I hear
Hindi
In the hallway—
Suddenly
My American
Lips
Can taste
The masala
In your kiss;
I smile
And let the memory
Travel
Across the sea
Where it belongs

little people
small people
people full of scars

riddle me people
why the feeble mind ?

why bother time
with your reaper's heart ?

cry with me,
when I read you your tar,

filthy hands, guilty stars
many men, any man-
but yet i see no flowers

nobody's awake at this hour

and i've slowly spent all my
will to live,
i repent the kind man who
sought this thrill to give,

frozen smile, stuck by the clock;
locked in place and stiff,
opened files, an omen dies,
and he spoke with a slight lisp

munching on something
light and crisp,
searching for nothing,
nothing's as vile and sick;

reaching for that one thing-
that gun thing, them rocks and sticks,

how about that sun thing ?
what would a son think,
when he's burdened by the mist,
pretending to be human enough
to pretend that he's amiss,

amidst the chaos and the risks,
forgotten names and letters,
from faces that he don't miss-

and they think it gets better
the more you drink and fish,
so ink yourself a moon, and
buy yourself a letter-
so, you can sin, sing and wish

for some time alone.

i used to think that driving
in developing countries
was just a series of close calls
but it is this unstructured discipline
and a firm commitment to disorder
that enchanted those
to come
read: conquer
and build institutions
hell bent on
extracting the soul
with a scalpel
and replacing customs
with consumption

My body is a temple
My bleeding is divine
My womanhood is spiritual
In ways that an intolerant devotee like you cannot understand
So when you barr me from entering Sabarimala
Remember that you can't stop a goddess
Saraswati is wise but her rage is wild and merciless
Lakshmi will create earthquakes that will devastate
Durga will pierce your heart with her spear
Parvathi will leave her abode and run into the streets
Kali will destroy you in unimaginable ways
They reside within us
We will cut our feet on your shattered glass
We will shout till our voices become hoarse
An army of neglected women will create a tsunami
Till you're on your back, crying
Till you give up your apparent 'religion-saving'
Helpless, wailing
And bleeding

To those men who are always behind us, though sometimes we may not see them.
To those men who are too busy flying fighter jets to teach their daughters to make paper planes.
To those sons who will point at every aeroplane that skims the horizon to proudly claim, “that’s my father!”.
To those women whose hearts will return wrapped in the tricolour and chipped aluminium; Who will place dented helmets beside faded polaroids of days gone by.
To those youth who will break solemn promises- “I’ll come back soon.”
To those families that will stare out of windows, refusing to draw down curtains as they hope against hope.
To those men who can truly say the sky is the limit.
To those men who fly above us yet are so rooted to the cause of their motherland.
Those brave hearts whose faces are lined with sweat and determination as they kiss the ground beneath their feet before they embrace the heavens for the last time.
To the men who take every sortie with a last salute.
To the white saris and navy-blue shirts stashed away and medals hung on rusted nails. To survival and martyrdom and the presence of absences. To commodores and flight lieutenants and wingmen. To parades and memoirs and sacrifices and soldiers in the sky.
The Eighth of October is for them.
To those men who are always behind us, though sometimes we may not see them.
To those men who are too busy flying fighter jets to teach their daughters to make paper planes.
To those sons who will point at every aeroplane that skims the horizon to proudly claim, “that’s my father!”.
To those women whose hearts will return wrapped in the tricolour and chipped aluminium; Who will place dented helmets beside faded polaroids of days gone by.
To those youth who will break solemn promises- “I’ll come back soon.”
To those families that will stare out of windows, refusing to draw down curtains as they hope against hope.
To those men who can truly say the sky is the limit.
To those men who fly above us yet are so rooted to the cause of their motherland.
Those brave hearts whose faces are lined with sweat and determination as they kiss the ground beneath their feet before they embrace the heavens for the last time.
To the men who take every sortie with a last salute.
To the white saris and navy-blue shirts stashed away and medals hung on rusted nails. To survival and martyrdom and the presence of absences. To commodores and flight lieutenants and wingmen. To parades and memoirs and sacrifices and soldiers in the sky.
The Eighth of October is for them.

कुछ अक्स अधूरे नक्स रहे गुम
कुछ आँखें नम कुछ नींद हुई कम
कुछ लफ्ज़ रहे थे कभी अनकहे
कुछ जज्बातों में बेवज़ह कहे

कुछ धड़कन की अजब थी झनझन
कुछ मन की उलझन ख़ुद से अनबन
कुछ याद तुम्हारी कुछ बेक़रारी
कुछ हया हमारी कुछ समझदारी

कुछ कहती वो अपनी खामोशी
कुछ बेख़याली में थी मदहोशी
कब बात बात में बात हो गयी
एक दूजे में दिन रात हो गयी

टूट गयी एक कच्ची डोरी
दिल मिल गए चोरी चोरी
अब इंतेज़ार में दिन है गुजरें
तुम ही बताओ क्या हम करें

Lather, rinse, repeat.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
Soak, wash, repeat.
Sweep, sweep, repeat.
Wipe, wipe, repeat.
Scrub, scrub, repeat.
Dice, dice, repeat.
Wipe, dry, repeat.
The tears that are good.
Pour, stir, repeat.
Open the door.
Serve the food.
Greet, greet the guests.
Smile, talk, repeat.
Say bye-bye, repeat.
Massage, press, repeat.
Yelp in pain.
Grab your abdomen.
Rub, press, repeat.
Let the sari unwrap.
Shake your head no.
Oh oh.
Run, hide, cry, plead.
Rub your stinging cheek.
Sob, sob, repeat.
Dab, dab, repeat.
The tears that are deserved.
Press your straining scalp.
Grab tight the bed sheet.
Groan, hiss , repeat.
Fake, fake, repeat.
Pain, pain.
Again!
Sore, sore, all over.
Go make a drink and then,
Massage, press, repeat.
Pick up the nephew.
Ignore the daughter’s lies.
Pat, pat repeat.
Put him down to sleep.
Sing the lullabies.
See your daughter writhe.
Writhe, writhe, repeat.
Kiss your daughter’s hand.
Feel her skin burning.
Watch your daughter weep,
Cry herself to sleep.
One drop down then two.
The tears that are meaningless.
Lie down as if asleep.
Twist, turn, repeat.
Wake up before dawn.
Now, you put on.
Red, green, black and gold.
Vermillion, bangles, beads.
Lather, rinse, repeat.

He unfolded his red turban lying on his khaat
Seeing me in my new ghagra-choli he bought
The evening sun setting in his eyes like a candle
While the stars sing as I watch him eat dal bhat
Tonight, I will be awake in all the quarters of the night
Watching your dreams tune away by the sarangi at my side
​