Wood, glass and paper

Pictures on the wall

Have a way of falling

Crashing, shattering falling apart

The picture now just sticking out like a sore thumb

Always craving to fall—something

Inherent in them, it’s sharp wooden corners

Keeping the glass together—waiting to fall,

Wanting to break

It’s as if the corners of the room

Were calling each of them,

Lay awake

In their return.

Wood, glass and paper

Come together to protect

And shield,

From the harsh sunlight

That wilts the flower pot

Or the moss that grows in moisture.

But at the end,

It’s something more inherent that kills

What once lay abandoned in an old picture book

Now is gazed with your mortal eye, a reminder

Of days when we had a fireplace

And books to read with

Red sweaters for the season

Socks to keep us warm

And plentiful food for everyone.

Father told him to take the picture

Right before he was leaving

And we stood together, one last time

Waiting for the flash to dull our senses,

And blind our sight,

We waited


we saw the picture in the case.


Living in the belly

Thinking about Ginsberg’s ‘Moloch’ in the Howl.

Moloch no longer smiles in the dark

covered in grimy smoke of the Industrial revolution

does not breathe fiery fumes or

stare in glowing dark.


From far far away, Moloch is a beast. Moloch is ravager.

But now that I live within the beast;

now that beast has consumed me

crushed me under the cushioned seats and

air-conditioned rooms, filled with survivors.


Many have been consumed by it’s savage mouth

And many live withing the belly of the beast

not looking for a weapon to tear it open

and run free, rather sit inside quitely

and meditate in the silence.

LISTEN! to the war horns blaring outside

fires blazing, poverty, political agenda, riots, religious violence

corruption, corruption of the fourth pillar, commercialization, sensationalisation

water shortage, environment pollution, failure of educational systems, dictatorships,


Everything will turn to ashes outisde

engulfed by flames emerging from Moloch’s eyes.


But inside, it is quite unlike–


Except for the sound of clickety-clackety

of keys being hit

bursts into an symphony

that enjoins the silent murmur of people.


Inside the belly,

we live as brothers,

survivors of the flame.

living our cubicled lives

Sheltering from his wrath.







Sacrifice for forgiveness

O! holy poetry

O! blessed one

O! words divine

O! Almighty

Mightier than the mighty

thou created the mightiest.

Forgive me, I am a human

my last confession

was when you left me.


Forgive me that I sold my soul

to the busy-chattering streets

crumbling with maddness

following star-lit advertisemnts

guiding them into the utter hole

of meaningless conversation

and blinded walks.

Forgive me for I have stopped looking

amidst the trampling crowds

that mediate in replication

of ideas and demands

forgive me, that I haven’t torn down the curtain

Of false hopes and dreams–bosom of capitalistic glitter

spread across tall buildings and shapely cubicles.

Forgive me for I have polluted my eyes, my ears

with sounds of meaningless consumption, of eating and drinking

Standing in front of tall flat screens

that reflect images or duplicate identities

of men and women of all sizes

doing things the same way

same time

towards eternity.

Forgive me, I have forgotten your first touch

when every fiber of being wakes into activation

Into a soul condemnation of everything that is not love.

O! holy one you are the only one

forgive me,

permeate me,

sweat, shit and orgasm

through me,

Once again, uplift me

above the clouds

they humble servant

blazing in fire and rain

let me pronounce judgement on the weak souls

that have withered their souls to the urban gods.


Provide me with my daily bread

and amen to you for eternity.

The boy who got married


Sitting on those plush sofas, Naveen stared long at the door. Door that would soon open him to a plethora of human experiences. Behind the door sat a virgin holding a tray of six cups that would tightly seal hi libido inside the confines of her dupatta. Naveen could not stop himself from staring at the door. Even after Sheila walked through the door empty handed, wearing a salvar-kameez, flaunting her shiny, new phone. The blip sound shifted her attention from the looking at her new shoes to her phone. Her hair flopped down to her face covering the radiant beauty that Naveen’s parents were estimating. Was really worth seven lakhs and an i10? Couldn’t Naveen gotten himself a much fairer bride?

In fact, his parents were baffled at how quickly he had agreed to this marriage. They had lined a whole range of wives for him from doctors to artists. But, coincidentally, you may call it fate, Naveen’s father had accidentally put the receptionist’s photo on top. Naveen’s eyes shone like a coal in the furnace as he saw her face. “I want her! I just want her’ exclaimed Naveen before shutting the door to his parents face.

Naveen! Naveen!

Beta, be nice. The girl has come.

As if woken up from a deep dream, Naveen shook his majestic curly hair that bounced around like springs and waves. He was now staring at her breasts, as she laid down the cups. He began to blush and she gave him a stern look. That look he was familiar with. He had gotten that several times trying to catch glances at strangers walking by. Sometimes, he would get away but sometimes his eyes wandered for a while; as if he was searching for something—Freud would probably say that he was looking for his mother.

(Reader must note here that any mention of Freud in this context and after this, is a sole creation of the writer’s imagination of the oedipal complex. It has nothing to do with the actual Freud.)

Naveen’s mother felt like there was too much silence in the room.  Pushing words out through her lipstick greased lips, she asked “Beti, how much percentage did you score in grad school?”

This question raised both out eyebrows in a utter disgust for the woman who said it. A unitary motion that to millennials could only mean generation gap. A unitary movement of muscles twitching and accumulated hair above eyes forming an alert cat’s back. Arched like a wedding arch with white roses and shiit., Back in the city, I would say we shared a moment, And a moment meant something in our world. It was destinty, that corny-cheesy movie Serendipity and a whole load of red-roses, valentine bullshit. But, it meant something—a kiss, maybe sex, maybe even a good relationship that lasts for six months.

I was clueless with her, Did those rules apply even here where young and vibrant signals of 3G signals cannot penetrate the thick walls of  arecanut trees?  Was she aware of these city codes? Maybe, women in these parts are aware of it, maybe not. I didn’t want to be called a sexist even in my head, so I decided to concentrate on the crispy banana fritters (Parzham-pori as they call in Malayalam) that now stained that pristine white napkins, Now, don’t argue with me. White is always pristine. Angels, alter boys, cassocks, candle and the whole churchy shebang. Reaching out for the big piece, my hands collided with my father’s hands; that were also trying to grab the same piece. I dropped it immediately and like a rugby player he leaped forward and the caught it before it landed the plate. He savoured it like a warrior and then gave me a taste of it by seductively rubbing the sides of his lips; taking in the last crumb.

Naveen resumed staring at the door. I think Naveen would have stared at the door even if he saw his grandfather take a leak. He wasn’t really in this domain. Not some Dr Stranger level of transcendence just floating through his thoughts. The words ‘What am I doing’ came to his lips.

Naveen was sitting in the comfort of his blue-chequered boxers and watching a random youtube clip when he heard a knock on the door. It was his landlord asking for his rent. Steering through used clothes and alcohol bottles, Naveen picked up a pair of jeans hanging on the chair and put them on, He grabbed the rent money, opened the door, faced his angry landlord and shoved it in his hand. As the landlord left with a grunt, Naveen slammed the door shut.

Now, returning to his solitude as he head his landlord’s foothsteps  recede, Naveen opened an ingonito window, Typed the words ‘gay porn’ into the search bar and waited for the results to load in. He could see a faint reflection of his face in the screen behinds the barrage of pictures that showed men doing quite delightful things to each other. He ran t to the mirror and stared at his receding hair line. He realized at that moment he would also join with his bald-headed/ negligent haired  uncles’s group soon.

He returned to stare at those pictures of the plumber who does not know what he is doing with a spanner in his hand or the tutor who looks blankly at the mathematics textbook. Naveen lost interest and returned to watching youtube clips.

Taste of depression

Sometimes, oftentimes,

When I talk

To myself

I wonder what it tastes like–

Like bitter, starchy tea

With no sugar

Or like poison on your

Lips–burning body and life,

–or is it like sitting in mother’s kitchen, windows shut, smoke filling in.

What color do I breathe?

Or has the pesticide man arrived

Killing every living being

Flying and walking

Deadening grey cell matters

Unprotected by a defenseless cranium.

But what do you really taste like

Or smell like–you have been

A defaulter renting my attic

I should be more familiar

Are you me?

Like a Marquez novel,

The one with the Colonel
And the chicken

My throat feels

Covered in vines, ferns

And thorns–is that

Why I bleed?

A dark brown pleghm

Turns crimson– leaving

Red dotted tinge

In the middle.


There is something dark that overshadows the mellow fields.

It feels cloudy.

No, it’s not going to rain–

Mother cried last night

The wash basin was overflowing

I need a ghost buster

In this ghosted town

Where the wind sings to the trees

And the trees shrug back,

I see, I forsee,

Slash and burn

And picking up the remains

Looking into the pot of ashes

For hope.

Silence of the Nature

A dimly lit square room

Light peeking through the foggy glassed-windows

Crumby bed playing the song of eternity

Of breathing and masturbating,

Into the silences of the nights

In harmony with the multitude of unseen

Chirping insects and animals grazing into the nightly dew

That lie shaken at the sound of the flutter of underwear flying off

And hands greasing into a the hand of a heroin addict

Working the shovel, digging and unhinging

New and untouched graves of souls that died

Into the chemical imprint of films, cut and edited

With breast and vaginas calling like cocks and balls crying

For everything that came from dust must return to dust.

Dust covered,

Swollen gentilia

Dug hard into the red dust

Causing irritating and painful friction

Ants crawling and biting into the stalk

Of ripe green juicy paddy

Releasing new spurts of rashes

All across my body

The strong yet lean stems of the arecanut

Draw taller; their roots flying deeper and deeper

Their leaves spreading into the night sky

Shooting, looking at the skies

Into the whiteness of the moon.

The last shriek, last moan

engraved into the Rustling of sheets.