Hundreds at a Moment

Every morning when I wake up

I see—

just another day in the run.

And even before I

open my eyes

the start-gun has fired

I miss it, and,

I miss it every day.

When I get on the streets

there are people running everywhere.

Perhaps they have heard the gun,

perhaps they have a head start,

perhaps they are happy to be ahead.

But when I pass besides them,

in my slow, sleepy gait

I see them sad and gloomy

tired in the morning

and dead in the evening.

They’re all walking (as it seems)

but actually dragging sacks of burden,

that does not seem to be there

but, they know it is there,

and I know it is there.

Then I look at myself,

at my feet

that follow these men

in haste and chase;

at my hands, that push them

and make space for my chest.

At my head that has long back

stopped thinking and acting wise

but only following where the crowd goes.

I think for a moment, I am trapped

or that I am wrong

but, then I see

hundreds of them doing the same shit

and I wonder—

how could hundreds at a moment be ever wrong?

Lost In The Darkness

LOST in the darkness
I had LOST my pen

A cigarette in my hand, but,
that too had LOST its light.

The matchbox also LOST somewhere
and thus no scope to smoke-up some more.

I LOOKED beneath the bed
and I LOOKED above the cupboard
I also LOOKED near the basin,
kept that cigarette aside, and,
LOOKED in my pockets too.

Nowhere I found my pen.

Then I found the matchbox
and picked up the cigarette
from where I left it.

Oh! I  realized,
it was my pen.

I come, I come. Unstoppable I come

A long, endless road
and an awaited destination;
few beloveds there
and a sweetheart, waiting,
to see the first sight of
the face that marks their dawn.
They await in anticipation, with,
...plates waiting to be shared
...gossips in hold to start
...and hugs that would break the long gaps.

Here I go, here I go...
I go North, against the rivers
and, through these mountains
on swirls and treks
not surrendering to the winter chills
and the cold that bites my fingertips.

I see through the dense fog, and,
across the blue skies,
there-
on that mountaintop
somewhere besides that temple
is my final stop.

I go, I go...
Suppressing my upset stomach
and tolerating my expanding bladder
that urge to pull a drag
and to drink a little wine.

For there is my beloved,
who awaits in hunger
imagining my shaved smooth face
and, recalling my scent;
there she is, thinking of me,
UNSTOPPABLY.

I go, unstoppable I go...
in miles per hour that's far more than
what she warns me to exceed,
and drifting bends which she,
wants me to not climb.

But, I violate,
all her expectations, and,
make my own rules
for, I am desperate to see her too
and hear her bangles chime
her smooth affectionate touch
and those kisses, which would greet me.

I am tickled with memories,
and hungry with love.
I little dizzy with hope
and green with memories.

I come, I come..
unstoppable I come,
through these mountains
and by the river side,
steering the fog, and killing the frost;

I come, I come...
Unstoppable I come,

Oh! Dear Mom, here I come.

I Was a Pervert

Hey Reader,

whoever You are,

I know you have got this letter

along with the diary.

Which means I am no where around to hide it anymore.

This diary,

it has been my most precious collection.

It has my plans, and,

many dirty secrets,

a few nude sketches,

bad fantasies and a lot of vulgar poetry.

Let not the world read it, for they will judge me.

And, let not my girlfriend find it, for,

she will judge me even more.

 

She is one from whom I have hidden it the most.

 

If you open the next page, though you shouldn't,

I have called her a beloved there.

But, it is just to flatter her, so that,

she feels good reading it,

and gets lost in sweet thoughts, forgetting,

to turn the pages ahead.

It isn't that I haven't loved her, but,

that what she didn't want me to do, I couldn't stop.

You see, I have my own passions.

Coming back, I say, keep this diary,

as far away from humankind as possible.

There are 51 sketches, and 52 poems.

And each poem talks about the sketch,

but you would call me a pervert seeing them, just as she used to.

when I drew sketches on the wall and my desk.

But, it isn't the case.

You see that is art, the fineness of my imagination mostly.

It takes time to think and then draw, how could you call it bad?

It stinks when you accuse me. Your breath, I mean.

That is what I had felt coming from her, too.

And so, I haven't let her find this diary, ever.

Coming to that 52nd sketch

It was her, which I never felt like doing up.

Because I knew,

someday, someone else would be holding on to this book.

And how could I let her stand there in its pages,

NAKED

in someone else's hands.

You, see,

she was right.

I was a pervert.

Just, another social pervert.

One Line Stories

◆ Amidst the hooting crowd, someone said, "There comes the Police."

◆ Just when he picked up the lyrics a string of his guitar broke.

◆ When he had lost all hopes of living, his wife messaged him, "You are about to become a Dad."

◆ In middle of the night when he finished a horror movie, he heard a knock on the door.

◆ The journey was smooth, until he suffered a puncture just one kilometer before his destination.

◆ As he dropped a wasteful 50p coin in her hands, she said, "May God give you all the fortune in the world."

◆ "My son is in a critical condition, please give the medicines, I'll pay you tomorrow." But he refused.

◆ The angry mob was advancing towards him with sticks and stones, when the boy intervened, "It was my mistake."

◆ She came in shining whites, only to discover him lay dead in a pool of red.

◆ She weighed herself, to discover a whooping 250gms less.

◆ He served sweets with a tempting palate; he was diagnosed diabetic yesterday.

◆ On his first day in a new city he met his kindergarten teacher.

◆ As they shared their first kiss in an orchard, a Nightingale sang in joy.

◆ He was utterly disturbed when his dog came and licked his toes.

◆ Just when he was about to sign off his suicide letter, the pen stopped.

◆ He asked for a tank-full of fuel and found his wallet missing.

◆ He finally said "I love you," to his step mother.

◆ The new office desk had seven names scribbled on it.

◆ He wore a torn shirt and unmatched shoes.

◆ The rag picker looked at the mannequin with greedy eyes.

◆ The farmer looked at his barren fields, and then at the cloudless sky.

◆ Two blocks away, he shined the mirror in her eyes.

◆ They got engaged after a much debated inter-caste affair.

◆ She said she loved him, with all her heart.

◆ She finally asked him to bring her a rose, and he uprooted a tree.

◆ He kissed her gently on the forehead while she slept, picked up his luggage and left with a heavy heart.

◆ She smiled when they bumped.

I Thought It Would Be Good to Grow-up

I thought...

it would be fun,

and more fun as the days would pass.

That there would be wisdom to share, and,

things to tell.

That, times would change, and we'd be respected, and asked

about things of our glorious past,

that we had left behind.

I thought...

it would be good someday,

to finally pass-out of this boring school

and enter graduation.

Then there would be, no dress-code and homework.

I thought...

Riding bikes and driving cars would be fun,

at least, you could go

wherever you would wish to.

And that there would be this gentle breeze,

telling you, of,

your bizarre freedom.

And this long road,

calling to eternity.

I thought...

there would be no end,

to freedom.

And that, money would no more come in bits and chunks.

So, badly I had waited to grow up.
To face this day, and live in reality.

And, when it all happened,

it just killed the fun.

It came as bad as haunting,

and clung like a stain,

harsh like cough,

and ugly like rags.

It demanded what not,

and when not?

All these years...

I had watered this tree,

with hopes so deep.

And now the fruit,

came so small and sour.

Leave aside, those,

thoughts of sharing wisdom,

life in itself has been so confusing.

There's no clue where I am

heading to.

The past, no one asks of it, but,

me. Me alone.

I miss it, and see the kids living it,

so badly I envy them, and,

wish I could tell them- that youth is a trap.

Approach slow, and take your time,
take some more if you'd like to
but,
DO NOT HURRY.

There was nothing good to pass-out of school,

rather,

the goodness just ended there.

No better friends I made ever since,

and so cruel has life been,

that the ones I had left behind

are getting married one-by-one.

Of cars and bikes,

I am nothing, but tired.

wish I had known, that,

there would be only commutes and traffic-jams,

red-lights and intersections.

Those long roads and open drives, were,

I believe

only things to say.

Freedom and money, 

today I realize, are bad love-rivals,

One comes for the cost of other,

and never they stay together.

And when one leaves, it pulls back the other too.

I thought...

it would be fun ahead.

Growing-up would be

sweet and soothing.

But to my surprise, life had

lemons and thorns in waiting.

Not SWEET, not SOOTHING

but SOUR and PRICKING.

When I am Silent, I Have Thunder Hidden Inside Me

There isn't much that I can tell about myself,
not to you, at least.

In you, I count them as well...
PEOPLE,
who else.

They're bastards!
Yes, all of them.

Oh! No, no! Not you. (Wink!)

I see you smile, is that your guilt?

You know you're bad too,
that you've back-bitched me
and envied me,
those heels I wore, you stared at them so bad and ugly
and that dress, let me not talk about it.

But you see, we're besties,
and ever smiling, at least,
when we're together.

Once back-turned, I guess you're the one who changes,
for I've never been that bad.

Not for you, at least. (Wink!)

I see you doubt that!

Then, hell with your doubts,
and, let me put it straight, for-
I must have never said it before,

so, here it comes:

Dear Sweetheart,
Those days you remember,
the pink nights at hostel,
drunk you would overturn
on my cozy bed and pass
your bad stink to my dear teddy.

Sober in the morning, I'd have to serve you
lemonade.
And you would dare to ask me for
a tablespoon of extra sugar.
Then you would use my soap,
and leave your puked shirt,
on the floor.

I wish that would be the end,
but, Satan be you- how could you
stop at so low?
You'd fry my eggs and spread that jam,
leave behind a heap of dishes,
and hip-hop away, with a tilted-head and a waving bye!

All I'd do would smile in, with some relief and much disgust.

Better be it, that I chose to be numb,
for my rage would have turned,
scarier than your worst hangover.
But, for the times ahead,
I hope you realize,

that true it is, often I let go things with a smiling face,
transfixed and quiet,
but that is when the biggest tornadoes happen,
for,
when I am silent, I have thunder inside me.

Lovingly Yours,
Always!

(Wink again!)

On a Busy Highway, I Parked on the Fastest Lane

As today,

I find it awkward to do many a things,
that I used to do years back;

Like riding a bicycle, with my hands off the
handlebar,
or a skateboard through a cheering crowd,
or whistling in a movie hall.

Though nothing has changed much,
the places are same- old and familiar,
the seasons known and soothing, too.
But all that makes the difference is
a group of friends who've gone lethargic
and,
these gray hair that have suddenly outgrown my black crop.
The skin is wrinkled like crumpled paper,
and the joints are shaky and unreliable.

From raw sugarcanes,
I've gone to porridge.
And, from football to monopoly.
I mean, that isn't exactly my taste;
it had never been so tamed and sitting,
but, these children
they drag me in saying,
"Grandpa! Grandpa!"

How do I refuse them,
they're good company in my loneliness
who don't ask for favors other then
a few stories from time to time, which I boast
with my skills of the youth.

The older one is 21, and he
has made his own circle.
He rarely stops by me.
I see in him, my good old days
running and hurrying, shouting and clapping.
Only sometimes to demand money,
he makes an appearance
and then with that money,
he is gone all again,
for a week at least.

Sitting amongst these walls,
staring at myself on the mirror
I often go back to my past,
those carefree days, that beautiful youth.
Where there were girls and bikes,
cars and casinos,
friends and trips,
steep slopes and hilltops.

And just then,
this sudden realisation
that you're standing ahead of 70 years.
I do not remember crossing them,
at least
not
SEVENTY TIMES.

Then when did it happen?
I mean it was just yesterday-
When on a busy highway, I parked on the fastest lane
just to check my luck.

...and see, I survived.

Of Everyone's Kind

It is four nights past new year
and this is my first writing.

It is 2k17, and I will be 27 in two months.
There are not
many regrets that I carry
but some explanations that I seek from my own self,
which I believe are of everyone's kind:

1. Am I late in my pursuit?
2. Why do I feel it now?
3. Should people around me also ask themselves the same question?
4. Why does their asking really matter to me?

All my life, till now,
I have been bothered by people.

By their thinking,
and their talks
BULLSHIT, what they call it.

And their presence, I mean HAUNTING.

It is not me who sticks to pleasing them,
and not just my friends too,
but EVERYONE.

I wonder WHY?

As if...
they will help
or, they would lend
or, they would weep.
None.

But, they would talk
and judge...

for reasons not known to them,
and, for seasons not known till when.

We hold the wheels, but they hold the brakes
we wear shoes, and they tie them together
to not let us run.

Some, still do-
and fall at once,
but up they get
...and keep rolling ahead.

Far, far, far away they go
propelled by farts of hatred, like rockets with fire

and these judges

are by them left behind
to smell the stink and
not bother again.

Two Men Were Lost in a Jungle

Two men were lost in a jungle.

And no one,
bothered to ask of them
in the village or home
or places elsewhere- where they

had
often frequented.

They just disappeared,
with no trace.

There were no rumors
that took place
behind their back,

like, the oldies saying,
"The Tiger must have eaten them,"

or the aunties, gossiping,
"They must have starved to death."

or,

"Oh! Poor they, God knows in what state they would be."

Neither the village Chanakyas,

who were extra vigilant and

sheer detectives

comment anything,

nor did their children ask

"Where were they?"

It seemed, as if,

it was a conspiracy; 

which, it wasn't, though.

Even, their wives were happy

and not bothered,

nor worried

they seemed to be

...simply unaware

and relaxed.

For the days they had been missing,

there were no night-fights heard,

...no abuses!

...no utensils clattering,

...or, children sobbing.

...or villagers coming to complaint. 

Things were somehow in order, and,

in peace,

and everyone's FINGERS WERE CROSSED.

At 11, Everyday

There.

Right over there.

By that pillar

she will show up at 11.

There are ten minutes to go.

Maybe,

she comes out to sit after finishing her chores

or,

after watching some serial,

or perhaps, she is just punctual

to not miss

the passing sun,

that stops on her veranda for an hour.

She sits with a book,

or sometimes with peas

that she peels for lunch,

probably,

and remains engrossed in her work.

So beautiful she seems,

to notice nothing else

and 

remain unaware of the dozen eyes

that stare her from

down the street,

and up these balconies.

Those big eyelashes

that she constantly shutters

and sometimes lift,

I love the black that contrasts

on those big white eyes

and,

that big-dark

maroon bindi

that pulls all the attention

like the BOLD FONT

on MS-Word.

It aches my heart,

to see her discomfort,

tears rolling down her eyes

when she chops those cruel onions.

But, again...

I love-

the grace by which she wipes them off

with the back

of her wrist,

and gets back to work with

a deep breath.

It swells her chest,

and then she exhales

in a whistle-

circling those lips

in a perfect O.

And then half-an-hour later,

approximately,

she opens her pun

and frees her hair to

oil her scalp;

So

devilish she looks

with that black mascara, big bindi

and open hair.

Gently, with those fragile fingers

she tickles her head-

cautious to not dig her nails

in.

In little jerks and shakes,

she controls her hair

from falling on her face.

Then at last,

as she gets up

with her hands winding the pun

the drape falls off her shoulder

revealing the low-cut blouse,

and

her white breasts.

That is when the boys hiss,

from the balconies around

some clap to themselves in excitement

and others pause

whatever they're doing,

and 

NOTICE.

I have seen the joy

see takes in

putting the show,

day and day again.

Her eyes speak of mischief,

and gestures of teasing.

She prentends to be unaware,

but, I have seen her

days and many-a-days, 

spy the onlookers 

from the corner of her eyes.

Then,

Boldly she

puffs a curl of hair

that falls again-and-again

from behind the ear, gets up,

and marches back inside

in long strides

wobbling and tempting

the entire B-block.

Oh!

...and there she comes,
to put the show

in a yellow saree today.

The Balconies

It was a routine.

Every Sunday
she mopped the house,
wiped the floors
and washed the balconies.

And in-between
she would accuse
me of laziness
and
absolute lack of help.

"At least fetch me that bucket,"
or
"Put that phone aside and get me the broom."

Sometimes this,
...and sometimes that
her caustic remarks
would never stop.

"Let me do it,"
if I'd say
she wouldn't allow me, by saying,
"There's no finishing in your work,"
or, "Let it be, you increase my workload."

Such, it has been...
for years unstoppably
and all my complaints and offerings
have gone to vain
TILL DATE.

So, today on her birthday
which luckily is on a Sunday
I
have decided
to wash the balconies for her,
and to prove
MY WORTH.

She'd be finally happy,
and live a day of rest.

The bucket when I lift it, I realize-
is heavy for her muscular strength
and the water is cold
to her sensitivity, yet she does it
so let me too.

One, two, three, four and then
the fifth
five buckets of water
I splashed on the balcony.

Everywhere, wherever I could.

There was so much dust
on the railings and the plinth
the floor was
Brown with a layer of mud
and her fallen hair everywhere in circles and loops.

Then I saw the window panes,
dirty they were too.

Unwashed for centuries.

"These women," I said to myself
"do little and shout more. Such blunt ignorance. See."

And there I splashed a mug-full of water
that came dripping down the panes.

Besides the window, was the door.
Dirty and dusty too.
And,
above it the ventilator.

"Have you ever washed anything other than the floor of this balcony?"
I roared, as the haughty working man.

It was time she noticed, the loopholes
and stop patting
herself on everything.

"These windows, when did you wash them last?"

"And, come here see this door, how..."

"STOP YOU IDIOT. YOU HAVE FLOODED MY ROOM."

And there was silence again,
between the two of us
and in those turn of events
I became the suppressed,
and she the dominant, which,
I hadn't yet realized.

So in continuation, i spoke,
rather justified...

"They were really dirty and I swear..."

"OH SHUT UP. YOU COULDN'T EVEN SPARE ME SOME LOAD
ON MY BIRTHDAY."

Judgemental

That day...
the one when I had first met you

or, to say,
when we had first met
each other

I JUDGED YOU.

with your appearance
and unpolished boots
those long hair
and imperfect English.

I remember you had said,
you come from a nuclear family
and that,
you hated your uncles.

I judged you on
...whatever you spoke
and,
...the way you behaved

you slanged a beggar
and spat on the wall
then scratched your balls
and dug your nose.

You ate with those hands,
later.

Anyways,
let aside everything.

My point
is
not to blame
or shame you.

But,
there is one thing that bothered me,
why did you say-

"Girls should not wear short dresses."

You should not say that.
It
turns you
J U D G E M E N T A L.

Try Again Someday

Across the street
there she stood, as always.

Five years have passed
and I am just noticing her
yesterday, today and
in the coming tomorrows.

She comes,
and goes and returns
back
after her eight hour shift;

I, in the meantime...

sit, walk and smoke
and speak those three
half-a-decade old lines in my mind.

There I almost convince her, and
lead her to our first date.

But, the moment...

WHEN I SEE HER

I find myself
struggling with tornadoes, hurricanes and volcanoes.

The insides swirl, twist and erupt, but,
what should have- doesn't.

A little smile, embarassed-on-the-self type curves
which in itself is so poor, that-
it attracts only
her piteous awe.

Of all things, there are two that I often think:
1. Has it really been 5 years of cowardice?
2. Is she the bigger fool or I?

Today, it is new year's day,
...and I will make it-

H.O.P.E.F.U.L.L.Y.

No, POSITIVELY.

YES, D.E.F.I.N.I.T.E.L.Y.

There she comes,
in yellows and blues
and I feel that tickle inside.

A little rat scurrying in my belly
distracting me.
A fly, with its dirty buzzing
somewhere in  my brain-
not letting me recall those lines.
An elephant squeezing my heart, with its giant feet-
I feel suffocated.

STOP I SAY.

SHOO AWAY YOU BASTARDS!

LET ME DO IT TODAY.

Nothing survives, though.

But, the butt...

and I take another drag, as I see her diminish in the stretch.

Her hips shaking in the distance and teasing-

TRY AGAIN SOMEDAY!