scary stranger. Hints of a 

Ghost in my head.

Bit of hunger scratches 

The empty stomach- craving 

For a ready hot dinner.

Thank God the tyres didn't 

Give up or fuel didn't run out.

Happy to be home safe.

Bed, quilts, eyeful of sleep.

Appreciate the warmth.

In the morning, I find a pic

Of mine, deep in sleep.

But I live alone! Bonkers.

What the hell? OMG.

Closure

The bruises stay,

The soreness in the throat 

Itchingly remains.

The tears that didn't 

Come out, they never 

Go away.

The flowers you once

Preserved in the book,

Seems to have left stains.

Closure is an ancient 

Myth. 

A redundant Deity 

In the third street of 

My village.

Your mind plays tricks like

An excavator often and 

The worship that ought to 

Stay Buried comes out 

In the open.

Demanding you to 

Pray and prostrate.

Turned Tables

When they lost their language.

Unable to smile at each other.
Unable to pick up signs.

Silence that howled around
Like fragrance. It grew hooks
To pierce their skin.

So they stood at the end of
A road with a doused lamp,
With nowhere to go.

Somewhere down the line,
They knew they had to
Inevitably end in each other.

So they decided to write poems
To each other to open a new
Tunnel of communication.

He says "You shall be condemned
To the shackles of moonlight"
Instead of fuck you.

"I dare you to fetch rose water
So I can drown you in my solitude"
She screams instead of

Giving him a fuck you too.

Another Day Maybe

It starts with a Hi, Hello,

How are you, blah blah blah.
Tea, pop culture references.
A nostalgia trip and
Blah blah blah.

The conversation peeling
Off the layers after each
Spell of boredom.
Uncomfortable silence
Pushing you a step closer
To naked vulnerability.

What a song meant.
A good day before father's
Death. Unexpressed gratitude.
And that random ass pain
That comes cluttering
Through sarcasm at first.

After everything is said
And done. The final layer
Bruising through your
Hesitation past midnight-

Your urge to tear it off,
To cry it all to him-
Then you hear him snore.

Just another day of closing
The floodgates of the river
Behind your eyes-

The invisible knife in your
Hand, a bit more sharper.
The Fourth Blank fired in
The Russian Roulette that
Goes on, in your head.

Happy Spitting

Most poems are 

Buried in your belly.

You gotta dig them up

With a shovel and 

Pull them up.

Many are stuck in

Throat. You need

To gargle sometimes.

You cough them out

Now and then.

Best ones dance on

Tongue. They're like

Spit. They just come

Out of the mouth 

Without effort.

But the belly needs

To be dug, for you

To drool at ease.

Efforts, no doubt 

Are important.

Some fine ones are 

Stuck in the nose too.

Sneezing is fine but 

Sputum again is not 

A good poem.

Cage

Till one day- the bird
That leaves decides
To never return.

This emptiness after
She leaves. Every song
That goes unanswered.

And the urge to sing
That dries here-

Somewhere every cage
Was a home once.
A good host. A rib.

Then the music sinks.
Breathing stops.
The fragrance dies.

The skeleton of the
Flower still stands stout.
But for what?

Meaningless and loud

I like things that are
Meaningless and loud.
Enough imagination
And totally dumb.

A mountain that's ready
To cry. A volcano afraid
Of Butterflies. Petals bearing
The weight of the skies.

I wanting to be you.
You, wanting to be me.
To be parallel lines
Tending to meet at infinity.

Philosophies not afraid
Of math. Spirituality that's
As secure as science.
A villain deriving power

By square root of minus
Nine and a hero defeating
Him by dividing himself
By zero thrice.

Math books felt abused
By listening to this and
The History professor
Turned Pookie to snatch

'The Great' from Alexander,
He's a they/them, now.

Odds Against a chance?

Do we realize?
We're all a part of this
Giant experiment of odds
Against a chance?

The smartphone in
The hand is a direct result
Of calculus, we learn
In the school maths?

Rice on our plate is the
Result of the first caveman
Who wanted to settle down
With his girlfriend.

Odd probabilities working
In our favor. Series of
Random accidents in
Right time and place.

Millions of moons died before
One got set on the right path.
And the floating debris
We were before the cocktail of

Some elements got high
On oxygen. Now we sell
Insurance to each other
In fear of withdrawal.

End

There are no new wells
To be dug every day.
Or no fresh trees left
To be cut.

No places to explore
Or names to forget.

A fistful of heart.
A handful of brains and
A tattered soul that's
Never satisfied.

No matter how deep
We fall or how high
Is our flight. We always
End in ourselves.

Tragedies. Comedies.
All the drama, dread.
We're our own
Sunshine, and rain.

Trust

Sometimes when you
Return home drunk.
Father opens the door
And let's you in.

No questions asked.

This thin line where
He doesn't confront and
You don't outrightly
Reveal your habit.

He knows it's harmless.
You know it's not
Beyond manageable.
This boundary you respect.

This line of belief in
One another.

It's a lamp on the wall,
Serving light to both the
Sides. Flickers, dances but
Keeps a balance.

A little rush and there
Would be darkness on
Both sides.

Taming a Local identity

The capital, the city, the king,
The prime minister- they suck
Everything from us.

They make us grow, and
Compel to sell us at a price
Decided by them.

They steal our plates and
Self-esteem. They savour it
To fart in English and Hindi.

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

In our dialects, while their
Mouth is an actual ass that
Gives away loads of shit.

One language, one religion,
One spectrum of stench,
At the expense of my village?

With a knife in our throats,
You snatch our Golden Goose.
And in the name of nationalism

You force us to believe,
That we stole your eggs?

Hakuna Matata

The young Bangalorean smiles.
Hakuna Matata she says and
Smiles. Twists that nose,
Curves her lips and I know,

Something funny is on the way.
Hanuna your tatas she says.
Laughs, laughs, and laughs.
I laugh, you laugh, the world laughs.

My adult awareness hits me.
I get awkward to have laughed
So much. It's okay captain!
She says.

Ta-ta-ta, tomata, batata,
She says and laughs.
I laugh, and the world laughs.
Then it Rains-- Bangalore, right?

Hakuna your gotas I say,
She laughs and dances.
What the hell I say to myself,
Before I too dance like mad.

A streak of lightening and
Then thunder. The dark skies,
Slashed with a Rainbow-
A laughable life this.

Colors yet to be defined.

The World

In a world where there's
More to what meets the eye.
In a world where words
Can be weaponized.

In a world where algorithms
Dance like unhinged zombies,
To pollute minds and question
Feeble intentions.

In the world of FOMO,
Compulsive take on rapes,
Murders and epidemics.
Their expectations to form

Opinions on politics and
Ongoing wars.

In the world where the moon
Hesitates to transition into a
Steady evening- My mom learns
To send pics in WhatsApp-

The first bloom of marigolds
She grew for the festival of

Dasara. The yellow transcending 

Its hues to my face and 

How I smile..

Sanitization of Words

The moon needn't be in
The poems today.
The bulb in the room
Often feels betrayed.

The swish of cool breeze
Needn't hail,
The ceiling fan between
2-3 asks, how does it

Matter if Americans can't
Catch the reference?

Bring in that shabby pillow,
Your bag and socks.
The bucket too wants
To be hosted here.

The first time someone
Debuted a TV,
Broke all the rules of
Victorian-era poetry.

Bring in your dirty
Underwear- there are
No rules. Sanitization of
Your words is just pretense.

If your toothbrush hasn't
Made an entry yet.
Your poetic exploration
Hasn't been enough.

Pheonix

We sit by the river in 

Silence and her eyes talk

About "How we give wings 

To passing moments to 

Make them memories."

My eyes have a different stand.

"The ticks bore each other 

And set one another on fire.

Memories are ashes,

Self-immolation of moments."

She knows it. About my

Cynicism and I know well,

How she always tries to

Fill the gap.

So she asks me to give her

A stone. Throws it into 

The lake holding my hand.

A phoenix rises shaking off

The ash. And she says-

"We're that dip and 

The subsequent flight."

When Bystanders Wrote History

There was a hole in

The king's immortality.

Pores in his Teflon imagery.

He wasn't that godly 

After all. He too had a

Butthole and his shit stank.

When the bystanders

Wrote history- their hunger

Screamed loud.

Their dilapidated huts 

Against the state's 

Glittery gold-

Their birds with, deprived 

Wings learned to fly 

And sing out loud.

Erstwhile blasphemous 

Acts oozed wisdom.

Earth was no longer flat.

Sun could not revolve

Around the earth.

The crownless could be

A prince in the stories,

And the last princess did 

Marry a poet of her fancy.

Fragrance

The Periwinkles and 

The other small yellow 

And white flowers.

The names you don't know.

But their caress when you

Walked barefoot.

The impression of their color,

On the blanket of green.

The feeling that wafts past

Your nose..

This act of smelling the

Moments that have passed.

The bloom of spring in

Your heart.

Her face, which once had

Eyes, cheeks, lips.

It's all fragrance now-

Rose. Jasmine. Rain.

September 22

This girl who's bday is

Due tomorrow.

She times blowing the

Candles at exactly 6pm.

Cuts cake exactly half 

So that, the day and

The night are equally 

Split in half.

She's obsessed about 

This day, maybe 

Possessed. Equinox 

It is she says.

Half of her 'should

Have been height',

Confused about cutting 

Her boyfriend laterally 

Or vertically to call

Him her better half.

The stuff she explains 

Sometimes pervades,

Halfwit of the humans.

So she writes verses 

Like they got a half-life.

Never-ending, infinite,

Almost finished,

Yet something left.

Half you get, half you

Can't. There's always half 

And half of something as

It's equinox.

But Hey

Your smile is imprinted 

On my chest and heart

Beats differently now.

The urge to steal your 

Glances, longing to imagine 

Your name beside mine.

I wished for your love 

That night and watched

A shooting star.

Wore a yellow T-shirt 

The next day, wishing 

You'd wear something 

Of the same shade.

The coincidence seemed 

Odd to you maybe but 

Hey, you smiled again.

The weight of your elegance 

On my weak shoulders-

I'd to forget gravity to

Match your grace. But,

Now I levitate. None of 

This has to make sense

But Hey, you smiled at me

And I smiled at you.

The world became 

Insignificant and I've too.

Leap

The wet floors and
The banana peels are just
Excuses. My fickle heart
Likes to slip and take leaps.

The sunsets, the moon.
Colors and the melodies-
Spring is here and my
Garden hasn't bloomed.

Body fancies bruises that
Only you can bless,
Gleam of your eyes to cleanse
The clutter in my chest.

The pen bleeds but for whom
It doesn't know yet.
But I wait for you to smile.
A cue enough to levitate-

My fickle heart likes to
Slip and take leaps, and
Now that I've seen you,
Maybe, only at your behest.

October

October comes scratching 

Some buried graveyards.

Glimpses of forgotten face,

Traces of a path to an

Abandoned place.

Smoke from the ruins of

A house lost to a deluge.

Bday of a close friend whom

You don't want to wish.

Your own teenage self that

Seems distant..

The child in you who's not

Ready for the incoming 

Winter..

You sit counting the falling 

Leaves of the almond tree

In front of your home.

The hope that someone 

Would come along to paint

That last leaf-

The cynicism of adulthood 

Gets the best of you, and 

Those who came along were

More interested in gathering 

Your ruins to 

Warm themselves first by

Burning the fallen leaves.

Simmer

Who's gonna stop this story?

Who's gonna stop the flood

Of these emotions that are

No more weary?

The legs have mustered

Courage and eyes are ready 

For unshamed stares.

The lungs swoon with pride-

Blood flows thick, 

Head held high. Hands sway

Seamlessly and we're ready

For a riot of dance.

Who needs your approval?

Validation doesn't matter.

The songs that bombard 

In the belly are strong enough 

To make it out of our throats.

Wings are as fierce-

The cages stand molten, 

We're ready to fly away now.

Last day of Delhi

After we talked for long on
Your terrace- last day of Delhi.
The half-beer against the
Full meal got to my head.

I didn't gather myself to
Tell it to your to your face,
So I sent you an SMS,
Can I Hug You..?

You didn't say anything.
Made excuses to sneak
Down the stairs.
Aloof, dejected..listening to

'No Surprises' I spread
Myself on the terrace
Cursing the shooting stars
That aren't in my fate.

Then a sudden brush of hair 
On my face and the warmth
Of your lips on my cheek.

When I opened my eyes-

A fading image of yours

As you rushed back down the stairs.
The sudden blues in the sky,
A bloom of roses and it played-

'What a wonderful world'.

Train to Your City

In December of that year,
I came out of Chandigarh
Station. The first glimpse of you.
Happy, awed- Butterflies.

We hesitantly hugged.
Unable to talk clearly at first.
Like learning a new language,
Saying stuff in chunks.

What a day it was.

We roamed around all day.
The rock garden, rose garden,
Skipping the lunch-
The street food marathon.

In the evening, while we sat
By the Sukhna lake, eating
Ice cream. I wanted to Kiss you.
Couldn't muster any courage.

Months went by thinking
Should I have? or otherwise?
The un-met longing, like smoke
Raising off burning desire..

The 10 pm train to your city
From Dharwad, it took a couple
Of years before it stopped
Mocking me over that

Un-kissed evening.

Unchanged Odds

In a world where they
Ask the right questions in
The wrong time and the wrong
Ones at the right time.

I ask the right question
At the right time and
You don't agree to meet
Me over a coffee.

So I shift to a world where
Things are reversed.
To ask you the right questions
At the wrong time and

The wrong question at
A right time. Only to get
Rejected twice.

And in a world where
The questions and the
Answers are banned.
I bottle my emotions to
Sell them in your street.

For years no one buys
Anything. At the distal
End of an apocalypse.
When everyone starved,

And thirsty for love.
I sought you thinking,
You might need something.
Even then you chose to be

A vile bitch, who thought
She could figure it all out,
But ended up dying of
Dehydration by a creek.

My Name

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still be goddamn right.

Mom's Teenage Photo

Wearing a black top and skirt. 

Standing beside her mom. 

The teenage photo of my mother, 

From an old album- 

Her gleaming eyes with dreams, 

Boats and untamed seas. 

It breaks me when I see her in 

The kitchen now. 

Maybe it is the story of all 

The moms. They capsize their 

Boats. Erase their seas. 

Forget it all for a compromise.

They should all gather in a 

Place one day. To stare at this

Singularity called society. 

Stare long enough till

All of us could understand. 

Leave understanding, 

At least acknowledge.

Stare enough till the guilt in us

Oozes out like an angry river. 

The guilt of confining them, 

The guilt of hiding their teenage

Photos from themselves. 

Guilt of killing their dreams and 

Guilt of how it has been a

Systematic genocide.

Recommending Songs

The songs I tell you about.
How the lyrics go, how the bass
Feels against a changing weather.

How the particular tone of it has
Soaked in a memory of mine
To become a fragrance.

I can smell it now. 'Rehai' playing
Against the soothe of her face,
Trying to absolve me from a
Confined place..

My soul comes out of the body
To stand on a table to guide me
Through a cosmic dance.

Then it screams about
My performance,
To an invisible audience.

And when I recommend you
That song and you can't talk about
It with the same euphoria..

I'd point you to my best friend to
Convey, how he'd exactly react.
I know you may call us gay,
But that's all right.

I just hope, you really listen to it
One more time. We need a
Third wheel you see and that's

The only screening we felt apt.

Old Dharwad

I feel like I met you in

Old Dharwad, where

Cement hasn't smothered 

The roads yet.

Your face gleaming with

Rusty shops and hints

Of raw literature that

Runs in the streets.

We sit in a forgotten 

Restaurant to have 

Haap-Cha and Girmit,

And you appreciate it

Using the only cuss word 

I've taught you.

You ask the meaning again,

It's just a superlative I say-

That's too much cultural 

Exchange for a day.

Your Punjabi soaked in

Kannada, our story 

Like a redundant name

Of a Hindustani song-

We walk from Railway station 

To my college, like

Postman carrying a letter,

From 1950s to the present.

Gothic Bitch

A woke who identifies 

With spectrum of genders..

Yet she doesn't get laid.

A fascist who enslaves 

Low borns but even they,

Detest her to say nay.

She can do anything to 

Get laid, this Vixen is a

Sex addict and is ready to

Be anyone's bae.

She tried to seduce the Devil 

Once but he said he's gay.

So she pulled out a weenie 

By identifying herself as male.

That too ended up in

Disappointment. So she sold

Herself to Bengali baba,

To become an enchantress.

But that came with a condition,

She can never be straight.

She's this type of lesbian now,

Who cuts male genitals to 

Use them for her scissoring 

Sessions. That's the best 

Revenge she says..to hunt

Men who don't respond to 

The nudes she sends.

Transitions

The smell of one city
Before it gets lost in the
Newness of another.

The nostalgia of the previous
House before it gets
Consumed by the aura of
The next.

The late night's hangover
Of a Sunday brushing its
Madness on the face of
Monday.

Failed resolutions of
This year trying to coexist
With new ones in the first
Week of next year.

Transitions are fleeting
Dungeons, where a little bit
Of both sides exists in
Peace for a brief while.

Like the warmth of palms
On one another after a
Shake-hand and the hints
Of your face on hers-

Before I kissed her.
The poems I once wrote you,
Show a way to new ones
And how I wanna write her

A hundred more now.

Deprivation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Could Have Been Gangster

While he and I played under 

The tree- we four years olds.

A dispute arose around 

A toy we found.

The little conflict turned 

Serious when he ran to

His kitchen to fetch a knife,

I to mine, to grab one for me.

In the next five minutes,

We stood staring at

Each other in the street, 

Ready to stab.

His mom came out in time

To bash up both.

What a waste, ruined a

Chance of me growing up

In a remand home to pick up 

A little broken Spanish..

To utter 'Que pasa..' in 

Marathi accent before stabbing 

The final goon, in a future 

Gang war.

The Childishness We've Outgrown

To have us feel 

Each other's breath, 

You inhale a chunk of air 

To exhale it steadily on  

My belly.

You ask me to do 

The same. I think you're 

Crazy but I do it anyway..

The warmth creeps under 

Our skin..it tickles.

It's a bit of an innocent kink,

Makes us foolishly 

Giggle.

When did this fragrance 

In us lost its way?

We love, like dark strokes

In shades of grey 

These days..

The lost revolt of colors 

In the dark..

Two drooped flowers,

Not even excited about 

The morning sunshine.

You say 'I love you '

From the other end..

And I don't instinctively 

Conjure my wit to 

Flirtfuly say..'and lust..?'

Inheritance of Trauma

You storm the inspection area
Your dad had prepared.
You ransack it with your gang.

In a fury, he sells you off to a ship,
That sails to unknown lands.
Holding the same grudge, you

Excel in your chores, teach
Yourself cooking. Find love,
Make children and eventually

Become a world-known chef
Of the hopeless ship that
Heads almost nowhere.

One of those big days, when
Queen of England was hosted
You were in charge-

Of the big feast. Your son topples
The buffet table on the guests
And you turn seasick..

The higher-ups ask you to throw
Him in the sea but you roast him
To feed him to the delegates.

Your deceased father is horrified
By the scene. So he travels back
In time to not sell you in angst.

But time travel doesn't exist
Does it? And all the un-addressed
Trauma never gets fixed.

So all the metaphorical suffering,
Is transferred to all the symbolic
Victims. Molehills of parents

As mountains on children's
Shoulders- a dynamite underneath,
With a trigger, God knows what.

We're Dust

We're dust that never settles.
The winter wind carries and
That of summer keeps it afloat.

Stays in the sky no matter what.

Bouncing off the fluttering
Wings of birds and frequencies
Of the dragon files.

Reflecting the sunbeams and
Keeping the earth cool,
The patterns of Tyndall...

Painting the sky red and in
Other shades. We're sunrise,
And the sunset. A blip of

Aesthetics in the mundane.
We seem to be harmless and
Not a matter of concern..

Till we get into your eye or
Maybe even the nose,
To assert our presence.

That's how Dinosaurs vanished
Right? Dust occupied the
Sky and there was a long winter.

Wishful Mirage

Your nimble fingers run over

The bare skin of yours sometimes.

They complain about this

Sack of a husband of yours.

Then you drool over the ghost of 

The dead relationship of ours,

And fail to force yourself to

Look down upon me..

Do you remember me?

Creating scenarios in your head

To break it all for once..

To run away to this place I once 

Confided you with..

You'd still find me there, 

Building castles in the air. 

Standing close, looking at me 

With your filled-up eyes to say..

How this and everything esle

Was my frigging mistake.

But I understand your frustration 

And let my long gaze convey

It all. To once again meet

You in a mirage.

Acknowledgement

Broke, lonely. Stuck in

The summer of Delhi.

The fan stops working 

That night.

Mosquitoes invade.

Irritated and sweaty. 

You sleeplessly roll around.

After an hour-

The electricity is back,

The slow soothe of rotating 

Fan makes you realize about 

The companion you were 

Really missing.

Until his absence was 

Felt, you didn't know the 

Importance of his existence.

The next day, you clean 

Him up with a cloth.

Somewhere you knew,

Gratitude is one of the best 

Way of acknowledging 

A friendship.

Boundless

The songs of the languages 

I don't understand..

I don't want to thrust words

To this feeling.

I want music to cut my

Sanity, frequencies to

Suspend my vanity.

I want hands of this illusion-

To reach my belly to churn

My realities to make me align

With whatever isn't discernible 

And is not in boundaries.

Too much awareness is

Weighing me down.

I want unicorns to invade

Earth and for them fireflies 

To enslave us. If somehow 

Sparrows fall in love..

With the Periwinkles that 

Learn to fly..

Take me there and wake

Me up.

Feather

Undress yourself, stand stout 

Like there's no burden on 

Your shoulders.

Peel yourself wound by wound 

In front of the mirrors.

Conquer what's left of you.

Layer by layer grow thin..

Light as a feather and

Fly to the cues wind.

Stop when it doesn't blow.

Rise when it does and 

Sour when it tries to rush 

Itself to new highs.

Wind is life. Don't expect

Too much as there isn't.

Laugh when it makes you 

And weep when it 

Wants you to be sad.

Stay quiet and accept the

Things as they are.

But don't take your leg off

The accelerator, as 

Shortly there's gonna be

An opportunity to fly.

A period of calm might 

As well be a pullback to 

Set you in an vigourous path.

Ancient Wounds

It occurs to me in a 

Sudden rush of angst and 

Excitement that I should 

Just text you. 

Talk to you about all the 

Places I have been..

And in all those places, 

How I've missed you 

Deliberately, to stamp 

Your face, in the high of 

The mountains, rivers and 

The slow betrayal 

Of the evenings.

On a hidden beach, 

Watching the waves crash 

And ships fade on the horizon. 

I wait for a bottle that 

Carries a letter from the 

Other side..

This knack for nostalgia 

And the reasons
You give to scar myself..
I scratch them in rhythms 

You know..

To listen to music that 

Screams your name in 

My ancient wounds.

Four Hundred Eighteenth Time

I imagine your face while
You refused to meet me.
Your hateful gloomy eyes
That shed for me the last
Drop of tear..

I imagine yourself wrapped
In an ornate saree to
Give yourself away to a
Husband, for what mistake
Of mine?

I imagine you hiding me
In the syllable of your
Second child's name, after
The regret of not doing that
With the first one, as you
Still had some hate left.

I imagine you feel a
Pair of eyes on yourself
When you visit the Shani
Temple every Saturday..
Searching for the stalker
In me in the crowd.

But I slide in time avoiding
Your gaze.. the successful
Four hundred eighteenth
Time, since your marriage.

The Romantics

Someone among the lot,

Would send an SMS

To watch the moon..

Good days back then.

Sun rose beautifully and

Even in the sunstes,

We had our hearts.

We, four-five romantics,

Sharing books and poems.

Good songs and talking 

Like everything would 

Remain the same.

We wrote, posted letters

To each other. Sometimes 

Met one another before 

The letter could reach.

Where's that craze gone? 

The grit of life we could feel 

Under our noses like we 

Breathed a special air..

It's been cloudy lately,

The moon has been 

Masked by a haze. 

The desire to reach out to 

Each other is so shallow..

That the longing to walk 

Barefoot often meets with 

The complaints of the lawn 

Being damp with 

The dewdrops.

Science Guy

Your grandpa claimed to have
Seen ghosts when he spent
The night in the farm.

Your uncle claims the same.
And your father asserts it
With one of his encounters
In a Himalayan jungle.

Hallucinations, too much
Alcohol and schizophrenia.
You come up with an explanation,
As you're a science guy.

But the voices in your room,
Still persist. How do you
Explain that?

A guy in Reddit claims,
Carbon Monoxide can cause
Delusional manifestations.

You buy a meter to measure
Monoxide levels. In that part
Of the corner, where the
Levels are high...

'Hola Grandson,
Fuck your science' says a
A shadow cast on the wall.

You get hold of the Hanuman
Statue in angst, that you
Had as a backup.

Snake Bites the Tail

I look you in the eyes 

And you look in mine. 

For a while each question 

Stands answered and 

Each puzzle solved.

Our lips quiver and we

Explode in a fire of desire.

But love still asks 

Un-answerable questions,

Beautiful or not.

But the answers do not 

Matter when we subsume

Ourselves in one another..

The questions and answers 

Shake hands now.

The snake bites its tail and 

We become a paradox.

Hungry Graveyard

You take your father on a

Bike ride, over-speed and

Lose control over a hill.

Fall off a cliff, he dies 

And you survive.

You're in the streets of

Old Hubli now witnessing 

The funeral procession 

Of your friend's dad you

Couldn't attend before.

Your brother is hit on duty,

The minister who was 

Supposed to inaugurate 

A hospital in your hometown 

Gets killed.

Your subconscious seems

To have become a hungry

Graveyard that feeds on

Simulated demise of

Close ones...

This one time you couldn't 

Kill yourself and you 

Enslaved your best friend 

To do the favors.

But he refuses.

To assert command,

You yell, 'Who's your Daddy?'

'Ain't no gay' he says and

Kills himself instead.

Boundaries

A wasp goes astray,
Stinging my insides.
Bombards around wild
To find a vent out.

I clench my belly,
Pour out my lungs.
Heart pounds like it's
Stuck in my nose.

Sweat finds way out
Of my skin, but then
The feet turn cold.
Caught between the

Embargo of fight or flee
The legs quiver like
They've seen
Wolverine's zombie.

But can you escape
Yourself? The boundaries
Of yourself in your
Third eye?

Can you ever be free?

These inner revolts that
Are always squished...
Zombie apocalypse with
A happy ending.

For better or worse,
We always end in ourselves.
The Self is a dictator
Of third degree.

Father-Son

Your father is hospitalized
When you're on a trip.
You head back readily to
Assist your mom.

The resentment you had
About him melts in the
Background and a sense
Of gratitude fills you up.

The urge to utter that
Last 'thanks' gets stuck
In the clutter of paying
For the medical bills.

He recovers anyway.
Only to abuse your mom,
The way he always did.
You translate your gratitude

Into an unapologetic elegy
That doesn't materialize.
But this isn't the first time
This has happened, right?

Maybe that's how this
Father and son thing is.
This relationship,
Always dissipates-

Between the gratitude
You can't express and
The hateful elegies
You almost wrote.

Abortion Receipt

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

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

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

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

Un-dated

September 2011, fresh out of
School. The journey I took to
Allahabad for an interview..

The train and 'Teri Meri' song
Playing against the flashes of
Your face...

Took a detour to Mumbai while
I returned. Met you outside
Kurla station past 11 pm.

So brief, could only have
A plate of Pani Puri in haste.

Sneaking past the railings
While I climbed the staircase
Of the platform.

I remember your fading
Image as you swayed your
Hand to bid me a goodbye.

The love and longing that was
Budding that didn't go
Beyond a dead friendship..

I rejoice that moment with a
Wishful thinking now. About
The 11 pm Butterfly that might

Just be alive, waiting in a limbo,
Outside Kurla station, on every
Un-dated September night.

Sneezable Sneezes

This euphoria doesn't
Subside. Sticks like
It would never end.

Heart beats fast.
Blood rushes to head.
I can feel it thump my

Scalp from below.
It feels something
May breakout aloud.

But it doesn't.
It's like a sneeze
Poised to rush out

But sticks in the nose.
You conjure all strength
To get it out but

It dissipates.
The moment is gone.
Now you're tired.

The big event you
Conjured your energy for..
The sneezable Sneezes

That go unsneezed.
The un-ceremonious exits
Hurt the most.

When You Truly Arrive

There should be a hill outside
Your village. A narrow,
Walkable path up to the top.

There should be rocks, a lake
Fruit Laden trees and incessant
Rains to complain all season.

There should be an abandoned
Temple with names of lovers
Who didn't marry each other.

The old men and the young
Should talk about a vague ghost
That comes alive every new moon..

The adamant rusty hearts of boys
Who play cricket in such places
To prove them otherwise.

The grannies making papads,
Daughters going to schools.
Memories of making kites.

And years later when you
Return from a distant city..

The smell of crushed flowers
In wet tar, tickling your memories.
There should be a feeble heart

Blessed in you, that screams
Butterflies when you truly arrive,
To this place, you belong.

Love is Blind

Love me like a madhouse that
Hates that one sane person,
Who thinks we're just statistics
Of a sample size.

Love me like a thief who stood
Still for the national anthem,
Than figuring out his escape
In time.

The madness and passion
Crossing that fine line of
Sanity.. I tried to love you like
A drunkard, high on stories.

But you forgot our beginnings
And the end. Crumpled what was
There in the middle saying
You didn't know how to stab..

Then you did.

I bleed holding your name in
My mouth and a knife in the back.
A laugh in my heart and a prayer..
That chants, love me like a

Tormenter who loves her whips,
And the sheep that sang praises
For his butcher before succumbing
To the itch of his stomach.

Where Irfan meets Ila

I just wrote a poem for you.
Apprehensive. Little afraid.

In the world where Irfan
Doesn't look in the mirror
To feel the weight of his age.

And reveals himself to Ila in
The restaurant that day.
There-

There, these unapologetic
Poems of romance blossom.
Hundreds of them.

Eventually, you turn them
Into a giant airplane and
We fly to Bhutan.

For a Teen in 30s

I've sliced a part of my
Heart and given it away
To you in apprehension.

It stays bitten between
Your teeth. Bleeding a bit..
Little salty, and tasty.

Waiting for a place in your
Eyes, the other pieces,
Await... Not knowing

Whether to heal or stay
Bruised.

And the knives of your
Lips that try not to kill,
Yet twist inside my gut...

Ahh! what can I say,
Falling in love with a teen,
In the early thirties..

It isn't easy. The knees
Creak and my back hurts.
Mirrors scream self-pity..

I shy away a little. But yes..
I've decided to preserve
The periwinkles that have

Already blossomed.
The cracks they've left in
My enclosed walls.

Things are visible now..
There's light. Colours.
I want to paint.

Sins

The first time I saw the sea,

Set foot against the incoming 

Wave that washed my feet-

I didn't know until the freshness 

Hit me that I too had sins

That needed to be cleaned.

When the waves touch me

To recede. Constantly inviting

Me to erase my footprints,

That lead upto the castle of  

Humiliation and defeat. 

I comply. But not fully.

I manage to preserve that

One footprint, which only 

I could see. An untouched sin..

More like a memory. A hole

In my Soul that needs my

Body to make it complete..

The need for an immoral act,

To keep the prayers alive

And have this life going.

Usual Day

Half of me loves the other half,
But the other doesn't even bother
To shake my extended hand.

This one-sided affair that hangs
In air and fights for the divide
In my breath.

Introspection is a war waged
On chaos of my brain,
The clarity I've now is a stink of  

A gutter after good rains.

The inevitability of the stench
Being dealt with the left hand on
My nose-

A usual day is my confused state,
Of sunshine and shade.
It's a lazy refuge, where..

I overthink about having coffee
With milk or just the black.
Only to end up having chai.

Fad

A story-burning ritual fell in
The groove of popular fads.
In a decided venue,
Everyone Interested would

Surround to throw theirs
In a bonfire.

Stories of those who couldn't
See made a lots of noise.
The one who couldn't talk
Amplified the fiery light.

You threw yours and now
The world is on fire.
One-half of you ran for water
And the other half..

Starved before it died.

Laadu

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

She knows how to read
Her veiled smile.

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

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

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

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

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

To assuage salty grief?

Infertility

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

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

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

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

Not any, but her own. Though-

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

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

Landscapes

Soak me in the rains of
Western Ghats. Sew me sweaters
Of Nilgiris in no man's land.

I need winds of Rajasthan
To take to me to the worn-out
Mountains in Gilgit-Baltistan.

Bake me a plate of Kashmir,
Pour me a cup of Chandratal.

Legs chained to solitude,
I'm drowsy again. Slap me awake
To my primal instincts-

Make me fall, drown, and fly.
Serve me those landscapes-

I want to feast on forests
Of Chota Nagpur and
The blackwaters of Nicobar.

Levitation

Three good days this week,
Seventeen okay and ten
Good years and counting.

Four hundred rupee notes
In the wallet as you descend
Down like a king watching her face.

You forget the count of steps,
That you skipped to leap..
A good smile is enough to

Make you question reality.
Levitation is a subtle art,
Taught by the eyes that are

Intoxicating.