Spells and Jinx

The petals blooming 

Out of thorns.

Fragrance beneath 

Those cement walls.

I've seen you mumble 

Hymns of love,

Behind the face of 

Your anger.

You're tough, 

You're soft.

A mountain that can

Protect a flicker-

And a flame that can 

Be fire to tame a

Mountain's rage.

And because I want

To be grounded

In your pragmatism 

And float away in 

Your reveries-

Here, have a rose.

And my heart,

And many reasons-

A snowflake to be

Molten your palms.

A dew drop wanting 

To be liberated by 

Your feet-

I'm a Muggle in awe

Of your spells.

Jinx me more,

I'm happy to be a

Subject of your magic.

Am I not a Desert yet?

I've buried the

Names I knew.

Friends turned to

Faint silhouettes,

Lips that once called

Are cobwebs now.

I've walked through

My hollow self.

A museum of

Forgotten laughs-

Broken vows pinned 

Like insects.

I've dried out of 

My rivers.

Emptied oceans.

Blocked all the light 

And bleached up

Colours.

I've blocked all

The echoes.

The den of my 

Thoughts is abode

Of bird droppings

That are crippled.

Dreams are lost.

Aspirations, doused.

Ambitions for what??

Everything is ash 

And dust.

A skeleton with

Scraped off flesh.

But where do all

The tears come from?

Am I not a 

Desert yet??

The floods still

Find me.

The corpse still

Weeps.

Bigot Again

Yet again, she turns

Her back.

And the thousand 

Poems you didn't write,

Find all possibilities

To happily rot.

But life goes on 

You know.

The many sunsets,

And winters.

The yellow stripped

Off the flowers,

And the fragrance.

You try to clutch 

Your chances.

But you find no anchor 

Whatsoever.

And the pyres in

Your chest,

Many funerals in

Your head and

A fancy for looking 

At the ships that 

Capsize, growing 

Into a happy fetish-

You thought you'd 

Find peace when

The last known place 

Of nostalgia would be

Razed to dust.

But an apocalypse

Has always been 

The start of a new 

Religion and you're

Condemned to a 

Bigot of love again.

Gasping act

I'll pin you to the wall 

and armourously 

Kiss your back.

l'll undo your saree in 

Haste and unbutton 

The blouse with 

My mouth.

I'll devour your lips and

Drown in your eyes.

Dive in your bosom and 

Be lost in your bottoms.

I'll savour you, 

Taste you and make you 

Mumble hymns of

Basic biology so deep...

You'll weave poetry

with your gasps and

Tune it with your moans.

Saree

Stand stout. Don’t laugh.  

You’ve to believe me  

When I say I can dress  

You up in a saree.  

Extend your hands.

Let me put on the  

Blouse first.  

It might take an unusually  

Long time—  

Well, it does,  

To intimately button  

All of my promises  

Into your bosom.  

The pleating can be  

Tricky, but when I adorn  

Each fold with our  

Dreams and fantasies—  

Pulling you closer to  

Tuck the pleats into  

The skirt, like it’s my  

Compulsive fetish—

Don’t be surprised if  

I kiss your nabhi, or  

Inappropriately explore  

The mysteries  

That region could offer.

Wait patiently.  

And when I throw the  

Pallu over the other side,  

Pinning it on your right  

Shoulder like I’ve been  

Into this job for over 

Hundreds of years—  

I might take a couple  

Of steps back to  

Adore your beauty  

In its entirety.  

And that’s when you  

Should slip away,  

While there’s time.  

If I make an excuse,  

Saying there’s  

Something missing—  

It’s alright if I put  

A bindi, or just gently  

Kiss your forehead.  

But if I take my  

Intentions to your  

Sassy lips—  

Know that  

My edgy temptations  

Have kicked in,  

And thereafter,

You can’t escape the

Clutches of my 

Sweet sins.

Cupcakes

As I try to look her

In the eyes.

My shame repeatedly 

Breaking into a laughter.

Looking away.

Trying to look again.

Slowly getting used to

The depth of her gaze.

She smiles.

I look away and 

Come again with only 

A thought in my mind-

How to kiss her today.

My desire peeks in 

And out. Passion 

Knits rationality with

Love.

I ask her to lean to 

Whisper a secret.

But only dare to kiss

Her on the forehead.

She sits back and

Smiles wide.

She knows only so

Much can be done in

The restaurant.

The rest of the time 

That was left,

I lace my longing 

In the cupcakes she 

Brought.

Piece by piece I place

It between her lips

While I look her in 

The eye. 

My gaze steady--

Each bite

A hidden kiss,

A held breath,

A promise left unsaid.

And when the last piece 

Melt on her tongue.

There was no shame

Left. Only the comfort 

Of being known.

She understood 

A poet’s heart—

That sometimes love is 

Best served in 

Metaphors.

And birthdays are 

Sweetest when the gift 

Is simply accepting 

The love as it's offered.

Like this one was.

Waiting for you

And while I wait for you,

Wait to hear your voice.

Wait to have that one

Real glance -

I see the second-hand

On my watch turn into 

A knife,

Each tick is a slash.

Fatigue sets in.

My anger simmers.

I question your intentions 

And almost edge my

Longing into disgust.

But I wait.

I sit here gulping pain

And nursing my wounds 

With your thoughts.

And as you make your 

Steady appearance,

The flowers that bloom

Here, 

Ward off my misery.

Life seems sorted 

Thereafter.

Earth stands healed.

And I become the 

Same fool again.

Gag

I'll cut my tongue 

And hammer nails

Into my eyes to 

Push my tears back.

I'll hold those words

By neck and 

Trample hard on 

Thoughts before

They can manifest.

I'll drown in my

Own aloofness and

Choke on reinforced 

Silence, before I

Can I reveal to you 

My intentions again.

Once I feel,

You don't deserve my 

Attention. 

I'll assist myself to

The bottom of

The ocean-

To hide even my

Breath against the vain 

Of your your 

Disgraceful presence.

So adios,

You ungrateful wretch.

Maybe I gotta erase

This poem too-

You don't even 

Deserve my hate.

Butterflies

These butterflies in 

My stomach that

Whisper your name.

They tickle my fancy,

They colour my

World in new shades.

They get to head,

Go to the heart and 

Don't let me sleep.

I seek lullabies of

Of your lips in the dead

Of the night and 

You appear like a

Holy voice that 

Wash away my sins.

That's how you sing

Me to sleep these

Days.

And in half-dreams

I slip in better realms.

Only to wake up

Rinsed in starlight..

The butterflies again

And your name.

You're the enchantress 

Who has stolen me 

Away.

Intent to Preserve your Gaze

I've stolen your gaze,

And I intend to 

Preserve it.

I've wrapped it in my 

Favourite songs.

Soaked it in the fragrance 

Of the flowers I've 

Adored.

I intend to nurse it 

With my nostalgia and 

Nourish it with the presage 

Of great time that's 

Ahead.

Ohh! How I wish to be

Seen by your eyes

Again and again.

How I want my name 

To be uttered along

With yours.

How I want be stolen,

Intoxicated and 

Drowned in your depths.

And if only, redemption

Didn't lie in this yearning-

How I wouldn't even 

Dare fall for you--

But I do. I do. I do.

Intimate Peace Out

You keep your eyes

Set on me, and you

Look deeply- teasing 

Me for still having my

Clothes on.

The curve of your 

Wicked smile,

Already has the spoils

Of my persona-

Like I'm ready for a

War.

Well, I am.

Our fingers entangle

Searching for the 

Warmth our tongues

Battle for. 

And the legs spread

Aligning and realigning 

Repeatedly-

To transcend the barrier 

Of our skins.

We hurl at each other 

Our evil intentions 

Like soldiers on

Opposing teams-

Only to be humbled by 

Our panting breaths.

And our rush ceases 

Into a realisation that

We're just two refugees,

Seeking home in 

Each other--

So we peace out 

Into a submission of 

Feeble touches and

Happily sleep.

Head Lice

My tenant. Who was my 

Teacher as well at the convent.

She was fond of me.

Gave toffees, and

other eatables.

Would catch hold of

Me whenever I scratched 

My head to pick lice

In the evening.

I would offer her flowers

Randomly. It felt nice.

That winter, Mom went to 

Her maiden home for 

The third delivery. Dad was 

In the Army like always.

Felt forgotten and aloof

For months in my big joint family,

And only Ma'am felt like 

Family in the absence of 

Mom.

After the summer holidays,

When I returned from 

Visiting mom.

Ma'am wasn't there.

Married off. Gone.

I waited for her as my

Aloofness grew louder 

In the house--

The itch in my head 

Wouldn't stop.

I insisted on shaving 

My head in the following 

Month, when Grandpa

Took me to the barber.

Something broke me

That day and I suppose 

That explains, why I hate 

Shampoo to this day.

God Files Treason Against Darwin

God Files Treason Against Darwin

(for proving evolution and murdering miracles)

I gave them

Adam, and this particular 

Pastard gave them

A chimpanzee

With with bipedalism.

I said,

“Let there be light,”

He said,

“Photosynthesis.”

I carved Eve from a rib,

He said,

“uterus, cell division-

checkmate.”

One theory from him—

aland suddenly,

Floating somewhere between

Greek gods and Santa Claus-

I’m a myth??

They used to call storms

my wrath. Now it’s

“cyclonic pressure zone

over Bay of Bengal.”

I gave them

plagues to humble.

They gave me

Vaccines and said

“I’m good, thanks.”

I offered heaven for 

Obedience.

He offered Evolution

And a billion years

of paperwork.

Dear Darwin,

You killed prayers,

Turned temples

Into selfie zones.

You made them

Feel smart enough

To stop needing me.

Fine.

Let them have their evolution.

Let them trace

Grandpa’s lineage

To a lemur with abandonment 

Issues.

Let them

Map the genome,

Discover dark matter,

Build sexbots, smarter 

Than prophets.

But when they cry at 

Funerals or beg

The tumour to vanish by

Whispering my name...

A dejected grey Pigeon 

Will poop on your statue.

Because science,

For all its brilliance,

Never made a God

Who listens to 

The chemical fuck ups

In human head.

The Great Indian Cough-Off

It began

When someone started

Stealing laughter.

Quietly.

From WhatsApp groups,

Chai tapris,

Even Kapil Sharma reruns.

Jokes turned stale.

Faces forgot

How to crinkle.

Stand-up comics

Sat down in

Self-censure.

One man,

Near Ghaziabad,

Coughed so powerfully

It echoed in Parliament.

He was made Minister

of Health & Mucus.

News anchors began

Clearing throats

Instead of facts.

Debates sounded

Like TB wards.

Slogans turned to 

Luxurious wheezes.

“Freedom of Speech?”

No, no.

Freedom to Cough.

That's a thing now.

Coughers rose like poets.

Dry cough. Wet cough.

Nationalist phlegm.

Contestants lined up

Outside Ayush Ministry

for the Coughing Championship.

First prize:

A plastic lung that's 

Fluent and 

Lifetime supply

Of Vicks.

Coughing replaced clapping.

Replaced slogans.

Replaced silence.

One cough, one vote.

Two coughs, you're an influencer.

Three coughs? 

Too much freedom--

Sedition, probably.

But soon,

Coughs began to disappear.

Someone—maybe from

"Anti-national quarters"—

Started stealing them too.

Sucked them out

With nano-devices

and Section 144 notices.

That’s when it happened.

A man in Bareilly,

Perhaps god’s chosen one,

Farted during

An Aadhaar update.

The Earth paused.

And thus, began

The Age of Flatulence.

Panel discussions now began

With gaseous bursts.

National anthems

were remixed

With strategic toots.

Schoolchildren were taught

to respect loud farts

But fear the silent ones.

The PM called them

“Symbols of Organic Dissent.”

One MP spoke out:

“This is ridiculous!”

He was arrested.

His last recorded sound

was…

a suspicious squeak.

Soon,

Corporates joined in.

Patanjali launched

"Desi Gobar Gas™"

for the spiritually aligned.

Baba Ramdev

Held a press conference

With no words—

Just synchronized fart yoga.

But art suffered.

Poets were replaced

by stomachs.

Cinema replaced

with whoopee cushions.

The Constitution, now

a scratch-and-sniff.

Still, the people adjusted.

They always do.

They coughed when allowed,

Farted when blessed.

And in between,

They held their breath—

For what used to be

called Freedom.

The Sole Broker

I collect chappals

From stampedes-

Not bodies.

Not names.

Just resilient soles.

Rubber. Plastic.

Faith-worn. sweat-kissed.

Some still warm with

Unfinished pilgrimage.

___

I pair them-

Left with a right.

Sometimes a Bata

Marries a Relaxo.

Kolhapuri with

A Lee Cooper.

A child’s slipper gets

A grown man’s sandal.

A woman's shoe gets

A dirty flipflop.

And like anywhere else,

Even here,

Love of course is a 

Compromise.

___

Sprinkle Holy Water for 

Bloodstains.

But don't clean them 

Entirely.

Incense for odour.

A little glitter to make

It presentable.

Loss sells better

When it sparkles

You see and fetches

More when I adorn

Them with a made up

Story-

“This survived Kumbh 2025.”

"RCB's victory parade- hola ESCN"

“This one tripped a minister’s 

Convoy in Tirupati.”

“These? Blessed by accident. 

Someone literally died on 

Top of it.”

_____

Collectors love it.

NGO execs.

Art curators.

One Berlin museum

Paid ₹1.2 lakh for a 

Pair that smelled like

Cow dung and crushed belief.

One in New York got 

Over a crore just because 

It the bloodstains were 

Still fresh.

Sometimes,

A grieving family shows up.

“That slipper… it was my mother’s,”

they whisper.

I offer a discount--

Grief should never pay retail.

⸻

People ask:

“Isn’t this unethical?”

And I say:

So is God’s crowd control.

At least I give closure 

To a sole.

I’m not a monster.

I just turn stampedes

into exhibits.

Into commerce.

Into matching pairs.

I'm human..

An opportunist,

A capitalist and

I tend to profit from 

Chaos. And why not?

When someone with

A brush can do it?

When someone with

A book, pen and 

Broken words can do it?

Why not someone

With a conscience 

And a size chart with an

Ability to find 

An able match can't?

Why can't this be

Labeled as art?

___

It Was Over for Men

When Rosa Parks

refused to move from her seat—

we should’ve seen it coming.

That was the first crack

in the throne.

Then they snatched

voting rights.

Wore pants.

Cut their hair.

Took our offices

and didn’t even say thanks.

---

It was over

when Indira Gandhi

held a nuclear button

in one hand

and the parliament

in the other.

While Margaret Thatcher

turned strikes into statistics.

They became doctors.

They flew planes.

Engineers and architects.

Even lawyers till the

Divorce papers got

Real efficient.

We were done for

the moment when 

she stopped asking,

 “Can I go?”

and started saying,

“I already did.”

---

Then the internet 

Happened. 

We made a feet pic viral.

It was all accidental

But seemed like a

Crack of hope.

But we took it slow.

One step at a time.

You’ve won.

“You can be anything now.”

A slow and steady pampering

Is all it took-

"Boss babe, scientist, president, 

Fighter pilot—

But first, show us the haul.

The skin care.

The lashes.

That soft morning light

on your upper thigh.”

---

Then came the first 

Storm of hot steamy pics

On the internet.

We needed a better algorithm 

Is all to get what we need-

"Not footsteps

into parliament halls.

Not footprints

on the moon but-

Semi-nude pics with

Crushed lips. More and

More filters,

set to trending Audio to

Make them say

"You go gurllll"

---

She dreamed of Mars.

But her inbox

was full of men

offering $10

for a video

of her stepping on grapes.

She wanted to build rockets.

But her reels did better

when she whispered,

“Guess what color panties today?”

---

And while she filmed

“Get Ready With Me”

for the fifth time this week,

We quietly rewrote

The algorithms to

Encourage the same.

The lie was elegant—

It took them on a swirl

And eventually OnlyFans

Exploded.

“Empowerment is sexy, right?”

That's what we kept 

Whispering-

And so, liberation

became a filter—

not a fight.

Makes Savitribai Phule's

Ghost cry in the corner 

Today...

But, alas!

Feminism now rots

In the confines of 

Flashing flesh on screens

And we go happily 

Sipping pleasure

Over the rejuvenation of

Our sweet comfort -

Patriarchy.

----

Pothole Republic

I saw a pothole,

big enough to qualify for 

Aadhaar. It had depth.

Personality.

Probably a family of frogs

and an SBI branch inside.

I reported it.

They planted a sapling

in it and the next morning,

The sapling was gone.

The pothole had eaten it—

wanted roots, not reform.

It developed sentience.

They announced.

A holiday to celebrate 

The same.

It was declared as a

Protected monument—

Older than British roads,

More enduring than promises.

Now tourists arrive.

Locals pray.

No one fixes it.

No one can fix it now..

Divine energy is passing 

Through it someone said.

"Test your spines here

Like a prayer"

"Take a hard fall here

If you want an awakening"

And whoever falls is an

Offering now.

Two bulls, a few scooters.

and a manifesto has

Drowned so far.

A poet too has tripped in 

and found a deeper metaphor.

Now he lectures at JNU

on the "existential sinkholes

of Indian democracy."

The Chinese are 

Trying are trying to 

Reach out for research 

Collaboration but 

Even NASA has been 

Put on a wait.

"The Interplanetary Society 

For Theosophical Parody"

Has made it somehow.

Right now, stuck in traffic.

The debate on who's 

Gonna take the credit 

Has to be settled first.

The contractor and

MLAs have fought over

It already.

Many national parties 

And even the PM is

Fighting for the same.

But everyone knows it.

Everyone knows,

The credit has to go 

To Nehru.

First Day

If I were in the first 

Year of college today.

On the first day and 

In the first class-

Among the band of

Those lean girls with 

Deep eyes..

You would be there

Too-- soft cheeks

And a bright smile.

Not hesitating to

Laugh gracefully with

Those feeble lips.

Not at all bothering 

To mark my humble 

Presence-

Casually playing 

With the strands of 

Your hair to cook

Guys like me..

Who would still be 

Thinking, infatuation 

Is a crime.

Maybe I would slip

Into a whirlpool of 

Fantasy to fall for you 

Eventually, and never 

Conjure up any courage 

To confess about the 

Ocean I carry.

And maybe after 

Brooding for over 

Four years-

On the last day of

College, in the

Farewell Program-

I would gather just 

Enough voice to ask for

A pic with you and

My wingman would 

Mess with the camera..

And your persona in

The blue saree would 

Forever go fading in 

Memory for years or 

Perhaps for decades.

Male Gaze

A direct line of sight 

With a girl, in a local

KSRTC bus is rare.

But once a decade,

On a rare summer day,

It does happen.

Decent looking with

A crooked smile.

Almost a flirty nose.

But why a serious,

Knotted face?

Why does she look

Agitated?

The heat?

All male gaze?

My ugly face?

Grappling with my

Urge to look-

Standing in the aisle-

Clutching my hands

For support.

The crowd, 

The jerk of legs

That sway with the 

Motion of bus.

Yet my eyes fixated 

On her.. waiting 

For hints.. 

Trying to hold on.

Waiting for her gaze

To meet mine.

Then that sweet

Moment arrives-

The question on her

Face finds an 

Answer when she,

Throws up.

A spray of vomit.

The curry leaves 

And indigested 

Onion on the people 

In the blast radius-

Radiating smell 

Finding hairy noses

With or without 

Moustache-

Bus stops. 

Many rush out.

Few curse her.

My eyes still manage

To look at her again

In the aftermath-

A gleaming face.

Crooked smile.

A firm stare that 

Screamed-

How everyone 

Deserved something 

Like that.

Ape Meat

The best meal of 

China and the most

Expensive-

As claimed by my 

Friend, Hoooli Foook.

Cost him a fortune.

But he arranged it

For free, as a

Goodwill gesture.

The waitress who

Looked like a Midwife,

In the deep sea

Exotic hotel-

Served the hot

Omniotic soup first,

Followed by the 

Air-Fried-Umbilical 

Nachos.

Apes in this part 

Of the town, taste 

Better, said the 

Mermaid-faced Manager, 

While he instructed 

His crew to serve 

The main course.

The hype for 

The big reveal was 

Intimidating when

The waitress who 

Looked like she just

Got out of labour,

Announced "Fresh 

Out of my womb"

There were limbs,

An open head of a

Foetus garnished

With little fingers.

Took a minute to

Realize the pun in

'Best ape' but 

Snapped out of it 

To get along-

When Foook said

"What happens in 

China remains in China"

"Except for viruses"

I said to myself, 

Before I shifted my

My full focus on 

The delicacy.

DiiiiDiii

Bibliophile, Pluviophile.

She/her. Lowkey writer.

Full-time depressed.

Loud, upbeat. 

Swears a lot to look 

Cool among her affluent 

Peers.

Dogs and cats are

Didi's first love but hates

Men, like that's gonna

Up her game against 

Other ultra-feminists.

Goth look. Dark humor.

Body positivity and

'Go slay gurrrl' with overuse

Of vowels to highlight 

Her over-the-top emotions.

Upon that, an opinion on

Palestine is a must.

Gender fluidity is a

Newfound fetish and

Bisexualism is a

Compulsive dessert

Beside the other 

Delicacies of her big

Fat meal of pretense.

Mom's love is never 

Enough. Her brother 

Is always an asshole.

And of course Didi's 

Got daddy issues 

That are stacked even 

From a past life.

The food-lover,

Party animal, wanderlust.

The exotic places in

India aren't enough.

Didi has perpetual plans

To tick off ten more 

Countries before she 

Turns twenty.

High on self-awareness.

High on information.

She thinks she has 

Figured it all out by 

Being condescending

On boys who are 

Petty simps in the name

Of BFFs.

But maybe a rich-ass 

Dude, of whom she

Always dreams of-

Seems to be the only 

Solution for her delusions.

When he confines her 

To the commands of 

His mother to mass 

Produce Gol-rotis in

The kitchen-

The sweat off her brow

Would scream

How the Good dude, 

Vignesh, would have 

At least extended his 

Help to do the dishes.

No Ash, No Phoenix

The way I wanna 

Lose you.

The way I wanna 

Let you go.

But the urge to

Preserve and 

Remember you

Forever-

Like rose petals

Leaving hints of

Presence through 

Fragrance.

Songs leaving 

Traces of memories 

In the tones that

Don't wanna fade.

But the monsoons

Convincing me,

I can't hold you 

Any more-

The way I wanna

Make peace with

A drab feeling 

In my bones-

I write, rewrite 

Your name on my

Skin, but its tendency 

To disappear,

Again and again-

Time does his 

Job well, you see. 

The way he rubs

It off you, 

Doesn't leave any 

Stain.

He's a slow pacifier 

On a couch,

Smoking a cigar,

That doesn't need

An ashtray.

There's no phoenix 

Without ash.

And the way you're

Fading away-

No scars are left,

To scratch.

Social Mobility

Before returning to

His duty in the army,

Dad bought me a 

Chair when I was five.

Shortly, when the 

Village-landlord visited

Our dilapidated house.

Which reeked of 

Cattle dung and urine-

He couldn't stand 

The sight of a

Bright blue chair.

How could a mere

Labourer's house 

Have a chair?

And when there's a

Chair, how could he

Sit on the floor with

All that ego up his ass?

He commanded my

Grandpa to serve his

Ego with a kid's chair.

My poor chair with

Small arms and legs.

Accommodating his

Big-big-butts without 

Breaking-

Trying to hold entire 

Family's respect-

Like it was my dad's 

Part-persona fighting 

The divide here.

My chair did a good 

Job in straightening 

Our spines for next 

Two decades-

Before it was passed 

On to my niece.

Who now climbs on it

To reach the books

We never had.

Aftermath

It's been five years 

Since she died, and 

I haven't moved on.

Today is the last day 

Of Dashami, and 

I'm sitting here,

Wearing her Red saree 

and seven bangles

On each hand.

That's what the 

Tantrik said.

A Mandala made 

Out of Haldi and 

Kumkum. 

Soil from her grave 

In the middle with 

Limbu and Mirch-

After myriads of

Attempts, I invoked 

Her spirit successfully 

This time.

It was so good to

Hear her voice.

Her translucent body

Looked hot.

Everything was alright-

Till she sobbed and

Asked me in a 

Coarse voice:

Why did you kill me?

Readily, I threw on her

The enchanted ash 

To set her on fire.

The spirit, too, had to

Be killed to unlock 

The ancient treasure-

That's what the last

Page of the book,

Grandpa left me said.

Facts vs intellect

This year Mahanavami, I was aghast to see a warning board when I entered the temple of my village Goddess. It said, "Women are not allowed in the sanctum".

I slipped into a furious state of overthinking.

How can they say that?

How can they break away from the tradition?

Did the national politics enter my village already?

Did a loudmouth force his campaign into the temple?

Every year women from every household visit the temple. For nine days, they pour oil into the lamps allotted to them in specific slots in the racks. The temple shines, adorned with thousands of those lamps.

Even inside the sanctum there used to be rows and rows of lamps all these years. But this year, no. They excluded the sanctum with the warning sign that said women aren't allowed inside.

In the backdrop of Sabarimala temple and its a ban on entry of menstruating women. I thought the question of purity invaded even my village.

My bias against right-wing politics added tadka to my emotions. This made me take a pic of the warning board- to make noise about the same on Twitter.

But before I could post, I thought of enquiring about it first. And when I asked my father about the same expecting an answer I wanted-

His answer was more flabbergasting, to my shock and surprise. He said-

Because a new idol of the goddess has been installed. Women are prohibited, as they often touch the idol with oily hands. They've restricted the entry for nine days to prevent a mess.

Such a face-palm moment. Sometimes the problems are more basic and practical. That's why logic, reasoning, and intellectualism should always be backed with facts.

Roasted Liver

The dead body in the 

Backyard calls my name

In the night.

Asks me why I kill?

What do I tell? 

I like the smell of 

Raw flesh?

The sound of oozing 

Blood?

How I wanna give 

Sharp metals a better 

Purpose? or

My own lust has its 

Way to manifest me 

A greater revelation?

Ohh! It's such a 

Pristine compulsion.

What do I tell it?

Can it even understand 

The gravity of passion?

What a rush it is to

Isolate a subject.

Stab them in the heart.

Drain out all the blood 

Through just an ooze.

Run out of breath in the

Act. Feel hungry as hell

After that.

Then roast just the 

Liver on low flame with 

Just salt and pepper-

To feel my art on

My tongue.

Ohh! Great art is all 

Hunger and food.

Passion translating into

Juicy fetish in your 

Mouth- 

Good art is a 

Roasted liver for 

The fancy of one's 

Taste buds.

Dog Evangelism

My landlord's dog looks

Me in the eyes.

Looks so deep, my butt

Quivers in angst.

Maybe it fancies looking 

Past my flesh to feel

My ribs in her mouth.

Her unconditional hate

For me, must have turned 

Into a juicy fetish and

She must be waiting 

For my ready demise.

Every time my landlord 

Plays fetch with her,

Looking at my direction-

She bites the ball so hard,

My soul from previous

Life feels threatened.

She seems to have

Created a hiccup in my

Existence already, and I 

Take the lord's name-

Every time I sneeze like 

My grandma did to ward

Off possible evil.

The little bastard has

Kicked out atheism in me.

I wonder what kind of

Evangelism is this.

When I Can't Fall in Love

When I saw you 

Yesterday, standing 

Outside the metro.

The sky didn't melt.

Earth didn't shake.

It didn't rain.

And as we walked,

As I tried to catch 

Your glance-

My stomach didn't 

Conjure any butterflies.

Or my head didn't sink

In imagination of a

Rainbow laden sky.

Blood didn't rush

To my veins, bones

Or to the one that 

Erects.

I wonder if this isn't 

Love. I wonder if 

This longing isn't 

Enough.

I've deliberately 

Dug up my fantasies 

To plant my desire-

But nothing has 

Bloomed yet.

It feels weird to not

Fall for you.

These bones of Iron

And muscles of steel

And the sparks that

Fall short in the nerves

Ask only one thing-

What's worse?

Digging up love when

There isn't or unable 

To feel its presence 

When it's abundant.

Delulu

This wind that 

Must be passing 

Through her loose 

Hair..

The stream that 

Must have flowed

After caressing her

Gentle feet..

This feeling of 

Breathing under the 

Same sky as her.

Feeling constantly 

Her whispers in my 

Ears-

I paint her with my

Fascination in the 

Eye of my mind.

I adorn her with 

Stardust in my heart.

The artist I wanna 

Become, what a 

Feast, she is to my 

Rose-scented desires.

Lost in the maze 

Of swirling starlight.

Dumb struck and 

Humble..

Ohh! How astray 

I am on my own 

Definitive paths. 

I know the birds 

In the sky, give no 

Damn about me but 

How good it feels to

Say to myself-

They might be 

Carrying the songs

She has sung,

Why else would they 

Chirp so good in

A place where I

Happily reside?

Fading

There's a memory of 

You and me.

Sitting by a lake.

Stream of water 

Flowing through our

Feet and you talking 

About an exotic fish.

I try to hold on to it.

I paint it daily in the 

Canvas of my mind.

Attend to details,

Fine-tune it to the way

It's supposed to look.

It's been a decade

With this carpentry 

And for the first time 

Now. This morning I've 

Forgotten your face. 

The shape of your 

Nose has faded out

Of my fancy.

Glint of your eyes 

Has disappeared in

The hiccups in my

Longing.

The tone of your

Voice seems to have

Embraced a void 

And your fragrance 

Has stopped triggering 

The saudede in that

Place beyond.

I try to hold onto your

Your silhouette at least.

Try to fill you in from

The archives.

But another year passes 

By and I find myself 

Painting the lake bland 

With me alone looking 

Vacantly in the distance.

Maybe I'm with thoughts 

Of that exotic fish

You talked about.

Not knowing you faded

Away mid-sentence-

Still too eager hear the

Next thing you'd want

To say. But there's 

Silence and silence 

And silence..

Incel

I don't know what to do

With the throb of my 

Blood or the frustration 

Simmering in my gut.

Hardly any work or

Self-worth. Living on

Father's money and

The disappointment 

I am to my family-

I don't know how to

Deal with this built

Up insanity- than wear 

A stoll and conspicuous 

Tilak on my forehead.

A heavy metal gada

On my wrist and

Thick moustache to

Ooze the void of 

My soul-

But what to do with

The masculinity I've 

Embraced to cope with 

The society?

How about I go

Harrassing the lovers

In parks?

Beat up comedians 

For making people 

Laugh?

What right do they've 

To enjoy while I sulk

In my sourness?

How dare they go

Un-auccounted for the

Peaceful life they lead?

They're ruining our 

Culture and I've to 

Self-appoint myself to 

Protect it.

So lemme gather all 

The incels in one place.

We can create issues

Where there are none.

We can talk louder to

Let others pretend on

Our behalf.

Most would be married 

And busy with families.

Who's gonna mess with

Guys who think with 

Their dicks anyway?

We're gonna be ruling 

These cowards soon-

Our elevation to divinity

Is just an election away.

Painter

He paints a door on the

Wall so that someone 

Would walk in his life.

Plucks stars at night to

Adorn his room- he's 

Forever welcome for the 

Wayfarer he's waiting.

He has designed a

Clock that can transport 

Anyone to a new place

At anytime-

But he doesn't want

An easy way out.

The silver ring he has

Designed can materialise

Any wish of his-

But he has seen only 

Disappointments so far.

When asked why,

He just says-

I'm a painter that's why.

That he needs something 

To hold on and 

Anything is true in his

Imagination.

But the reality would 

Always be his cold room

With the stink of paint.

Says that repeatedly 

And paints an angel who

Takes him to heaven.

Lullabies are in colours 

For him and he sleeps

Listening to his shades.

Art is his mother, lover

And the divinity he craves.

The doors he wants

To open or close are

All in there.

To escape or to not

Escape- the line is

Blurry but he has made

His peace- 

Lives another day to

Surprise himself 

Again. And again.

Telepathy

We lie under the fan 

Rubbing our warmth 

Onto each other.

You ask me to say

Something.

I run out of words.

You run your fingers 

On my chest.

I try to read the

Patterns you make-

I try to translate it

On your back in a

Language you don't 

Understand.

We both fantastically 

Fail at it.

But it's fun.

Language seems to be

A a scam in bedroom.

Maybe be it should 

Be banned.

I know telepathy 

Doesn't exist-

But the way our skins

Talk without words-

Two thermodynamic 

Systems suspended 

From outside affairs-

We try to dive into 

Each other, deeper 

Each time and 

The exploration is 

Never enough.

Only Laughing Makes Sense

At this age and at this

State of mind.

Everything seems 

Laughable.

You know every other 

Emotion has failed you.

Anger doesn't help.

Kindness doesn't get

You anywhere.

Forever love is ephemeral.

Loyalty is opportunism.

And hate and anger 

Is more harmful to 

Oneself than others.

You fairly know how

Every other person is

Gonna behave.

You know very well how

You're gonna reciprocate.

You know pain doesn't 

Last. Happiness doesn't

Stay for long.

So you laugh at the 

Stuff you predicted and 

It turned out to be true-

You're a lowkey Buddhist 

Philosopher yourself 

By now.

And then again you laugh 

More at the things that

Fail despite all the logic 

And calculations-

You laugh at the 

Randomness.

You laugh how every 

Other random outcome 

Reenforces the belief 

This wild chaos.

You laugh because 

You're a fool.

You laugh because 

There no one way to

Fix this. You laugh 

Because you're always 

Disappointed-

In you. Others and

The universe.

Gloating Satisfaction

You're the breeze teasing 

With my hair.

Moist feeling playing 

Around my eyelids.

Love is a sensual feeling 

And I feel you on my skin.

My eyes bulge, fingers

Quiver. Mind turns hazy

And I feel my veins bulge 

At your instance.

My imagination runs wild.

There's sweat and mix

Of our drool. Battle of

Breaths and violations 

With our lips-

Love in it purest sense

Seems to be just transfer 

Of bodily heat and fluids.

It's as physical as it gets.

When these fingers 

Explore the undulations

Of your flesh. Gloating 

With divine satisfaction-

Hints of my platonic 

Passion on your neck.

If we aren't ashamed 

Of our sweet sins 

The next morning-

Consider we put love's 

Unconditionality to 

Shame.

Dating a Self Aware Girl

I almost fell for you.

I was almost yours.

But I don't know why

I flinch when I look

Long at you.

I don't know why can't 

I loosen up myself 

Around you.

I almost called you

My moon on our

First date.

Almost drowned in

Your sensuous eyes.

But couldn't face

You outright.

The songs I couldn't 

Send you late at

Night. The naughty 

Memes that stay

Unsent with your 

Name written all over

Them-

The urge to stand 

Close to you and

Unintentionally touch-

But my deliberate attempts 

To maintain a distance-

You're too much you

Know.

It's like I'm always 

Scrutinizing myself in 

Your presence.

Like I'm standing 

In front of a mirror and 

You read my intentions 

Beforehand.

I wish I could just

Go away. I wish I could 

Find a home that's 

Less complicated.

But the standards you've 

Set are so high-

Every other hospitality 

Is gonna feel like

There's something

That it lacks.

This fog of silence 

Between us.

The unsure air edging 

Us towards an uncertain 

Fate.

I'm sure I'm gonna 

Drunk call you soon.

Just don't tell me

You saw it coming.

I don't want you to

Read me again.

If you could have 

Only stopped treating

Me like a Test-subject 

In your poems-

We could actually been 

On a voyage to that

Place you poets call

Muse.

Wishful nostalgia

You dream of her

Across an open field.

Standing with open

Arms. Wind blowing 

In her hair-

You running towards 

Her and clouds

Gathering just to

Pour down for this

Union.

You dream of her

Lying beside you-

Playing with her

Braids. Running 

Your fingers on 

Her feet-

Feeling her like the

Mild melody of 

Anklets.

Time frozen in her

Fragrance-

Peace chasing you

To be your slave.

But what happens 

To dreams?

What happens to

Dreams of a summer

Noon?

Heat gets to you.

You wake up to

The dead air in the

Room wondering if

It's tomorrow-

A sweet taste of

A cherry from a 

Past life gets to you

Aamidst stink 

Of sweaty reality-

You smile at yourself 

Like you always do 

And let it go.

Manipulation

Every time you closed 

Her Eyes from behind,

The names she guessed 

Dropped dead.

After years of this.

After feeling there's too

Much blood on your hands.

You confront her.

And that day, when 

She uttered your name

From her sassy lips-

You stood in front of

The mirror, smiling.

And cut your throat.

But your reflection 

Walked out of the mirror,

Bearing a different name-

Only to close her eyes

From behind and stand

Dumb struck when she

Utters another name.

Who's that guy, you ask..

The one you just killed,

She retorts.

Ephemeral Rapport

Our ships got wrecked 

At the same time and

We got stranded on

An island for a while.

There was nothing to 

Do much except talk

About poetry.

You wrote to me and

Read it to the birds.

I learned to write too 

And you were happy to

Listen.

Good times, really.

The breeze was clean.

Night-sky was promising.

But how long can one

Be stranded?

The rescue teams 

Showed up like age

Though we didn't 

Want them to.

We were pulled back 

To normalcy.

We were briefly alive 

In the long stretches of

Our reveries- to become 

Metaphors with wings.

But whatever grows

Wings should fly.

So there you go-

Go soar high.

I got an ocean waiting 

For me, hopefully.

Lemme happily dive.

Distance is a Trick

We sat across screens

Staring into each other's 

Eyes- watching the 

Same movie in sync to feel 

Each other across a 

Continent-

We carried a different 

Divide when we decided 

To fall apart in the

Same corner of the room

We stayed for years.

Distance has always 

Been a trick.

It's a truth, till it isn't.

An abyss, till it's filled.

It's light with faster speeds

But unable to penetrate 

A brooding mind-

It's dead of the dark as

A definitive norm-

A ray of photons was

Always an exception,

Till it wasn't.

Space has always been

Empty until it wasn't.

Silence has always been

Deafening till your

Anklets filled the void.

These sentences,

Turning into footsteps 

Somewhere.

Scaling kilometres.

Climbing mountains-

My voice almost reached 

You again-

Longing lept barriers to

Pass through your hair.

This heart was always

Empty. It really beat for 

You till it didn't.

Apathy here has always

Been a norm.

I thought I had it all 

Sorted till your presence 

Felt more in your absence.

Distance is a ghost

Desperately wanting to 

Be alive.

Warmth

Kiss me in heaven or

Hell. Or just here.

Does it matter?

The realms we enter 

When we let our

Tongues battle-

Asgard to Pataal Lok-

The wormholes we 

Enter while we explore 

The warmth of our bodies-

The touch of your 

Skin. Fire of your eyes.

Calm in your bosom-

Our souls must be 

Jealous of all the carnal

Pleasures they're 

Deprived of-

Maybe they've tried to 

Sneak out at night for 

Makeout but returned to 

The abode of skin after

Failing to play with the 

Sorcery of bodily warmth.

The Gods must have

Felt the same at some 

Point of time.

Bastards turned to 

Voyeurism that's why. 

And called it Omni-presence 

Later on.

Inability

I fall in love and don't 

Tell them.

Seems inappropriate.

I talk to them. 

Engage deeply.

They let me in and I let them

Know my vulnerabilities.

It's almost tempting to 

Have them in my life.

It's almost dreamy to have

Them by my side.

I make paper planes out of

Letters I write and 

Send them to the moon.

I craft reveries into 

Flowers and smell their 

Fragrance till my heavens 

Are adored with colours.

But it goes nowhere.

The boat full of fantasies 

Capsize.

Brick by brick the castle 

Of fancy starts to fall.

Falling would be good,

But things fade invisibly

To make me carry the scars

Of my pretentious 

Forgetfulness between 

My teeth.

You too are slipping 

Away now. And my inability

To stop you is up my 

Sleeves readily.

The butterflies of your 

Memories are poised for 

A reverse metamorphosis-

And I don't understand 

Why I'm more concerned 

About preserving you

In larval stage or pupal-

Than holding your

Completeness that's 

Already there.

PDA

The first time you

Slipped your hand in

My pants in the garden.

The first time we

Made it out in the bus.

The way our fingers 

Quivered and lips

Craved it all in public 

Places-

High on dirty stuff.

High on naughty things 

In really inappropriate 

Places-

The first time we 

Had that unusually 

Long kiss at a remote 

Bus stop in Pune 

At night-

The police caught us

And booked us under 

PDA and fined us a

Good 20k.

The whole thing was

Embarrassing.

But what petty thing 

Is embarassment?

What a petty amount 

Is that money?

In comparison to

The rush of fluids

Of each other's body.

A soul-satisfying 

Guilt of a feeling?

What sanity is this

World preaching?

What purity? 

And what clarity?

If the cloudy haze of

Sensuality hasn't 

Dictated you its evil

Intentions...yet.

What good is love?

And what good is life?

What good was our

Banishment from the

Garden of Eden-

If we didn't fall prey 

To the urges of our 

Primal sins?

Sakti

You gotta look her 

In the eyes.

Measure the depths

In metaphors and

Throw them at 

The sky.

You gotta look at her

Lips and feel her

In between the teeth.

To come up with a

New flavour of tea

That quenches

Intentions.

Look at the bosom

And thighs. 

Her hips that want

To laugh out loud.

And waist that can 

Fit in your palm.

You can engage 

Or disengage at

Any moment but

Cannot leave this

Room.

You may or may

Not touch her

Appropriately or

Inappropriately.

But no half-hearted 

Efforts allowed.

The only thing you

Gotta remember-

This is just a game 

And the challenge is

Not to fall in love.

If you do, your

Balls would be cut.

And if she does.

Well-

Zoom Out

The people buried under 

The bombed buildings

Of Palestine.

A few meeting the same

Fate in recent LA fires.

The divide of political 

Opinions between the two.

If we zoom in- 

The ethical and moral

Conflicts. The pain of

Personal loss--

If we zoom out. Both are 

One of the events across 

The history of all the wars 

And better wildfires.

A hundred years into

The future- many more 

Such events-

Add a few more centuries 

Everything will be put 

Under a broad label

Of ambiguous disasters.

And a million more years 

Down the line-

When an alien species of 

Lesser order discards

Our fossils as a third grade 

Fuel for their engines-

Our history books will 

Cry in shame for being

Wasted on petty narcissism.

Eyes

When I looked into your eyes,

All I could see was whirlpools.

One, two, ten... A hundred.

Well, I lost count-

Touch of stardust.

Jolt of rainbows.

Thunder and storms for sure.

But the broken moons, 

Doused galaxies-

Transcending their 

Agitation within myself.

Is this how one looses oneself.

Is this how incantation work?

Is this how we start to adore

Cats of witches?

The deeper I look.

The deeper I'm drawn in-

My darkness finding a

Spark in you? Or

My excessive luminance 

Making peace with the despair 

You wanna offer?

It's mind boggling.

Bamboozlement to be precise.

But I don't wanna overthink 

This time-

I'm a sorted muggle drowning

In the ocean of your eyes-

Happy to have succumbed to

The Hermione you've become.

Love, longing and Envy

Years later when you meet 

Your school-crush in a

Friend's marriage.

A three-year-old kid in her

Hand.

The tension in the air.

Jealousy seeping through 

Your eyes-

You laugh through all

The tantrums that come

Your way.

Upon that, others pass

On her kid to you.

After everyone failed

To cheer up his grumpy

Mood. He sits quietly

With you.

A weird sense of 

Attachment gets to you.

A feeling that, the kid could 

Have been yours if things 

Could have worked out,

Lingers in you.

Before you pass him to her,

You squeeze his cheeks

Hard till he cries.

She gives you a nasty look.

And you smile.

That weird sense of 

Satisfaction you got-

Unrequited love has its way

Of getting at you.

Caw Caw

Boredom is a crow that

Sits on the clothesline 

And caws.

Caw caw to mess with

Your head.

Caw caw to draw your

Attention to the things

That are better left

Un-attained.

And caw caw to trigger 

Your anxiety with 

Rounds and rounds

Of FOMO.

Hungry, desperate 

And utterly restless-

Ready to push you to

An edge-

Caw caw in your fingers.

Caw caw in the eyes.

Certain cold in the thighs-

Butterflies in the belly 

That want to come out.

You try to scratch 

Your nose thinking it's 

Just an itch.

Just a notification 

You say to yourself but 

Ain't that a bitch?

Time stretches like

You're sucked into a

Blackhole.

Attention spans,

Bombarding thoughts-

Mere excuses drown

You in a whirlpool of

Dopamine.

Caw caw for the hours

That have passed-

Time-jump like there

Was a wormhole-

Age is just a number.

Caw caw for the years

That have gone.

To a Baddie

She lights cigerettes

To burn matches.

Kills doves to invoke 

Desire. She's an overused 

UNO reverse.

She's obsession on 

Steroids... Bukowski minus 

The beers and whores.

But the dick still intact.

She's prayers yapped 

Backwards.

Satan seeks her mercy 

To doze off at night.

Jinnxed blood and 

Marrow. Crows mourn in 

Her shadow- she's doused 

Hope of tomorrow.

Every soothsayer's refuge

Before they went terribly

Wrong. She is till today 

Shukracharya's daily riaz.

Tamraj Kilwish once said

"Aditi Kayam Rahe" to

The dark and the mangal 

In Lord Shani's horoscope 

Got misaligned.

So this is a wake-up call.

There's a new force in town,

God/Demon as pronouns.

Pray or cuss- it's your choice.

But be careful while you

Open your mouth-

Stupid is allowed but not 

Boring. Roar/ cry but

No pretense.

Smut or dirt-

You'll be killed if you'd

Be cliche or cringe.

Demons

So the demons visit
Me in my dreams.
They force me to
Pose for pics-

Sometimes against the
Hazy background of my
Mind or sometimes
Against the hormonal
Patterns in the night.

There's one against
My growling belly and
One against the worms
Crawling in my veins.

Every morning I find
Them hung to my gut
And I've to look at
Them real hard before
I begin my day.

Night by night and
Day by day, years have
Passed like life is a
Compulsive painting-

Dark strokes everywhere.
No room to breathe.

Light hesitantly enters at
Weird angels and leaves
Before it can brighten up
Within here-

I found myself clicking
Selfies one day.
Habitual, conditioned-
It was unbelievable.

Maybe possessions
Work like that..
Demons work like that.
Maybe art works like that.

Your face constantly
Shifting to fit into
Whatever the heck you
That wants to come out
Making a noise-

Till one day when you're
Convinced that the
Demon that chased you
Was versions of yourself-

And all art is looking
Daily in the mirror.

Narcissism ft Global Warming

Why can't I write
Something emotional.
Something vulnerable?
Have grown numb?
Do I feel nothing?

I scratch myself. Bite.
I bring a spade to
Dig up my chest.
Split it with an axe to
See if I make any sense.

I search for drops of
Emotions restlessly.
I go deep and deep
To find nothing-

Aridity reeks in here.
And I seem to have
Stranded here for so long
That I've built an
Ecosystem for myself.

The date trees.
Camels to hitch a
Laughter riot.
Caravans pass by-
No strings attached.

My distance from the
Rains. Distance from
Any attachments to
Water-

There's an Oasis at
A far distance but
I only need that to
Quench my thirst.

There's lots of
Cacti infestation says
My therapist/ecologist.

I say it's just harmless
Humour and sarcasm.
She says that's coping
Mechanism of a desert.

So I am trapped inside
A character?
And how she goes on
About how Cacti are
Designed to trap
Others for moisture.

You mean I trap people
Who are emotional?
She declares-
Narcissism is a proper
Desert ecosystem-
It's global warming.

Craving

Conquer my bare body

And thrust your fingers
In my mind.

Play with the thoughts
Of mine and teach the
Art of passionate desire.

Wound me in the right
Places and hurt me
Like I want it more.

Treat me badly and
Make me beg- I always
Wanted to be your slave.

Sell me to your dirtiest
Fantasies at a lowest bid.
Lemme experience-

The drains of your
Sweet sins. Hope they're
Full and flowing to

Readily drown me in.

Unwanted Closure

The angel you are.
The obsession you've
Become.
My attempts to quench
This longing-
I've brutally scratched
Myself to bleed.

And every time I do that,
You plant your red flowers
In my wounds.
Desire is a cocoon and
I've happily become
Your prisoner.

Pour the wine of your
Eyes. Trap me in
Incantations of thighs.
Punish me. Make me
Scream your name.
Gag me, choke me-
Beat me up.

Dig into me and soak
Me up in your lust-
Love is overrated anyway.
Haunt me like passion
Project gone wrong.

Put your fingers deep
Into my mind.
Touch my thoughts
Inappropriately.
Infect the dark corners
And hydrate the
Empty ones.

And deep in there,
If you can find a child-
Hug him up and don't
Let him cry.
Pour more whiskey
On him and make him
Talk-

And If it is about love-
If it is still about love!
Slap him hard.

Give him unresolved
Yearning instead.
He doesn't know it
But he needs an
Unattainable wanting.

Forbidden fruit

It took lots of attempts.
Lots of coxing and
Cajoling. Flirty texts,
Superlative poems.

Treating you like a baby
When you turned
Vulnerable and
Cunningly slip in a
Sarcastic comment
That almost hid my
Intentions.

I'm no saint, you see.
I needn't be but
I'm a bit self-reflective-
My feeble vices,
Wild desires and longing
To commit sweet sins-

While I improvise to
Learn, re-learn, and
Cook you up on low
Flame for long-
Pampering you was a
Culinary affair.

And for the first time
We breathed close-
As the strands of your
Hair brushed my cheeks.
The lips quivered
And tongues battled..

You almost let me touch
Your bosom.
But it felt so wrong
Somehow.
I kept overthinking about
The boundary I should
Have crossed.

But when the next time
It happened-
Like my hands acting
On their own-
It was so good.
Heavenly.

The beauty of this
Evolutionary compulsion-
Seems in the Garden
Of Eden, God was not
Angry about that one
Forbidden fruit.
But of two.

Premature Intimacy

The desire in the mouth
Dripping to lips-
Almost undressing you
With my eyes.
My gaze would always
Try to devour you
Like you're a feast.

I read you page by page.
Touch every word with
Fingers to taste your
Meaning on my tongue-
You're a book of riddles
And how I wanna be an
Egyptian cryptic.

The bombarding wild
Thoughts in my head.
Getting shaped and
Reshaped- smeared
With wet passion-

I would leave no
Opportunity to thicken
The air between us
With my wit-
Love the way you look
When you try to hide
A blush.

This compulsion of mine
To intoxicate myself on
Each of your breaths-
You're almost a landmine
I wanna accidentally trip.

But I know you want me
Walk away at the right
Amount of heat-

I see you explode alone
From the sidelines and
Ohh! How hard it is to
Contain myself from
My own ruins.

The Dead: This is business

To improve the general 

Level of empathy.

To increase the standard 

Level of dignity of the dead-

The government made

Necrophilia compulsory.

You gotta shag at least two

Before you got your degree.

You gotta shag atleast four

For your Social Security.

A whole industry came 

Came to life to cater the 

Needs of the public.

From half-dead to 

Fake dead. From just

Stinking to rotten for a

Month straight-

Different packages and

Flavours-

Champions were 

Announced based on time, 

Place and weather-

Did it in the dark of the

Night on a grave to

Doing it deep in the rain

And thunderstorm-

The tax proceeds on every 

Events and activities was

Pumped to finance a

War elsewhere.

More bodies and more 

Empathy for the dead

They declared.

Necromancy is next in

The line revenue-wise-

But that's only allowed 

On the corpses that are

Shagged atleast thrice.

People are on the streets 

To have the limit reduced.

For quite sometime,

They want the government 

To at least consider

One count if it was done

When the body was alive.

Family

I'm gonna have a wife who

Would wrap herself in a 

Two-meter saree.

She'd pull up the Ghungat

At my instance and 

Respectfully give up her

Last name to get mine

Gracefully.

And she'd worship me.

Toil in the kitchen day n

Night coughing-

Make me rotis on a

Chulha as they'd not be 

Tasty on the gas.

The right tea and 

Hot water at a precise 

Timing every morning.

Body massage at will

And all the other free

Services one can avail 

With a marriage.

We shall have a son who

Would hate me for being 

Unfair to his mom.

I'll not waste my time in

Justifying my acts-

He'll have to tolerate it all.

Live up to my expectations.

Study hard to become 

A corporate slave and force 

Himself into a marriage 

With the girl I chose.

Maybe he can carry all

The soreness to stop

Looking me in the eyes.

He should have at least one

Victim card to play-

Can always go on about 

How unfair I was.

I hope he'd teach his son

How to treat his wife.

The tradition of toxicity 

Should go on and on.

The masculinity should 

Thrive. Chauvinism is

A fetish one has to

Aspire for.

Thick Necks

There's a war in the country 

That produces jute.

The supply of ropes is hit. 

The suicides are down

For two quarters now.

A matter of serious concern

For a democracy here.

Fresh diplomatic conciliations

Have to be initiated.

Interim arrangements have

To be made to revive 

The wisdom of nooses.

The glut of thick-necked

Opinions in the market.

The boneless tongues 

Blurting whatever their 

Mind suggests-

Students, farmers,

Labours, unions.

Bloody freaking onions

And oil prices-

Everything has got a

Brains these days.

When they feel they 

Run out of options.

When the choke of their 

Many opinions tighten

In their throats-

They would need a

Good catharsis.

So the ropes are needed 

Before the shimmering 

Hits the street.

And if protests break

Here-

The blade production

Will take a hit and

The other governments

Relying on us would be 

Pissed-

The free voices there

Will have nothing to

Rely on you see.

Blood-letting is still

Deemed as legitimate 

Treatment there for 

Whoever freely speaks.

Fart Philosophy

Bacteriophage is a virus

That infects bacteria.

But for its population 

As whole-

The effect is just a fart.

Bacteria infect humans

As well. There's a talk

Of even superbugs now.

But at a species level-

The effect is just a fart.

We humans fight for 

Land, go for wars.

Ruckus over a marriage 

Sex and children-

But the Earth goes on

Rotating unbothered.

At that level-

Even we're farts.

Issues of planets are

Farts at star level.

Issues of star are farts

At Galaxy level.

And ultimately, when

Everything stinks down 

To one thing--

All existentialism is 

Is a way of saying how

How we're just farts.

And all amped-up 

Self-pride is just 

The other way of saying 

How we're 'The Farts'.

Invasion

Everyone has heard every joke.

Everyone knows every fact.

All the stories are familiar to

Everyone and trivial knowledge 

Of a person is no surprise.

The reels and long streaks

Of scrolling have pounded 

Our heads in n out into a

Submission and there's 

No space for new music.

Everything looks hopelessly 

Familiar. Everything sounds 

Familiarly heard.

Where are the age-old

Storyteller? Where's that 

One person in the group who 

Knew all the dirty jokes?

Do we still have a someone 

Who brought all the unfamiliar 

Gossip from distant lands? 

Did every distinct character

Of a group got dissipated 

Into an influencer with

Millions of followers online?

Has the Internet killed it 

For us this early?

The distinct stories we were

All supposed to be- slowly 

Heading into a singularity.

Soon every tongue is 

Gonna be bleached.

Every personality will be

A giant monochrome.

All languages will fade into 

The monotone of English,

Our dreams will be coded

By a big corporation and-

We'll have to skip ads to

Have access our crude 

Thoughts.

1799

I'm a 10-year-old boy.

My mother died last week.

It's hard to see my

Father sulk alone in

The Haveli.

The British are eying 

On Thousand-acres of

Zameen and these days 

Some of our own people 

Are 'Woke' overnight-

Ram Mohan Roy 

Specifically. He wants 

Us to voluntarily give up 

Our Zamindari like he did.

And of all other things, 

He's against child marriage 

And propagates widow 

Remarriage-- Chiii.

It boils my blood.

But I can't see my father 

Suffer you see.

He needs something to

Hold on to.

Someone to rely on.

So can you marry him

Please!!!

Since we're of the same 

Age and interested in

The same games..

If you kindly accept 

The proposal-

I can demand the toys

We need in Dahej.

The empty Haveli will be 

Our playground and 

We can forever be

Friends.

Apathy for Local News

Russia bombs Ukraine- 

1000 dead.

Earthquake in ASEAN- 

40O buried alive.

Crossfire in the border-

War is about to break.

Trump has put up

Sanctions- economy 

May tank.

What do you mean there's

A rape in next street?

What do you mean 

Three people died due to

Potholes this week?

Bring me a bone-chilling 

Disaster. An epidemic.

Bring me a recession.

At least a genocide or 

Plane crash with at least 

Hundred deaths.

Till it doesn't come up

In bold letters, heinous 

Graphic and an amped-up

Voice of a sold-out

Prime time anchor..

It's not news.

Not for me at least.

Suicides due to bullying. 

Child labour in a factory.

The broken roof of a

School in the village.

A dalit stone pelted--

How dare you expect me

To waste ounce of my

Sympathy on petty issues?

Give me a sex racket with

At least 200 minors involved.

Bring me a cave collapse 

With 100 trapped inside.

A train crash, a gas leak.

Better-- a pandemic.

Till the TV anchors and

Social media algorithms

Don't take up a pickaxe

To dig out my chest-

It's not news enough.

To damn with domestic 

Violence next door.

To damn with the cylinder 

Blast in the next street.

To damn with the honour 

Killing in the next village.

I've my Woofers On to 

Tone it all down for me and 

As of now I'm curious about 

What Jeffrey Dahmer does

In the next episode of

His Netflix series.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

He rubs a pinch of tobacco
In his palm and claps out
The coarse chaff.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
Puts the tobacco in his
Mouth. It's midnight.

He rubs, claps, and puts it
In his mouth and abuses
My mom at night.
Clap, clap, clap in the
Dead of the night.

It's 3.15 in the morning.
The sound, slashing
The fierce dark.
Piercing through the sleep
Of mine.

Piercing through my skin.
A cold knife down my spine.
It's a masterclass on
How you ruin a young
Lad's life.

I hear my mom trying to
Hide her sobs.
In the morning, she
Looks away and doesn't
Look me in the eye.

It's sad that no one
Intervenes. It's sad days
Become years like that.

Clap, clap, clap in the
Dead of the night.
Tobacco should cause
Cancer.
But why hasn't it yet?

And thirty years go by.
My brother says how
He still grows weary upon
Hearing those claps.
I do too.

The trauma doesn't pass.
So doesn't my dad.
We go on carrying a
Broken glass in our bellies.
And clap, clap, clap..
It churns our insides
Every other night.

Baba of Undies

My friend left his underwear 

In my penthouse.

I'd to use it to clean my bike.

He cracked a good deal 

At his company after that 

And got sponsored for 

A free Bangkok trip.

After a year, another friend 

Did the same. I'd put

The cloth to some use.

His business boomed too.

The word got around and

Suddenly all my friends 

And their friends paid a visit 

To leave their undies in

My house and everyone's 

Fortune turned.

Did I just become an

Underwear baba? 

Beats me but

People started visiting.

Sometimes, I had to 

Symbolically clean stuff with 

Their undies and they did

Well in life after that.

Then came the skeptics

A professor, a journalist,  

A man with a clipboard.  

They left nothing behind,  

To check my validity.  

Their stocks plummeted.  

Their lovers left.

One man misplaced  

His entire career.  

Now they, too, return,  

Sheepish, contrite,  

Holding their offerings  

Like wilted flowers.  

I nod. Accept the fabric 

Fate has woven.  

At this point,  

Who am I to question it?  

When divinity passes

Through you to lead a creed.

You accept the prophecy

To happily become a 

Baba of Undies.

Stink

You meet someone online.

Talk for days, fall in love.

Discuss dirty stuff and

Get naked on screen.

You fight, you argue 

You figure it out and fall

In love more fiercely to

Shag each other on video 

For months.

You then fall apart. Breakup. 

You just close the screen 

And there's an eternal divide.

Moving on seems easy-

But it gets to you.

Heart is heart, and you get

Frozen in a period of time.

You miss her eternally.

Her face, her eyes.

Hair, skin, bare bust 

And the way she touched 

Her crotch-

You imagine the way she

Would have touched you.

But how can you?

Touch is what you're

Most deprived.

This two-dimensional love..

The deprivation it came with.

It haunts you.

You shag yourself in

Her memory for years.

Her face fades. Letter by

Letter her name fades.

And one day it hits you.

She remains only in what

You can smell.

She's fused in the smell of 

Your semen with a hint of 

Urine.

What else could have 

Filled the vacuum?

Maybe that's the smell

Of all the hopeless romance.

Maybe it isn't.

Maybe it would have been 

Different if you had

Held her hand once.

Maybe be this is loneliness. 

Maybe that's how a 

Break up stinks.

Maybe that's how a

A touch-deprived story is

Supposed to end.

Maybe that's how 

Best of memories smell.

Maybe you never know.

Maybe that's why you

Take things in hand 

And do it again.

And maybe... that's why 

Everything goes on 

Smelling the same.

The first time I knew I was alive

When you cut a newspaper in
A square and place a bow and
Arrow across two ends diagonally.

And paste the ends well with the
Rice paste prepared by mom.
You get a skeleton of a kite.

Then you poke two holes at
The junction of the bow and arrow.
And two holes parallely down-

You pass a thread across the
Holes- double the diagonal length
Of the kite.

Pull it out at the posterior end
To tie together the entire structure
To balance the centre of gravity-

You would need a reel-thread
From mom's sewing machine to
Set the kite in its course.

And for the first time, when
My kite soared high, it was
The first time I knew I was alive.