Wednesday, December 28, 2011

Dilli Wali: Day 178

She’d come back all perked up. Shining with something quite beyond light. Dancing did this to her. And once she was done with the lying-flat-and-lifeless-on-the-dance-floor routine, after hours of monstrous practice, she seemed quite ready to take the world as a happy, worthy place, for a couple hours in the least. It didn’t last long this time, though.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do. How can this be happening? I’m no dimwit, slow brain, douchy bimbo. I don’t fail exams. I don’t, you know. What am I even going to do?”
“Maybe it would have helped if you were a dimwit bimbo. People tend to.. you know, help those sort of people.”
“I would’ve kicked him in the nuts, whoever tried to help me with my bimbos.”
“My point is..”, but he burst out laughing and couldn’t breathe. A hi-five was in order.

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Monday, November 21, 2011

raat ka shauq hai

raat ka shauq hai
dheere se aana
sehme, darte dilon ko
roshni se bachana

san san si chale
jale dono ke saath mein
kaanpti, karaahti
saanson ke haath mein

baalon mein bhar jaye
yun sir pe chadh jaye
khwaabon ko neendon ke
bin aaye padh jaye

kuch raatein hoti hain
kehna nahi sunti
sapnon mein haqeeqat ka
katra nahi bunti

aur aadesh itne ki
sunne wale thak jayein
badi der toote judein
fir raat mein dhak jayein

udaan unchi zara zyada thi
aaj dil fat hi na jaye
dono jakde hain duje ko
ke kasoor bant hi na jaye

aag to raat ki thi na
to wahi zimmedaar hai
raat ka shauq hai
raat kasoorwar hai

Sunday, September 11, 2011

Dilli Wali: Day 185

She was disappointed with herself. It was no one's fault. Not even hers. No, she wouldn't take this lying down. She sped past him and went straight to the Bar, as straight as she could manage. A martini would do. Shaken, not stirred. James Bond would be so proud.

"That man is harassing me! Can you please send some big guys to take care of the matter, please? I think he's a cop."
"Your boyfriend, you mean, ma'am?"
"Yes! My boyfriend! That rascal!", she said with clenched teeth, thumping the table.

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Thursday, September 08, 2011

Pyaar ke pakode

Gardan akdi hai,
Dil muh fulaye baitha hai
Rehne do, kehta hai,
kya padoge pyaar mein,
Kamar mein to dard rehta hai

Wednesday, September 07, 2011

Dilli Wali: Day 186

“You’re really not going to put that out, are you?”

He swerved the car for a tight overtake. She kept leaning out the window. Breathing in, breathing out.

“It’s hurting my lungs. You have no right to hurt my lungs. Please go sit on the roof or something.”
“Shut up and drive, I’m doing the best I can.”

She kept lying limply out the window. Watching her cigarette burn furiously in the wind.

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Tuesday, August 16, 2011


Amrood ki gatthi si hai
Gale se utarti nahi
Ek duvidha ikatthi si hai
Tute na, bikharti nahi

Dil dimag ke highway par
Accident se jam hai
Ek laal hari batti si hai
Himmat guzarti nahi

Raste bhi bichha dete
Diyon se jala dete
Pichhli baarish ke magar kuch ghadde
Bhar jayein to milte hain

Thursday, June 09, 2011

Thursday, June 02, 2011


One swing at the eye and one dead bone
Send a swift kick up the thigh for
deeply moving, screeching groan
Connect a tighter one
to the bleeding nose
to train a spy
to never
pick the

Watch the spokes

It's no wall to keep you in
but a treadmill
to keep you running,
closing on itself,
and you, you're the mouse

Sunday, May 29, 2011

Of coins and choices

How does it turn,
who rolled the die on your name?
Were you there when it creaked and stopped?
No? Me neither what a shame.

Who blows the wind,
who stocks and switches my dreams?
Whoever held a river in his palm,
who ever cut the little streams?

Is there a source,
do we walk to it or away?
The landmarks can see you
turning night and day.

Yet nobody loses
for long around here
The winners are easy to tell
but losers, don't fear.

You will live as well,
you will have your girl,
and money to feed her ass,
and vase and crockery to hurl.

Beware, what goes around is lost.
And although you've all along tried,
the toss that turns in the sun does never
know or choose the winning side.

Saturday, May 28, 2011

gardenal sin

and then He shouted, the apple was a curse
your race shan't ever be pure
the fall has begun to an end much worse
than death, for knowledge hasn't cure

your sin is tall, your love the deepest pit
my guinea little rodents, look, that's it
creation is for me, you are blasphemy now
get off my lawn, go, don't fake the bow

the apple lay still, a brain whirred on
lone and bereft but a hefty intellect
and as if a spark then hit right home,
Newton got up and took a bow and left

Thursday, May 19, 2011

Up, Up and Abe!!

The shoelace stuck to the ground all taut
      while I lifted off in the air.
My arms rose bare to a pose mid-air,
      "Superman!" shouted someone I swear.
But my other foot was there weighing heavy on the lace
      and the ground ran bam in my hair.

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

Heavy lights

not a fist and not a thigh
nor a twist of cracking dry
bone or muscle, neck or thumb
could i wrestle out of a numb
nerve when i saw the light
curve to me on a road too tight

Friday, April 22, 2011

dear harlot in the parking lot

o' fluffy lady
not to sound shady
but can you try and mime
your savage love this time

o' fine tempest
may i stress some rest
from humping on a rhyme
and caress you this time

o' beautiful dame
whatever your name
take another dime
and just talk to me this time

listen to me and nod
and nod real slow
then get up and dress up
and hug me and go

Saturday, April 16, 2011

To Wife


So I thought I'll break the ice already. If you haven't noticed, I'm your future husband. Hi. It's kind of tautological so I suggest we just accept it already.

I've been thinking about us lately. Frequently enough to warrant this letter. And I say let's get a few things out of the way before we run into each other some weird place and proceed to fall in intense, irrevocable love. Just so we're on the same page really, no hurry or anything. So here's my stuff, make known yours as well soon as you have it figured out. Savvy?

I don't know how to break this to you, but, you know how everybody always seems to be running? Up the stairs, down the ropes, through the files, on the conference table, in the bathtub, klug klug klug, thump thump? Yeah, well, I'm not like that. I don't mean I don't run or that I just stroll past the flowers and they smile back at me. No I run, I jog, I jump for the grapes, and do all the crazy gymnastics around my pink piggy bank. And I can sure as hell sprint on my ass to tremendous widespread surprise. But I guess what will make it all finally worthwhile for me is that idle grey-haired stroll on the river bridge. Or the better hours of an evening on a park bench with lungs full of flowers, heart full of mirth and a head full of you. Yeah, that about completes it. Given the sex in the balcony later.

I'm a big man in my head. With big, ridiculous dreams, stretchy gummy imagination, and a rather compulsive thing for generalizations  But one couldn't call me ambitious, for my dreams are lazy dreams. Instead of ambitious, call me hopeful. And instead of dreamer, dreamy. But all the same, the crazy part is it seems to work. I find it hard to fathom at once the things I've achieved; and impossible to hold in one frame, the many moments I count as trophies. The rhythm of my lazy stroll seems to positively superpose the resonating frequency of the universe, if you get the drift.

But dear o' lovely wife, I see that it's hard to swallow the divine goodness of a conspiring universe. Well yes, I get it. I don't trust the universe either. And I won't get mad at it when it fails me, god promise. Because I have a body that moves. I have all this energy that I've nothing else to spend on other than pushing the universe about. All this time to keep trying and perfecting the right push until it gives way. I have enough. I'm lucky already. The universe can't fail me, it can only put me in my place. Where I reach is only its way of telling me what I deserved. And wherever it puts me, I doubt if it can disappoint. Given not its generosity, but my rather creepy knack at making good of things. Do you see where I'll differ? Wherever it puts me, my next step won't be to try and not be marred by the circumstances or try and not let the success get to me, all the while striving harder for bigger and worthier victories. No, my next step will be in the pool, I think, or the garden. And the next few generally about the place, see what I like, what I'd like more, get a grip on the place, that sort of thing. And then have a good night's sleep. I like my sleep, love, and you have to like your sleep if you are to tolerate it.

I like our kids, honey. I'm in tireless, timeless, ego-less, selfless, ruthless, endless love with our kids. They'll grow up to be orders of magnitude better than us, how exciting is that? Not to push it or anything, but I want our daughter to be like you. Can you promise me you'll give her everything you had and more? And can you promise me whenever whatever little differences I have with my son when he figures I'm probably an overrated oldie, that you'll always take his side? I want to lose that match. Given, of course, the sex in the balcony later.

I love how much love there will be. I love how it'll all come together. But I have a last request to make. Don't come running too fast. For you'll either speed past me when my lazy old eyes miss it and I'll never catch you by the hand. Or I won't be ready and done running, sprinting, and jogging about the damn piggy bank yet. And we don't want that do we, if only for the kids.

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

More Delhi

Cute cats with clean caps
Dying dogs with dirty dots
Eerie eyes on sneaky spies
and a lovely bout of wind

Fake tags on glossy bags
Scratchy skin in scratchy rags
Lowly brags of creepy drags
and a flaky leaf that sings

Bars and whores and cars and crores
Chattering brains on battering trains
Insipid and vicious, timid politicians
and a raindrop on my skin

Loudmouth jaats and foulmouth tarts
Dinner-table starts and god-blessed farts
Hurried up art in rained up carts
and more Delhi under my chin

Sunday, March 27, 2011

kaun kehta hai

So there's a theory that says, "You won't lose your wallet." Amazing theory. Kind of like the end of all misery. You fervently believe in the theory and it makes you feel so safe, like you're in control. And you like that feeling, and you go about your life. Sometimes, maybe once a few days, you stop in your tracks, pat your pocket, and giggle in awe of this supreme theory that just.. works!

Well, until you do lose your wallet. And how does that feel, Mr. Theist? Do you feel stupid? Angry? Isn't all the world a sham attempt by the Supreme One to pick at you, watch you twitch at every touch of the tweezers? Quite the victim, aren't we?

But how about the unthinkable, that the theory actually worked. Only that it wasn't about wallets, but about making you happy. Is that really so bad? Given, you know, the hypothesis that you'll just run into it tomorrow when it comes strolling out of that table in the far corner?

Monday, February 21, 2011

the pineapple pirate

sinking ships
stout fat pricks
never know why
dying just shy
moatfuls of gold
wait since old
pirates to lay
metal and clay
on its
shining studs
clang their buds
dance and swim
bottles of whim.

i know why
moat went dry
them so close
with a
cruel fire hose
burnt them toast
beyond the coast
murmurs and riches
doors and switches
invisible ditches
mad barking bitches.

the pirate dead
an artist's head
loved to write
however trite
inspiring sight
an awful plight
the pirate himself
he sought an elf
get his sock
out of
the writer's block.

the pirate's men
stout fat hen
no great ear
when they hear
pirate screech
romantic streak
in a
poignant pose
on the
mast when those
souls would scramble
stumble entangle
everyone knows
poetry not prose.

one fine eve
with a
heart in bereave
pirate got out
made a pout
thoughts so deep
struggled to keep
head afloat
about the boat
then his thoughts
made a
U-turn to trot
hop and jumped
at the
sky and pumped
divine kicks
to his
soul in licks
he joyously jumped
.. fake humped
went inside
powerful stride
came out in tights
with a
handful of kites.

the stout fat pricks
didn't know the tricks
love plays on men
and were
happy by then
poems weren't kites
though they
hated the tights
but the
pirate didn't care
and he
flicked his hair
cried like a man
his sweetheart susanne.

the pirate thought
had to, he ought
confess his heart
the moment depart
and he
got out a ring
finesse and zing
pouted to kiss
ring for the miss
and with
an intense fight
it to the kite.

The rest is easy
gods went sleazy
at the
man in tights
pirate flying kites
touched the ring
with an
electric thing
touched the ship
in a
crazy trip
the poet and kin
kicked in the shin
burnt to toast
just beyond the coast.

lovers, amen.