Dear RAILWAY CRONIES AND ALL YOU WHITE (S)WEARING MINISTERS,(For translations to various mothertongues, I’m looking for volunteers.)I write this as I sit in a TRAIN. I could have been locked inside a public toilet by bullies and I wouldn’t have known the difference. I paid for 2 tier a/c for the first time and guess what! Since, this train doesn’t transit via Bihar and Bengal, it’s going to take more than 24 hours to cover a distance of about 1400 kilometres to one of the 2/3 famous sikh shrines and guess what! The train doesn’t have food. The 2-tier a/c doesn’t have doors but dirty/torn curtains. The toilets are the hangout zone for syphilis typhus and whatever other STD you could think of!EX-DIDI AND EX-BHAIYAJEE, you started Duronto and GareebRath and made the necessary up-keep of Rajhdani and Shatabdi and here we have one charging point for phones to be shared between 6 people! I paid and I could have paid a little more and I know millions of people could too. You give us a discount, we’ll line outside McDonald’s for a free burger but this is reprehensible. I haven’t eaten and I won’t drink because I don’t want to use the loo again. I spent the last 12 hours sleeping and not looking out. I am a wannabe writer, don’t you think that this nation will never have a Rowling or Yeats or even Premchand or Tagore (again) because a wannabe would be dying of OCD and unclean windows and toilet seats in some train here. I can’t sit on the pavement or go around the streets in a wet t-shirt without raising a million erections and the cabinet and its cronies think that’s how love blossoms. But, dear Cabinet, why did you sell yourself to Didi and Bhaiyajee when they didn’t give a fart about the trains in the rest of the country. No, I am not fascist! Didi, YOU WERE AND YOU KNOW IT!
Forget WIFI, I risk dying of STD and you can’t imagine how shameful it’ll be because the good Indian Virginal Beauty that I am. NO, YOU CAN’T IMAGINE.

On a serious note, I want my money back and I want that the next time, I have to go somewhere for a trip, I don’t have to pay Railway uncles any bribe and get my tickets no matter when I book them. I want you to ensure that within 5 minutes of this post going viral, all trains will be cleaned and so will be the IRCTC website. AND the stations, they could be much better. Just because fat rats are no longer common sight at Delhi Railways stations doesn’t mean they are all gone. We know they conduct mass orgies at night at meeting points that Didi KNEW about since she knows about it all.

JOSHI, you also RESIGN, like DIDI and her cronies did, or give me a better train. ON ALL THE ROUTES.




of Love and Other Dead Feelings


Photo Source: Internet


As much as I want it, It doesn’t work out, 
As much I’d like him, he won’t come around,
As much as I have loved him, more than everyone else,
He doesn’t feel the same way about us.

Love, we hoped, would solve everything,
Love, we thought, would secure everything,
Love, we fought for, would absolve everything.

Love, it turns out, is just like us,
Love, we found out, is prone to rust,
Love, even as I now speak, has nothing to do with poetry,
Love, is a ritual.
A rite.

And,tribal ceremonies or what we understand of them,
Have made us believe,
That rituals and rites need blood of at least one person,
And, that with simple mathematics, hurts at least a few.

X and Y,
No longer talk.
X, lies in a double-storey room, losing blood from arms and legs.
Vomiting more blood and bile,
And, almost, enjoying it.
It’s like the moon is controlling her,
With fingers if not hands.
She loses another eye,
and still lies sighing, relief, on the land.

This ritual takes place as X dies,
There are people who are trying for alibis,
She laughs at them,
They don’t stop.

They look all around,
She her half-dead ghost,
think she’ll replace her good,
So, they kill her again.

This time,
without moving,
she dies.

The colour of pagan blood burns the sky,
It is blue like an ancestor’s eyes,
It’s like someone has replaced the moon,
and overthrown the sky.

So, there is a endless void,
that could suck her in,
like drinking soup instead of eating it.

The only 5 stars that are left there,
Are allies of Y.
Y, himself, is not around.
He’s off to looking at a false oasis in a false land.
He’s no longer even required.
Y, exits.
The story.

The thing is,
That love is a dying disease,
But an art of dying?
Because, as we know, art is an imitation of life.
However, I haven’t read notes on dying.

Steps to death, yes.
To afterlife, everyone tries.
But, nobody’s explanation of death satisfies.

And if with life, the artist expires,
So must her art.
If death were made of fire, so should have been my heart.
But, death is not, so heart mustn’t be.

Don’t argue about pyre,
That’s not what death looks like.
That’s a blood-less ritual,
To make manure.
And to keep municipal services working.

If this is what happens when one is inspired,
Then I know why death must be.

It ends.


Photo Source: Internet

Ring Road Chronicles #1

The dog’s body lies decomposing on the Ring Road. Imagine wearing a ring covered with a skin of a 3-day old dog’s body. I have been calling MCD for three days. After lying to me for almost 2 days, they gave me a complaint number and asked me to accept the truth. The truth being that the dead dog won’t get to feel soft earth any time soon.

Somewhere else, another dog lies festering as it fights concrete and road side urinary deposits.

Its body lies outside a cremation ground. It’s decomposing off like cheese only the ground won’t suck it in like a hungry child at lunch. It is a feast for the vultures and the crows. They hadn’t celebrated a weekend buffet in a long time. I suspect that the dog was Parsi.