An Honest Dialogue


(Who Am I?)

I am a Hindustani.

I suffer, I am frustrated and I make terribly wrong choices especially when I choose to stand to be a Hindu today.

I am a living revolution in my form and content, but even after 55 years of Independence I am looking for a non-tailored voice, un-exchangeable for British or American accent.

I am also a hybrid composition of failure, unable to change the society but empowering others to seek their directions and develop their own understanding

To foreground their interactional dynamics if they still haven’t internalized the Secular discourse like me.


(What do I do?)

I try beating a policeman daily, to exercise my repression and my denial of dependence over this Neo-Colonial culture, or

Whenever I see my dreams and hopes fulminate against the monstrous falsehood which

Goes by the name of secular construction,

Consequently marginalizing the lives of those who are either Hindus or whose

Contours have been shaped by their very alienation

Strengthened by the propagation of false optimism of "Equal rights to all" or "Bread to all" by the political leaders.

Their words sting my eyes to tears and my lungs heave out "Mother Fuckers!" in the poignant air

That never fails to make me realize the debt that I owe to my land.

Echoes trapped in between my declarations carries the voices muttered behind the curtains trading lives for the minister’s chair,

And the footprints of the lost lives are still worn deep in every life that chose to live today.


At times when I can’t afford the thought,

I pull my hair and hit my head if unable to reach the speechmaker’s head, in the yawing hole hidden behind the smiling poster of his/her party that has employed every wall in the sight.

But nothing magical happens. Only

Beneath the scream, that seemed to have struck in my throat before, like a half-suspended consequence,

A bitch drips her anger.



(Why do I do what I do?)

Many like me who are dead in this battle, nobody knows under which bush, have slept outside the doors in the frozen nights, when even muscles had, most of the times, felt like cement.

But I am still alive!

But the politicians have successfully, diplomatically lulled the conscience of the people, whose voices were fertile with correct meanings, to sleep forever, if they still haven’t given up to the

Lovely little cottages of the Holy Spirit and Soul all together cut off from the problems of the modern day world.

But I feel powerful enough to portray the national malaise and lucky to get

My frustrations articulated through the unrelenting, though bitter impotent tirades hitting out in all the directions.

I don’t tell you how things worked fine for a little while before world again went mad,

Or the how’s and why’s and how to fix the problem.

I scream at your face my words clipped with clauses that tastes like rotting horseshit.

My growl shears the perfect course of your gelding life.

And that’s what has saved me till now and most of my money – Free dinners and sometimes breakfast and lunches too, when in jail!

I rail at every enemy who is responsible for this morbid picture of deteriorating society rather than being enmeshed.

There are always provocations on my part.

It relaxes me.

Their screams relaxes me with the thoughts of the possible other worlds other than my own.



Some times I feel like a morbid misfit in a group of well-disposed people.

But they can’t be good because I find my construction more taut and exciting,

Not leading to the certainty offered within the fixed structure of social interactionism laid by the people unaware of daily struggle of getting food inside the empty stomach,

Determining the living hell,

Over which a common man seem to have no control at all.

His whole life today is being converted into an act of semiotic vandalism with an idiotic preference to "how" to say than "what" to say.

He is the camouflaged victim,

The glamorized portion of the politics of negation in the speech of the leaders,

And thus he remains curiously insulated in the isolation, which though lies within his view but is far beyond his grasp.

Such helplessness of the people around, the willing relapse of their rage breeds cynicism and anger in me.

Because I am no Common Man,

And this is what enables the anger to come alive in me - people’s profound need for it!

I try to give them a radical identity that helps them cope up with the rapid social change that comes unannounced with every opinion from America or hurt migrated from Great Britain or clothes aped from ramps of Paris,

Something that could give them a consolation of a secured identity.

Something that was always theirs to believe in.

Therefore my views are always consciously graceless because I see through my life as I see through all other rackets, with greater realism!

But today I am here to present

An apology for being honest to the point of vulgar cruelty.

2) Working on the cover page of a War magazine!

The words of Elie Wiesel wrapped the air, snug inside my mouth, into

"Peace is our gift to each other."

They all laughed!

Suddenly it had seemed like a bubble gum spit on the moon face.

Cancel it! Next!

Diana, don't you know that the hiss of the modern times is not limited to the nude horizons of disbelief.

It's beyond disbelief, into belief, that in our Kashmir is still clinging to the falling walls of the militant emotions of Islam by killing more Hindus with each passing day; the belief in which

The real success lies in the natural echo of the mourning after swallowing their voices.

Therefore our Headline should brim with an insufficiency to shield itself from these bites and stings, as if of an entire desert winter coaxed into language, that is

Hardly visible under the sallow glow on the patient faces on the remembrance column, asking "If anybody still remembers FLT. LT. PANKAJ AHLUWALIA, etc.".

The Headline should be able to

Transcend the talks of each peace submit to the hopeless tears of the real faces that have lost all it's inside detail and finally making people see the real wings of the demon with the winds of greed under them.

It shouldn't be disappointing by talking about Allah instead of people dying!

And if you can't get your hands on reality give me fiction!

I need to press the truth on their face either ruddy in chilled touch or wrapped inside the smiles of the evaporated warmth of the yesteryears!

Suddenly I could wring meaning from their feelings and came up with the perfect Headline,

"From Pakistan with love…"

Their chorus joy comforted my last failure!

3) Stop talking of Secularism, when for past 55 years Pakistanis have been talking of Jihad! (Or, Children of the Damned)

Bhagwan, Allah, Wahe Guru were all in deep sleep while

Girls were impregnated with insane hunger pangs of hatred inside the pants, by wrong men to give birth to wrong children (That's what they say, "Wrong men give birth to wrong children.").

In the agony of partition men did spurn the lovely sluts, only to

Craftily design the momentum of virgin bodies to quit fighting and to meet the need of the time, if

They weren't left dead and naked, their genitals tattooed with blood, beside the stench of rotting human flesh emanating from their father's or brother's ears and noses chopped off their faces, their genitals mutilated, their extremities chopped off, their eyes gouged and their heads beheaded.

And this is how mourning, with a cast of musalaman (Muslim) characters stood center stage on that historic night half a century ago, to find its way to another zone of metaphor, lying

Within the women's silence around the event, during the partition, unaware that one day it will be transformed into a world in which this silence will be dwelled upon, again but this time by

People shrunk and dwindled into symbols screaming, instead of, "Gore Angrez Hindustan ko kha gaye!",

(Savage, Cannibal, White Britons ate Hindustan!)

Slogans of Islamic no-more Pak-istan (Pure land), "Pakistan's Gift to Hindustan",

The words that today leer with cauldron of bloodshed and horror yet to come.

And thus Hindustanis, please

Stop trying to hasten the end of terrorist empire like Gandhi by the simple expedient of turning the other cheek,

Stop your foolish attempt to establish who was the "guilty" party that had lead to the appalling outburst of violence that even today dwarf anything we witness now,

By once again going through every weekly report submitted to Mountbatten by the governors of India's provinces, then, officials who represented the best and wisest products of British rule in India,

Sitting on the mahogany table and chair, as amazingly no one foresaw this disaster even remotely close to the one that had overwhelmed the subcontinent since then.

And even more amazing is how you all politicians are still overlooking how far communal thinking had made inroads into secular organizations and sensibilities,

Or simply pondering that,

Did independence come too soon? Searching for an excuse.

Stop talking of Secularism, when for past 55 years Pakistanis have been talking of Jihad!

Islamic Romantics

(Written in Support of America for what happened on 11th September)

Both of them look alike,

Gazing through the biting rods,

Hopes flaring, gasping and then cracking beside their slender heads.

But they come to me as

Twenty fingers on four hands, measuring their lives in murderous current,

Capped with smoke, dust and blood,

And their

Left ear hanging over emptiness, deliberately concentrating at their face revealing the solid rigidity of what’s going to happen to them, and

A strange assurance coating it.

Their excavated pleads
from the hollow in their chest, from behind the cold iron at the end of the narrow streets formed by their hands seems to be waiting for some one to fill in, but instead

Puckers with time pretending to be, now, days.

Crashing against the acrid laughter teething in the modern world arena, is their invertebrated cry.

It faithfully rolls back to the rust in their hand, also


Terrorists’ question,

"Will you miss us?"

The soiled bodies, of no body knows who, bleed dead blood like the uncountable others,

As the guns whisper "Islam Zindabad!" (Long live Islam), alarming the world of blaring murders, yet to be committed.

Details of a Shoe of International Quality

Color : Brown

Lining : Cow (Cow is worshipped in India)

Sole : Indian Leather

Price in $ : Almost free

It’ll never open up a crack beneath your feet.

Guarantee : Take the word of English Gentlemen. We have ruled over them for over 250 years.


Beneath the calm, the desperation had gathered

He began to search for words jumbled on his tongue.

His mind raced in retrospection

Drawing pictures on the usually blank screen,

‘How she managed to bring food and money to home?’

"Your ceaseless demands,
telltale tears of ‘If I had a boy’, prompted my demise, father."

Sympathy tripped in her voice today.

"But my dear daughter, even a mouse must eat!"

Whirled his excuse on the fixed orbits of his unkind desires.

Story of a house

On the day Hindustan was sanctioned to two different signatures,

A father asked his son to get ready to leave.

Though a macho protest had begun to grumble against the specious innocence of the barbed wires that had converted Hindustan into a rally of masquerades, but it was in vain.

"Why should I leave my home, my Sutlej?"(Sutlej is a river following in Northern India)

"Because you are Refugee!"


"It’s a new name given to you by the gori sarkar." (British Government)

The door of their empty house had slapped the stagnant silence against the emotions to raise it to the sky,

But it was lost in the cries of the others like him.

Even after fifty-five years, to the metal of the door, hope still lingers as the smoky wafts of memories, even though the house is still dark and childless.

It still tells every passerby the quiddity of harm, which had once loomed and because of it how he still suffers.

War - I

‘Wars are not won by sacrificing lives,

Enemy must be killed.’

The meaning generated by the statement above usually involves

Rolling and crawling into night after

Increasing the number of orphans on the other side of the barbed wire everyday, and making people realize, if it does, that in

Some corner of these foreign lands, where wars are fought, is forever their home.

A Simple story

It is a simple story of a refugee and her three month old child, which

Catches the perfect rhythm of sacrifices not like a man but like a woman, When the earth still echoed the August rain

Under which each foot lied numb and voice mute,

How she managed to avoid plugging her child’s ears all together to avoid the noise of the raindrops rattling through his head, by letting all her senses sink between her legs,

Making her realize that these feelings, gasping on the surface for a few moments, must be exploded by men of higher castes with their naked lust drawn in mock salute,

So that she, the frozen grave of flesh, could drip life from her breasts for her child.

A day before dependence

Girls, of about the right age, in ragged overalls had been released like bended breathes from the unknown clutches to race towards their homes,
And then the exported laughter on the horses, like the bullets ripping through the human line, had chased them to the ruins.

The wavering successors of the land had watched helplessly towards the horizon, under the common sun, also sharing with

Mothers, clutching their babies tight inside the burgeoning
stomachs, (some)

Already planning to boil their girls dead in their (mothers’) milk.

Wives had cried blood anyways, even if their

Boys had stood stiff but alive by their father’s youthful hands that weren’t stretched with the fighter’s spirit to be scorched by fire after being tormented and wrapped in plastic,

Or simply falling down dead cutting the wind,

Holding the heat of the bullets inside them,

All this while drawing a line between living and dead.

Even the remnant bones had refused to cast shadow under the jaundiced sky, out of fear of the gentlemen in white gladly sipped wine with too blatant a nudity, exhaled up to every heart that were now

Supposed to live with knowledge that they have lost all what was once their and now they must live unaware of everything but the whistles blown out for them to sprint over the hurdling bodies to their masters.

And weeping tears thus begun to narrate the sobbing tale,

"The whites all already had stolen the money, the gold but this is how they began to steal life."

Because then,

They seemed to have landed forever.

War - II

Their mere ruminations had made rows and rows catch the gust of the enemy.

They are proud of their armies because they count the rows and the columns and not lives.

But these politicians of the "civilized" nations still make themselves appear to be in debate because they are able to give descriptions only from the viewpoint of the exhibitors and spectators of the photographs by the journalists in an exhibition hall which looks like the first world fat carving,

All this while pretending, in front of T.V cameras, to be shedding their grief in the linen handkerchief.

But in the battle field

Lives lie underneath the smoke,

Napping with one eye open like a beast.

Winter sleeps in the breaths, and

Silence resides on the tongue,

And only bullets debate, and

If it imagines life

It dowses for breathes, and then

Not even the insistence of Super-Power tag can save you!


I am Ram

I am supposed to hate Rahim.

I am Rahim

I hate Ram.

I will therefore wipe his sterile frame with deviant strokes of violence.

Ram says: I'll purchase his damn history already hunched like an ancient man and parcel it in the newspaper to be burnt alive!

Screams fleet through these muddled selves as each shoot the other through the temple.


They have successfully puppeted the lips of their children

And taught them the pidgin language of hatred, now deep in their leather.

Their trigger hand is already sticky with blood, but

They still stay nonchalant,

Sacrificing their brothers and burying them under the weight of mortgaged promise to get justice for the death of someone, whose name

Fingers can't seem to trace

But whose teachings are (they hope) deep in them.

And thus,

Mourning finally found its way to sail into another morning!

Stripped for the new owner

Britishers gave the world the policy of divide and rule

And thus they ruled.

We Indians seem to have admire them a lot in our political speeches, also for their generous visits and brilliant ideas on how to build a road here at India.

In fact, after unbinding ourselves from the faces- listening, watching and waiting to see what will we do, but also shadowed by the violent transparency of our past, in our memory,

We have delve into history to bring back the era, in the form of

These 55 years of Neo –Colonialism spent already.

We have earnestly followed their policy

By rehearsing the screams of injustice of 1947, done to the Muslims, by Mountbatten,

Ignoring the rising toll of deaths of Hindus in Kashmir and Gujrat,

To gather vote!

We have stripped ourselves naked for a fancy new owner and therefore we still are naked!

If Hindi was a respected language in Hindustan, I would have called my poem "Yaadein" (Memories)

since it is not I take my bearings out to the west.

But I can't, completely.

There appears to me a disassociation of the sensibility from my origin.

It is like seeing oneself from outside oneself as if one was another,

From a center of a moment that I know is going to stay.

Suspended, thus, are some of my memories lingering like audience in disbelief at the end of a play.

Others are no better. They are like residue on yellow chattering teeth, sucking natural light when ever possible to flaunt their existence in foreign terms.

But to us Indians it still appears like meditation to courageous.

Two Hundred Fifty years of struggle and sacrifice seems to have vanished in the refusals to except what is ours.

The streets are still gray in the light of the morning.

If only these memories had a language of their own.

"Yaadein teri aati hain,

Par koi inko zubaan kyun nahi deta?"

If only some day I could find words for them in the language that is mine.

The upcoming Indian Tradition

If I have black hair, brown skin, and speaks Hindi instead of utilizing the gathering of words stolen from other languages to re-educate myself into a useful citizen,

I’ll be the voice people wouldn’t want to hear

Because I am be the voice they have now completely forgotten to use.

But if I have bleached hair, chemically washed skin, and speaks fluent English and rehearse coquettishly my flawless breast, and taut tennis ass in the Latino way to the stout body that flaps around me to bind my past and his together, to last the present night

People’s dictionary, that has a lot of words, will enunciate me in the simplest term ‘Truly A Matter of Personal Persuasion – with both Indian character and Indian culture entwined earnestly together’,

In a foreign accent.


Society meetings of the old people

This silence is hurting me,

John say something.

What can I say?

There is nothing to say.

Tom you say something

What shall I say?

There is no one to listen, and

Silence can not discern a single phrase I’ll speak.

But I can hear the falseness of old age, melting my senses into my grave,

Because the trumpets I hear cannot belong to mine. It must be for you both.

Finally at least two out of the three found something to rejoice.

Meeting Mr. Belief!

(Sitting on cold motionless steps under the thatched roof,

He must be looking at the sun sinking slowly, excusing through the crowd, back to the earth's womb, and

Night's clever unwrapping from its foetal position, from under the sun-stung shadows left from the day.

Darkness slowly awakening from hollow appetites hidden in the view and soon, how

Night will be staring at the empty soil with a handful of silver!)

After the shrill nasal voice tickles through my ears, comes she and a candle half burnt with feelings gravely cheated by the poverty's deed,

Flickering just like the fused heat in the orb of her eyes.

Her hands pierce my affection as she gives me my crutches sucking inside some inspiration from the landscape,

Her brazen eyes then speak of her still lingering desires as her internal organs silently revolt against the sight of crutches under my sagacious skin telling me that I am old and must die soon and her breath clouded with moist hate barreled inside growls, whispers,

"It would have been so better if out of that log of wood you would have made me a rocking chair instead of clutching blindly to your liberation!"

"Hi! Nice to meet you .I am sorry I didn't notice you before.

I am Belief and She is my wife, Reality! Pretty isn't she?!

I have always admired her ability to seize the minute and wring is around my neck."


My skin rubs against the whipping wind,

Swapping boastful stories.

Since the construction of these camouflaged deserts, it doesn't get to visit me as often as before.

Here, where the breaths are shared again and again, or parceled inside the corrugated boxes, whose tall tales elevate the bill,

It has learned the language of dead, and therefore

The wind today, convulses in gladness, adrenalize with fondness,

Leaping from offbeat tune to melodious clanging even across the room,

As it successfully fakes its entry through the window though unsure of who would answer.

My lungs embrace the air as it pumps fluid through nerves,
Until limbs and spine are forgotten in the world surviving on my wheel chair, hidden completely under a jumble of a gray cement-knitted ceiling!

At night when I wake up and my open eyes flip away the precarious coinage,

I catch the broken light split in quarter pyramids and squares under the door,

It ushers a stinging fear of being lonely once again!



Her stepfather knocks her flesh and pokes his bony fingers inside her olive porcelain cheeks and says, “I want to show how much I love you! ", and under the sheet the current rushes.

Sounds of whooping silence coarse through her, when

The charmed features are etched in his palms, once again and her color marches away in mourning in the grill-greased night.

Relation seems to have elapsed his azure eyes, as

His hand strain till the coverings, so vexatious to him, jars the earth.

The clothes hit the floor and his hands her body, eroding everything in the way, like the first sound from the treacherous echo!

Her eyes can only excite detestation and sympathy for herself,

When not running the whole gamut of tears spurning other foreign aches,

As he passes his manhood into utter monstrosity inside her.

At the age of ten, she is entrusted with an adult secret, and also

This is how she is made to realize the magnitude of her errors committed throughout the day, at night by his stiff breech, when her every nerve lies exposed under his skin!

Tomorrow Does Come!

"There's always a tomorrow until it explodes in your face like a bad case of the evening news leaving you with a nevermore." (Quoth, the raven)

 The unspooled easy blushes of yesteryears from the world of magazines, traded for the language in those farmed moments of the artistic flashes, now inside the embossed faux leather does a good job as it

Blurs the journey back to the exhausted whispers that lisped out of sleep last night inside the surrogate warmth of imagination that twist fire in broad day light.

In her silence endlessly floats her seemingly perpetual laughter that shoved away awestruck words of aspiring glances, and

Her fluttering eyelids that shuffled many hearts but denied love.

And thus tears don't pause even for a minute today whenever she inspects the depth of her mirror, fighting the inevitable, preferring it to be a mere figment of her imagination,

That confers on her the imprint of the maddening depths of sagacious reality, and endlessly reminding her

Of the young hands that fend her off her crown, and how

Every moment of her lonely life is like a part time suicide now.


I weed all struggles thin and successfully enter through the door,

Though amazed by the purple shaded dog invited by my clean skin to slurp my face, coloring it the same except for those extra tints of brown from his asphalt hairy body, splashing the gained beauty all over.

But my heart melts through that polite cough of the Rodeo boy straining to keep it straight, though

Sprouting a glow of mischievous laughter, and

Unable to take it any longer, with spinning tiers of vocals, merrily he screams clinging to my neck,

" iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii did that Moh-meeeeee! "

Our laughter flocks, with the kisses of delight to be at home, in the air, together.

On why people write poetry

When the soil you had twined your roots in, starts to become your grave, and

Life begins to dislocate itself in between battleships with the unusual rush inside the beating sinews, and the voices from under the ceiling, raising hell together inside your head,

And the only thing that is stagnant is the intersection of the worthless days during the back counting of the orphaned sixty seconds (in worry) every minute,

And you make up your words cut into spheres, pyramids, and squares, though imprinted on the style sheets, but only to make people understand your state of mind when half the night is over,

When guiltless nudity comes in your words - you write poetry!

The man in black on the cover page of ‘The Rich and The Famous’

He stands like an iron sheet in the unmoving eyes aged by compression, but


Telling them all that none may rise too high above the restraint of a common man, except he.

He seems to like to face them all and the impotence of their hatred because he offers them nothing to be hurt.

The air around him too speaks of some extra ordinary strength, which in it self is a humiliation to them all, reminding them where they all are and why, as it whiplash the men to capture some more breaths.

They all love their freedom and dignity and that’s why they fight, and

That’s why they lose!

Bungy jumping

Winds whip my flesh touching the pendulous sky.

I then dive piercing the wind to its very genitals.

It's no fun, and

I let out a scream from my parched mouth,

My memory becomes non-existent.

And then when convex reality of earth appears concave to the bulging eyes,

I am amazed as I realize that how a simple knot has held me safe all this time!

Girl Talk

She likes her size 3 red silken wear venturing across her peach skin,

Speaking the cultural language of power and command over the irredeemable, begging favors.

Reconstructing her real thought, word by word from books read and narrative borrowed from "Bible" for good and wrong,

I heard her words tick in the concertinaed intervals left by the rest, slipping away through my fingers, say,

"… I hope to meet this guy, learn his name.

With a passion so intense that it could swirl my world around.

In whose arms I’ll be willing to go to pieces

And the ecstaticity of just being with him will make my soul melt…"

"Oh! Cut the crap!" I heard my voice say, "You just want a man who is horny all the time, to satisfy your hormonal carvings!"

Her creaky astonishment hastened towards disbelief but the curvature of her smile measured relief.

If I should die before you…

If I should die before you, promise me

That you’ll not loathe the strangled horror,

Spurning away from the sight of my death, and

That you’ll not let it pass away in the puff of your cigar smoke, as

If my time of exhibition is over and now I have to return to my wooden box,

Like you always have, from my sight and sound - splitting and cracking, under the pall of night,

When my tears, that you never saw or whipped,

Came posting by with chilly gusts,
and since on one was ever around to relieve me from the anguish of atrocious hours of loneliness, I used to pucker at the corner, in the dreamless slumber, to fend against another different winter which even resided in springs.

And Promise me that

If in my last breaths I ask you,

"Did I make you proud?"

You will reply,

"Every Day".

Simplicity of Truth

Simplicity of truth is glamorized everyday through the laurels earned hard by lives, which

Spill hopes through tongues, hoping for a possibility of inhalation to those unknown depths that thaws

In the five-word alley of Death.

Mine is death without life,

But atleast I know I have tried because I can still hear reality smack over my body.

Family Ties

The two doors close.

Slam! Slam!

One shearing the peace of south, and

Another like a trident with a fatal force piercing the North,

But both poignantly facing me.

The passing of my years have been brilliantly portrayed in these moments yawing cold fire to produce heat, but

Beating symmetrically with the rhythm of splashing blue against my face is still its pogrom, and

The fabricated forced metaphors released, their

Marching into silence, tickling the space and the mourning.

My dangling soul muscled hard from the struggle so long, has been introduced to this amazing divide ever since my half-dissolved vapor, bundled in the cries of the clenched jaws was sucked out of the elastic womb in this nauseated world.

But I have decided to betray these truths all together

By staring at the flickering television screen instead, selling words though slowly going unheard, screen slowly fading away,

Before I muster the courage to stand up,

Back bent, head down, sight consumed by the sight,

To close my self behind a door too!

Ways of the World


If you have fashioned the simple blushes on the quick searched faces during the festival of flesh, touring

Different ramps from Paris to Milan, with plotting tinge,

Infusing the spectrum into every eye visible among the flashes, too,
Many breaths will claim your name in fancy verses with new skin-tingling recognition.


If you descend the trough of limitation, painting it pastel with hope,

And declare to world, with an angling smirk, those unnoticed seven moments, that have been softening the unrelenting edge of night,

And how that would cumulate to a year after some two hundred years,

You make it till autumn rust!


If you are a soldier and blur away from life, in the numberless counting of the same under restlessly exhaled tortures at the border, amidst the bombing shells,

The precise space that will withhold the projection of your remembrance will be of death and birth column in the newspaper that one day will be collecting dirt in between creases and lines that you never knew had!

On how to write songs of experience

Pretend to go native by being just an observer to other people's misery,

If you want to come in the eyes of others, and eventually for

The words that you would steal from life, either yours or theirs.

Color them in the shades of the evening, which would help to foreshadow the tragedy that will be yet to come in your lines,

All before you stride away confidently to align them with the unusual connotations of evil that has a lurking hint of kinship!

After all we all are primitive brutes and savages,

It's just that only some live long enough to realize it!

News Reporter

Under the pall of the midnight, emotions rushed right through him,

And his heart submitted to the desire when the chosen words were carefully expelled from the sling:

"Our channel is the first one to grab the reality in these video clips!" Declared he,

Enlightened by the quest of his first fall onto yesterday's frozen soil now mangled with fear under the sky that seemed outlined with titanium.

Words remained same through out the news telecast of the "Break Through News",

Only emotions were pluralized by many from the plane crash still inhaling life,

Listening to the silence of their own among the voices that weren't meant for them, nor for the cold dead palms

Becoming memories, while

The cameras were busy clicking the gelding pictures of humanity, to rework the routine lines of black and white, and
Desperately wishing that their hands were faster than time!

The man in black on the cover page of ‘The Rich and The Famous’

He stands like an iron sheet in the unmoving eyes aged by compression, but


Telling them all that none may rise too high above the restraint of a common man, except he.

He seems to like to face them all and the impotence of their hatred because he offers them nothing to be hurt.

The air around him too speaks of some extra ordinary strength, which in it self is a humiliation to them all, reminding them where they all are and why, as it whiplash the men to capture some more breaths.

They all love their freedom and dignity and that’s why they fight, and

That’s why they lose!

On how I write Poetry.

I shy away from words because they can bring in light the real me, and then

I would see my soul's shadow flickering violently in your eyes like fire behind breeze. I thus avoid harnessing my gaping wounds in framed phrases that would imbibe every shedding pain to the extent of resigning it to the memory to be used later against me.

Oh! How much it scares me!

And therefore

When air whispers rumor,

I roll my eyes forming the waves, after believing the tide, cruising the canyons and rapids- the artistic creation that goes unnoticed most of the times, when I craftily knit my brows.

Another followings are the refugees to my mouth folded in a pout, and I thus begin to write poetry but not with words.

It has a dilating effect!


I turned him down too and also those heart tingling promises,

But it has stopped effecting me now.

All those easy slings barreled in a roar cushioning my face but trying to claw my soul,

Doesn't bother me,

Infact I emerge half-smiling every time.

My desires have faded behind the walls of restraint, because

I have a bigger responsibility; its head like an ill fitted life with loosened moronic cry for help, burying in my shoulder.

Shrinking, rolling, unsaid but echoing in my ear me again and again that

My parents won't divorce each other till the time I live with them,

And thus, I am a captive in my own sky.


White light diverted through lens, elegantly ebbed into seven naked defenseless streaks of color after passing through prism,

Letting out a gasp, I am sure, from the five-year-olds too, but since they were told to stay quiet I didn't hear them but only my weakness to resolve in my mouth, that at time like this sleepwalks in and out without my notice.


How the light passed deceiving and making the elusive boundaries of life and death appear to be the ideal bounds.

How an innocent ray had successfully conned itself into seven gracious colors with so strong an illusion of vitality, indestructibility and with no feeble attempts to hide it.

Nature is so much like us humans, only our bodies are mired once our metered life comes to an end and nature gets to live on!

It's so unfair!


In the morning,

Dust rise to color the wind-laced sanguine sky, after it rushes past me, with a sarcasm that it hasn’t showed earlier.

But by noon,

The dropping sky has unspooled the salt stitched waves on faces, many in the moment exposed to self-flagellation!

Dust has been sucked out from the pendulous kingdom to the muddled reality, but it still clings to the memories as if it were now, in a single soaked swing that has been surfacing since midnight,

But the circling skirts treasure it inside their heart as they hoard verbs from old rhyme, "Rain! Rain! Go Away! Come again another day!"

(I am standing where I was early in the morning today and the other day and the day before the other day.

My marbled grave firmly anchored under the purple tint of the evening sky, and touching the earth is dust, once again.

It's a routine.

I sit and earth spins a new tale everyday because I have an endless desire to see.)


I find you in my glance against the backdrop of starry sky.

I know your eyes anticipate the resemblance to be rushed out if not in fancy verses, then atleast in the calcareous breaths trapped inside the colored spectrum of annular wordings.

But your tall tales chase the horizon

While mine line the walls!

Though your eyelids closes denying the fact that even my dangling limbs will trail the path while yours are deep rooted in mud, all

Because you think that we both swing to nature's tune and

One day we both will be sucked out like a vapor out of faces of the map, leaving behind memories neatly folded in the banging absence of the empty arms.

"But I am a HUMAN dammit! I can cut you off your roots anytime!"

But nature simply laughed!

Bungy jumping

Winds whip my flesh touching the pendulous sky.

I then dive piercing the wind to its very genitals.

It's no fun, and

I let out a scream from my parched mouth,

My memory becomes non-existent.

And then when convex reality of earth appears concave to the bulging eyes,

I am amazed as I realize that how a simple knot has held me safe all this time!

Believe In GOD

Leaning over table along with a slender work of darkness, hovering just above the ground over the chair behind me, and seems to mull me over skittishly, trying to continue the night even under the golden luster of the lamp, as Jesus sway away from my breasts,

I beam over my complied work "Believe In GOD", which berates the fear of the demons.

It is actually also a grieving from a face existing only in past, inspired from my first memory of shame.