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.

Of Moths and Hearts


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My heart has shrunk into a moth
And stuttering ‘out respite,
Is reeking slow, of thirst and woe-
And seeking every light.

A heart that jumps, forever bound
To wage a war ‘gainst bone,
A moth that meets its fate on bond
With blazing joy aglow.

A heart that soaks up love like sponge
In languid waters wide,
A moth that, for days, flutters on
In slowly breaking pride.

And night to night, and lamp to lamp,
It breaks but not a breath,
A single buzz prevails its road
That steeps in burning death.

A heart that’s so enamored by
This journey to an end,
It’s packing bags already, yeah
And counting every sin.

A moth that’s braved the gutsy cold
And hungry beasts with wings,
A moth that’s ventured on and on
And found the heart to sing.

Detachment at its finest, oh!
From all feelings positive,
A slowly forming fetish for
The tortured and closeted.

My heart goes out to him, the moth
For, bless his feeble wing,
He grew the gut to live his dream
And found the heart to sing.

For every curve breaking the road
He grew in force and passion;
He set his focus on this path
With morbid termination.

And sang along, and journeyed on
To the fatal destination.

The other side has naught but me;
A writer ‘out a face,
Who’s impressed by his apathy
And drawn by his disgrace.

Who never moved beyond the bend
Of life’s darker pathways,
And ever stayed the same old wretch
From lighter, whiter days.

And moth, do take a bow, for you
Have done what I cannot
And braved and borne, the cold and storm
And fought, and fought, and fought.

I’ve hardly the required words
To pen a worthwhile fight,
I’ve not the grit to see this through-
Much less to see it right.

I’ve not that spark in my flutter
That doodle in my flight,
O moth, I’ve not a single muse
Except to cry and write.

So cry and write I shall in pain
And write I shall when numb,
And hope someday I qualify
To drop my pen, and succumb.

Up in heaven, God shakes his head
Bemused at this result;
The storm my heart was made to fight
Now sports a little hut.

For I have found a home, a stop
Within this gray vortex;
A fluttering moth and a storming heart
I’ll bear with me to death.

Till then, I make peace with my storm;
Digest the swirling hail,
And pray I meet a fate as moth
And kiss a burning grave.

Till then, I turn my pages on
In hopeless, wheelchaired pride;
A cage of blazing ribs in guard
Of a mothlike heart inside.

A mothlike heart and a burning cage
Distant but e’er beside,
Crippling my soul oh, wing by wing
But letting it survive.

I pray it jumps so hard one day-
It throws me out of life.