A World In Code

I have always loved code languages, for they allow me to mount prosthetic makeup on reality.

I’ve looked at them with a sort of reverence my parents reserved solely for flute-bearing, peacock-feathered idols, unaware that the shlokas they duly recited contained wormholes in logic that were all codes pointing towards the futility of religion.

Codes build me, bracket by bracket, a summerhouse away from the ways of the world; a world where the moist concrete of my tongue doesn’t have to sandwich itself between the ceramic of my teeth to say the word ‘no’; a world where nine blinks from a torch scream emergency better than nine stitches on a nineteen-year old wrist; a world where all I have to do to start afresh is insert a forward slash before my last mistake; a world where white is background and coloured is privileged; a world where my smallest achievement is honoured with a tiny variable and my largest sorrow is trivialised with one; a world where light speaks from a lighthouse shrouded in darkness instead of darkness speaking in the light of a computer screen; a world where it only takes two parallel lines to equate “Donald” with racist-homophobic-ignorant-hypocritical-brainless-motherfucking-maniac; a world where left and right and centre are different methods to arrange the same idea and not different ideas that inspire the same violence; a world where the root of most misunderstandings is a syntax mistake, not a mistakenly sent text; a world where I can cry and cry and continue to cry without losing the novelty of the act in a single loop command; a world where ‘gif’ brings to mind an army of images and not an army of bullies who love to pick on a guy with a lisp; a world where Fuzzy Markup Language is the only full form of FML; a world where every smile receives a response; every friendship receives double quotes; every love receives a home cocooned in two sloping roofs on either side.

A world in code will sometimes smother me with its predictability. The lack of adventure will pierce through my human skin carelessly mounted on a digital army of horses; a “Calibri”; sometimes, a million coagulated symbols of inflated joy and watered-down wounds won’t succeed in blending my scars into mehndi patterns. Sometimes, I will long for a human pulse under those fingertips instead of a thousand heartbeats that sound only when I trample on their springs, 50 times a minute.

Sometimes, a world in code won’t be enough.

And that’s when my pulse will alight a final time, on the Backspace key, never to release again.





Baahubali 2: The Clunky Conclusion

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Starring: Sathyaraj, Prabhas, Rana Daggubati, Anushka Shetty, Nassar, Ramya Krishnan

Director: S.S. Rajamouli

S. P. O. I. L. E. R. S.

For two whole years, the nation has wanted to know. The reason why Sathyaraj’s Kattappa drove a sword through his idol’s torso, both of them silhouetted against a wall of blazing fire, have successfully wrung Indian curiosity like few other movies can boast of, Bollywood, Kollywood or any other wood. Baahubali: The Beginning riveted me with its sheer enormity of ambition. Rajamouli’s venture into an original historic saga was boldly conceived and confidently executed, the sheer charisma of its intention outshining most, if not all, of the budget and storyline tussles. Prabhas came across as a younger, more effervescent avatar of Rajnikanth, Tammannah made the most of her lazily tangential role and both Sathyaraj and Rana Daggubati formed opposite beams against an Amar Chitra Katha-esque backdrop of raging waterfalls, prancing dupattas and exposition-spewing villains. With a cliffhanger promptly on cue, Baahubali One promised what few Bollywood movies have been able to- a sequel that stands as a pre-planned offspring instead of a drunken mistake.

Continue reading “Baahubali 2: The Clunky Conclusion”

Fire Sacrifice

Fire sacrifice it was, and fie upon the sacrifice,

Guarding in the kiss of worship, ladles of religious lies.

My eyes were violated by a screen of ghee and smoke and oil,

Only I could spy through their façade; my parents stood beguiled;

All of them, no less than five, with crumpled skin as raisin, sat,

Down around the warming flame, a swarm of holy beureaucrats,

Swallowed by their minion, ritualistic hordes of leaves and rice,

Palms connected, eyes lowered, in pose of spiritual demise.

Why does God require greed and dead devotion to be pleased?

Why doesn’t a kindly deed, appease a soul that’s now deceased? 

Chanted they, for hours on end, robotic dolls in sacred thread,

Icily devoid of heart, their motions slick and thoroughbred;

Mother cooked and fed them all, and father their commands obeyed,

And poured and chanted, bowed and prayed, unheeding of their masquerade;

Until the moment when the tormenting setup was brought to close;

And then they left with winning smiles, the fire cold and comatose,

And framed against the doorway, we, our purses noticeably light,

Having splurged on oil and ghee, for souls that long have taken flight.

Year upon a year, we shall deposit wealth in priestly dolls,

Year upon a year, we shall supress remorse in protocol.

Fire sacrifice it was, and twice did death its shadow cast,

This disarming afternoon, both kin and conscience breathed their last.


A/N: I just commemorated my Grandpa’s first death anniversary. And what disturbed me even more jarringly than my loss, was the ridiculous amount of money and energy spent on Hindu priests and religious rituals that didn’t remotely make sense. Grandma says all this will bring me blessings from Grandpa. I beg to differ. I think organised religion in its current form, along with the baggage of economic black holes it entails, deserves a kick up the ass. What do you think?

Gypsy Boy (Zigeunerjunge)


I shouldn’t get the full credit for this.

Zigeunerjunge (German, “Gypsy Boy”) is an amazing melody sung by the late Alexandra. I came across this number (listen to it here), and immediately fell in love with it. I also found out Bollywood has ripped this tune off in one of my erstwhile favorite songs. Ugh.

Anyway, being a German student, I googled a few nouns up and surprisingly, I had the whole meaning down. Always up for musical fun, I tried to fit English words into the tune and make it rhyme. The result- this poem/song.

Hope you enjoy it. I’d suggest watching the song even if you don’t know German. You’ll get the tadadums and lalas better :p

Cheers, and have a great day ♡


Gypsy Boy

I was but a child,
When I saw them arrive;
The gypsies, they came to my town,
The gypsies; they came to my town.

Their carriages shone; their steeds looked uncombed;
Together they pulled the rein taut;
And I felt a pull in my heart.
So I tailed.
From afar.

Come evening, I spied a fire devouring the grass! (La la la)
Around which, the gypsies all gathered  and chuckled and danced! (La la la)
Oh, a gypsy boy, a gypsy boy, he sat there and strummed his guitar,
I stared at his face, entranced.
And he gave,
Not a glance.

Oh the gypsy boy, the gypsy boy, he sat there and strummed his guitar,
The fire then breathed its last.
And I ran
back home fast.

At dawn I awoke; I could not control, my passion to see them again;
I pleaded with mother, in vain.

The wagons windblown, the horses uncombed; they pulled me in vice-like embrace,
So I stole away to the place.
Stole away,
to the place.

But come evening, I found the gypsies, alas, no more! (La la la )
The place that resounded with laughter lay bare and demure! (La la la )

Oh gypsy boy, my gypsy boy,
Why weren’t you and your wagons found?
I no longer heard your sound.
And my heart
weighed me down.

Oh gypsy boy, my gypsy boy,
I spent my days asking around;
But I never heard your sound.
My first love.
Come and gone.




Plough on.

And watch the winters rise and promptly keel.

Plough on.

A tread embracing air is what you need.

Plough on.

If what you’re living’s as good as it gets,

Plough on.

Perhaps the afterlife’s a better bet.

Plough on.

You rarely sacrifice as you receive,

Plough on.

For greed and need seduce your kin to thieve.

Plough on.

You’re but a doll entangled in your codes,

Plough on.

That, at the foremost hint of breaking road-

Unspool in agony upon the floor.

Plough on.

A brilliant pantomime the heart awaits,

As foetal sleep succumbs to infant cries,

That, as the waxing winter, build and rise;

And kiss, and break, the peephole that divides

A heaving mother from rejoicing cries.

An equal rival thrives in wrinkles dead,

As mourners crowd around a wrinkled head,

And black is borne for thirteen days and one,

And then, the loss is lost, the mourning shunned;

And back they to their daily toils return.

Amid these acts of play should you plough on,

A cup that changes coffee every morn,

As seasons shift, and so do right and wrong,

Expecting you to ever bound along

The morphing definitions, on and on.

Perhaps it all is for a higher good,

Perhaps a God will bless me for my deeds,

But shunned, as I now teeter on the chair,

I doubt if heaven will my storms recede,

I therefore choose to live my end in code-

And plough the chairless winter with my feet.

Dear Sir: Link to a Post by Dhriti Agarwal

Not All Men Are Like That.

Subtext: Up with Passive Onlookers.

Just when I was caving under the sheer grief of even trying to embody the Bangalore incident into words, along comes one of my best friends and says exactly what I want to say, makes it hit exactly where I aimed and manages to use a rawer desciption than I could’ve ever dreamed of penning. For all those who are downright disgusted at how far men can go to deflect any fingers at their unique and feministic personalities. No, I do not give a fuck about the generalisation because a public massacre of dignity just happens to have a shade stronger importance than the insinuations of a pseudo-feminist.





I see you, and I feel my spirits soar above land,
No puzzle can replace the way your hands fits my hand,
And I know I’m fighting demons I’m too small to withstand,
But I’m running out of lies, to fill
The summer in my eyes,
For you.

You make me want to sing for the most commonplace of things;
Like the way your smile is cratered by a dimple in your chin,
And I know I won’t be noticed till I win my wars within;
And I feel so terrified,
Of having everything to hide,
From you.

You wear my smile in your speech, and my world on your sleeves,
And the bumble bee stuck in my heart refuses to leave,
I wanna tell you how I dwell upon your smallest of grins,
But to paint you in my hues,
Would mean I would have to lose

So I write a little song,
And I hope you don’t take long
To win.

You talk and laugh with me, but that’s the me I show you,
The me that lies inside; that is the me that loves you,
And he’s trying hard; oh you should see the pictures he drew,
He just wants to be set free,
And reduce the broken three,
To two.

But two is what became of him this blistering morn,
When you showed him to a friend of yours who soon would be more,
And he doesn’t know to reach out for the one thing he wants,
So he’s sitting by the fire,
Teasing sparks of dead desire
For you.

Now he wears a tremor in his speech, a tear on his sleeve,
And the bumble bee stuck in his heart’s preparing for sleep,
And he’s flushing down the sink every happy memory,
And he’s put to kill his love,
And slipped a smile on like a glove,
With you.

So he writes a little song,
Brings the broken threesome down,
To two.

What’s left is friendship that bounces from one end alone,
You’re a trampoline of joy and I’m a boy set in stone,
And when fingers brush, a tingle still caresses my bone,
But my grief goes overboard,
So I load a forty four,
And shoot.

I write a little song,
So that even when I’m gone,
I’ll love you.