Let's murder all journalists, I say

Today is a good day to to murder a journalist

The Mylapore-man made his palm into a fist

Nicely mixing molzha puddi chutney with his pappodums

Shoot the bugger (any chap) six times in the bums

One such chap found shot, slaughtered and sank

Floating past the ITO near the Yamuna bank

42 year-old, did the crime-beat without any fear

Fourth accredited scribe murdered this year

A few of the usual accomplices arrested

Sms, eMails and mobile bills scrutinised

Impunity is not under control - quite the contrary

Says my informer in Janpath's Sonarupa Bar

According to a recent survey by Media-Aid

This doesn’t include cases of the last decade

70% of murders haven’t been cleared up, only

But behenchod neither is the water supply in our colony

Crime pays when it is against the press

Drug dealers, mafia dons, authorities who repress

Take turns to issue a supari

Police can’t arrest them, you see

So what, the Mylapore-Man brays

Let's murder all journalists, I say

For spreading gloom and doom

In every single living room

Their writing, so dangerous to the nation

Daily bombardment of disinformation

Let's put a magnifying glass on words

Banish all of it as illegal turd

Lets murder all journalists, I say?

For poisoning the public, aam janta

Says the Mylapore-Man watering his tulsi plant

That the holy cows tried to chew this morning

Reflection

She stared at her reflection
You okay? she asked
The hag in the mirror sighed
Creases unlocked
To smile

There was no one there

She had passed by an hour ago

Five shorts in May

1.

The guard escorted me out of the car showroom

All I wanted was a four-wheeler that lays eggs

2.

This Saturday when the moon came closest to the earth

I threw a palash at its surface

357,000 kms in its general direction

3.

He stared at the hotel wall

Why do you make love to me, he asked

Your tongue tastes syrupy and icy, she replied

Turning off the solar lantern

4.

Need a vaccine, I said to the specialist

That prevents my dreams from being shattered

5.

My brains are wrapped in a bandage

History has scalded it, again

A national heart attack

What shall we ever do

When the nation has a heart attack

Six May Day stories

1.

What is more important?
A sturdy nylon umbrella

On a rainy day in Cherapunji
That can poke at blood-sucking leeches
 

Or a sitar 

(Made by none other than Mainuddin Gulabsahed Sitarmaker of Miraj)
That plays Raga Malhar of its own accord



2.
The jewel shops near Chinchpokli
Aren’t a sign of prosperity
They exist to pawn family heirloom


3.
All through the Monday night
They walk bare-feet through halogen-lit streets.
Past well-patrolled naaka-bandis

In Charkop and Oshiwara

In order to reach their god
 

They know not that

Cabs crawl by
With cheap whores (mogra in hair)
Who pray to their god
For a moment of hormonal distraction
Before the Tuesday morning prasadam


4.
He called the TV station:
Look out of your window
The sun hasn’t emerged, today


5.
In Amritsar
I sat on Papaji’s shoulder
Have gola-sherbet

In tri-colour
 

When I shut my eyes.
I see Lahore, a few kilometres away

It’s 1929
Nehru on a white stallion
Saying Poorna Swaraj to all and sundry
 

That's when
Papaji plonks me back on Grand Trunk Road

Wake up

Don’t let thoughts
Of the dead

Be smuggled across the border

6.

I was almost murdered

On day one of May

Said he to me

Digging the ditch, deeper

What happened, I asked?

I decided to stop working, he said

So what, I asked?

He wheezed through his mouth

Life, almost killed me for that