अहम् एकः शीतक ।
अलस ..अलम ..
महालसा.. अत्यधिकम् निरुद्यम ।
आम्, तत् सत्यम् ,
गदायते प्रकामम् .
” बहिः संनिदाघ तिग्म दिवाकर परन्तु मनोदशा सङ्ग्रहम् निःसरति च ” वदति एतत् वाक्य वारं वारम् , वारं वारम्… एतादृशी सम्पूर्णम् दिनम् समतिवाहयति ।

एवंविध विलम्बन  । न परं कर्मन् अपि भक्षण ।

हे   जिन्दगी !


The Mere conundrum of Being

I wonder if it’s us fleeting away fast or if its the time accelerating way faster ?

Either way, we seem to loose grip over hours and possibilities and this so called “life”. Loosing grip huh! Yeah, talk about reality. But again Reality is boring. Truth is boring. This whole fucking planet is boring. Or maybe it’s us, that’s boring. We are so boring that we have to sporadically dip ourselves in a pickle jar to supersede all them species that this existence has been missing. Or maybe we are just bored. So bored that
We quit jobs.
Quit partying.
Quit almost anything sociable.

While there ..Most of them folks are already hitched and happy (Oh happy is such a dubious word) : Here we are… Half lives lived and still single. May be we are just not the dating material types or maybe its but the fear material instead : Fear of intimacy. Fear of commitment. Fear of dependency: Fear of how soon we might quit on LOVE too.

Such a disgrace to this invigorating age.  For all we are but insipid house-daughters gleaning stars from the ceiling and planting flowers on walls. ..Thinking at nights.. dreaming during lights. Either sleeping excessively or ne’er. For Sleep is boring. Since then you have to wake up each morning searching for the lost answers under your pillow – of – how could people be so happy ( why is happy such a dubious word? ) to wake at 6. Shit. Piss. Eat and ride couples hour to reach the toiling hole where you turn into some fucking automaton so you can acquire sweets outta your sweats ? Money, huh! Talk about what it can’t buy

It can buy you the mellifluous tune. Even A ticket to the moon..
Great view on afternoons from the wafting red hot air balloon..

Well ! it can buy you everything you don’t need..like extra boobs and artificial looks..cool extravagant gadgets that turn you into some zombie midgets. But all I want is fishes, but Nevermind : the thing is .. We seldom own this money thing, thy see. But When we do, Oh ! likea maniac , Mad . mad . we roam libraries and thrift stores and all roads less traveled. But mostly we don’t. But mostly we are broke as fuck. So we rather stay home , babbling with the non livings and then sobbing over random feelings. We are pathetic. The hills are our only hang out space. We are so pathetic that We squiz from the top and act as if we own it all..
The breeze..the trees
The clouds.. every vacant array between house’es
Has failed to own us.

Pigmenting our souls- rainbow and lungs- noir black, we wonder if it’s us that’s pathetic or maybe it is but the town. This ghastly town..overriped and busy; so pathetically  busy on thyselves to not care But gratify the other. Too busy that they don’t even have a sec to pick their stumbled echt up. No wonder everything is superficial here – but not the filth or the Flaks; myan Only the concrete jungles could multiply here  NOT US We can’t even behold the setting horizon merge into the floating blues here . Neither the reflection of rising rays on the diamond alps. But mostly We could never behold us as one among them here. May be we don’t fit in the pieces or maybe its just a wrong puzzle we are mislayed in.


 S O     B O R I N G  ! ! !



Words theyv been feeble
Waves much unstable
Wallowing on the spectrum
Of overruling phantasm:
And eye have become…
Nothing but an oddball-
| Certifiable |
tenebrous influence-
| Socially unacceptable |
Day by day getting more and more..
And All these Stoicism
All those optimism
Now have been
Swamped away by the skepticism
While every destructive mechanism –
The throat level
( choking )
And It is all inescapable
For them Crus are Tethered
Catatonic and unfeathered
I am
Every hit
of ripples
That I swallow
For this pond is
Way too shallow.
For me…

जननी जन्मभूमिश्च स्वर्गादपि गरीयसी

I am a dalit feeding jaishi
I am the untouchable Dashnami Sanyasi
A Janajati within the tagadhari
Not conforming to any gotras
Neither do i escort any varnas
न कुनै पार्टी . न त कुनै पाच्छा  .
Solely i belong to the Himalayas
So free me from all these bias
Either i am all or a nobody.

माफ पाउ मामा ! म भोट हाल्दिन

Beam in a socket

Tornado of Boiling waves
Whirling within the bolted cranium
Hunting wolves
Hungry and chained
Hunted roòm
Hurling sunshine
The hit
The push
Falling Marks on skin..
red and blue and noir sun..shine
Sinking dribbles on skin..
Pale and brackish. the anaemic  sun..shine
Buds on broken branch
Thirsty and dolorous..
but the sun shines gloomy
the sun shines crestfallen !!



As the warm stratus ..
surrenders itself to the peeking rays
and there you find yourself..
above them all..
surrounded by greens..
parallel to the floating cotton balls.
then you look down towards the concrete jungle
al..mo’st like placing coloured cubicles
is not it?
i wonder what the smell of wormwood and pine tress does to you..
O’ hast it always driven me the pavements to deja vu
you know, like
the musty.. barky smell..
the beaten paths..
all so wonted.
when you witness those Bonelli’s Eagles soaring..
soaring and gliding in circles and round
and higher… a n d higher
don’t you ever have this urge?
you know, like
with every effort of teasing your lungs grey
you inhale this strong urge..
to strip down the gist of your existence..
not those typical chronic anxious thoughts
but stilll..inert and serene ponders..
As the smoulder merges into the breathing breeze
it drifts you to a mental empire:
where the itch finds you itself.
among those blooming wildflowers
in the rhythms of cricket chorus
the choir of Passerine..
the thunders without rain..
within the cracks of landslip
i have found it audibly
on the birthing rainbows
dwindling post-haste..
right before your eyes.
perhaps like the time ..
pretty much like us.

but that could had been instead but a spectre of the brocken right ?


Po-sse-ssing these few
On my fin-gers and My Toes
— not much but e-nough

Sun-ken lo-yal-ty
surged in-to the a-byss of
syn-the-tic shrug off .

Suck-ing in-to voids
An e-ni-g-ma ma-chine
–The Con-fu-sion cirque.

en-mi-ty vents
pro-pa-ga-ting sooth-sa-yer—
Such A par-a-no-id

frail-ty to in-dulge
E-ven with the count-a-ble –
Please no more stran-gers .

For throng fur-ni-shes
Noth-ing but suf-fo-ca-tion_
vague sanc-tu-a-ry

So ra-ther eye lurk
With-in the truest fond-ness : My :
_______ im- ag – i- na – tion !

Blooming season is here.

Fireball peels off it’s hard edges..
Peels off em’ blues all open..
Engulfing pulps all pale
Walloping timbres on windowpane-
Colors have now begin to burgeon here
As naked trees start weaving
thier shawls around branches
Tucking its bust with foliate
The red And white erotic sap
Seduces all Apiformes
And cocoons all they crack
As roses erects on dry terra firmas.

Even the Sun has bloomed here
On streets and corners
With Trees and Sickles and Cows
New promises and neverending vows
Such festive atmosphere here
The populace in alliance
With Optimism and consonance
blooming on thoroughfare-
yodelling and feasting
Uplifting and yomping
For their faith in the signs
That has made them
Worthwhile of being for a time being.
Soon the new is to blossom here..
Out of their rights
Inter-group fights
Shalt there be lights
Security at nights
No dry taps
No societal gaps
Yes all these plights
Have bloomed within the nation

Ergo I rather be with the walls .

Mother dear gets disquiet
as days and weeks-
i spend
stacking up the isolation.
So she takes me
to these swarm hole..
twice in a month now
to relish the social ..
Last time,
it tasted like rotten eggs
and this time
It smells already
decomposing meat.

“Join these Girls..same age as yours.” They say.

I give my best fraught grin
and abscond to the garden..
hours and hours..
spend there whispering to the blossoms
and hearing the wind breathe
and counting the bugs instead

But again what would i do together?
I hate shoppingmalls and movie theatres and fancy places..
I don’t even own a fucking tv
I am a menace to the latest trend
And they are..
to my rapacious and materialism shit.
They find my philosophical talk boring..
My music noisy.
And It is sad..
I don’t know what’s more sadder .
If it’s the 5000 painting tag
on those preety pretty faces
Or if it’s the frantic in me
When they hand over a liquid eyeliner..
I don’t even know how to apply em’ properly.

lots of things make me sad..
Like wet dogs
on the street
On rainy days
Or bunch of street kids
on Dendrites
On normal days

Like seeing that same costermonger everyday
On hot summer days..
flicking away the flies
With hope
of customers to stop by :
While a toiled mazdoor,
slipped into dirt emmerges
and devours a slice
with all his heart in lieu
with almost half of his wages
Yet the level of satisfaction i behold in those eyes –
which never did i ever discerned
among those man behind suits
On weekends
In expensive cars
Luxurious places..
Or those same people I witness
On working days
On same micro
with different number plates
all carrying bag of some sort
obese and laden
Some..with tifffin boxes
that their wife must have packed
Earning is hard
Surviving here is more..

Like seeing that same senile granny
gray-haired and crinkly
taking breather
On the outer stairs
On winter days..
soaking her last energy to the sun
Or absorbing life itself
And within those familiar eyes..
Fear seems almost grabbable..
almost like being grabbed by
them nervous breakdown on midways,
When you get engulfed by
Greyer thickness
Of existance..
Much dustier
than the unfinished road construction.
Or the recklessness on halfways
When the aroma of death
Lurks you,
Much stinker..
than the odour as you pass by those bridges.

Myan even the purple trees make me sad
It reminds me of the roads
Now i can never walk
On the fallen jacaranda
On spring days..

Someone told me ,
“you just dont have to be so unbolt
to the world thee see
all it gives you In return is pain.
Maybe. Might be
But When reading mind
And subtleness becomes
all but a curse,
one ends up being a wide book itself
splayed out..
Flipping pages
Skipping numbers
pause and back and break
useless flipping
wherever the zephyr roars.

Perhaps ,
I have become a book so ajar
scrawled all over
on desolated pages
with indiscernible words
sensible yet absurd
the unforeseeable patent
inscribing forever..
making it beyond’s one to read.

They ask me if i am Antisocial .
I wonder..

Vigorous vEEr

Stucked in between
these split spaces
oh for how anon do i own the hours?
A sequel of travail
Must croak- an obvious corollary
betwixt the unpredictable
This inevitable.. the inescapable
Oh this vicious circle –
getting impulsively
mislaying words
and thoughts
All hither . thither
As it slithers..
Back and forth
East and north
jilting me..
Sturdy. sole instant
Then rest…
With remnants of Catatonia.