The it factor !

He sniffed himself
more often than not

Some times he wondered
if other people smelt it too,

In fancy hallways he felt at home,
Vanilla that rose up from white china cups filled the air,
These cups were full of it as well.
And he would wear all these bright clean clothes,
with saturated colors,
big bold rich names stapled to them.
He would wear these beautiful sparkling things,
that shined more than gold,
glittered more than the March night sky,
His clothes were full of it as well.

His speech was like an assortment of fresh green salad,
his acquired accent like salad dressings, overpaid for, from convenient stores,
These stores were full of it as well.

His walls were decorated with well composed landscape pictures
You could find him somewhere in the frame as well,
tiny and almost invisible, but some how he felt very big about this,
His engineering degree hung by the side,
As if someone had put a reflector in his sockets,
his pride glistening in his eyes,
Even his walls were full of it

He walked down the road with spring in his feet,
His hands in his pocket,
A well measured smile in his face,
Even his walk was full of it.

He sniffed himself more often than not,
He worried if other people smelt it too.

He saw me in the mirror the other day,
He said, “sh…
Don’t you tell,
don’t you tell nobody about it.
I am doing my best to hide it.”

I said- “Don’t worry bro, it’s not just you, everybody is full of shit.”


When the day dies

There is a building in Lalitpur. If you find yourself on the ground towards the south of the building you’ll, of course, see it’s south elevation. On the south elevation, if you ignore the ten small circular holes on the far right and the far left – you’re left, with sixty big windows. Each window, the border of which is painted white, has three major panels, each panel has its own smaller upper panel that is fixed . The bigger central panel is fixed too, the two panels on either side swing outside. The building is a huge five storey structure; nothing remarkable about it really. At 7:00 PM one man makes his way up the stairs from the right side of the building. He walks up to the top floor. He starts from the top right room. In every room, he first pulls in the window panes and latches them, he then walks back to the door and switches the lights off before he locks the door from outside and moves on to the next one. When in the next room, he repeats this act. After he is done with the top floor, he walks down the stairs and goes through each of the rooms in the lower floor, then moves on to the next floor. Eventually, he reaches the very last room. All the lights in this building have been switched off one by one, in the end only one window glows. But, before he checks the windows and switches off the light of this last room, he rests. He leans on the window and smokes a cigarette. After he finishes his cigarette, he dumps the butt in the bin and dutifully latches the windows, switches the lights off and locks the door from the outside. I did not check the time, so I can’t say with certainty, but it mustn’t have taken him more than sixty years to get to the bottom left room from the top right room.


You could trickle North
You could trickle South
You could Trickle drop
trickle drip drop
Into a cave mouth
You could trickle in,
Stones sand and bed
Or you could just run off
and Keep trickling instead

And I travel different,
But no, I don’t travel cool
Even my path, like that of a river
is spotted with stagnant pools
And in the end all of us,
we travel into the sea
Nothing becomes of you
Nothing becomes of me.
Like a runoff running free
We Trickle into the sea.

A chowk high on life or is it commerce?

During Tihar if you walk by a chowk,
You will find you eyes splashed with gold-
the plastic and dirt ,the trash by the road,
will be adorned by petals
that could not hold onto
the flowers in the garland.

If you walk by a chowk during tihar,
you will not find vehicle fume or smoke
gentle marigold
smell will lift you from the ground,
you will surf through a garden
that stands still at the busiest of roads.

O unsuspecting costumer,
Do you see the fairy lights,
that specifically shine for you
don’t they look like little fairy eyes,
that look at you,
like goldfish eyes at a pet shop ?
If you walk by a chowk during tihar,
you will find the fairy lure of commerce.

Little lumps of colors, will fill your view,
Lumps of colors will occupy the pavement too
Orange, pink, green, red, white, yellow and blue
if you want, you can get some glitter mixed in too

During Tihar if you walk by a chowk,
you can see fake flowers trying to out do the real ones,
you can see projection lights trying to compete with diyos
you can see packed candies doing their best
to fit in with packets of dry fruits and spices.

If you see someone wash their porch,
you can be sure they will wash the roads too,
If you look at the windows on the houses that line the chowk,
you are bound to find dull cleaning cloths fluttering against the window pane
as if they were moths trying to escape after the night light has passed.

If you walk by a chowk during Tihar,
Not only will you find terracotta being sold,
you will find people selling red mud too,
and you might even want to buy it,
do not stop yourself,
for there is immense joy in painting your heart
with Red-mud and leaving it out to dry
in the warm September sun.

Let there be no metaphors

Call blockades blockades

Call mobs mobs

Let rights be called Rights

Call violation of human dignity violation of human dignity

Let secular be secular

Call conflict rightly so

let democracy be democracy

let votes be votes

let protests be protests

call deaths deaths

call life life

For every thing else

We will call politics politics and nothing else.

फगतमै Running

He looks at the sky in complete amazement

his eyes forgetting to blink

somewhere deep inside his head

I can tell, he is beginning to shrink

he recalls his days, when he slept with dreams

but he calls them destination

like they are some kind of place to be

his experiences he counts

in papers with numbers and bullets

he calls his education his pedigree

his suits are clean his nails are trim

his life is just as it has been

since the last time I met him

when we shared a cup of tea,

and he talked about his days

when he slept with dreams

but he calls them destination

like they are some kind of place to be


Rituals of the night


As goosebumps in your skin, turn into hands and begin

to chase my wildest dreams, and caress me from within

I take a mighty breath, infused with your smell

 the air becomes so thick, and the nerves begins to swell

the mountains in you hair-locks, sing to me sweetest songs

and dance the dance of dunes, to the throbbing of the lungs

your skin becomes a carpet, a carpet of little pearls

the universe comes to greet, as the moon and stars swirl

My eyes can write lines, as they trace through your back

little hairs in you skin, raise to be a resistance to my attack

your heart comes to your hand, and you feel me like you’re blind

and the dead night starts to dance, as your hoops begin to unwind

we twirl like fishes, and birds with magical insect bites

and sweat becomes fairy dust, making us excite into a flight

You have brought in, a wave of magical rain

the smile half broken in pleasure, half sustained in pain

Deep into the night, as I was half brave, half struck in fright

the deep universe talking to me ,through light in your eyes

your grasp of super human strength, beats my heart to submission

I leave my body and view myself drowning in the sea of passion

and you with whispers in my ears ,save me from pretend and from shame

reveal all your secrets, only by pronouncing my name

only by pronouncing my name.