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Sleep

Singing, dancing, driving, working,

gazing at the stars or a blank wall,

even getting wasted and being hungover.

All experiences, proofs that life is alive.

How’s sleeping an experience then?

Sleeping is fun only when done with another being.

Then also fun lasts only till one falls asleep.

 

Sleep takes away precious hours

that soon turn into years and before you know it,

it consumes twenty years of your life,

that is if you get to live only till the age of sixty.

And you still want to sleep?

Go to the graveyard!

And there you’ll find your eternal sleep.

 

Body is only just a slave of the mind.

Feeling tired? Can’t I take a break?

Close my eyes. A few minutes or hours.

Power nap! Future of sleep! The saviour!

Train my brain to be up and running.

And the day will be nigh,

when I slap sleep right across its sleepy face.

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Social Constructs

Bring in social constructs and

human conflicts arise.

Maybe we were always chaotic,

depressed and sad.

Maybe happiness was a state of ecstasy now denied.

Drugs as medicines rejoiced,

but otherwise disallowed.

 

Now we are conditioned to feel happy and

behave a certain way.

Obey, respect and stay in line.

Always, fly and fall.

Never, fly and be free.

Misfits, let’s call them retards,

make them feel special.

 

Study. Work or play.

But do marry and reproduce.

Have a kid or

a millions followers on social media.

Whatever else you do,

a failure in society you are.

Being average and just enjoying life is plain selfish.

Wrath of Morrbain

Night takes over.

The dead rise up.

Morrbain is calling them.

The music man,

Lord of all words and songs,

they call him for

finally it’s Halloween.

 

Dread, fright, panic.

Army of the dead

does Morrbain’s bidding.

Lord of reapers,

they call him for

human sacrifices

he demands aplenty.

 

Now he shall sing

more than once a year,

to purge the world of humans.

The Earth Man,

Lord protector of nature,

they call him for

Morrbain unleashes his fury.

Mars is calling

Hallowed be thy name, where’s the mercy again.

Science will protect only after we’ve killed us all.

God is long gone, even the devil now fears us.

If not hurricanes, guns will annihilate us all.

 

Eight billion and counting forever goes on.

Dances of Ragnarok will tremble heaven’s hall.

Kill for money or in the name of the God,

Hell hath no judgement and welcomes all.

 

We created Gods, time for us to become one.

Religions divided us, music will unite us all.

This sermon on the mountain will be a song.

Join the rhythm, let’s together answer Mars’ call.

The man who made sense

Moonless night, silent waves. Fuck the rules. I sat down on the beach.

A bottle of bourbon in my hand. Even stray dogs stay away from drunk men.

‘I used to sit right here during lunch breaks’, said the man who appeared from nowhere.

‘Goa, the IT capital of Asia, oh what fun times’, he continued and chuckled.

‘What happened to Bangalore’, I asked. Bourbon rarely gets me high.

‘Oh, is it only 2017? My bad,’ he said and went quiet. But I insisted he pray tell.

 

‘A metro above ORR and one underneath, still a traffic pile up that lasted a week.

Fresh desalinated water supply from the bay wasn’t enough for fifty million humans.

Goa, the next best, the darling destination, served well, till the sea swallowed it whole’.

He caught the bottle that slipped from my hand as I gaped at him with an open mouth.

He took a gulp and said, ‘Ah, bourbon. The one they brew back on Mars tastes like piss.

Only once in a year they let me go back in time. Oh how I wish I was born in the 1980s’.

 

‘Seriously? You can ask me anything and yet you ask me about the religion on Mars’.

I could tell that he was annoyed but being a devout alcoholic Brahmin I had to ask.

‘The only religion on Mars is IQ. Kids of age 5 are sent to school. Arts, science and all.

The ones below the IQ of 140 are executed after a final test at the age of 14’, he explained.

I looked at the bottle, bourbon wasn’t half gone, yet he was starting to make sense.

‘We’ve just started colonising a moon of Saturn, good for corn I hear, nice bourbon’, he said.

 

Bangalore was gone, Goa too. I was 30 still. Was there anything I could do. I had to ask.

‘Oh, where are my manners. I apologise. It’s the year 2125 on Mars when I left’ he replied.

And continued, ‘I’m a data scientist, one of the last. Rescued from submerged Goa in 2090’.

‘Enjoy your life. Don’t have any kids’, he answered when I asked him for an or any advice.

He said, ‘Mediocre humans breed mediocre offsprings’ and got up to leave. But he turned

and said, ‘Keep at those drums, Mars needs a drummer who can shred some Led Zeppelin’.

 

                   

 

  

 

Music cures all

If the words won’t say it,

the guitar will play it,

destroying the silent gloom.

Like the forests tremble

from the thunderbolts above,

indicating the impending doom.

So pick up those drumsticks,

strum those strings, struggle,

if not walk, then limp or crawl.

Treat melancholy with melody

and go out singing because

in the end, music cures all.

यारी

हाथ नहीं मिलाना

गले ला के झप्पी पाणी थी।

चहरे की मुस्कान नहीं

दिल की हंसी मांगी थी।

इश्क दौ पल का

अपने को यारी निभानी थी।

 

नज़रौं की नज़ाकत

लब्जौं ने ही बर्बाद की।

दुनिया की सच्चाई

शराफत से ढकी थी।

बस नाम ही बदनाम

यारी तो दारु ही की थी।