A new apple every day.

I was born in a very religious household. The first thing I learned after the customary abcd,1234, president of India, cm of Bihar etc. , was the Hanuman Chalisa. Nobody made me do it, I had memorized it all just by listening to my grandfather recite it every day. A remarkable event, as my folks declared me a prodigy. I just think it was my inborn hard-on for poetry.

And, that explains all my early fascination for religion. It is just that, a bunch of populist poetry and grand imagery for the juvenile. A collection of shitty stories. Now I write my own. Better ones. I drink the poison of the world, every day, willingly and thus a deity with a blue throat holds no fascination for me. Metaphorically or otherwise.

Religion is the worst idea ever. Right up there with marriage, money and communism. Right up there with shitty poetry. Pop songs. Ghost stories. Religion is just telling kids that monsters are under their bed instead of inside their own head. The biggest dick move of all time. The all enduring ‘father issue’.

Now, every religion is a story. And, every story has a hero. And, every storyteller is trying to put a point across. And, we know it never goes across. Let us take Ramu for example. Ramu wants a president just like Ramu. Ramu is a bigot, who also thinks women are a necessary mistake, and there is no Global Warming. So, Ramu makes Mr. Trump his president. Ramu also reads Bible. And, just like he wants his president to be a Ramu and his children to be a Ramu, he also wants his Jesus to be a Ramu too. Bible or no Bible.

The stupid fucker who told the story first, must have imagined that people will get it. That they would agree on a standard. That they would improve on it. Well, like every storyteller he was living inside his entrails. People only agree with themselves, or those who look exactly like them. And, religion is just that. A bunch of folks laughing at the same stupid dick/cunt joke over and over again. It is the backslapping club. Its books are the ultimate ‘locker room talk.’ Never goes out of style. And, the one person who chooses not to laugh at that joke is a fag. A weirdo. A slut. He is dangerous. She is unbecoming.

I have spent a lot of time studying and examining different religions. I have spent a lot of mornings cleaning the metal figurines of four/ten headed humans and singing songs to them. A lot of breath spent on reciting that blowjob poetry. Millions of neurons sacrificed over faithless dogma. Faithless, yes! Because believing in ghosts with cheap makeup is not faith. One day I just realized that my stories are better. My poetry is real. My dogma is love. My poison is beer. I turn water into sweat and blood and that is real magic. I walk on sea of shit every day and I do not drown. I give birth and I cause death. Of people, of ideas, of miracles. I am the vindicator and I am the punisher. I am the man. A better man every day. With better ideas. With a better body of work. I don’t need no god. A new apple every day, keeps the Gods away.

So eat those bloody apples. Be a better man. You won’t need religion. You won’t need the satisfaction of being mediocre, the sadistic joy of being helpless. You won’t even need a pathetic excuse to commit a murder, to commit any crime.  You will be whatever you are. Good, bad, ugly it is all here. In your head. Inside your soul. Embrace it. Just be.

P.S.-  Just be; Ironically that is what one of the oldest religions of all says. I won’t tell you which. Figure it out.


Looking for ‘tehzeeb’ during a bar fight in Delhi.

Suddenly, one day tehzeeb went missing; from the public discourses, it had gone missing from the streets the day rap music and internet had arrived, of course. He, who hated to miss even the commercial before the movies, was flummoxed. ‘Jee‘ and ‘huzoori‘ both were dead in a ditch.
What the hell had happened? People shouting obscenities at each other wherever there was a camera or a keypad. Was it the lack of guile? It must be; imagine a bald withered actor threatening to tie up a not bald but surely withered writer. Talk about a rooster damning a donkey, that shit would make a great buddhist tale.
Y’know the old adage, if the monkey finds a coconut he will break someone’s head. Well, coconut be found, head be broken. Let us move on. Old people are rude anyway, last big gasp and all. But, he saw something, he had never imagined he would. He saw people throwing coconuts back at the monkey. Nobody had moved on. Cameras and keypads working overtime. The monkey was dying. The fathers were dying. The culture was dying.
A man on TV, bespectacled, dressed up as if all the CR Park’s disapproving aunties were watching: but, he does not break into a Tagore or a Wordsworth rendition, instead he is shouting, mic turned up, shouting at everyone, hurling abuses, sissy ones. Imagine a bar fight in Delhi, where nobody says behenchod. The whole country was a bar fight in Delhi. And, nobody said behenchod. Women got beat up, nerds did too, even the poor Bihari bartender who can’t pronounce lager. And, the badasses, they end up in Cop cars lightening their wallets. Everybody loses, bouncers win. A whole country is a Delhi barfight. It was frigging hilarious. And, sad. Sad things always were hilarious.
And, that is what messed up with his mind. He has been sitting right there, at the bar, drinking his overpriced less whisky-more paani( for illiterate bovines, that is a pun for capitalism. ha!), and he had missed it. The biggest joke of his life. The millnium meme. Mother of all practical jokes. The locker-rooming of language. The ninth ‘state’ of Delhi. How could he? Everything had changed. Nehrujee had become Nehru; firangi, chor aur deshdrohi(matlab padha likha aadmi), all writers including the booker winning ones were chhamia, and all actors except the bald ones were nachania. The only man with a ‘jee‘, the premier, the karta dharta, the ever reliable Vishnu was faring the worst actually. Don’t let the ‘jee’ fool you. He heard people calling him everything from ‘nalleji’ to ‘hitlerji‘. That is a total difference of one gonad, as history insists. All was said, none done, but still no ‘behenchod’ (we are all waiting for the day, tuned to Loksabha TV.) Ask any dilliwala, that shit is way more dignified that calling Gandhijee just Gandhi, and calling every woman on interenet ‘randi‘.
Whoa, fuck. A boom. A crash. Da Da Da Dum. Drumrolls. The fog lifts. Clarity dawns. Time to retrace back our steps. Turns out this whole disappearing act by tehzeeb is not due to lack of mental faculties, or bald old senility, or overactive vocal chords, or bars in Delhi. No, no. Motherfucking nein. Turns out while our barstool prophet was contemplating his next sexual/beef-eating/ crude-joking(which ever is deadlier), the ladies have been speaking. As, in saying shit. Hard brittle shit. Like Tupac. Like Black people wearing sunglasses after hours.
So, that is where it all went bad. Ladies doing rap-rap-rap music. Harlots all of them. They are supposed to be vanguards of the cocksucking ‘tehzeeb’ (inherent similarities, you see). Now he understood everything. Nobody likes women talking. Even women don’t like women talking. And, now they were everywhere, yak yak yaketty yak. This was bound to happen. Eminem has snorted glitter of every color imaginable and was turning into an unicorn with a Jane Austen head. Afterlife; or the limbo between dead and alive. If Razia is on the throne, can Muhammad Bin Tughlaq be far behind?
History will tell you a lot of shit about women. In fact, it is all about women. But he is not one to trust history. So, he turns to the woman nearest to him and tries to engage her in a battle of wits.About who and how should be tied to tanks and pelted with stones. She speaks readily, a little too readily (has not read history.). He has given up hope. The woman won’t stop speaking, and people won’t stop throwing coconuts. (not their fault, they thought all apes are naked, so they must be men. There are no lady monkeys).
As he contemplated moving to Mumbai, and thus indulged in silly juvenile banter with the lady(forgetting the zeal and the thrust of a bayonet fucking Kashmir in ass) she said something. She opened her mouth wide, and he traced each familiar curve with his eyes, he caressed it, as it spelled BEHENCHOD.
Fuck yes. There were tears in his eyes. He vowed to never move to Mumbai. However watered his scotch be, however scary the haryanvi bouncer be, whetever the women fucking said, wherever thezeeb might be at.

Artists don’t die.

‘….when i was a child everybody was always shitting on the poet. The artist. They said the poet is pussy. The artist is soft. And, most of them were. I kept on writing, not because i was so good, because they were bad.’

This was a drunk Charles Bukowski, articulating his thoughts to a guy behind a camera. The video is ‘Bukowski reads Bukowski: Artbound Episode’. One of his few videos on youtube. I watched it yesterday.

A few days ago a young girl killed herself in the town of Kota, Rajsthan, India. She had qualified for IIT (Indian Institute of Technology), which is a big fucking deal for the folks who want to ‘make’ their kids engineers. Yes. Make. We kids in poor countries don’t have much choice in terms of ‘be’.

The girl didn’t want to be an engineer. .So, she jumped from a building, after qualifying for a college, people will kill for to get into. Hell,  i would have killed two or three, once upon a time, to get into that shit. (Trust me i’ve been made to suffer a lot. I was in Kota too, a town well known for IIT “preparation”. i gave up after 15 days of physics.)

Apparently, the District Magistrate of the city or some such officer, wrote an open letter on facebook to all parents so keen on MAKING. The letter especially mentioned the kid’s command over the “English” language. A whole nation of Facebookers mourned the death of a “to-be artist”. Maybe she considered herself an artist. Maybe she did not.Maybe she didn’t want to do anything. Just sit on her ass and kill flies. But she killed herself because she did not have the stomach to say it,whatever it was she wanted to be. She was good enough to qualify an exam that would make Picasso piss his pants before you can Guernica. But, she was not good enough to ‘make it’.

She jumped off of fifth floor of a building and killed herself. I do not know her. I do not know her circumstances. But, i know one thing, that she was not living. She killed a corpse, not a “would be artist”. That is the truth i know.

Today i read a short story. It said,’ As she came home with the news of becoming a doctor, her folks broke into tears. An artist died silently inside, among smiles and backslapping’. Some shit like that. Very fucking moving.

No. Artists don’t die. They don’t die before they start living. That is a pathetic thing to propagate. As Bukowski said, they are not soft. You are not an artist if you are soft. The spit of the world, the shit it takes on your dreams is the part of goddamn process. It is what makes the artist. It will manure your desperation, while you are miserable  doing what they force you to do. You will learn to see. You will learn to speak. You will have something to write about or sing about or paint. Something original. Something visceral. Something which is yours only, and no one can take it from you.

Embrace the pain, the mockery, the neglect, the indifference, their sodden stupidity. Catch everything they throw at you, and throw it back until you break their thick fucking skulls.  Do not kill yourself. A corpse is good for nothing. People will accept our demise, they always do, but they will never respect it. Because they don’t give a shit. Nobody is going to learn from that splatter on road. It shall be washed away. But, not your struggle. Not the fight. Not your goddamn dance of life. Not even your fucking defeat. Nobody will wipe that out.

‘Make it baby, make it’ as one ugly, drunk, poorly dressed,  californian fuckface liked to say.  He was an artist. He would never die.


what people want? , peace and love.

a bentley
a bag of weed
a bag of weed in a bentley
a blonde and a bag of weed in a bentley
peace and love.

clash of clan gems
counter strike cheat codes
candy crush lives
iphone and ps4 to monitor heart rate
a blonde and a bag of weed in a bentley to top it all
peace and love.

ronaldo’s ballon d’or.  messi’s ballon d’or.
women ruling the earth.
women ruling the earth but still not playing football.
still messi’s ballon d’or.  ronaldo’s ballon d’or?
a balance between the yin and yang hanging delicately on chi (wtf)
a blonde and bag of weed in a bentley to drive ’em all to nearest sports bar
peace and love.

azaadi, freedom, liberty (not necessarily in that order)
eradication of poverty
socialism? everyone looking equally shitty
the bride should be tall fair and pretty, employed in an mnc.
tv, fridge, ac, male child, sanskar, vegeterian, dollar, canada(:P), lalbatti, class, swag, aqeedat, pink floyd,gurugram
a tolerant freedom of speech to express what pleases everyone even the dead
a blonde and bag of weed in a bentley in pursuit of happiness
peace and love.

good muslims, bad muslims(for presidential campaign)
no muslims (ummrikka is great again)
nobel peace prize, oscar award for white male in an arabic role
liberty, equality and fraternity; three small town girls dancing on a pole
Mark Zuckerberg’s one billion dollars ( sorry, free basics!)
non bankrupt europe, this time once again for Africa, all the cocaine from South America, democratic republic of china
we already have our opinions(prjudices)
so just give us a fucking blonde and a bag of weed in a bentley
and some peace and love.

Limb for a limb.

I am naked in your courtyard
naked, but for my stump
everything shivers, but for the stump
it is bulilt of carbon
i am built of carbon, but i am impure
water has seeped into the cracks

i am opaque
the cold sunlight slips right through the stumps
and, illuminates everything inside
blood, marrow,varicose veins
blue, mineral, protein,carbohydrate,hormones
ligament, wood, steel velvet
but not a heart
instead there is an elaborate cut glass
reflecting its own light.

you do not buy it
you who have dealt in spices all your life
and, your neighbor’s a butcher
you say i am too far fetched
you think i am too stooped
it is just my hunchback, i carry it around
cut it in half and look inside
All my limbs are yours, Kahira
and your supple reluctance is mine.

Looking for Rabbit-holes

In my times of despair, and despair, i tell you is not a state of mind. It is a cold, dark, empty room where nothing belongs to me. Not even myself. Not even my diseased body. Not the protestations of my clogged up lungs.
Me, my body, my mind, my ragged breath are all splayed around. Part of the trash. Trash which is all around me. Chewed pen caps and cigarette butt children run all around proclaiming, ‘one of us. one of us!’ They are in your hair and on your tongue. I spit out little tumorous mutants when i speak.
And, in the nights when i am stoned; when i don’t want to listen to any more music. I have already gone out for the 30 minutes walk four times. Take out the trash, but where?
It is 2 a.m., I think about it, but i don’t get up and masturbate.
I just lie there in the dark and listen to the defunct tap in the kitchen go drip, drip drip. And i drip. A cigarette burns in the dark. and another. Drip, drip, drip. Sound of life slowly ebbing away, in warm stale smoke. I wait for the cold light of mornings to come to my rescue.
In these times of despair, you often cross my mind. Infact, you are always there, near the small of my back. You climb steadily, your small feet leaving goosebumps in their wake. You reach the summit, your face appears, you grin of victory, you sparkle of hope.
In my prison of modern gadgets and clean food and endless clutter of existence, i hope for you. I hope of you. Only you. Pleading, praying, believing.
Every concrete thing, the surface i sleep on, the utensils i eat from, the mouths i share kisses with , are mere ghosts in my firm belief that you are somehow tangible.
I survive in the belief that, somewhere there is life, and you are there too. Night after night. On each of the empty, lonely stairs i tread.
And, i keep falling clumsily, deliberately, hurting myself. I am sure there is rabbit hole around here, somewhere.

living on maybes

so the end is already written
and the beginning already dreamed of
i can’t quite decide
whether to be a thousand page masterpiece
or a two hundred one
stuck in the middle, i am living on maybes
maybe the pain will do it, or laughter will
maybe if i disappear, like the dust storms do
and leave you flummoxed and parched and angry
maybe that will do it
maybe you will kill me
or maybe, you will accept your defeat and move on
ha! back to chapter two
counter plot.
in the pictures
forced laughters
a call for attention
a clamor for religion
in reverence to the mundane.
all alone on the floor
watched by grimacing photographs
and closed closets.
maybe the ceiling will fall, or the fan will come unstuck
maybe there will be an earthquake
i will live, and all who laugh will die
maybe, one day
i will be unknown, unrecognized, unrelated
everyone i know and love will be dead
and i would rewrite the opening riffs.
or else
i can go out with a bang, right now
spread my spread on the carpet bread
about six foot long, swansong.
or maybe,
i can wait
and keep filling up the notes in between
sharpening the blunt, boring tune
and i will write a solo, one day.
on the radio
half baked songs
a call for attention
a clamor for religion
in reverence to the idiot
living on maybes.


why do you call yourself free men
when you are a consequence of actions of others.

is not an ideology to be preserved
through a set of instructions on how to behave
there is no manifesto.

the opposite of religion
utter lack of belief, yet trust is to be seeked

you hate everyone
and, everyone hates you
God hates us all
but, you would rather punch an insolent nose, than start a revolution

you decide the limits of conscience
Truth is a choice, to be or not to be made

You are petty, puerile, addictive
bad behaviour catching on
a fucking incurable disease, growing unfettered
laugh, you are free
today onwards, all the children shall be heard and seen.

Red, Black and White

In the autumn twilight

Whence mighty greybeard fog is the smell of moisture in wind

The day kisses the night


And the fog; cold, clinical, conservative

grabs his wanton daughter by hair, to drag her home in shame

Fiercely she holds on, digging deep, and blood spills


Blood; red, hot, sparkling, smeared over the horizon

The dusk flickers, one last brush of lips, a dying flame

The world is giddy; red, black and white


Condensed sobs; tipper, tapper on leaves and meadows

As night slithers, imprisoned in wintry cloaks, leaving trails for morrow

And, few bloody droplets adorn her lips still, she calls them her stars

Dogs Running Wild

He does not think dogs are adorable, or cute or any of those adjectives. He just thinks they are important, somehow. And, he knows that important is the most apposite adjective. The adorable but fades from memory and needs, the important survives.

Now, they don’t need no dogs with all their complex locking systems and alarms, but dogs still do bark. From the end of alleyway it starts; the plague, and behind the big gates with bored guards it flourishes, and a warm hole in the darkness beside him plays the last note of requiem and startles him. And, then it is everywhere. Questions, answers, insinuations, insults, threats; grand proclamations and reminders of past laurels. As if they were all praying for a thief. Something to bark for, because a dog is as important as its bark. You gotta stay relevant, man!

He remembers the one dog who never barked. These are the kind of things that stay with you. The dog who growls and chases you to school every day. You just cannot forget it, like the one boy who always bullied you, or that one teacher who understood you, or the prostitute who was achingly beautiful. People around him tend to put these things into boxes marked unimportant and pretend to forget about it. They postulate that whores cannot breed love, that once you grow up, nobody is going to get away with shitting all over you. The drunken fool sleeping on the pavement orders the dog off the premises, as if he owns it. In his arrogance he has forgotten that even dogs sometimes go into silence self-contemplations. And, they bite!

So, whenever he sees a dog sitting on a bench, he doesn’t order it to step down and grovel at his knees. He says hi, politely and more often than not the dog says it back. Then he sits beside the dog, and they ignore each other, each minding his own business. Because he knows the dog is important and he is too. And, both of them have got their own place in the world. Sometimes, they talk, when the importance of being earnest prevails over the importance of being relevant. In the times of war, when there is nothing precious enough to be saved, brothers survive and win. And, he knows that all important beings, like the dog who bites, the whore who is heartbreakingly beautiful, the father who is a child among his children, the lover who erects a tower to be reflected in the eyes of his beloved, the soldier who knows that he has to become the most efficient killing machine and nothing else; they are all brothers in the times of war, and they will win because they know and they understand and they haven’t forgotten.

A man in the square speaks, every syllable as powerful as wind, as tender as a whistle, as simple as breathing. Another draws lines, deeper than bullet holes, more precise than gasps. A lady sits at the head of a table, as if she has always belonged there, that there is no place, no setting that would make her look more gracious than the humble table. A child runs after a ball, greedier than a beggar, more lustful than a pervert, hungrier than a wolf. And he, he turns his back on the past, on all the grandeurs and glory and failures and catastrophes. He turns his back on all those things said over and over again until they lost their meaning. He turns his back on the hardships, now so common that they have become virtues. He turns his back on prophets, plagues, wars, victories, hunger, charities, renaissance, holy books, philosophers, champions, gods. He turns his back on all those who have been barking at one another, and he smiles at the warm hole in dark who says the last word.  And, with his back soaking with the spit of whole world, he sees future with naked eyes. And, he sees the man in square, the man drawing lines, the lady at the table, the child running after the ball. And, he sees dogs running wild in the city, refusing to be petted or perverted with pity. And, they don’t speak a single word, not even a whimper. They just bite, when they are hungry or mad or in love. But, sometimes on a park bench, in the vicinity of brothers they sit back and relax and hurl insults at things they still cherish. Well, even after he destroyed all the big beautiful paintings in war, the great dictator couldn’t find enough bullets to erase all the pencil stubs.