Dedicated to Bad Writing


All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

Woke up this morning and No
I had no hangover

My spirits never betray me
Unlike my wicked conscience

“Oh! You pathetic lousy worthless compulsive drinker…
You are doomed, doomed, doomed”

“What the hell, I won’t drink tonight
Just let me be, will ya?”

I log on social sites
No likes, no comments
On WordPress,
Facebook or Twitter
Stumble upon, Pininterest,
Google plus
Everyone’s got so much to say
And no time for me

Alas! My idea to start a peaceful day
Is doomed…

Swami smirked “Why don’t you like a few,
Make comments on their post?
They won’t like you back but sure will reply….perhaps!”

Swami is my dear friend
He never leaves a chance
To pull me down
He scores followers with such ease
That self-righteous prick
Writes mushy stuff
Motivates losers with borrowed quotes
Can you?
Not me…

Before I react
The doorbell screamed
I received my credit card statement
Marked URGENT in red
I flung the envelope
It landed in some corner
We’ll find it
Not before I get endless calls from the bank

I click on reader
“What’s wrong with people?
I have no clue
They update about spring
Spring and blooms
Look, there’s a bloom!
A picture
Look, here’s a bloom here!
A picture
Look, no bloom!
A slideshow
And they think street photography
Is all about walking on the street
Taking random pictures
Infringe upon people’s privacy”

Swami said, as matter of fact
“That’s what street photography is”

“No, there’s more to it”

Swami retorts “There’s more to what they do”

“Whatever…It’s time for my siesta.
Marquez recommends it in times of cholera”

I crawled to my bed
And dozed off…

When I woke up
The sun was gone
Swami was gone
I looked around
Cracked ceiling
Grouchy fan
Peeled off walls were closing in on me…
I need a drink

I finished a quarter
Do I feel better?
Do I feel better?
I don’t think so…

Something pissed her off
Something I must have said
I stare at the lit hollows in the dark sky
Some call them stars
Her voice is all I yearn for
I just want to hold her and cry
She’s all I got
I’ll do whatever she says
Should I call her and plead?
What if she yells
Bangs the phone on me?
Help me please!
My anguished heart needs respite
I service my soul with another quarter
And dial her
I hear her sweet voice
From the machine
She left town for a week

She left me dry
In misery and pain
Swami is right
Women, they just love it!

Where do I go?
I got no place to go
She’s all I had…
Swami…Not again!
My voice dialing
Not equipped to handle my slurs
Hears Swami’s name right
That’s a sign
Swami is my true friend
He hurts me
But he never lies
I should not be mean
In fact I should request him
To be my guest blogger
That’s a smart comeback plan

I hear Swami
But from the machine
“I’m off for a week,
For a long pending assignment”

Human Science

1 (3)
Einstein’s lesser known work
But a masterpiece
A handbook
“How to become a legend”
In this book, he researched
Thinkers, scientists, philosophers
Listed a pattern to their behavior

Highlights are as follows :
You have to be an idler
You’ve successfully reached the high points
Of excessive indulgence and self pity
“No one loves me, none understands me”

One day, you wake up in a gutter
Shaken by a pig
And you ask why?

A strange curiosity takes over
And you decide to resolve it
Though by now, it’s obvious
You’ve got nothing to lose
– A keynote to success

You figure it out
You run on the street
What do you expect?
You’ll be beaten to pulp
Of course!
Thrown back in the same gutter
Where it all began…

Don’t be sad
You are dead, better off
There sure is more…

A few decades later
You begin from the beginning
Born again
Oblivious, that a son of another mother
Has reclaimed your findings
Twisted a few squares and triangles
Here and there
The Noble man

And you
Ignorant of the greatest revelation
Will play with trashy toys
You know them from before
Sleep off,

But I pray
You never encounter
A paedophile pig
Rocking your cradle…
There’s nothing worse than that.
I’ll find a gun and kill them.

A Guide to Recognizing Your Saints


Metal detectors blare
I walk on through
Guarding men ignore
A frenzied mind
On the loose…

The signal blinks green
I climb on the train
To find a schmuck
In my window seat
I clench my teeth
Let out a bellow…
He finds his middle seat.

Obese jerks around me
Not a hard guess
Who’s to fart or snore or both
I bemoan
This is my refuge
I deserted the town
That was my home…

A young lady in her 20’s
On the berth facing mine
Married for three years, is on a trip
Alone this time.
How do I know?
She makes two hundred and sixteen calls
Half of them to inform
She is fine, aboard, missing them already
The other half to hatch her shenanigans
For the next five days
Battery died, Oops!
“I’ve few more calls to make”

She pulls out her charger
But the single plug point is engaged to mine
She looks at me, I drift away
She rambles
She gets on her feet, starts making her bed
Her arse dangles before my face
I ignore her, drop my head
She pursues, bends on her knees
Shoving her bags underneath the berth
Tonight she’ll sprawl
In front of me.

I turn to the glass window
Only to see myself and her in the reflection
Gimme a break!
I speak in silent words…

I ain’t going to see through her valley
However deep and sublime it seems
I shan’t endure, appraise my senses
The color of her skivvies.
Her long legs are a piece
But look at her arms, not waxed
She thinks she’s a blonde?!
Two out of ten
That’s all she gets
I can score better than that.

Lecherous bastards do have a few
Leftover mortal morals!

Air whistled
Engine blasted
Bukowski screamed
I bring on the reading light
“Ham on Rye”

Rolling Over


My low life
A mindless celebration
Past indulged wasted
Wavering faith
Vacillating between hilarity and despair
Present humped by installments
Future chiseled by installments
plus late fee charges
I’m fifty-five
midlife crisis ?
I’m a poet
Forever in crisis
Am I complaining ?
Oh No !
I’m dealing with life
Very good

Oh yes !
I gel my hair, style my bald patch
A cover shy with bare strands of grey
An over-sized beer belly
I camouflage flawless
Walking straighter, tighter
My shirt tucked in
I can barely breathe

I enter a packed bar, music buzzing
Spirits flowing, swirling bodies
Rubbing asses, indiscreet
I step in real cool
To the groovy beat
A couple of drinks
Witty conversation
and she’ll be all over me

And so it happens, every single night
My regular barkeep, a nice soul
He hears me
Till I go quiet
He slides me the check
So long!
And I am gone

Did you notice me?

Friendly Neighbourhood.

Nepal is a neighbouring country of India in case you don’t know. I live in India. I guess you know. We got similar traditions, common language, people are nice there and we like them.

Any Indian or for that matter Nepalese, can work, own a property and legally stay for unlimited time in either country. This pact was signed in 1950, also referred as The 1950 Indo-Nepal Treaty of Peace and Friendship.

We don’t get along well with most of our neighbours. Our politicians say, they are mean and we believe. So obviously, you need resources, weapons, infrastructure to keep vigil. Moreover, a recession every eight years, local issues, constipation, too much to deal with so we outsource most of our defence equipment.  Thing is, we have to keep a few businesses illegal or outsource them as politicians are always in need of money for elections, foreign trips and Swiss bank account is a common Indian dream.

Talking about outsourcing, the Indian Army has seven Gorkha regiments of Gorkha troops recruited mostly from Nepal. Great warriors, their contribution to India is phenomenon. Former Chief of Staff of the Indian Army, Field Marshal Sam Manekshaw, once famously said about Gurkhas: “If a man says he is not afraid of dying, he is either lying or is a Gurkha.”

To add here, during the cremation of Shiv Sena chief Bal Thackeray, his son Uddhav asked Champasingh Thapa, his father’s assistant for years, to participate in the last rites. In Sena circles, he was referred to as Thackeray’s shadow.

So now that we’ve covered the ground let’s look at the pictures I’ve got for you. I tend to write something, anything, a ritual before I make myself a drink. That keeps me off guilt.

Guilt is a bad trip. Trip to Nepal is on my mind. I strictly advice my friends to keep away from guilt. Bad stuff happens. We make mistakes. Write a poem about it and let it go. Drink and moan over past blunders is a no no. Women? Maybe we’ll talk about it in my next post.

My grandfather was my best teacher. He’d often say, “Son, alcohol is more expensive than ghee(clarified butter)” and ghee was divine to him but so was whiskey. He would take a pause and add, “So, drink wisely and have a good time.”

Anyway. So a little note about the pictures below.
Indian cop nabs two Nepalese at Kanpur railway platform before they can board the train. Why? Just. Corruption. To extract a few bucks from harmless souls is an everyday story in my country rather we are quite adjusted to this as routine.


In the final image cop is counting money.
End of show.

The Saint


I realized, not in time
To serenade you
I mute my sermon
Amuse your senses
A joy, a laugh, a tear
And before you wipe me off
I fall into your bosom