Cool, no?

Let me mention some
Obscure phobias for you
To Google in awe.

Let me buy that thing
That we always talked about
Never affording.

Here’s a picture of
Me contorting my grimace
Into a strained smile.

I’ll send you some GIFs
To check if you still have me
Saved on your new phone.

My iPod still works
Now I hate those alt-rock songs
I once played on loop.

We’ll have retro tech
And then we’ll all be so cool;
A clique of clichés.

I need to show you
How deep the rabbit hole goes;
Endless wiki links.

Scrolling down my feed
Half-dazed on the toilet seat
Am I still awake?

I hate dumb people
I’m ‘sapiosexual’
Too smart for this world.

Show me what you got
I need to measure your worth
In meme awareness.

I’m a full Leftist
Except between 9 to 6
And maybe weekends.

The CSR at
Coca-Cola is out to
Kill us with kindness.

Thoughts and prayers are
Algorithmic compassion;
Those offline may die.

Quick, call that waiter
Pics or it didn’t happen, no;
God, he ruined it.

I’m irrelevant
If I’m not irreverent;
Vitriol is fame.

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Published in: on June 17, 2018 at 12:01 pm  Leave a Comment  
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The Roads More-or-Less Travelled

On the path we took
Your destination became
My vanishing point.

Journeys are scary
Because you never know who
You’ll be at the end.

Authorities say
There’s a road in the potholes
Like hidden treasure.

What I call a trek
Gasping in my heavy boots
Locals call ‘a stroll’.

The old villager
Takes a toll on my ego
As she skips uphill.

I’m always quite lost
Maybe I’ve already reached
Signboards are just words.

Slow lanes need patience
Fast lanes are competitive
Where’s the Middle Way?

The toll booth people
Have the most impassive eyes;
The job takes a toll.

Those much-encroached
Narrow lanes are magical;
Space is pliable.

Published in: on June 14, 2018 at 8:48 am  Comments (4)  
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Business and Leisure

Many moons ago, this unsuspecting son of a retired tribal chief accidentally came upon a meeting of a cult he had previously heard of but not seen. This was the cult of the ‘Business Class’ that only gathers in the-thing-that-flies.  As we all know, the-thing-that-flies is run by powerful magic, which has a fatal weakness in the form of tiny electronic devices that can cause unknown horrors as it starts-to-fly and stops-to-fly. The crew of things-that-fly are picked for their genetic and artificial makeup, and the ability to speak one language in many accents. They can usually be spotted in the land-world by their haggard faces and incessant, traumatised whisperings of ‘thank-you-buh-bye’.

How did this one come to attend a gathering of the Business Class, you may ask. This one was travelling on business to New Delhi, (better-known as Smoke-Smokes-You). This one’s trip was being paid for by the witch doctors of the Education ministry, and they had summoned this one at short notice to perform an ancient ritual called ‘pedagogy’ at their temple. As it happened, Fate was suffering from arthritis and accidentally dealt the wrong cards, which affected spacetime and led to this one getting Upgraded.

At first, when this one boarded, he only expected more legroom. As a general rule, the poor people on things-that-fly are made to suffer as much as possible without violating human rights outright. This involves shoving them into tiny cage-like seats where they get stabbed if they open the food tray. The option of food is generally restricted to ‘veg’ and ‘non-veg’, which is certainly more appropriate when said out loud by a hunter-gatherer trying to impress his date. Even this, if at all it happens to be free; if payable, one can choose between five to ten sandwiches and snacks, that come with a nice quote on the wrapper and an ounce of pain as you hand over your day’s earnings. The prole air-travelers are also pointedly ignored till everyone else who paid more, has a ‘corporate membership’, or is related to the flight attendant’s in-laws is served.

Business-class seating is nothing like this. The seat itself is like a giant cushion propped up on other cushions, all fighting for the honour of cradling your various appendages. Moreover, it is an island in the middle of a sea of space. This one even stretched and wiggled his feet in front of himself experimentally. Even before the spacecraft took off, the flight attendants were fawning over the bourgeoisie like grandmas who’ve just been told their favourite grandchild is moving abroad next year. This one was offered a choice of beverages to pick from. Middle-class sensibilities required this one to pick ALL of them, but in an effort to fit in, a glass of apple juice was suavely swiped from the tray and downed like a tequila shot. This one could see the impressive effort on the flight attendant’s part to not roll her eyes.

Shortly after the thing-that-flies flew (with no disturbances from tiny electronic goblins), the cultists in front (which now included this one as a temporary member) were offered wet towels. The presentation of the towel was highly ritualistic, involving tongs and a white tray, which is why this one was not sure what one was supposed to do with them. This one pretended to fidget around with the towel till his neighbour procured his, and splatched it on his face. This one, too, then took off his glasses, splatched the towel on his face and rubbed it around till it seemed that the face could take no more. In hindsight, it was quite refreshing, although at the time it seemed fairly ridiculous to be handed a towel like a child that got gravy on its face at its mother’s best friend’s dinner party.

Shortly after the towel incident, newspapers were offered. This one’s interest in newspapers is restricted to the editorial section and comics, and also friendly typo-spotting challenges. A flight attendant happened to drop one so this one obliged by picking it up and claiming it for himself. The attendant looked a bit shocked for a second, as though this show of basic courtesy was completely unexpected. Seeing the way some passengers treat staff, this one could sadly relate.

Within half an hour of the start-to-fly, it was time for repast. This one half-dreaded that an ape would appear carrying sacks labeled ‘veg’ and ‘non-veg’. However, there was no cause for concern as a non-primate male flight attendant materialised and gave a small list of options for supper, which included a ‘Western’ omelette and an ‘Indian’ keema curry. This one was tempted to ask the attendant to read ‘The Paradox of Choice’ but instead opted for the curry. Once again, this one was treated like a child before being served, being offered a napkin to tuck in around his neck (it later turned out to be a wise choice). Upon a fairly successful conclusion of the meal, this one took the opportunity to subtly glance around at the fellow bourgeois onboard. Almost all of them were middle-aged, with the exception of a young woman wearing sunglasses and typing on her laptop at breakneck speeds.

Taking advantage of the immense cozyable space, this one took out his Kindle with a flourish and proceeded to spend the next 1.5 hours in utter peace, with legs flailing and retracting periodically. Alas, the dream came to an end as the captain announced the stop-to-fly. Even while deboarding, the delineation of the haves and have-nots was made painfully clear. While the proles at the back fought to get into the aisle and retrieve their luggage while simultaneously trying to call their relatives, this one’s fellow passengers strolled about in a leisurely manner and disembarked ahead of the throng. In a poignant mood, this one followed suit, past the toneless dronings of ‘thank-you-buh-bye’.

hand-window

Published in: on March 3, 2018 at 6:30 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Where Is Hope?

Each morning, with my first breath
I look for hope, that evanescent wreath
To wear for a while upon my heart
Till, like autumn leaves, it departs.

While I have hope, I have zest
While I have hope, I can jest
Shielded by hope, I do not despair
Fueled by hope, I remember to care.

I always sought hope outside
My family, friends, joy and pride
Hope was always abundant without
‘Twas an unending stream, no doubt.

One day I awoke and looked around
But hope was nowhere to be found
In a panic, I looked far and wide
But I knew not where hope did hide.

Despair was ever at my heels
To crush me under its wheels
I fled and hid in the dark
Went numb, lost my spark.

But even without light and heat
I could still hear a steady beat
Like a gust of air in a stale room
A shaft of light piercing the gloom.

To my surprise, as I traced the song
I found that hope was within me all along.

Published in: on January 28, 2018 at 11:05 pm  Leave a Comment  
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iWrote Poem 2

This poem is amazing
Yours for a tiny sum
It comes with a free TV
And some bubblegum.

People are going crazy
This poem is really good
Read the rave reviews
Buy it, you really should.

The poem is quite sleek
It has great poetic words
And three theme presets
Love, daffodils and birds.

If you pay a bit (haha) more
You get a gold scratch card
Revealing expensive deals
And an anti-criticism guard.

The poem has five shades
And shoots 4K video too
Reading it would be a joy
As it has ultra-sharp view.

Don’t buy that other poem
It has inferior rhymes
Mine is surely better
In tune with the times.

The next model is due
In a few months or so
It has 25% more words
And analogies that glow.

There’s a special offer
We made just for you
And 5 million others
Gullible just like you.

What’s that you say?
You don’t need it?
Well if you can’t pay
Then don’t read it.

Published in: on January 16, 2018 at 8:49 am  Comments (2)  
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A Tumbledown House

I live in a tumbledown house
With creaky stairs and broken doors
A wailing clock and a haunted mouse
Diligently go about their chores.

As the sun rises, the clock strikes
Right between my eyes;
I wake to buzzing posts and likes
Self-validation in disguise.

The mouse scampers as mice do
Still hauntedly dissatisfied
Carrying around its ghostly crew
Who whisper, “Could’ve tried.”

The tumbledown house awakes
And I rush to keep pace
Remembering mistakes
And that one pretty face.

I can never find what I’m looking for
In the cluttered, unorganised rooms
I look for a pen and find a dinosaur
And old jokes when I look for a broom.

Terrible puns on the kitchen shelves
Awkward moments in the freezer
Old habits cackle to themselves
Hobbling like energetic geezers.

People call me from without
But I pay them little heed
I’m busy making ideas sprout
But there’s too much weed.

I’m often lost in the library
Of this tumbledown home
The present and past get blurry
As I glance through the tomes.

At times the air seems stale
My thoughts seem to echo
The mouse is unusually pale
Even the clock’s wails are slow.

The art on the walls is faded
The ink in the pen has died
The light that enters is jaded
And seems happier outside.

I think of finally leaving
Shut shop and turn the key
As I stand at the door, grieving
A sound from within calls to me.

A wonderful thought has bloomed
In the recesses of this maze
It flowered unkempt, ungroomed
Needing no admirer’s gaze.

The song-flower sings of a foolish mage
And of grave loss and a quest for gold
So I step back into my tumbledown cage
To listen to tales yet unmade, untold.

Published in: on January 14, 2018 at 1:20 pm  Comments (4)  
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