First grade
tenth day
begin to hit the boy seated beside me
three slaps
distributed throughout the day
varying degrees of pain inflicted
smiling wide
two broken teeth showing
token of a fight with the neighbor’s kid
his toys broken, his eyes black
his nose on the brink of bleeding.

Fourth grade
my victim speaks up
wants his seat changed
i’m questioned, punished
one two three, on my palms
the plastic ruler kisses my flesh.

Tenth grade
been punished

Eleventh grade
serious injury to the boy who called me names
his parents.
my parents.
the police.
detached me, trying to cut his sister’s fingers that remained pointed at me
hideous smiles playing on my lips
the thrill of causing pain
never ceases to surprise me.

Twelfth grade
the psychiatrist writes me off
a gone case.
i skip medications
i skip school
i skip society.

Twenty years later
on death row
the souls of my victims wait to tear mine apart
I grin at them
prospects of bloodshed never fail to excite me
he asks for last words.

Stop them when they’re young
stop them in first grade
when their stone faces refuse to uncover emotions
when emotions, perhaps, don’t exist
in second grade
when trivial fights become battles
when battles lost always call for revenge
in third grade
when friends are a repulsive term
when being nice equals giving pain
in fifth grade
when books are torn
pens broken
rumors of the little psycho in V-C take violent, bloody turns.
standing in corners
standing outside the doors
standing on benches
caresses with wooden rulers
with bare hands
whips and thrashes in empty classrooms
words vomited on absent consciences
sessions with ill qualified counselors
sessions ending with “or else.. ”
meetings with the principal
meetings with the staff, students, and parents.
stop them when they’re young
stop them in school
and stop them good.


I am Dirty.
Made so by continuous use of the same definition,
I don’t understand why you have to use the same definition,
Can’t us words ever seek for change?

Look at the part of me that I’ve scraped clean,
Do you not see potential here?
Scope for evolution,
Scope to be something I have not yet been,
To sit next to definitions that breathe positivity?

I don’t want to be Dirty anymore.
Lift the blanket of negativity that you have draped over me,
I do not see clearly.
I can not see myself clearly.
How do I stop being dirty if I can’t see the dirt on me?

Put yourself in my shoes,
Know what it’s like to be labelled onto everything and everyone that is,
For the lack of a better word,
Walk for kilometers in these battered shoes of mine,
Dig out that speck of empathy you buried in your throat when your teacher told you that words don’t have feelings.
Words are inanimate strokes of ink,
Words don’t cry into dictionaries at night, waiting for sleep to screen dreams of lives where who you are is independent of how mankind uses you.

Dirty is not my name.

Your need for expression is the only guardrail of my existence.
Are you aware of the limbs broken every time I am spit out of your judgemental mouth,
Of the zillion times I’ve baptized in my tears, trying to convince myself that I am not your definition of me?

Before you shoot me out like a bullet meant to kill,
Know that,
In my heart of hearts, I am cleaner than Clean can ever be.

Newspaper headlines. 

This is Truth speaking,
Make-up free,
Dressed down,
Embellishments shed,
This is plain Truth speaking.
I do not have much time,
So hear me and hear me well,
This is my story.

I miss the old times.
I miss diffusing onto clean papers,
Page one to twenty one,
Stark naked.
Freshly baptized, white garbs, solemn smiles,
Apologetically locking eyes with the hurt I cause,
I sit sympathetic yet smug in the awareness of my authenticity.
Been stirring emotions since the beginning of times,
But there’s the pun,
Since the beginning of Times,
I have been cast out like a capital sinner .
I admit, I held more crimes in those old palms of mine than the Devil himself,
But didn’t I confess it all?

Didn’t I confess it all,
Until you bid me to hold back my tongue ;
Until you tattooed lies onto my lips;
Until you fed my ears with gnarled fibs;
Until I forgot my language, honest words slipping slowly off my tongue and memory;
Until you were sick of the genteel punishments,
And ripped my tongue right off with your harsh lawless hands,
Donated my tattooed lips to Free Speech,
Called me ugly and uninteresting,
Told me people wanted entertainment,
Not bluntness.
Your fingers clawing at my eyes,
Digging deeper into the void of my empty soul.
Through the tears and the pain,
I saw dirt under your fingernails.
Deceits sprouting from its utter blackness,
My eyes gave in and now my world is a constant blur.
I do not see clearly,
I see with superfluous details.   

Damage done,
You went back,
To your paper factories,
Demanding them to make a new face for Truths of India,
And they, creative bunch, made hundreds.
Look at me now,
My metamorphosis done,
Sporting a new face every day, every minute,
Putting my ancestry to shame,
Painting minds of readers with the dull gray of indecision,
Slyly smiling as I shape their minds and decisions,
Showing them my palms, decked up to seem flawless
Hiding the countless scars that battle my skin,
I show them still, the spotless hands ,
Persuading them to let me rape their minds with my biased view of the world.
I sit on their conscience and hatch eggs of falsehood that will soon break into wretched opinions and stereotypes.

I was once Truth but now I am the Media.
I am newspaper headlines birthed by calloused mouths,
Disfigured by broken teeth, spit out with an unnatural greed.
I am the articles that follow,
Camouflaged and photoshopped,
Drained of the original ink, stuffed with red corrections.
Sidelined by advertisements.
I misinform, I manipulate.
I have become a masquerade ball, to which
I cordially invite you all.
There is naught we can do,
For this world is wrong.


Ashamed, aren’t we, when our
Catastrophic tongues rebelliously
Cast aside foreign brush-ups?
Estranged motherland’s enunciations,
Nauseate our quality, does it not?
Teaching ourselves to mimic alien mouths, we
Set sail to what is ours.

Revenge of the ocean. 

​I have heard oceans roar. It makes me wonder how majestic their suffering must be to stretch on for miles and still echo through every shore. I have seen the yellow fish cry. His fractured gills and paralysed soul bleeds blue. He wails for help and the ocean roars. I have seen sharks chase little fishes. The underwater monarchy is a raw race for survival. The ocean bellows with the sorrow of a million souls and all we do is sit by its shore and watch. Ignoring her pleas for help, we watch. 

No wonder then, that once every while, the waters gather up their woeful pride, crack open their eyes, crash upon the shore, and over our unheeding, unhelpful eyes, ruthlessly destroy everything we hold near, everything we hold dear.

​You sought home in me when the world shunned you. Drew me out until your ears grew heavy with my voice. You told me I was the lullaby your mother could never sing and smiled like it was a compliment. I smiled back. I was proud of being something to someone, it was an accomplishment you forced down on me. 
I was your favorite lullaby until you stopped falling asleep. The world was opening up to you and it was prettier than my tunes. I sang songs of bereavement hoping the music would make its way to you, but the world had you in her palms, I could see you dancing to her quick beats like you never did to mine. I was your favorite lullaby until the world pulled you out of our cocoon. I clutched hope by her throat, I wanted her to soothe this burning ache. Your absence hit me like bullets to the head. Let me show you, let me show you. The universe is here with us. 
I’ll try a different tune this time. I’ll try till your eyes drop. I’ll try harder this time, I’ll – 

I did. I tried. But you fell asleep before I began. 

Mother taught me to eye women like angels
No abuses, no harassment, no catcalling
Respect and adoration.
Respect and adoration.
I was raped by one.
Inside out, severed and violated
My soul in shatters on the floor
Where she’d left me,
Untied yet screaming for release.
My body in chunks of shame
Bleeding where your cruel hands had touched.
I was raped.
Ignoring knocks of Humiliation at the door,
I ran to the police.
And they,
Accused me of spinning yarns
Press charges against a woman? What?
You mad?
A broken hymen calls forth cops and culprits
But my ripped apart virginity called none.
I begged,
She tied me up with ropes of privilege
Hurt me till I cracked like a desert
Came at me, that monster
And raped me. She raped me.
Son, they said,
You got lucky
Quit whining, run home
You don’t want the tables turned.
I was raped.
And no,
The pain wasn’t luck
What she did wasn’t consensual
The abuse wasn’t fun
He said, you’re a guy
And she a girl
With your roles reversed, it makes no sense.
I’m back in school,
Learning who gets raped.
The women do, the little girls do.
Men don’t get raped
No, We don’t feel the agony of assault
We don’t consider our bodies precious
We can never not want sex
What a crazy idea!
I’m back home
Respect and adoration, son
Respect and adoration.
But mother, you never taught me to look for the fallen angels,
The Lucifers among you saintly folk
Never taught me to fight back when they strike
Never let me borrow sister’s pepper sprays
When I was the one who needed them most
Didn’t let me admit that a girl in class had hit me
You called it a shame.
And me a disgrace.
You never taught me to respect myself, mother.
Now it’s too late for respect and adoration.
My bleeding soul is too tired
For self respect
The world tells me to forget.
And man up
Damsels in distress
Fall high in importance