Urban Blues- A Poem

In this urbane nest you dwell:

Amidst the skyscrapers, where live in the sun tan fearing population, do you see
The bricks moulded by those rusty hands ,
Of the sun-scorched migrants
Blackened by the chimney exhaust?

On the hoardings, do you see
A dejected young man
Drooping on his table, the pills spread out?
The creative loner drugging to spark ideas in absence of sleep,
For a presentation next week?

Of the cars that glides smooth
Do you see that solemn driver
Marred by the uncomfortable silence
Of the fatigued couple, entangled in a nasty, felonious fight of a young girl suddenly coming
In-between their 25 years?

On the driver’s side,
His thoughts tossed by the loss of the education he couldn’t complete?Dampened by the happiness
To his family he couldn’t give?

In the young boy slumbering uncomfortably under the buildings,
As the drain stinked the humid air,
While he
Drowned in his own sweat and tears; And, the sweltering heat,
Do you see the A.C water dripping
Near his feet?

If not,
You, my sweetheart,
The happiest dandy rose of all,
Are sure tucked in your urban nest.

Living as anybody wanting to.

As they struggle like nobody wishing to.

Melodrama Of The www. Validation

Reality is a lovely place
But we need more fucking happiness;
Onboard we travel into this virtual maze
Popping daily pills of the internet.

People seem to blanket their life’s mess
With filters, white-smiles and their radiance
Yet, the backstory seems to be off-place
That we’re all hyper-connectedly lonely, merely craving for solace.

I wonder what would have been
If our distorted presentation
Of the snippets of our glossy-messy life’s amalgamation
Struck us with a realisation
That we are floating in an ocean of our imagination.
Our minds’ make-believe construction.
To seek social validation.

Just to believe our life has a meaning

Determined by some clueless behind the screen.

Aao chalein pahaaro pe, digital detoxification pehle karke :,)

LOCKDOWN HUMOUR WITH MA

Disclaimer: As there are readers from around the globe, some may find it difficult to comprehend some words, here is the list. Goja, Singora and Jalebi are rich Indian sweets loaded with extreme sugary fat. Aloo pitika (mashed potatoes), Bhat and Dali (Dal, pulses) is the regular amount of carbs and protein Assamese folks of India eat. Aiyo is an Assamese word for exclamation to depict pain. Roshogolla is a Bengali sweet made from milk.

The combination of dancing ballet in Bollywood song is as same as eating Cheetos with jam.

And, as you have rightly guessed, Ma is my mother.


Matriculation Examination burdened on tensions

So, lockdown came to save my day

But soon as this started, all plans to nowhere bombarded…

And for all I do know,

Routines and Disciple now rest in peace, in their respective graves.

But Ma was the hilarious lockdown specimen to look at

For she was hooked. To what? As usual, it’s Facebook.

In a pensive, of what to cook, and how to share,

The titillating glazes of all her foods

In all the Aunties’ groups.

Well, the end of the rope was then,

When Ma’s overwhelming doting on me

Made my temperature shoot higher with anger:

In fact, you could make the good ol’ fish and chips,

On my head (yes, for sure), if you are ready with the fryer.

‘Cause miliseconds after nanoseconds, she pests me

“What would you love my sweety?

Shall I make some goja, singora or jalebis?

Aiyo, my heart! It’s fine.

Only that one starving, dying child is melting it inside

‘Is she kidding?’ my eyebrows raise in terror

With uncertainty of the global food security, what is she talking?

I feebly smile,

“Na, ma, it’s fine with the regular aloo pitika, bhaat and daali.”

But don’t get beguiled with the sugar crusted apple-pie or roshogolla love

For when she’s, in turn, annoyed by my handcuffs to mobile

She bellows orders from the sofa,

“Can’t you, you terrible lil bastard,

Like me, see it from afar

The clods of dust, settling and snuggling close on the furniture?

Fetch the cloth and get the work done!”

“Ma, there’s nobody coming,” I grimaced

“You lil brat, don’t make that face,”

Says my ma, “You do know how I payed

For the deceitful luxury of the varnish to stay.”

But as evening dawns (or dusks, you may)

She slouches on the bed, her face rests on her cupped hands

Storming her brain on what to do

To beat the lockdown greys and blues

So, I sing in my bathroom voice

Bollywood oldies and romantic tunes.

Jostling up, she clasps my hand, and to Indian songs,

We then slow dance traditional balls and ballets.

This ain’t even an inch closer to what my Ma and I look like

Talentless heart

I have followed every expectations of

The society at large

Blocked myself of all the

Potentials I could tap

All the talents I could’ve had.

Talents which I may have none

Or, talents which I could’ve nourished some.

The testimony, you ask?

Well, I write poetry and stuff

Write some few paras and stanzas

Make it rhyme or free verse

Fill it with metaphors

For which I pat my back and laugh

And then I cross it out, look at the minutes that’ve passed

Alarmed, make the tedious notes from start

When I devoid myself of words and art

And immerse in society’s validation

The end is happy and sublime, I swear

But for teetering moments it lasts.

The feeling, you ask?

Take the pen and the paper

Write some few poems and stuff

Fill it with the best of the words

And feelings you’ve had or can have.

Smile at it, crinkle your eyes with joy

And then strike it out, smear it with black ink

Never let the poem stay again.

You’ll see then that poems are mere lines,

That there’s empty side with empty lines

Just like an untapped, untouched, talentless heart.

Whose, you ask?

Courtesy: World Wide Web