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 Dream of a Ridiculous Man

My first portfolio shoot 😀


Man Kind


I envy a dog’s life
His bite traded me
To the injector
Five times
To insulate me from
Rabbi or Rabies?
I get confused between the two

I envy a pig’s life
He binges aplenty
In the balmy sauna
Rated by performance
Not by bank balance

I envy the blood-sucking mosquitoes
Before you curse, slap hard
They are gone, only to return
If I rob a bank, I go to jail
When bankers steal
Government prints them more money
Taxes me

But I don’t envy the roaring tiger
His prowess, unworthy
His dominance, unflattering
He succumbs to the mean arrows
Chopped, traded
Skin to teeth

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This man i met in a bar

a government official on high post
close to his retirement
said he watches porn on the sly…

Conversation moved on to life
and he pressed his lips
voiced in a single breath
“back in the days, my wife and me
dreamed of a big house but we had not enough to buy one
we raised our family, saved money, did what was right…
thirty years gone and they are gone and and our dream…
we don’t need it”

Lamp Post


Who resisted me
Didn’t love me
But lassoed me

Most of them I laugh at
Single, wasted, single again
The rest will follow soon…

My beer belly
The keynotes

My stained teeth
The carat gold

My hair receding…
The new moon

I’m a savior
A dog
But this is my lamp post

Where are you baby?
I can barely see you baby…

Stop Watch

Clock is a vile design of the capitalists to rein in the working class nevertheless this opinion of mine should not be misconstrued as my resistance to branded watches.


It must have been around 10 p.m. Goa streets were buzzing with locals and tourists and locals with tourists. Everyone was with someone and I was. I picked up half of rum and 3 pints and trotted back to my room.

My room was a small walk from the main street, in a cottage right at the end of a thin quiet lane. The owners, a couple, John and Maria rented out their guest room for cheap, I had booked myself for a month. To write. The room had a separate entrance from behind the cottage. In it a bed, writing-table, a window, attached marble tiled washroom, no mirror.

A decent couple. They din’t bother much but their dog insistently barked when he heard me open the gates until I had reached my room and shut the door behind. The couple would know I am back. When I left my room and walked out the gates, the couple would know. Damn dog.

In the morning, John or Maria would leave a pot of tea outside the door and once in a while Maria would send across food, she cooked. Nice lady, she cooked well. Stout and active, she worked round the day running errands and her two young daughters. John was short and petite, looked quite older than Maria. He lazed on his hammock with his fenny bottle but he took good care of the trees that held him all day.

I made myself a drink and spread across on the bed. I could hear the wind dashing against the tree leaves outside, making a fluttering sound and then it would stop and the flutter would return as if the wind was moving in circles.
I heard the door knock. Maria was standing at the door and she reeked of booze.

“You need anything?” Her droopy eyes checked me out from head to moccasins.
“Can you spare me a drink? John is out with his friends and I am having trouble sleeping”

She walked in. She owned the place. I poured her a drink while she looked at my open luggage.

“So, are you really a writer?”

I made myself a drink.

“Thing is, I’ve never seen you writing”

“I am thinking” I replied

“Oh, what are you thinking?” She had a startled look, don’t fool with me kinds.

“Nothing” I said

Maria was wearing a yellow cotton night-gown printed with pink flowers and green strokes of disconnected branches, no leaves.

“You like this room?” she asked

“Yes, for a month its fine, I guess”

“I made out once in this room” Her eyes flirting with the bed. “But it’s been 6 years, we haven’t”

She held my hand and pulled me. I fell on the bed.

“Do you like me?”

“Yes Maria, you’re a good person” I sat up.

She burst out laughing. “Have you ever written about a woman’s heart?” She swayed the whiskey glass before her face. Not a drop, dropped out.

“I write about booze and sex” I took a sip and stayed.

“Will you make love to me?”

I had nothing to say.

“If I looked 20 years younger, would you?”

“I don’t know Maria”

“Your readers might like a making out story of a young writer and a middle-aged woman?”

“No one really reads me”

She smirked “Just like me, no one reads me anymore”

She gave me a hard look and started. I was too baffled to react, unsure what to do or say, just gave in. She worked on me, her eyes pressed shut I kept looking at her face wondering if her mind was here or someplace else.
When done, she moved away swiftly, sat on the chair, far from me and the bed. Her fingers ran through her ruffled hair. She tied them up neat.
I wanted to hear the fluttering of the leaves outside, but the wind seemed had long gone.

“I should be going now”

“Good night, Maria”

A tear dropped from the corner of my eye, I ain’t sure till this day, why. I picked my boxers lying on the floor, helped myself.
John was standing at the door. He was drunk, pretty drunk but he stood there looking right at me.

“Did Maria come here?”

“Yeah, she just left”

“Are you planning to stay here long?”

“No, John. In fact…”

“I know and I don’t care” John said sternly “but you better leave”

“Yes John”

John muttered something and he head back to his cottage but stopped short. He turned and came straight up, punched my face. John, poor John was shivering.

“You got a drink on you?” John asked

I fixed him a drink.

“Are you really a writer? I mean, I’ve never seen you writing. Forget writing, you don’t even have a pen or a book on you”.

My laptop on standby had traveled miles into the galaxy. Who’d like to be around me at this moment?
John was fuming. He paced towards me. I thought he’ll hit me again.

“I gave 23 years of my life to build this family” His face an inch close, he spat on me.

“Look what I’ve got? She doesn’t even let me touch her. I never asked. I thought she needed some time off”

John looked away. His head fell.

“What can I do but drink helplessly before the man who just screwed my wife but I love my woman; I do, for my family, for my young daughters. What else have I got?”

John emptied the glass and threw it with all his strength but the damn glass didn’t break. That made him cry. He dropped on the bed. His hands held his face and the tears made their way out from between his fingers.
He jerked his head, tried getting back on his feet but John was wasted.

I packed my bags, stepped out of the room, quietly shut the door so not to wake John up but the dog…