Who needs drugs?

She greets me grimly,

With a smile robbed of warmth and love.

She lives just around the corner,

Next to the old lady.

The one who looks secretly,

From under the magically changing veil.

From green to brown to green again.

 

She lies there with her discrete invitation,

Lips laced with plastic pink,

Curling into a meaningless smile,

And her body is drunk in a vile scent.

 

Deaf to the word sorcerers’ cautions,

I crawl to her blindly,

Carrying a bag full of despair and lust.

Running like a mad child on dark smooth lanes.

 

To lie in her poisoned arms,

And think of someone else,

As I make unwearied love to her pain every night.

There hides a tree in the backyard,
Wrapped in brown and wrinkled history.
It stares at me with emotionless eyes,
Like the orb of a future teller,
Like a jar of void and darkness,
And ornamental stitched lips.

Its stares at me,
Standing in solace,
Like an ancient thought
Or a drunk mast.

Standing aloof from its roots,
On the suffocating tiles.
Standing still like time,
With unhealed wounds of separation
And a dozen bleeding branches,
Waiting for another Sunday and some new wounds.

When I sit under its borrowed shade,
smoking, pondering, talking continuously,
It drops a seed or two on the floor.
I look at the split open seeds and
feel amused at the cruelty of hope.

It hurts me to see him,
Standing there like an old poet
Or a child who walked too far from home.
Looking at the wicked faces,
Plotting and laughing under its leaves,
He screams ‘Is nothing sacred?’

I don’t have the heart to tell him,
That nothing is.
Except the cancerous cement.
That will devour it one cell at a time.
And one day devour all its thoughts and hope.
Should I ask him to run?
Or just play dead like I am?

Spending days in the fireplace,
burning, cracking, like red hot helpless coal.
Nights in loud noisy bars,
Turn up the volume Mr. DJ,
I don’t wanna hear myself.

Appreciating plastic and dark stone hearts.
Another drink please. A large.
I can still feel something.
Another dose of numbness please,
right up my swollen veins.

Seeing the city through red tinted, broken glasses.
Broken faces, wrecked bodies.
Always talking, always laughing, always running,
Surfing depression.

Its just between you and me Bombay.
Temme was this your liberation plan?
‘Coz they banned mercy killing?

जब मैं थक कर अप्ने कमरे मे बैठता
अक्सर सन्दूक से कोई बुलाता है.
आवाज़ तो कुछ पेह्चानी सी है,
शायद बचपन है वो मेरा.

कुछ याद, कुछ भूला हुआ.
कुछ कल की तरह, कुछ बरसो पुराना.
धून्द्ले से वो चहरे,
जिन्हे अब आइना भी नही पेह्चानता
सिर्फ़ यादों के खिलोने हैं,
जो पुकारते है, इक श्याम को.

वह टूटा हुआ लट्टू,
क्या नाच दिखाता था,
क्या कींमत थी उस्की?
अगर खुदा आके मान्ग्ता तो
भी ना देते उसे.

वह पिस्तोल हथियार तो ना थी,
हमें यकीन था उस्से खूं नही बहेगा.

जब दोस्तों से नाराज़,
मां से झगड कर,
खुद्को कमरे मे बन्द कर लेते थे,
तो सिर्फ़ वो गुडिया ही तो थी,
बात करते थे उस्से,
क्युन्की वो समझ्ती हमे,
सो जाते थे उस्से बात करते करते,
पितजी आकर जब उस्से बाहों से ऊठाते थे,
तो क्यु नीन्द खुल जाती थि?

वह मासूम चहरे नहीं है,
कुछ परदेस चले गये,
कुछ एक मेज़ के पीछे छिप गये,
और कुछ चहरो को झुरिया खां गयी.

बस अब मैं हूं,
और वह यादों के खिलोने.
जो अकसर पुकारा करते है.

Attempt at hindi poetry, please ignore the infinite spelling mistakes!

ये शेहर क्यु इतना खामोश है?
रौन्दा जाता हैं हर रोज़, इन्सानो और मशिनो से,
पर एक आह भी नही निकल्ती.

बस अकेला सा चुप चाप देख्ता रेह्ता है.
हर वह चीख, हर कोहराम,
इसकी खमोशी का प्रतिबीबं हैं.

लान्खो लोग आते है रोज़,
अप्ने सपनौ का खाली केन्वस लीये.
और इस शेहेर के लहू कि हर बून्द,
किसि का क्रिम्सन सनराइस बन्ती है.

लोगो के जूतो से पेहले तो ज़खम और छाले भी थे बदन पर इस्के.
पर अब सब सुन्न है.
लालच के धुए से लोगो ने कालीन भी पहुत पोती,
हर परिवार ने घोप दिये कुछ पिल्लर इस्के सीने मे.

ये शेहेर क्यु इतना चुप है?
कभि मुझ्से बात नही करता,
कभी पूछता नही है, कैसे हो?
ना कभी मेरे सवालो का जवाब देता है.
बस एक ट्क देख्ता रहता है.

ज़रा सडक पर कान लगा कर सुनो तो कोइ,
क्या ज़िन्दा भी है ये?
या एक कफ़न उडा कर इसे,
कही और बस जाये हम!

Gandhi, can you sleep at night,

Under the load of freedom and that black granite stone?

Or do you pop pills too? Is Alprozalom a friend?

 

Do you feel stupid,

Standing at the crossroads all day?

A mere landmark

on the way to the stinking theatres and dirty bars,

a mask for corruption.

 

Is this what you die for,

To become a postal stamp and Rs. 100,

A headline on an aged yellow paper?

Compulsory? Page no. 34 in text book?

The written rule? A national monument?

A tshirt design?

A blotter paper?

A logo?

Just another unmoved piece of national furniture?

 

Do you wonder sleeping with worms,

If a day job in an MNC would have been better?

 

Being rich, wearing Armani,

Spending summer in a big country house,

Smoking long Cuban cigars,

Would it be better?

Hiding in the wilderness

And blaming the government?

 

Too bad. You chose.

Now.

Your bed’s a world tourist destination,

Come see the whore of peace and freedom,

Rs. 20 for Indians,

Rs. 200 for foreigners.

 

 

Buddha will trade his soul for peace

Buddha is ready for a busy business

Buddha says vini, vidi, vindi – I came, I saw, I met vinesh!

Buddha needs a massage

Buddha is bloody excited about Bebulore and Coorg – she’s digging this whole traveling thing

Buddha is numb

Buddha is drenched, had a good relaxed saturday

Buddha is waiting to be at Lalbaugh tomorrow

Buddha is very sad about the Delhi blasts

Buddha loves saturdays

Buddha is tired, sleepy, cranky, jet lagged, sometimes wide awake, bored, missing everyone and is currently fast asleep

Buddha needs to start sudarshankriya

Buddha wants to know what the fuck is wrong with everyone

Buddha is planning her holiday

Buddha is wondering – to tweet or not to tweet, where will this all end?

Buddha is packed and ready to go

Buddha is a magnet for magnets carrying too much metal

Buddha is a smile

Buddha is promoting cannibalism in south Gujarat

Buddha is bored

Buddha is fucked up with I problem

Buddha needs to take the plunge

Buddha is off

Buddha is preparing to get Kunal Joshied this weekend by consuming some solid food and getting some rest

Buddha says when love kills love, will someone rescue me?

Buddha says “Oh! How it sucks, the new society format”

Buddha is thinking of area 150

Buddha is a zombie

Buddha is happy

Buddha says wohooo, Friday!

Buddha says rains are getting unpredictable

Buddha is planning to watch a good film today

Buddha is of opinion that the best part about weddings is the non-stop shopping

Buddha is confused

Buddha is sure that in the last few days he has consumed more meat than the tigers at the Hyderabad zoo

Buddha is finding all this highly confusing

Buddha is being very patient

Buddha is not looking forward to a weekend all alone. Bloody author left me for a better job

Buddha says exactly 3 weeks to go

Buddha says damn, that was fast!

Buddha is joining school again

Buddha has been displaced

Buddha is wondering why she’s the only one chained to the desk?

Buddha is tripping

Buddha is exhausted

Buddha is welcoming Onam

Buddha is going to Delhi

Buddha mixed the aquamarine with vanilla to paint the sky

Buddha is silver and cold

Buddha is working, working and sleeping

Buddha is under this enormous sky which from hills in the distance stretches to the distant hills

Buddha is anti-blurb

Buddha is going, going, gone..

Buddha is tired of working

Buddha is getting decayed

Buddha is demon lickin’

Buddha is wondering why we seek excitement and enlightenment outside when there is so much to read and attain all that & more

Buddha always says no to alcohol but it never listens to him

Buddha gives

Buddha is unpacking and trying to settle in Singapore

Buddha is looking for a home

Buddha lost his mobile phone on the train to Bangalore

Buddha is a pint!

Do you get amused by the amount of stupid people around you at any given point of time? I do, very amused. Every morning when I wake up and walk out of my home there are new stupid people around me doing newer stupider things. After a lot of thinking and research I have concluded my theory of the reasons of stupidity in human beings.

 

The society as we all know is based on defying all the rules of nature. One more such incident is over-protection of the offspring by the parents. When a tigress has a litter it is extremely rare that more than 2 cubs will survive. The reason the other don’t survive is because they are not fit enough to live in this world. (Sometimes of course they get plain lucky!) In case of humans the parents and the society make sure that the offspring survives. No matter how unfit or unworthy of existing.

 

That is the reason why we are surrounded by so many unfit/stupid people. These people should have died when they were 3-4 days old, maybe eaten up by a cat or swallowed by a snake, but they have been protected and made to live.

It all fades away slowly,

Like memories, distant and vague,

Hidden behind the dense clouds and fog.

It all goes, slithering away from him.

The smoke, the buildings,

Stinking bars and wild orphans, like him.

Running after cars and swallowing smoke,

Falling down and just lying there, waiting.

 

He feels it detaching, like hooks on the back.

Ripping the skin. The threads stretching.

Blood. Pain. Why?

From lifelessness to life is it painful?

They all are. Dreams and fantasies.

Just pain. For what?

Leaving the dead behind?

 

The wet road glittering. Is it Sinai?

Green breasts of the mother rising up.

To the sky.

The ghost of the roads. Never stopping.

Never moving. A daze. Traffic.

Black pearls on her green breast.

Breathless him. Should I embrace her?

Fear of perverting the mother.

Purity. The breast, always washed.

River and clean waters.

From where? To where?

Like him, maybe.

They purify he perverts.

 

A virgin by the road.

Playing one moment.

Run over the other.

15 days old maybe.

Playful, big eyes.

Now painting the glittering road. Now red.

The mother. Madness in her eyes.

Helpless. Who?

Looks at the ghost. You. All of you.

Accusing eyes. Bark. Howl.

Rolls over in pain.

Disbelief. Disowning the truth.

Was here a moment ago, feeding from my breast.

Can’t!

You. And you. All!

 

What good is death with no blood?

Ran over again.

The virgin’s body, blood oozing.

What good is to cry?

Did he? Really? Murder!! Murder!

Maybe.

 

Perverseness. Road. Rivers. Factories.

Judas. Noah. Truth. Chocolates.

Ice cold sounds. Valley. Oil.

Dead fishes. Whiskey. Rhymes. Advertisement.

Hatred. Love. Living meat. Soil.

Clouds. Ash. Window.

Her breasts. The pearls. Squirming truth.

Shame. Stone. Those who die.

The virgin. The rapist.

The mother. The killer.

 

I am all or nothing.