Child Abuse

Where is the little boy? He came up to me.
He must be hiding. Running away from what he fears.
Never did we decide to hold him so tight.
Never did the child know he could put up a fight.
The agony cause by a prick.
The dolor in his eyes.
Set him right, he said.
When he will speak, he will forget.
The Pensieve grows shallow with age,
with time, a handful of memories remain.
They evince happiness and pride,
subtle anguish and vain.
But he knew the child would grow up to love and hate,
just like the others, he would run.
From fear and from villains.
From darkness and from rain.
But droplets of water will make him see,
someday, a past he lived to see.
A past with an older man.
A past that he thought would set him free.
But life's a bitch, it keeps you uptight.
Full of yourself, yet lacking belief.
In cows and bells, some find relief.
Others find humour, go overboard.
Crack others up, and continue to run.

He spoke to us on a rainy day,
with the droplets of rain on his specs.
Devoid of regret, we greeted him,
he smiled, and hugged us, the cocky bastard.
Said he erased a lot of what he knew,
rewrote his past, marshmallows ,angels and little houses with trees that he drew.

He pecked his wife goodnight,
tucked in his son,
and googled Sodomy.

Pataka

A flurry of lights,
A bowl of sweets.

A light in the sky,
The old man looks at.

The moment or two it lives,
and dies in haste.

He stared full of envy,
and looks down at his veins.

A short life,
full of purpose,
is something he would wish for.

A grand child with a pataka,
He has for himself.

He stares with envy,
and looks down at a vein.

The flurry of lights,
a box of sweets,
and a lifetime of pain.

Never Have I Ever

Never have I ever,
stopped.
Never have I ever,
looked.
Never have I ever,
thought.

I walk past them everyday,
hard up and frail.
My affluent ass is at ease.

The comfort of a cushion,
The warmth of a quilt.
Sitting silently,
eating.

Never have I ever,
worked.
Never have i ever,
starved.
Never have I ever,
thought.

I smile at them everyday,
So hard up and frail,
My affluent ass is at ease.

Bobby Deol

I write, i stop, i smoke.
Of Love and Bobby deol.

Its funny how it started,
an accident , fate if you may.
But there and then,
He brushed his hair,
and i fell into my pocket.

Its different,
a game of tennis,
followed by a phone call,
of a complete stranger,
who wants to know,
what you know,
of Love and Bobby Deol.

I would have asked at first,
about delinquency, about you,
about love,and yes, about him too.

So brush your hair,
and call me up,
and talk to me,
About Love and Bobby Deol.

Chai

Seated on a folding chair,
Sipping chai.

The classicist adjusts his crotch,
Takes his chashma off,
and finshes the Sunday crossword.

Its time to do a task,
Something planned.
Something that doesnt deserve a second thought,
let alone meticulous preparation.

So its taken on,
Deft and Rigid as ever,
He finishes it.

Gets back to his chai,
Seated on a folding chair.
Flimsy as ever, the chair screeches as he settles down.

Another sip of the chai,
A new task .

Kutte Ki maut

Its a dogs life they say,
rambling away to glory.
not bothered by the rising dust,
and the market .

On the slope i sat and thought,
if my life as it was,
would be to renounce my carriage.

To slide down and stare up,
while my ass hurt and i ripped my jeans.

Where would we all be,
if it wasn't for the slide.
The slide i loved as a child.
That grew enormous and so did i.

The dog stared at me from the top,
looking rather wistful.

Thats when it struck me,
that a truck will set that dog free.
For he didnt slide down with me.
He stood his ground and remained insolent.
That truck did need to teach him that lesson.

Its a dogs life they say,
rambling away to glory.
not bothered by the rising dust,
and the market .

God Man. Baba "Black Sheep"

GOD-MAN
I am aware of the infinite ways to exist happily in this world.
I am in absolute control of the energy and spirits that surround me.
I have always been fond of the behinds of young boys.
I am THE GOD-Man.
Pay me money for I know how to make you breathe.
Not that you don’t do that anyway, I just make the experience better.
Yes, I do accept cheques.
I make money for I am a GOD-Man. My ilk is rather rare.
My bogus magic tricks seem to have a lot of flair.
Why do I tell you the secrets of life?
Why do you think I lech at your wife?
Why do I bother to concoct bogus lessons for you to master?
Why do I not let it seem like I’m the same as you?
Some time from now, one day, ill be recognized for who I truly am. The man who loves to feel young boys,girls and some toys.
The man who needs to speak from a pedestal to make his point heard.
The God-Man who needs to pray to God to be revered.

United States of America.

The park provides endless hours of recreation to kids. I'm just one of those random kids you see playing in the evening. I call friends an hour in advance, make them reach on time, convince those who claim they have assignments to hand in or unit tests to flunk. Im Soham, Class XI C, studying science in a popular south delhi school. As of now , im in jail, dont ask me why, because i intend to tell you nonetheless.
While i narrate it to you, forgive me as i experiment with an elementary rhyme scheme styled narrative.
"I called my friends everyday,
a grown up boy has got to play,
We went and bought a cosco ball.
Six overs a side, baby overs too,
Chasing sixty five,
We only manage Thirty two.

Uncle came calling ,
told us to about his days,
said we were eunuchs to play with a felt ball,
i think he referred to us as "gays".
He gave me a leather ball,
said a man who plays the sport,
better learn to play standing vain and tall.

It hurt me every now and then,
till one day,
i timed to perfection.
there was no looking back from there,
about windows and flower pots,
i did not care.

Uncle came back the other day,
with a policeman.
i felt like i had done something wrong,
looking at the policeman.
i got jailed,
by the policeman.
Uncle , youre a bastard.

RAJ THACKERAY

He wasn't one to be smitten by fame, by the glitz and glamour that on so many occasions engulfed people and would mercilessly continue to do so.
He wanted to bat, and score as many runs as he could, oblivious to the needs of the team.
It wasn't a question of setting up milestones, or signing more lucrative endorsements,
the poor guy genuinely believed he possessed the ability to score runs in a way that was far more visually appealing than the others.
Perhaps, a while back he would have managed to encounter a range of cricketers who would have supported this misconception of his, as of now, he was JOKE.
He went on to score a lot of runs all fashioned in a predictable and redundant batting style that needed to be changed if he wanted to emerge victorious against the newer lot of pacers who seemed to nurse a fondness for old timers like him.
The only people who seemed to be fascinated by his batting abilities and in awe of his rather rustic morality were those who were blinded by the statistics that seemingly denoted the greatness of his cricketing abilities.
Somehow, all these people forgot to see the result of the match.
Raj Thackeray, the worst batsman in India, had lost us the match again.
Peace.
You know who