Whenever miscommunication leads to a minor fight, I think of breaking up with my partners

After Terry Jones

After we’ve been separated for a thousand years

and Lalbagh is just one humongous silk cotton tree—

our ancestors have rebirthed as creatures they detested

in countries yet to be cleaved. After that time, when

our slippers are thin and sticky like aam papad,

the armrests of our separate single sofas arthritic,

the twines of forks we slurp noodles with serpentine,

mason jars the persistence of their glassy memory,

and ladles only holes at the edge of their long, slender handles.

When the litter of our golden dogs have gone furless, beloveds,

their teats saggier than any used condoms we let rot in a corner,

and our houseplants have finally learned how to turn into a jungle.

After that time, when Bangalore has become the city of lakes again,

so, metro tunnels are flushed and full of fresh water fish,

and a new species of hermit crab lives exclusively in CCTV camera shells.

After that, when the escalators have smoothened their steely teeth

and snakes do actually pop out of the few remaining ceramic commodes—

we should walk down the remains of the road we first met on, lovers,

but not together, for the toothless jaws of our dogs would still want

to dig into each other’s sutured, saggy bodies, and their whimpering

would infuriate the neighbours all over again.

No, we should walk down the road at dusk and dawn, turn by turn,

holding each other’s backup toothbrushes to clean any remaining stains

of memories growing out of the regreened pavement.

When we squat there looking like the ghost of cows

blocking the black ants’ usual sugar-scouting path

and all of them start crawling up our marooned bodies,

will you finally notice the bracelets I made for you

                     with their stingers

                                  trace the outline of my name on your arms?

Thievery 

Certain things don’t work in your favour
unless you steal them, like money
plants. Billionaires must have an entire floor
in their glass towers, an escape room each
in their mansions, lush with stolen money
plant grafts. They must be heavily-guarded too.
Each of the grafts, with their ever-expanding
personal bell jars, a plaque detailing the exact
coordinates, date, and time someone stole them,
then gifted it to the billionaires. Our family had
a money plant as well. After years of nurturing
with discarded tea leaves, it grew confident. 
Its trellises, those tender spirals grasping 
in all directions for support, clasped the iron grill
that guarded our small verandah from macaques,
spread all across it, cutting sunlight with shade.
I had never seen anyone repel the Sun 
with such defiance until then. I didn’t know
of Icarus, who burnt his father’s waxy wings.
Or Hanuman, who, in his innocence, held
the dawn Sun in his mouth wondering why 
did it not taste like a sindoori mango?
I didn’t know that my father also stole
leaves from his friends’ houses and empty plots.
Grew them unlabelled. His kidney stones’
diagnosis in one hand, he pointed at a new plant
in his collection. Thick, waxy leaves 
with serrated edges, he said he’d picked it up
from the newly abandoned house across the road.
He plucked one of its leaves, tore it further,
handed me a quarter, and said, “taste it!”
I hadn’t seen him this happy about anything
since our family’s partition. A ray of sunshine
beyond its usual rainclouds. Without visiting
the doctor again, his kidney stone dissolved,
one tart leaf at a time. He stole all the plants
from all the abandoned plots after that. His secret
garden safe with me, richer with each thievery.

(First Published in The Manchester Review, Issue 28)

Everyone who wanted to choose Pikachu during childhood now wants to roam around the world on a hot air balloon with Jessie, James & Meowth

They could have had any Pikachu

but were set on that one pudgy rat

that refused to enter the Pokéball—

his zap-tailed rebellion a reminder

of their own crushed ambitions.

My Rocket Man and Rocket Woman.

And Meowth.       Dear Meowth,

my queer-coded yapping cat

with an ADHD-hyperfocus so strong

it birthed a billion more neuronal connections

for unrequited love. They flew around

in a hot air balloon chasing Ash

who didn’t even know fire

until Charizard. 

After it’s crashed for the day, 

their hot air balloon,

and we’re down and dirty in its hand

-crafted bamboo-weave basket

shredding each other’s R-rated clothes,

I know Victreebell will suck

on James’ head as a gag. Weezing

would’ve already shrouded us in a mist

so thick, my dear Meowth,

his claws sharper than his wittiest comebacks,

would have to leave his usual faraway

bi… noculars, and sprint closer.

Closer together than any thunderbolt-inflicted

blast off at the speed of light!

(First published in Nobody Thoughts, Issue 6)