Katyusha

They wanted it.

They got it.

Innocents get butchered.

All the time.

If you don't believe.

See history.

It is not comfortable.

History.

Nor will the future be.

Comfortable.

For history follows.

So?

Tubewells

Long live the Prince.

For the prince is alive.

The kingdom is finished.

The king is a pauper.

So are you.

Tchhh.

Name and Fame

Shame on you.

Ranters.

Your fifteen mins of fame.

You got it.

How long have you been cribbing?

Sonny?

No one knows.

Now you got your limelight.

Happy na?

Good.

Now get back to work.

Lost and found

The ranter is gone.

It's his choice.

You get what you want.

Sometimes you don't.

You did for you felt like.

Most of the time.

You just carry the baton.

Use of the technology.

So what is this blogosphere?

Is it important?

Why do we blog?

Why some are better than others?

Only the soul can tell.

The ranter has gone.

What a relief.

Yet again

The rains have just arrived.

Can we do something.

The concrete doesn't soak much.

Let's crack the concrete.

And let the water flow.

To the place it belongs.

For the work it came.

All the way.

The hard work that it did.

To be at our feet.

Not to make us fret.

Just to make us wet.

To be or not to be

To link or not to link.

To be understood.

Or not to be.

To be stranded.

To be muzzled.

Blogo fucked haahaaahaaa

Here they come again.

With different names.

If you don't have the power.

Don't type it here.

Your keyboards will be melted.

Your optic fibre will be blocked.

Don't try to push them.

You are not aware what they are.

Or what they can do.

Write about yourself.

Don't try to be smart.

You are not the society.

You fucking pseudo-intellectuals.

Don't scream.

You don't run anything here.

You might be made to run.

Soon.

Fucking idiots.

Don't try to be a hero.

Destiny's child

You left the villages.

Or were pushed out.

Call it fate.

But it is yours.

Now you live like insects.

Work like them.

Die like them.

Crushed everytime.

Someone is frustrated.

Your simple life.

Meets a complex ending.

In pieces and bits.

Scattered all over.

Why did you leave?

(no literal meaning to be derived)

Veterans

The war has ended.

France still occupied.

Allied forces have left.

Berlin shattered.

Refugees leave homes.

To become refugees.

A stained platoon.

Captures the fort.

The French commander is dead.

Shot in the head.

Point blank.

The little hunter

Do you know him?

The man with the gold chains.

A baby he is and carries one.

From Samantha Fox to Boy George.

World records in records.

Disco that was.

Disc it is.

1987 he said it was.

2006 it is.

He still survives.

The Bambai Nagaria.

Italian Connection

Hold it.

The cup is not yours.

Where is the bull?

Bull-shit all over.

What kind of bull you are?

The matador didn't see you.

You did not see him.

You didn't like the blue.

And you didn't like the matador.

You wanted to get rid of everything.

The red. The red. The red.

Sweating you were to see it coming.

The red.

Forget it

You said it was 3k.

Then you said 3.5k.

Now 1k.

What the K is this?

Zing la zonked

The 'Z' is here.

But about to leave.

Much awaited climax.

The pheonix theory.

Hacks trying to bring clarity.

The figure helping them.

The more he performs.

Brighter their thinking becomes.

Motivation to their verbal diarrhoea.

Constipated for a long time.

Farting now and then.

Now in full speed.

Orgasm after orgasm.

Though fake yet looks true.

Mindblowing.

'Z' has left.

Reinforcements

I almost fell in love.

Once again?

It smelt the same.

Is it the season?

Or the eternal bondage.

Of some lives ago.

To decipher the truth.

Which was choking my heart

I started going back.

Going in.

What is that binds me to you?

And to others.

How am I related to you?

And to others.

I was your father.

And you, my mother.

Lives apart.

This was how it was.

You were my husband.

I was your concubine.

Brothers in arms.

In the trenches of Europe.

Somewhere.

The princess of Persia.

Ah! Sinbad.

Breaking N(e)ose

Muzzle the dogs.

Strangle them.

Use the microphones.

Smash their heads.

Cut their hands.

Violence is not justice.

But justice begets violence.

For justice for you.

Is injustice for others.

Haven't they crossed the limit?

Haven't they bared their fangs?

Aren't they doing what they shouldn't?

Why shouldn't they be hanged?

Poor nation, rich watchdogs.

Cause long lost.

Poor countrymen, biased hacks.

Flacks are the hyenas.

Guess the vultures.

The advocates of free media.

Not for you (badluck)

The Delhi they talk about.

Do they still have the right?

To do so.

Mongers of freedom of expression.

Expressing on somebody's Beta or Meta.

Whatever.

Connected by fibre optics.

Right to the alleys of Chandni-Chowk.

Laced with human urine and burnt Paranthas.

To the numerous unknown buildings.

Of the so called Fourth Estate.

They talk, write and speak.

Try to explain.

That Lutyens is not Leonardo.

He was a "sister ka penis". (sorry)

And he carved the whole city.

Just to please himself.

And how do you dare to speak?

About Dilli.

Just leave it alone.

Leave its wide roads.

Leave its flyovers and Metro.

Leave its India Gate.

The ice-creams are not for you.

Insane jealousy of the complex pervert.

Trying to malign the Democracy's spirit.

Delhi is five days a week city.

Leave the two days alone.

Just leave.

Unchain my Soul

Chains for sale.

Locks too.

Your landlocked country.

Chained and locked.

Your life.

Full of chains.

And souls locked.

Keys?

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha