Thursday, March 29, 2018

Did we tell you the name of the game, boy?

She has a comeback for every
sanctimonious prude who calls her
a whore or accuses her of doing
anything for money.

The sheer callousness and nonchalance with which
they carried out the act were such that,
the sanctions seem a let off, more so
because the evidence here was incriminating.

Too many could kill its business
model, since every constraint on how
data is used means lost revenue.

But, by applying the same standards across
all markets, the revenue engine could stall.

The philosopher has never killed any priests,
whereas the priest has killed a great
many philosophers.

This time, the egg on their face may stick.
Oh, by the way, Vijay Mallya is not really an absconder,
He eloped!

*FYI - Most of it is copied from newspaper articles. Nothing, except the last line, belongs to the poor old compiler.

Monday, May 8, 2017


The arrival of a last goodbye,
during the birth pangs of a word,
fuddles the pen in my hand,
as the 'economic man' inside me,
takes over.

The story, left in the lurch,
struggles hard, wheezing to
make peace with
the final full stop - the ending,
the eternal ending.

Donkey years ago,
I began with death in my mind,
leading myself on through a boulevard
configured by fools,
'doing what I loved and loving what I did.'

The great escape is never on the cards with you,
but just a funeral pyre away,
or sometimes hyphenated to
the fickle story,
the one they've baptized as life.

Sunday, September 18, 2016

The ignominy of inactivity

The black heated road, circumambulating
the garden of the tall, well-fed, green grass,
tries to merge into the highway,
laid out to high-speed humanity
and short circuit the sands of time,
waylays a dog or two,
cows, a cow or two,
denuding the transience of the breath of life.

The dogs of now devour the cow that was.

Life comes a full circle around
the death of activity. In-activity, they call it.
The highway, in turn, longs to merge into
the reactionary black heated road, encircling the
garden, where the grass is tall and
well-fed on the ignominy of inactivity.

Thursday, May 12, 2016

Eye View

The sun executes
a will of perpetuation.
The dawn diminishes my shadow
on the architecture.
The ruddy river of yesterday's hope,
gushes out from my nose today.

A weak link in the cause of the world,
I sit afar. Last in the lines.
Moral inertia keeps me
in the grey. Me, it defines.
My friend of yore, drives a
big piece of metal. Bottled wines.

When the line inches,
ignorant of the imminent slaughter,
I don't move, I don't budge.
The degenerate swines.

I wish away the day for the night.
I wish for the arrival of my solitary accomplices.
I wish the darkness to veil their faces.
I wish to wipe from my burlesque memory -
the springs of them, the autumns of me.

Monday, December 7, 2015

Temerity between the binaries

The space between the binaries,
like the water of the waterfall
between the ledge and the lake,
is impetuous and temporally wasted.

The epochal interregnum between the binaries
Of Right and Wrong, Of Yes and No,
looks down the soul
of the instrumental scientific temper of the times,
of Modernity,
of the primordial culture in vogue,
of the glazing surface intellect,
of the deafening sound of silence.

It bypasses the human frailties and
eavesdrop on life growing into death.

There is a quixotic tinge to
the space between the binaries.
There, lie the unheard and unexplored
treasure troves of significant insignificance.

While fathoming the emptiness inside,
and traversing the edges of the lunatic fringe,
life comes to death
and death to life.

Saturday, August 15, 2015

Joining the dots

Distributed among mendicants
of frugal wisdom, is the sweet
ale of scattered spirituality.
With the waving of the magic wand,
the trials and tribulations soot away,
the faithful is down on his knees,
kissing the spectre of the spelled cast, heavenly.

Deliverance of an asymmetrical tale
opens up the path to truthfulness,
bypassing the busy downhill boulevard,
blessed with the sanctimonious nod,
the one chastised as
the highway to God.

Wednesday, June 3, 2015


He struggles to find the appropriate word.
He oozes perfunctory self-assurance.
He never takes the path less travelled by.
He is fulfilled at the distant sight of joy.

Night is just an internecine,
a time warp where sides are changed,
when he takes an (un)ethical stance,
while cruising in a ship of forlorn hope.

He has an opinion on everything,
the kind that does not really matter.
He was fed on a false future
all his life. Some of which, he
redeems from his wife.

Trying to improve his lot, he
worked his fingers to their bone.
He fakes emotions with consummate ease.
While giving his child lessons in morality,
he greases the palms of those who swore
contemporaneous honesty.

In a teeming sea of ordinariness,
he will pass you - unnoticed,
you’ll never remember his wrinkled face,
and on the final arrival, in death,
while obviating his last trace,
they will cover his stupid face.