Friday, February 7, 2014

Where’s the Kala Ghoda?

Every itch-cock behaved like a Hitchcock,
Every pelvis a wannabe Elvis,
Vaginas with no less share of monologues
and knee-deep cleavage,
hopped, stopped at every chunky counter,
picked the card, and fucked off!!
Art was just a fart.

Hippies went local,
Locals went high on focal,
Shallow faces hidden behind geek glasses,
blind people trying to pedicure masses,
water was there, the current was missing,
Installations seemed student P.J. of Sir J.J.
abuse of the word ‘muse’.

‘Where’s the Kala Ghoda?’ many asked as usual
‘removed way back in 65’ an oldie hinted
but with every passing year nobody noticed
an old world was slowly leaving its shore.

Sunday, November 24, 2013


Moon had stopped reflecting the light from the sun. Trees were waiting with bated breath to begin their photosynthesis process. Even the dewdrops had finished their job of silently staining the earth. However, the room still wore its nightly shade. It looked like a dungeon- like a womb- like the underneath of a bed that was refrained from getting exposed to light.

Suddenly the bell rang, cruelly shaking the soul of every particle.

He woke-up with a jolt. His night’s jerking didn’t do much trouble with any laid thing other than his dreams, but this sudden jerk didn’t share the same story. In this instance, the bedside table became the casualty. It toppled, making all things on it get wings for a little of a second. The unlit lamp, the milk glass, and the rose- all took the floor as their new dwelling.

“Preposterous!” he screamed, his voice reaching the ceiling fan and whirling back at him.

 He took a few blind steps, crushing the rose on his way, and opened the door.

The light entered, quickly colonizing every region it could.

A native woman, revealing a deep valley underneath her transparent sari, was standing with a letter in her hand. Stealing a look of him submerged in her tempestuous depths, she shyly managed to recall her purpose of visit. She quickly pushed the letter in his hand, and made an abrupt exit. But not before dropping a sweat in her cleavage and putting a smile on her face. And why wouldn’t she? Arousing Nehru wasn’t an every day affair. Atleast not for her.       

He closed the door, cancelled the darkness, sat on the edge of the bed, and brushed his thumb on the initials on the letter- Lady Mountbatten. For that moment, the wetness on his stained dhoti suddenly led a newfound life.  A smirk, trimming of the nose & ear hair, oiling the eyebrows, and other romantic essentials took the better of him.


Some few miles away, in another room, the night had no cousin called morning.  There were a few distant siblings like power and greed, but they came-by in a masqueraded avatar. Such, that their presence or absence could never be certified.

The set of rooms adjoining our protagonist’s room could easily be an inspiration for an Edgar Allen Poe’s next piece. But for the moment, the possessor of this abode was our main contention of thought. Not that Poe is of any lesser significance, but then this place was called Jinnah’s House.   

Like the name, the exterior, the interior, anterior, posterior, and every weir, carried a peculiar, austere, and a given and taken autonomous feel. Here, life had so much sedated, that recognition had given way to a set of virtues that only a numb mind could fathom.

It was a quixotic scene.  Jinnah was inspecting that dot of dirt on his fingernail on the hand that was holding the scotch. Inspection was just an excuse. Just a few minutes back, a letter was dropped on his door. Not that letters were an unwelcome, but one with Gandhi’s initials was a source of happenstance. The tone of the letter was so full of humble and apologetic undercurrents that anyone opposed to the thought would forever take the pages of history as a bad guy. Gandhi was thus, a khadi wearing snake. An error of birth. A subject-verb agreement blunder. And no amount of personification, no amount of text, could describe the animosity which Jinnah carried for him.


Letters. Depict. Emotions. It is a workaholic carrier. Of a scent. A romance. A fume. A rage. A beginning. An end.  It can easily be flown and be shredded, and used to pronounce fate. It’s always been a token of destruction- be it good or bad. And the more you want from it, the less you get from it. Satisfaction, was never a letter’s cousin. 

Saturday, December 15, 2012


While I had it…
like a beautiful poem I cherished it

The longer it grew on the outside
its roots only strengthened me inside

I stroked it, it stroked me
its raw presence, unmade me

It nourished me like an umbilical chord
that cutting it indeed choked me

Parting ways didn’t take to grieving
not that a certain ‘ghost of bard’ had left me

But it made me look like a boy again
boy o boy, a la Siddharth Sanghvi maybe

Still can’t say whether its absence
has deterred me,  or made me less of me

But while it was with me
it made me love me.

Friday, November 9, 2012


I sugarcoated
I bootlegged
I elbowpushed
but am still falling in a deep abyss 

I went crimson
I went ashen
I went amorphous
only to be left with more baggages

I heard voiceless forms
I wrote with an inkless pen
I bartered my soul
but maybe destiny loves me in other ways

Friday, July 27, 2012


Liquid soul.. a mouthful of water.. and a pack of sticks to go by.
The Guwahati paradox, the James Holmes black humour,
and butting upon the known-unknown memoir of Kaka.

The human form of happiness and depression…
the creation of a self-made abyss and search for a way out,
search for a satire, learn and lean onto others depression,
and get carried way into a land of pain and hunger.

The teeth for violence, randomness and voyeurism…
no iron to hold, no words to calm,
The rise of the uncalled you. The unbecoming of you.

Sunday, April 8, 2012

Dimag ka jhumroo


Arz kiya hai

Arz kiya hai, ADVANI ji
ab aap hume bye-bye bas keh hi dijiye

ADVANI ji ab aap hume bye-bye bas keh hi dijiye
aur aapke ‘ram ram’ ke aakhri morche mein…

(clearing my throat…)

(high pitch)
ADVANI ji… aur aapke ‘ram ram’ ke aakhri morche mein
Uss RAM JETHMALANI ko bhi saath mein le lijiye…

(a yell)
ADVANI ji… aur aapke ‘ram ram’ ke aakhri morche mein
Uss RAM JETHMALANI ko le lijiye saath mein!
Ek atal satya hai ye!

(a whisper) 
Bhai kisiko pata hai uss ATAL BIHARI ka kya hua?


(People.. thoda motivate karo.. say ‘Irshad)
Ab ‘satya’ ki baat karen
toh kya kahen

Ab ‘satya’ ki baat karen
toh kya kahen…


…SHOBHAA ji ab aap bhi
bas likh-likh ke hamari lena chod digiye

SHOBHAA ji ab aap bhi
bas likh-likh ke hamari lena chod digiye…

(a yell)

(a whisper) 
Ekdum BHAGAT bana doge kya?!


(a high pitch statement)
Ab yeh agli baat pe koi vandalize mat karna

(with a smile in voice)
…kise achi nahin lagti

(biting my tongue)
bhai, galti se sahi baat muh par aagayi!!!
Mein toh eknumber ka sustad hu!!!

Chutti kise achi nahin lagti…
BALASAHEB… aap ke siva hamara hai hi kaun…

BALASAHEB… aap ke siva hamara hai hi kaun…
aap ke siva Maharashtra Bandh hame dega kaun

(a yell)
Kisiki majal?!

(High pitch)
BALASAHEB… aap ke siva hamara hai hi kaun…
aap ke siva Maharashtra Bandh hame dega kaun

(a whisper)
Koi hai itne badi PRATIBHA?!

Friday, March 23, 2012

Chaos Reigns


Pretentious runway… funny larva… adulterated gossip… some fake smiles… even bigger faking laughs… crocodile tears… big mouths… small hands… cathartic emotions sold for perishable ambitions… erectile dysfunction … elastic marks or meaningless ideologies… sometimes everything is going good and then there is this ‘but’ which makes you feel like a ‘butt’… and then there are days when you consider public as pubic and want to get rid of everything… words get broken without your knowledge ‘therapist’ to ‘the rapist’… and even writing seems a big farce… the biggest falsity on earth… ridden by artificiality… like a mole.. like a motley… like a molten lava… each having a meaning.. but without a sentence it has no meaningful living… and then you go dream… and they turn into nightmares… like you like beer and you are thrown into a barrel of beer and made to drink till you die… the keyboard then gets typed on its own.. the words fill the pages on its own.. the letter gets printed on its own… the message gets passed on its own… and everything then starts living on its own without the need of any human existence… the material starts living then.. a scarlet day… broken hopes… speech chord vanished… pixilated existence… nobody to decipher… Arrested Thinking. 

The curse of the killing noise in the veil of silence

The sin of the blazing sun… it shined in a peaceful cup… enlightened for a while… made the mind wander… glitter… free… before drugging it to a burning eternity. Like fire burning water. One form getting decomposed by another. Wind. Earth. Just mere spectators. Men like hay sticks just fueling the process of death. Crimson colour. Black vomit. White soul. The cry bearable. A vacuum of sound bottled. Outside disappeared. Inside ballooning up. Particles multiplying. And in an usher killing them all. Killing every, each and all. Waiting for new particles to come to existence which will never come. But it will wait. Wait in that lullaby of noise. Patiently. Eating its own churns. Drinking its own fluid. Giving rise to violent thoughts. Exempt from any explanation.   

The lungs of restlessness

Sound waves like blades are cutting through my cells… entering those crevices… which had closed eons ago. Then, it was an orifice of abolishment... a cave of nudity that had nothing but autonomy… Everything could just lie there… be silent, be broken… be esoteric… be. Nothing to hide from any one… no matter… no mass… only one religion… that of flesh and blood could be together. It couldn’t be taken from you by any force. No faces with desires… no figures.. no emotions… like water running in a perennial river… there is a definite flow... a beautiful truth of purity it is… like the billions of years ago there was a reality.. all believable and no moot. Its eyewitnesses still existed in some form.. and if you are naked.. it will take you in with you. Peace.   

(Title credit- The Fox Scene from the movie ANTICHRIST)