I have been to the mountains where I have cried.
I climb hills not for the vista.
I climb for falling down the rabbit hole.
Then, I plummet down the icy gully.

I have drowned in bathtubs where I have smiled.
I swim in cold bathtubs not due to recklessness.
I swim to delude my presence.
Then, I hitch-hike upto the peak.

I do these things I cannot understand.
Reality slips away,
like fresh snow and water slip from my bare hands.
I climb to the mountain and fall to the bathtub.

Shadows are impersonations.
They move around
In the sneakiest of ways.
Lurking and inching and cheating.
Trying to escape the mirror.
The darkness died when the hero won.
It didn’t.
It just followed them, lurking to get back.
The core is darker of the fake.
They’re dark,
because they tell them of the time gone by.
In monochrome,
the color died, it lives in the real world now.
I don’t have a shadow.
I am one.

We're kids- all of us.
Then,
why do we force each other to grow up?

I find the charging sky lights to be
disorienting and pure.
Black and white at same time.

It’s a rainbow in the clouds after the rain
and succeeding the dark clouds which make me sane.

I am aware that rain will come again,
yet I don’t know when I will be rain-bound.
Each turn is a change in the circle of pain.

When the lightning strikes,
we look at the bright, white flash of light.
White pierces through the dark,
and confounds us and leaves us looking at the stars.

We wait for it to strike,
only for it to come at the most unexpected of times.
We must not be confused, or surprised.

We should rejoice when things go awry.
For it will too pass, and change will evade.
The earned hope will remain.

For chaos and the unexpected are change,
and change is the inevitable truth which cannot be tamed.
We’re celebrating the chaos and celebrating change.
We’re celebrating the inevitable when we dance in the rain.

To live without love is death.
To live honestly,
Is to love truly.
Life is a meaningless void.
Dark, dull, and unafraid.
Populous yet lonely,
Blinding yet bleak.
A land of color coexists,
of love that is cautious and daring.
Transcending human comprehension
And the providing hope
along with its audacity.
It’s power and will to thrive
conquers the misanthropy
Of austere death.

People’s feet are hurting,
dresses and shoes are a size smaller than theirs.
They’re taking chances, and going to dances
and the truer selves are calling for help.

They’re dressed in their nicest,
their inner screams are the quietest.
Under the gleaming smiles,
their broken, imperfect selves are quietly calling for help.

The smoothest white marble floor lies,
in the reflection they seem to be perfect
while they’re numb inside.
Living corpses are calling for help.

They’re breathing slowly,
to cope with the swift dancing.
The masses are strategizing and scheming
on how not to call for help.

All is calm and feelings are suppressed.
Suddenly!
Chandeliers are falling,
glass is on the dance floor
and hoofers are calling for help.

"Goodnight, sweet dreams"- I used to say.
Then when I came back home
after staying at grandma's for the holidays with the cousins,
I listed their names as I went to sleep,
good night, sweet dreams accompanied with each.
"Good night-sweet dreams, Nani Ji"
"Good night to everyone whenever your night might come"
"Sweet dreams to everyone whenever your night might come"

Life is attempting to walk down the stairs in darkness.
You can get better at it if you're familiar with them.
It gets better with time. But what if doesn't?
You'll stumble and fall like a toddler.

A perplexed hand reaches out
and a trembling fingertip reaches the ****.
It circles the burgundy, round grip
with faltering determination
to push the hazel door forward.

In a bus, sat an old couple
and held each other’s hands.
Two hands were clenched together,
as they had when they were just born.

They were at peace with what would arrive,
yet sweaty and energized like they had been
when they played in the green grounds
as little, naive boys.

Six decades of intimacy
running through their minds.
Both chanted and repeated prayers
and wishes for each other and others.

They were mid-desert
but their bond well-irrigated.
Their fields had borne flowers.
And water was plenty.

What had happened was that
a band of robbers had attacked.
They threatened to ****
and so, they did.

Her hardened feet and cracked heel
brush against the muddy ground.
She travels on foot to fetch water
as she withers away into the befouled.

Dancing at night in dark blue denims.
You left the taste of lemon
in my mouth when you asked me to drink it.
I smiled out loud when I heard of your visions.

Dancing in the diner parking lot.
The cheap speaker you brought
is still playing our music.
I yelled that we were infinite just like you taught.

Dancing at the railway station by rail cars.
Looking at the stars,
thinking about the ones to which we belong.
I point to a pretty pair and you smiled at the dark.

Peaceful nights
and then morning rains,
living through midday fantasy
with fruits for brunch.

Roaming in kaftans
and then cycling in the fields.
To guffaw at our jokes
and sit under the tree.

We're drinking water,
filled to the brim in the glass
to quench thirst
after our outdoor rendezvous.

Dancing to the sounds
of our breaths
and feet tapping to
the throb of our hearts.

Hold me in a
euphoric embrace
as historical wrongs
are corrected.

We'll sleep peacefully
through the night
and wake up at the crack of dawn
to see each other again
in euphoria.

Under an old display of neon lights
two gilded exteriors meet.
Their gold needs to melt
and the lead core bared.
Wilde's prince's lead core didn't melt,
so won't their austere cores.
Their gold melted in the neon haze,
but didn't have the heart
to see their leaden heart
in the bright of the day.

I went to see the winter sky at night.
I was in the hills, and the wind blowed ferociously.
The stars looked so bright, my eyes-
They could almost see myself in that light.

I was so dead when I was in the hills that night,
I couldn’t feel anything except for cold numbness in January.
I slithered out lies
When they asked if I was doing alright.

I felt like a black hole amidst heaven’s bright.
I stood in the balcony to listen to animals, calmly.
But I couldn’t hear them over the sound of my goodbyes.
During those dark and numb winter hours, I lacked sight.

I was dead back then,
I am a little less dead now.
I hope I am alive someday.

New dew on the lush olive green leaves,
coherent chaos awaits.

A chalice filled with the wine of word,
love rotted with time into hurt.
The viscous, darkened liquid
runs in veins instead of blood.
Bubbling liquids spew out
of my decaying mouth.
Bloodshot eyes are searching for
a familiar hand to hold.
Do not ask about the soul,
it's already sold.

Sometimes all we have to do is trust each other.

I am stuck in the trappings of poetry.
I have an exam to answer at 8 am.
I read and rejoice.
But I am sure
that I'll be overwhelmed
by regret in the morning.

I could just break down and cry.
But I could also get over it
in the fear of being judged.

It hurts when the darkness takes over.
After that, it hurts no more.
Dead before the storm is felt then on.
It continues on and on.

The storm is supposed to arrive but
prolonged silence is “not” heard.
It fears something inevitable.
What’s nagging is the unknown.

When the storm does not arrive at all,
the dead before it persists.
It stays there, asking about the storm.
I sigh- “It did not arrive at all.”

I visit the places of doom.
I dig graves for myself,
but there is never enough room.

You can take something,
but can you take nothing?
You can take their life,
but can you take their soul?
You hit alright,
but can you hit no more?
You can start,
but can you stop?
You can stop.
You can stop.

TRIGGER WARNING (this deals with suicide)


Hands fall down as they try to work in the mills. Hardened, bruised hands are cut and blood drips on the cloth that she's producing.

She has to work there, if she doesn't she has to bear the slaps of her drunken, miserable husband. Her eyes used to dream of skyscrapers and cities. Now, she is stuck in a slum and an endless cycle of misery.

She dreams on of a life she never lived. She wants it so much that she runs away from this world. She finds sweet release as her body is burned.

I’m stuck on the verge
of meandering outside
or wandering inside all the time.

I need to know if the sun shines
and if the moon still glows.
I haven’t seen the stars in a while.
The trees are in disguise,
and leaves don’t fall down by my side.
I haven’t stepped outside.

I need to know if my lungs pump out air
and if my brain still responds to stimuli.
I haven’t visited my heart in a while.
The emotions are in disguise,
and tears don’t fall down my eyes.
I haven’t stepped inside.

Normalcy is a strange word.
No definition is certain and
allowed to be called “normal”.
Differs in different lands.
And never asks for
Hate to come in its absence.
And no-one can seem to fulfil it.
Normalcy seems like a dream far away,
in a distant land that is strange.
Sometimes,
I wonder if anyone is normal.
If not,
Normalcy is perfection.
We strive for it.
And we practice diligently.
And fail to achieve it wholly.
Yet we find normalcy
that is perfection partially.

The keyboard staring at me-
What’s next to come is
An unnecessary string of
unasked-for apologies.
“I needed to say it.”
turns into
“I was stupid.
Never should have said it.”
I type in
“I’m so sorry.”
I send prayer hand emojis,
and console the loser turned winner.
I say to myself-
“I’m sorry, me.
I couldn’t be mean.”

I look at your fences
and your flimsy nests.
The wind comes in and breaks them.
You rebuild, the bear comes in and breaks them.
Yet you still rebuild.

I belong in the heavens
and then I'm under the ground.
I reach the clouds
and then sweep the dirt.
I'm on a rollercoaster
till the end.

The great green expanses of land which I saw
Were scratched by Human's deadly claw.
The mountains so tall & great
made to serve as global warming's bait.

The canopies of trees both scanty and tall
Were cut down despite nature's call.
All varieties of wastes are running a race
of who gets to deteriorate Earth's base.

All the lives of animals came to a halt,
When the cranes gave the forest a jolt.
Pollution is intensifying each second.
We won't destroy the environment.

I root for a day in the future
when there's harmony amongst all creatures.
I long that amazing day,
When there's a ray of hope and the skies aren't the polluted grey.

With velveteen curtains and a table of gold
sat an old hag with stories untold.
Kids scurried along the marble path
as they escaped her ferocious shihtzu dog.
Filthy men passed one-liners
about her polished growl.
She played hoarse music on her platinum harp
and sang along verses of outcasts’ tarp.
She read out loud stories
banned by the elders in the ancient market.
She lured and polluted little children’s minds
with her ideas and little schemes.
Yet the townsfolk let that damsel stay,
for she was an old hag who could do magic.
With their minds did the magic play.
The populace attempted to play with her tragic
mind in the hope that they could do magic too.

For we have suffered ample
We aren't naive nor imbeciles.
We’ve had enough and refuse to *******.
Ultimately standing up to the oppressive regime of lawbreakers.
We do have rights, some dignity to uphold.
In these dystopian times,
Some ancient manuscript of our rights is in decay after years of mimes.
But is the mere way of upholding our laws.
The committee with Ambedkar maketh the constitution prolix yet perfect.
Let the criminals be punished,
Let the victims be given justice and
Let equity prevail.
Torture me, wound me but awareness about our rights is not going to halt.
Unfortunate are going to be those who assault,
For the victims are not the ones at fault.
Articles 14-31 testify our rights,
Taming the animal in us to stop the bleeding fights.
Simply blaming others won't do,
But it is up to us to respect each other’s dignity too.
The finest from the finest set of rules is imbibed in it.
Our godforsaken spirits rooting for justice and equality are lit.
Lit with flames of years of turmoil,
while the dominant ignored the state of our own soil.
Of what worth is an old, old paper?
Justice to the mistreated, power to powerless, equality to the oppressed and sentence to the hater.

I was just a little boy
when I asked why I couldn't run in the traffic;
when I bathed in the inflatable pool and didn't get out;
when I locked my mother in the room;
when I locked my cousin and myself in the room to play with our toys;
when I was puked on by;
when I scraped my bruises in fun;
when I got a fever after I saw that lost kid at the mall;
when I ran in the hallways in races with my friends;
when I told my mother everything;
when I was innocent.

Abysmal despise curtains your insecurities.

When stuck in storms of hail and snow, insist.
If stuck in fights of sticks and stones, forget.
If stuck in dull debate unknown, desist.
When stuck in rain of life and beau, reflect.

But thou cannot be stuck by hail and snow.
Neither involved in fights of sticks and stones.
But thou is not amid rain of life and beau.
Nor thou partakes in dull debate unknown.

Do not give up between the storm of hail.
Do not accept defeat betwixt the rain.
Thou art more strong and does prevail.
Thou can withstand debate and will remain.

Defeat has never ever befallen you.
Dear thou, only victory is true for you.

The day he walked in that door
was the day he was destined to die.
He lay his foot inside the door
and the other one concurrently came out.
He transposed his clothes
but they ceased to cover his body.
The scarlet coat was left hanging
in the closet with his soul.
Indicted with crimes
that he must not have been penalized for.
And bashed by society
with their spiteful words like arrows.
Met his lover
but was parted by the injudicious laws.
Left skint and lacerated
with the epithet of an outcast.
Alien tears fill for him
and outcasts pay their homages.
No statue of air was this man
yet hard labor was all he was given to build it out of stone.
His teacher later delineated him as a blot on their tutorship.
For he was but a tutor.
De Profundis
spoke of his anguished journey.
Victorian times
disagreed with his originality and frolic.
He told
platonic love was all he was guilty of.
Yet,
he was charged with crimes.
Drowned in cries of shame;
and incarcerated to rip him off his passion.
Something was dead in him,
and what was dead was hope.
Hope died first
and then gradually died the passion.
In exile,
his love for writing too deceased.
The daemon inside him
ceased to inspire.
God sent the lord of death
The lord of death
didn’t move around pompously like him.
But came announced,
for it had been accepted.
The wallpaper moaned
upon his untimely death.
For it desired to die
instead of the then mincing man.
He left the earthly plains
for the good have fewer days.
The good die young
as did the revered outcast.
Herodotus the father of history
unerringly expressed the good ones’ misery.
He repudiated to deny his soul
and lived nonchalantly.
He desired all the fruits of the world
so he lived.
Exile ruined him
and rent his ardor.
His meetings with his lover
were interdicted by his family.
He was pardoned
but a century too late.
Along with the outcasts
that lived in throbbing pain.
The outcast deceased when young
but lived indefinitely.
Infinite existence is promised
for the ***** was silver-tongued.
He died young
and roams the immortal planes.
Just like Alan Turing,
Bhagat Singh, JFK, and countless more.
God wanted them
for they wanted to augment their heavens.

No matter how hard I try
I cannot speak
I cannot write
I cannot live

He’s ash now.
He played with ash back then.
He’s dirt.
He was dirt back then.
He snatched their slums
and their palaces
But now he can’t live in either.
He pumped out dirt
into the river back then.
He’s going back
to the river now.

Thunder rages on outside.
I am not the only traveler
who has not repaid his debt.
It attempts to scare me
into succumbing to the dark
and to the rain.
I would like rain
to accompany me on my
endeavors.
But I’m too much indebted
to afford it.
The skies want their
money back
and the heavens
have sent lightning.
They need it back
to bring back order.
Such a concentration of darkness
in one mortal isn’t natural.
They demand it back.
They need it back.
They send the rains
to make me yield to wizardry.
I do not
and smile in hope
that I’ll belong to the rain someday
and rain will belong to me.

We escaped the belly of the beast.
We weathered bludgeonings from across the seas.
we fought them with peace.
Together we wrote our own destiny,
we spelled out words of justice and equality.
We woke to self rule and sovereignty,
pledging to wipe tears from all eyes.
On an unfinished pursuit of our ideals,
our divided wounds continue to heal.
And heal shall they,
for we allow them to with our constitution.
A collection of our most-driven convictions.
We have witnessed wars and decades pass,
the technology grow and freedom last.
Tis nation of the Himalayas and the Malwa.
From the deserts of the west to the deltas of the east,
Liberty has been enshrined
& secularism promised in our revered book.
It is belongs to all of us,
in its mighty self and binding laws.
We, the people have rights that we exercise
and duties we fulfill.
We are not powerless,
we have the power - we are the nation.

Candles blow.
They die out.
The fire does
and consumes the candle with it.
The fire was the highlight.
Now it’s gone-
And the candle
suddenly lost its worth and value.
It now lays grief-stricken
And attached to the floor.
Refusing to let go
of their places in the show.
It let illumination enter our world.
And now it’s dead.
We scrape its place from the floor.
Scraping away at its existence.
For this one now and forevermore.

A myriad of people I see.
I lay my eyes upon their deep agony.
A father rejoins broken slippers for his pedestrian tyke.
A couple shops for clothes on the roadside.
A mother holds her daughter and subjected to a terrible cold.
The rickshaw puller shouts for them to move away.
He has his own place to be and children to transport.
They all have their destinations and
sights they need to see.
The clothing they need to wear
and lifestyles they wish to be.
It’s the life they got.
It’s not sure if they wanted it.
With the gaze of an outer observer
I see,
and be unable to read
their thoughts and dreams.
I long to know
the places they are in
and the places they want to be.

The ancient Egyptians wrote down words.
Proud of their heritage and culture.
Their words are gibberish to us,
we try to make sense of them.

I wonder what will my words
be like some thousand years later.
My voice won’t make sense to the future generations
as I would mumble out words, incoherently.

Will they try to encrypt my broken messages?
Will they try to know the thoughts of some 1400 year old boy?
Will another 14 year old boy write the same things as I did?
Or will my words remain worthless as they are today?

I will mourn the people I lost
and the opportunities I took.
I will suffer when the sun is out.
I will stay in bed tonight.

I will not go out
when I am supposed to.
I will think when I reportedly don’t.
I will stay in bed tonight.

I will admire the people I cheated.
I will congratulate the ones
who aided my fall.
I will stay in bed tonight.

I will not drink as required.
I will not be antagonising
another man in the dark.
I will stay in bed tonight.

I will not steal an idea.
I will display my work
and be laughed at.
I will stay in bed tonight.

I will stay in bed tonight
and wake as a failed being
that almost resembles a human.
Oh wait- a failed being is human.

A house is not a home,
your heart is a place where I am
but that's not where I belong.