It takes a bag to kick an alcoholic's ass

8:00 pm: Getting hammered is a ritual for me like my mother’s ritual is to wake me up every morning. So here I am bar hopping on a Sunday night.

2:00 am: And car hopping. After midnight they don’t serve you alcohol in this city.

2: 30 am: I see the seventh floor on the lift buttons. And all I wanna do is press all the buttons except that.

8:00 am: It is Monday; way too bluer than blue, hanging over my head, grinding teeth at me. Getting up was like an award winning effort.

8:35 am: Mother’s sweet voice did not reach me. Nor my alarm rang in my sheet, draped in sleep. I had lost my phone and my senses, last night.

9:35 am: Breakfast had a special menu; a bowl full of sorrow and a tall glass of curses. Mother was silent. But when she broke it, her words made me wanna take a fork to my mouth and quickly shove it down my throat ‘cause I would rather choke than argue with her for even a second.

9:45 am: I managed to snake my way out of home. I work like it’s a duty and party like it’s my business.

4:30 pm: At work, I spent the day like watching a film reel that cut into another film reel and another and another and the images spin by before I could make any sense of them. There seemed no way to get to the beginning, even if there was one. Sure as hell, I was in hangover.

6:45 pm: My girlfriend was silent like an ocean before a huge tide. And I sat in the car, trapped like a useless rock on the beach side.

6:50 pm: Her eyes deep in which I could not dare to look into. The tide was almost there, in some distant part of hers but did not come up front.

6:55 pm: She is an avid reader. Wish she read my thoughts and knew how apologetic they were.

6:56 pm: Love is a mental disease. 

8:30 pm: If old habits die hard, then bad habits die harder. On my way home, I swallowed some beer to stop my hands from shaking and to face the people at home. It makes me feel brave enough to make promises.

9:30 pm: I parked my car next to the park where my mother strolls around every evening. The park was empty, the building was dim, only dressed in white noise.

9:43 pm: Climbing up to my floor never felt so heavy before. I reached my house to find a trolley bag sitting in front of the door.

9:44pm: Maybe there will be no arguments, no questions, no answers, no promises, no time to even break them. It’s only time for me to fuck off. This bag looked a lot like my only belonging for the next few weeks or years.

9:50 pm: Almost choking on the ashes of the burnt cities in my throat, I rang the door bell. Several parts of me had started to pack stuff and were ready to leave.

9:51 pm: mother opened the door for me.

9:55 pm: father asked about my day with nothing but a father like smile on his face.

10:00 pm: The place felt like home and I like the shy kid of the house.

10:00 am: The bag maker was happy to get a job after several days.  The bag was happy to get the fixing done after ages.

To the boy called gobhi kumar

Whenever we were not talking, we were staring

at the hands of a clock and waiting for it to be too late.

Now, it’s too late.

I learnt a bunch of theories before you. I don’t know what they were like.

Now, some new theories look at me, with glassy eyes.

Glasses like Harry Potter’s or John Lenon’s

Or maybe like Stephen Hawkin’s –

They reflect a brief history of time.

From the big bang small talks to the black hole trips.

From the omelette du fromage in breakfast

to the noodle fight in supper.

From drinking in plastic, steel, and glass glasses

to peeing just about everywhere.

Sometime in there, hearts spilled.

So did the guts, kidneys and gall bladders.

Scientists are still not sure if dark energy exists,

or what role it plays in the universe.

But you ask me to carry an old monk bottle in my bag

as if it’s your spirit soaked in dark rum.

You must know, it will speak words of wisdom.

And wise are the people who do not forget.

I hope not to.

Now you pass out at 7 pm, wake up at 3am probably on the couch,

Because now you can.

The morning fades to light, to twilight, to night, and you show up only in diapers

Because now you can.

Your cat pees on your jacket and you record its video,

Because now you can.

You practice model walk in the kitchen, hands on your slender hips,

tossing alcohol in the wok to set fiery magic.

Because now you can.

You tend to fuck shit up then fuck shit up again.

Because now you can

You kiss girls who kiss boys who kiss girls who kiss guys who kiss you.

Because now you can.

Because now you are the coolest you will ever be.

I wish it affects the global warming, in a good way. 

Because now you are the youngest you will ever be.

The old monk is considering name change. 

You may get up on the wrong side of the bed then forget it.

You may fall asleep on the other and find out it’s the wrong side too.

Because now you can.

Now you can do all of it

as long as you don’t forget about the woman

comprised of a 40 year old man and a 6 year old girl.

On some days we're something

You, me, our world.

We are all magic.

You, me, our dreams

We are all ordinary.

You, me, our jokes

We are all boring.

You, me, our destiny.

We are all funny.

You, me, our exes.

We are all liars.

You, me, our lies.

We are all true.

You, me, our tears.

We are all shy.

You, me, our guts.

We are all heroes.

You, me, our hearts.

We are all selfless.

You, me, our clocks

We are all helpless.

It just depends on the day.

The deadly game of survival

You love yourself for being a veggie and for not murdering those little lives for your meal. You paint your face with glitter to let your friends notice how you’re a magic. You believe you are a magic because for all these years, in every thirty days you bleed and survive. Now surviving is important. Even for once if you stop to bleed. Even if it means a new life within you. Even if it takes to suck that life from within.

Sometimes it’s hard to be in skin like, ours. Sometimes our life feels a lot like an apartment that has caught up a wild fire. And when it does, you should leave. Take only what you can carry. No heavy heart, no tears, no first calls, no second thoughts. I wonder how much are you carrying right now. I wonder what weighs you down is not only yours to carry. It frightens me.

There are so many lights in this city. Sometimes they guide you home. Sometimes, they take you really far from it. By the car window, you count them like the touches of your lover that night. You feel just fine until you don’t. Until the trigger pulls itself. Until the bullet leaves a wound to grow with each hour, each minute, each second or whatever. It was fun, stupid girl, he said, with a blade to your nape. And you loved him a little more. Except there never was any blade, there was just his unblinking eyes and your uncountable breaths in exclamations. It was just a heartless him on top and a careless heart beneath your skin.

Under anaesthesia, you recall the mattress creaking and the bed shrieking before your head starts to spin and your lips shake. You wake up only to say that the pain is unbearable. But hey that’s exactly what you already are bearing now. By chance, you are bearing it all alone. The doctor asks you “how’s it going”? to which you reply “good” but honestly you have this overwhelming desire to eat pieces of broken glass. And you can’t have that. Because the doctor has kept you on warm liquid diet.

I see you laughing a little too loud, maybe so that no one sees you marinating in stings of stomach ache and grams of grief. I see you clapping, because maybe you needed an excuse to hold them. Now you don’t believe you’re a magic. You’re a little girl, wearing oversized pajamas. A tiny life in you is dead and I just sit there with my eyes closed and say, it’s okay. Not everyone’s survival is important. 

Why am I not one of those babies

How useless men feel

when they no longer have

something to save,

or to kill

so they make sure

they shoot a horror movie,

only that it is real.

They make sure

Some bags never return their homes,

Only that their lessons shake the earth up.

They make sure

Some hundreds eyes never get dry,

Only with the tears of the deepest grief.

They make sure

Some photographs bleed,

Only that they  never stop to do so.

They make sure

Some babies sleep under the ground,

Only in the name of god.

How senseless

it is to call them men.

some words I almost sent you

Hey

Clichéd, but ‘sup?

I hope you’re staying warm. 

I have been staying strong.

Just that some time like

12:12:12 and

Days like 12/12/13

Are cold.

So cold, that they give my heart

An ice cream headache.

And me wonders

What it all means –

The people, the trees,

The buildings, the roads

The music, the silence,

The job, the joblessness,

The day by day things,

The dreams at night

The waste of time,

of myself.

My rhymes are unspeakable.

Your love is unreachable.

I don’t know what is more terrible,

The chills of what happened

Or the ache for what never will.

Just that some time like

12:12:12 and

Days like 12/12/13

Are drab.

So drab that my eyes

Don’t mind shedding,

As they refuse

to stay strong all the time.

I realize when I’m writing this,

There is a prayer under my breath.

Old - but not that old.

Young - but not that bold.

And when I’m writing, I am praying,

That you’re keeping nice and toasty.

The day the world would stop

No one will move.

Nothing will shift.

Someone would kick a diet Pepsi can away, when it will happen. And the can will just hang in the air.

At the National Security Gurad office, Mr. DIG while picking up his favorite pen from the non-copper pen holder will freeze. Right there.

A drop of sweat will shine on Mr. Ashley Lobo’s temple. He’ll be held back with his huge arm on the petty shoulders of an eminent doctor, against the flash of his lovely digital camera.

Manu Yadav in the hills, most likely be sitting cross legged, attempting to boom a joint. He will too get his position fixed.

A shopping bag of Dubai duty free shop will get stuck in mid swing, carried by frozen Praveen Sarjan for his frozen girlfriend.

The long and diagonal shadows of Sriraaz and Mobin will set still. 

In the centre of the diving board and the surface of the pool, your fat ass cousin would be halted with a grin on his face.

Somewhere under the magical skies, your newlywed sister will get to admire her love a little longer than usual.

For that very moment there will be no noise, maybe just the fading words. They would leave the mouth and lose their guts.

Birds in the sky would just stay wherever they will be.

A tide will become motionless right before the sea shore.

The world will cease to turn and clocks to tick and tock.

Most importantly your darling blackberry will get some moments of quietness.

And then, I will turn to you

close my eyes,

and kiss you.  

Twenty five things on turning twenty five

1. To err is human. To er, umm, ah, ugh, uh oh is me.

2. I can’t believe I was once the size of a cauliflower.

3. I like wearing black. It helps me feel hidden.

4. It is always good to know the art of disappearing like a magic trick on your fingertip.

5. Poetry is a magical thing. It knows exactly where to reach and what to pull out.

6. Often, I have met wolves and other bad creatures disguised as humans.

7. It aches to grow up.

8. Drinking is absolutely fun even when it is at 11 am and the sun is shining.

9. It is good to stop sometime and sit on a bench in a park. As you stop, everything there stops. Absolutely stops.

10. I am afraid of the times when the music stops playing.

11. Home is the place where you can pee like a goddess.

12. I have been in love with people, and I have been alone. I think it will take time to figure out which hurts more.

13. I don’t like summers but I like the taste of lychee, so yea summer is missed at times.

14. September makes me super nostalgic. The triggers float in the air, enter through the nostril and screw my mind.

15. October is so beautiful, everything prefers to die.

16. They say, most of the serial killers are born in November. Probably this is why I keep killing people in my head.

17. Then there are days in the year I feel like not feeling.

18. It is absolutely fine to have sex than making love, at times.

19. I learnt damaged people damage people.

20. Saying truth makes you feel a lot lighter. Especially, when it is your mother at the other end.

21. I am more than thankful to my mother for making a trillion rotis up till now. I want a zillion more. It is one of a kind feeling to see her cooking while humming a recent song.

22. A lot of my dreams consist of a person in an asylum, sitting on a tree, writing poems on paper planes, waiting for the right wind to kick up. Perhaps that person is me.

23. Mind is a gift. Even if it hurts and lets you have déjà vu.

24. If travelling had cost nothing, people would never see me again.

25. There is something else I was born for. I almost remember it.

Beautiful notes of dirty poets

It is like something was running in our heads besides the car she drove. At a signal, she looked into my eyes like a man would always want to be looked by a woman and there were parts of me nervously on fire. She rolled her eyes and it was then all of me. I remember her stare and my dead slow pulse and the car with the loud music.

It is like something had turned on besides the radio in the car she drove. At another signal, she gently pressed her thumb against my skin, shoved her fingers in my mouth and I swear I could taste how my next few hours, next few days, next few weeks or whatever would taste like. I remember the night was velvet blue.

We reached the kind of hotel that people use for nothing but fucking on a really bouncy mattress that has seen several of lovers like us, bleeding between its five star snow white sheets. The room was royal. A place that royally saw us, held its arms out like a God almighty, and said “Go crazy, kids. No one’s watching.”

It is like something we try to love what we cannot tame. Especially when it is an angry woman and the things she carries. She pretended to know my name and offered to play titanic. She’d been the ocean where I gone down on. It was my skin that crawled underneath her fingernails and it was me between her bent knees. She seemed to have left everything tender at her dressing table. I remember my heart beating out of my head.

It is like some dirty kind of poem you don’t tell your parents about. In half-light, she ran her fingers all over like she was reading words carved into my skin, carefully binding them together into a poem. I heard it playback in my head as I drifted into the most peaceful sleep. She left for home with haikus printed in black and blue on her neck and my name bruised onto her thigh. I remember either of us were dirty kinky poets.

Under the weight of the ground

This city has some shadows here

Those are calling your name.

I doubt if they’re calling it right

Because you’re shit unaware.

Far away, at the beach side

You’re foot writing the same;

While mixing tonic and gin

Without having to hide

As the clouds roll and make a thunder sound,

not even an inch of me gets surprised

that the sky is still the sky without you;

only curiosity kicks in about how is one

supposed to reach people

when all the telephone wires

are buried under the ground