Liar's Dice

Have you never lied

to friend, family,

or an absolute stranger?

Not the lies that bleed

like knives through the chest,

but the truths you borrowed

off lives you’ve spent

to be where you stand, 

for the theatre

of your truth-telling.

Have you never lied

to friend, family,

or an absolute stranger?

Not the lies that split atoms in two,

smudging ashen crimson

on the concrete canvases

of proud cityscapes,

but the truths you buried

in your bones

until your brain caved in, 

for the illusion

of greater good.

Have you never lied

for the love of your faith,

for the sake of your creed,

for the truths you told yourself

needed crafting with care?

Have you never lied

when questions were left at your door;

questions that threaten

to crumble the spines

of your acquired taste?

Have you never lied

when lives were put to trial;

lives that never agreed

to your inheritances,

and yet you found yourself

on the jury?

Have you never lied;

the thin, flimsy ones,

the fat, morbidly obese ones, 

as you looked yourself in the mirror

and muttered in shallow breaths:

"This is my story,

and I’ll tell it

however I deem fit."

The ghosts of yesterday

haunt today’s hangmen.

The past returns

not for memory;

but for flesh.

Grammar knew this

before we did:

the past participle

always comes back

to finish the sentence.

Power, like planets,

orbits in ellipses.

Today’s revolutions

are tomorrow’s kingdoms.

Ellipses do not close.

They continue.

And so do you. 

No matter how much you lie,

none of it will ever be enough.

Because beyond us simpletons, 

lies an entire universe

unbothered

by what we call truth

and what we disguise as lies.

But that won’t stop you,

will it?

Truth is a gamble, 

and you must roll the dice.

Sapiens

When a dog dies,

it just dies.

Horizontal,

returned to the ground,

until it loosens

into the grammar of soil;

as if liberation

was always fluid.

Other dogs continue.

A life in dog years

does not permit philosophy.

When a Sapiens dies,

it is never about death.

Not even about the dead.

I could have said

man, woman, people, 

but identity

is a stove left on;

look away long enough,

and it learns your name

by burning it.

Such are the times of Sapiens.

Sapiens:

an honourable skin to wear.

What other species

pets what it perfects killing?

Feeds it, names it,

breeds obedience into survival;

because survival,

once negotiated,

begins to look like love.

When a Sapiens dies,

it refuses to be just death.

Dying is too small

for a creature

that brewed religion

out of its own reflection,

and drank

until it believed

it could not spill.

It is not about the dead;

that would require letting go.

So the Sapiens keeps them.

Opens them.

Defines them.

Thinks through them, 

until philosophy

rearranges the corpse

into something

the living

can survive.

The Sapiens call it life;

wishing the living were dead

in the quiet mildew

of unventilated rooms.

The Sapiens call it mourning;

wishing the dead were alive

in the loud theatre

of refrigerated grief.

You would think

it values death

more than life;

a species

that can make meat

of anything,

and marinate itself

to taste.

Or that it cares

for the living and the dead

equally;

nothing,

until it can be sold:

in parts,

or whole.

But what do you know

of Sapiens.

What do you know

of honour.

Sapiens

is everything

that refuses to end

when it should.

You wish, 

instead of letting the dead stay dead, 

you could exhume them,

fingernails full of soil,

half-chewed silence in your mouth,

just to prove

you can still make

meaning

bleed.

Constipation

I come from

two contrasting generations of sperm cells;

a grandfather

whose poetry and politics

were equally loud and boisterous,

and a father

who chose subtlety

when it came to both words and wings:

so subtle

he could flip sides

without twitching eyebrows.

I was twelve

when I realised

the reason my grandfather

doesn’t speak to his brothers

is that they chose

a different flavour of communism.

Same tree.

Different branches.

And yet

that was enough

to make the roots of blood tremble.

I was twelve

when I realised

politics and petrol

should never be left out in the open;

give them oxygen

and they will burn down

entire civilisations.

Two decades later,

it is compulsory

to be political.

And being it

is not enough.

You must declare it.

Perform it.

Repeat it

until your politics

becomes tinnitus

in the ears of everyone around you.

Question one side

and you are accused

of being the other, 

with assumptions

too starved

to scrape past elementary algebra.

Call yourself apolitical

and they look at you

as if they are civilisation

and you are the jungle.

You see,

I have a persistent problem.

On one side,

a faith 

that diagnoses change for cancer, 

that worships the past

in the present

as the only future.

On the other,

a faith 

that calls change the singular truth, 

even when it abandons logic,

even when they can't quite add it up.

And I keep wondering, 

why can sanity not live

on the fringes,

in the middle,

or beyond them?

Why must thought

always pick a uniform?

Why must disagreement

always declare allegiance?

In a world

that cannot stop

emptying itself

loudly, publicly, endlessly,

and every street

stinks of ideological diarrhoea,

I refuse to flow.

I choose

to be constipation.

I Don't Wish To Paint Like You

I’ve never really been a painter.

You see, in my head

the word "painter" sprawls

in acrylic shades of a colouring palette.

And I could never quite find inspiration in colours.

It’s hard to, 

in a colourblind world

that sees skins

as pastel shades.

I paint what I see, 

how I see, 

in tinges and hues

of monochrome.

The colourblind call it

black and white.

Binary

is a convenient illusion

for the mathematically challenged.

I, though, call it

dwelling in greys, 

and the occasional burnt sienna.

I don’t sketch outlines.

I don’t reach for erasers.

I scribble.

I splatter. 

Blank page. 

Blank canvas. 

Bending lines. 

Pushing boundaries. 

A lot like 

the becoming of life;

no rough work,

no undo button,

no emergency exits.

But, 

what about 

getting it right

you ask. 

Right

isn’t the absence of wrong.

It is arriving

in spite of it.

In a world

that wants canvases

to look like photographs,

and photographs

to look like augmented realities, 

I am only

scribbling flawed faiths

and idiosyncratic incongruities

with absolute disrespect

for grammar.

How dare I call myself a painter?

When all I’ve done

is refuse

your colours, 

and still

paint.

The Syntax Of Survival

Life isn’t the story

you tell

after brushing lips with death.

That is spectacle.

A bullet.

A blade.

A bus. 

A bulldozer. 

A moment

loud enough

to be remembered.

Sudden.

Overwhelming.

Singular.

And singulars

are easy.

They arrive complete.

They leave behind

a clean sentence.

Life

is not written

in singular.

It stutters.

It repeats.

It refuses

completion.

Life is plural.

Not just

not dying once;

but surviving

again

and again

and again.

It is

not breaking the nib

when the hand trembles.

Not tearing the page

when the ink

thickens

into something

that feels like blood.

Because unlike death, 

surviving life

is not an event.

It has no witnesses.

No applause.

No language

that stays.

It is the discipline

of continuation.

And continuation

is not heroic.

It is mechanical.

A body

choosing

not to stop

without knowing why.

You are not alive

because you chose to be.

You are alive

because you have not

stopped.

And that's as hopeful

as hope ever gets. 

Hope

is not light.

Hope

is repetition.

And repetition

does not ask

if it means anything.

It continues.

So do you.

The Grammar Of Sinking

Grief ushers in

like rivers at the break of monsoon;

no warnings,

no lifeboats.

No rain checks either.

It comes all at once.

Before you blink

it has you in a chokehold.

You try to put it to words.

But grief is not the loss of words;

it is the loss

of the meaning of them.

Your throat knots.

Your tongue dries.

You drink water.

It feels no different.

You wish you could erupt

into laments,

into screams,

into torrential downpours.

But the forecast says

overcast skies.

No chance of rain.

So you perspire instead.

Earlobes warm.

Insides parched.

A season

changing inside the body.

The kind that keeps you awake

through the night,

bedsheets damp,

as if the skin erupted

because the eyes could not.

Grief has definitions.

Definitions have boundaries.

And what is bound

eventually runs out

of breadth

and breath.

But what do you call it

when miserable indifference

becomes your primordial instinct?

Not feeling.

Instinct.

Feeling belongs to language.

Instinct belongs to survival.

What do you call it

when sleep each night

feels like sinking

another inch

into an unfathomable abyss,

and morning feels like swimming

towards a shore

in the middle of an ocean

that refuses to move closer?

Every night

the inches add up.

Every morning

you are exactly where you began:

dead centre

of a bottomless sea.

There is rage.

There is pity.

There is loathing.

There is pathos.

And beyond all of it,

hope.

But hope is light.

And when you have lived

with the lights out

for days

and weeks

and months,

sunlight

feels like assault.

Hope is different

for the floating

and the sinking.

Not drowning.

Sinking.

Drowning is sudden.

Sinking

is patient.

Measured.

As if time itself

has decided

to take its time with you.

For the sinking ones,

drowning

is hope.

It refuses

the slow-burning road

to a conclusion.

Befitting or not

is irrelevant.

Some semicolons

are kinder

as full stops.

You wish you could act on it.

The terrain is familiar.

You have been here before.

You have tried before.

But this time

you cannot gather yourself

even for that.

Even when the water

is already at your ears.

Even when letting go

might be the only mercy.

If mercy exists.

So you resist sleep,

because every good night

is another inch deeper

into the abyss.

And yet when sleep arrives

you hope

there will be

no more mornings.

But time

is terribly patient.

And the one thing killing you

is the only thing

keeping you alive.

Your cancer

is your cure. 

Trial By Blood, Verdict By Water

I am the judge.

Robes stiffened with ritual righteousness. 

Gavel molten, breathing fire, screaming justice.

Conscience sharper than sharpened glass.

The floor trembles. Walls sweat blood and pus. 

Air coils like serpents whispering unholy.

Dust crawls away. Shadows tremble. I do not sit. I descend.

Judgement is inheritance.

By blood. By caste. By closeness to the gods.

My forefathers ruled here. Their verdicts were holy, sanctified in their blue blood. Their hands carved eternity.

On my chair. On the throne of a judge.

Verdicts passed where they must not.

What an absolute abomination.

A filthy stain. A defilement.

The gods recoiled. History shivered.

I inhale that sin. So I can exhale righteousness.

It is my duty to purify. To exorcise. To remake holiness.

And as I unleash Gangajal on the floors of a room sheathed in justice, it hisses like acid from heaven. 

Ink writhes, climbs walls, twists into screaming faces.

Rats kneel. Clerks vomit holy obedience. Paper bleeds. Shadows dance in homage to the ancestors.

Even democracy is a hallucination. 

Dalits breathing Brahmin air? Blasphemy. Horror.

The gods shudder. Faith trembles. History bends under terror.

I bite the pen. I lick the chair. I taste sin. I exhale holiness.

Walls convulse. Ceiling bleeds. Floor vomits dust.

The Dalit flickers; mocking, ephemeral, untouchable.

Judgment is not in his chromosomes.

He can only be judged. Only condemned. Only measured against eternal, inherited law.

I summon the chamber alive.

Ink twists into serpents. Rats scream prayers. Clerks twist, vomit, collapse into worship.

Air coils. Steam rises. Shadows writhe in grotesque obedience.

Gavel melts into molten judgment. Tea turns to bitter ash. Obedience is absolute. Judgment bends only to me.

I rotate the pen thrice. I pour gangajal. I sip molten tea. I bite the pen.

I taste impurity. I exhale holiness.

Walls sweat blood and pus. Floor trembles. Ceiling convulses.

All bends. All submits. All is mine.

I am the judge.

I am divine.

I am eternal.

I am the eye of law.

I am holiness incarnate.

And yet…

The Dalit exists.

Invisible. Untouchable. Defiant.

Like sins do.

Forever beneath me.

Never presiding. Never judging. Only judged. Only condemned.

Cockroaches in my kitchen corners have more power.

I pour more gangajal.

Ink writhes like vipers. Chairs twist and split. Rats kneel, bleed, sing holy songs.

Clerks vomit, choke, weep in obedience. Shadows fold into themselves.

Walls bend. Floor cracks. Ceiling screams.

All bends. All submits. All is mine.

I sip tea. I bite the pen. I taste sin. I exhale holiness.

Obedience is absolute. Judgment bends only to me.

I am the judge. I am divine. I am eternity.

The Dalit flickers.

He is untouchable. Defiant. Haunted.

But he will never sit.

He will never judge.

He can only ever be judged.

He can only ever be condemned.

Like cockroaches crawling my kitchen corners.

I pour gangajal on the air.

On shadows. On ink. On trembling clerks.

On the ghosts of Dalits swallowed by my forefathers’ holiness.

All bends. All submits. All is mine.

I am the judge.

I am divine.

I am eternal.

I am law.

I am holiness incarnate.

I am God’s own hand, His wrath, His eye, His voice.

The only. The truly.

The molten gavel drips Gangajal onto the floor where corpses of forgotten Dalits curl into prayer, and even the shadows writhe, seared with the eternal scars of my justice.