Tuesday, May 29, 2012

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

Thursday, May 24, 2012


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

Monday, May 21, 2012

Five shorts in May

The guard escorted me out of the car showroom
All I wanted was a four-wheeler that lays eggs

This Saturday when the moon came closest to the earth
I threw a palash at its surface
357,000 kms in its general direction

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

Need a vaccine, I said to the specialist
That prevents my dreams from being shattered

My brains are wrapped in a bandage
History has scalded it, again

Friday, May 18, 2012

A national heart attack

What shall we ever do
When the nation has a heart attack

Tuesday, May 1, 2012

Six May Day stories

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

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

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

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

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

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