Monday, December 12, 2011


Sitting on the pyre of suns, moons and stars, I saw enlightenment.
Like a sati, I offered my living to be burnt. For the one called imagination.

Monday, December 5, 2011

Human : Nature

I live to kill myself everyday
knowingly or unknowingly
it does not matter now
pain has just ceased to exist in me

they say
humans are the son of nature
and water fire earth air made us

water cleaned soul
fire burned body
earth decomposed being
air vaporized truth

i die because they die everyday

Monday, November 21, 2011

Bloody Muslim Story

Swollen with knowledge eyelids hidden behind those thick black glasses, cactus-like thirsty for blood stubble, a flutter of semi-circled oiled hair camouflaging his unopened 3rd eye, the underdressed for the occasion khaki look, the dirt-laden jhola, the earthy chappals, and his tablet- a blue-inked Reynolds and a Gandhian diary.

Every bit of him identified him to his land where everyone thought he/she was a born economist- an apt person to run the reigns of a derailed country.

“Tera tetva dabau kya?” he hurled at the security.

“Tereko pata hai main kaun hu?” He knew it was a cliché yet it always worked for him.

After a few cuss words, he was standing in that palatial glitterati setup. He took a 360 degree look, got his heavy eyes fixed on a figure, and right then he startled that group which considered her as their cherry.

“So, what’s your story?” he nonchalantly disturbed their otherwise mild tête-à-tête.

All heads turned to him; and after what she replied, to her. The next couple of minutes the group became the audience of a tennis match. Left right… left right… first their neck… then their eyes... and though the mercury was low… the attendees to their conversation started profusely perspiring.

“You’ve taken your state’s name too literally BANG-ALL.” She retorted.

“At least I am not from LA-WHORE.” He matched her foot-to-foot.

She looked deep into his eyes. It made him instantly fall in love with her. In that moment, she made him live his entire life. She became his muse. Together they read Wuthering Heights, Fountainhead, like Deeti and Kalua from The Sea of Poppies they voyaged to live a life. She turned into Nandini of The Last Song of Dusk and they made love like wild animals. She gave birth to a beautiful daughter which became the meaning of his life. And then, she presented him his daughter cut-in-pieces.

“I am sorry about your wife brutally raped & murdered. You should try the Red-light area; it may give you some solace.”

“Are you the legal child of Mr. Sheikh. Or just his sheikh ‘ing’ offspring.” With that he said the unsaid.

She was a popular democrat’s daughter who was recently killed during a political rally. Aloof in Cambridge then, she was unaware of her father’s sexcapades. While a portion of media termed her as her father’s one-night stand waste… but the majority of her father’s allies broadcasted that the ashen kohl she wore was from her father’s ashes. She was burning with revenge.

“Considering your rank, your rant can cost you very dearly. Do you know that?”

“With my wife’s death, I have lost all my riches.”

“I can still inflict pain on whatever is left of you.”

“I am only trying to join the dots here.”

“Killing is not a game.”

“I did not say that. All I mean is… I have it in me to bring out the beast in others.” 

“Like Sigmund Freud?!”

“Yes my Virginia Woolf.”
“Let me elucidate. You are on the cusp of either directing or misdirecting a generation. Your father could have given his name to Guinness Book of World Records for sleeping with the most number of women, but, there was another side to him.”

“Your mother will be raped on open road and then pelted with stones to death, if you utter a word about my father.”

“All I want to say is… you are burning; I am already burnt. There is truth inside you; outside, the world is full of falsified information. You have a story; I have the pen.

She knew that Pakistani literature was at an all-time high in the market. A Case of Exploding Mangoes, The Reluctant Fundamentalist, Home Boy, Songs of Blood and Sword, Welcome to Americanistan. Everyone wanted to read bloody Muslim stories. Even she wanted to write one.

With that Arindham finally asked Nausheen. “I want to help you write a book about your father.”

Sunday, November 13, 2011

I in Etcetera

From the cryptic sand dunes in The Dewarists
to the free-for-all pleasure giving whore called English
I am heading towards the meaning of my life.

From Dawood searching for his burial place where Black Friday transpired
to the enshrined marriage vows KrIMated over and over again
I am exploding in my meaningless existence.

From Botox to Dolly to preservation of the umbilical cord    
to Slutwalk to I am Anna to Occupy Wallstreet to Zero Tolerance
I can see myself in the mirror yet can’t face the truth.

From proving ‘the world which acts as if it knows me’ wrong
to getting predictable with my inner senses
I am merging with my destiny.

Sunday, September 18, 2011

An Elegy for my Lost Diary

(My papa had once mentioned that my grandpa while traveling in a train had lost his briefcase that carried his literature- all his work, his thoughts, and maybe his reason to live disappeared in that very moment never to be found again. This elegy is therefore as much dedicated to him as much as to his grandson who met with the same fate, though not as fatal.)

I carry your blood, grandpa.
And have probably inherited your destiny as well.

I never saw you, but my papa sees you in me.
I neither carry your pencil moustache
nor your debonair persona. Nor your ambition
or your Oxford knowledge.
Haven’t touched your literature, forget about reading it.
Infact, I don’t even know your language,
and Varodara for me is as alien as my Bombay dwelling.
All I know is, I despise you for reasons aplenty.

You left my dad just as Harilal was left, in order to follow Gandhi’s footsteps. Why, I want to ask.
Didn’t you have the courage to bring up a family? You coward!
Weren’t you brought-up in one by my Great granddad; with a silver spoon in your mouth, if I may add. 
The decision of yours to change my religion from a Jain to Vaishnav Hindu does not matter to me. But leaving your family in disarray shouldn’t have been yours alone.
I haven’t lived your life and seen your times and witnessed your life-episodes and met the people who've influenced you.
I don’t know whether there’s any truth of your high morals or were you ‘high’ every time you stepped outside.
Your contemporaries of illustrious people whom I read of today, were they really your circle of trust or were they only eyeing your fortune?

But I do know there are many secrets buried in the family which do not want to see the light of the day. Nobody wants to talk about them. Only brag and boast about the affluent past and die cherishing it.

Your son never complained. But his son is not your son. If I ever want to carry forward any legacy from this family then pride will be the last thing. I only want to carry your boundless yearning for literature.

I only want to meet your once. Not in Ganga but maybe in Chanod or wherever you’re comfortable to make me pee in my pants.

And want to ask you just one question- were you responsible for my lost diary? For making me lose that ambitious poem of mine which I’ll never be able to recreate. The kind like Kubla Khan was for Coleridge: though that work was lost and later found in a mystical way and published. Can you be that Dorothy for me?

In no way this piece looks down upon any one in particular. It is entirely a work of imagination.