Overwhelmed !!!!!

You wait and wait

but it never comes...

then suddenly hell just spills over...

staring down from my lofty perch...

the prima donna with the yellow top skims through

on the gravel trap flush with slush...

circular multi colored hues float along...

seemingly distant shadows trying to keep dry..

rabbi strums at some corner shop, "main tha, tu thi, aur thi dilli bass..."

the lofty perch is no more.. its just a ivory tower waiting to be washed away..

the city is getting its first wash... the lost cloths are are seen floating away along the nearby drain..

rabbi strums on - "aur main hoon, tu hain, aur hain dilli bass..."

the showers have just begun.. the rats retreat into the nooks, corners, cracks and holes..

waiting for them to flooded ?? has the city dozed off or has it just woken up..


rabbi seems to be on a marathon - "par kahaan hain iss shehar ka falsafa"

the wind starts to howl, thunder cracks at a close proximity..

the endless colors continue to float along.. direction less.. the nearest nook, the coziest corner, the driest hold..

"par kahan hai iss shehar ka falsafa" you keep asking ?

where my city's soul ?

The point being you fear what you dont understand !!!!

Sound of My silence

itch.. itch.. scratch.. scratch.. itch.. scratch.. itch .. itch .. scratch....
gurgghh... gurghhh.. arghh... arghh...........

The Coo Cluck Clan - The revenge of the fowl


Some guy like you, apparently once said, 'the meek shall inherit the earth.'

Well I say, 'the meek have ruled for long, the time of the chicken has come.'

This has gone on for too long. The slitting of throats, the plucking of feathers, the boiling of eggs, the cages, the coops. Entire eons of chicken have been mute witnesses and victims of this orgy of death. No more! No more!



For ages, we have been victims of this culinary genocide. We have been grilled, marinated, fried, deep fried, boiled and subjected to billion other despicable tortures. We suffered silently, contributing to your already burgeoning waistline, adding to your cholesterol and titillating your taste buds. The final icing on this sordid cake was the humor. Do you think the jokes were any less painful?

Why do you care whether the chicken came first or the egg? Every chicken worth its pound knows that you all came from the monkeys.

Why do you care about, why I want to cross the road? Did I ever question you about why the plane crashed into the building or why the bearded guy is bombing every one in sight ?

This was the ultimate pits. We thought that things could only look up from here on. The animal rights, the vegans, obesity, Michael Jackson - all them gave us hope.

But then came the killer blow, the big whammy, the big dog biting the crass ass.

Ok, a few of us had the flu. We sneeze a little, cough a little, wipe the runny nose, take medication and sleep through it.Bingo! Everything would have been hunky-dory. Things could have been improved through love, care and comfort for the sick. But NO! Being the silly humans that you are, you PANIC!

The apocalypse had to be announced. The poor old chicken, which was harmless tasty food till now, turned into GODZILLA. The tipping point being- the mass extermination, mindless killing.

How would you feel if we start doing the same? Imagine killing all humans suffering from constipation.

'Look! There goes a constipated freak, rip him to shreds before he farts.'

Don't worry, what comes around goes around. The great chicken uprising of 2006 AD will be remembered in the annals of history as the start of the FOWL Rule.

Let’s see on whose face the egg lands. This time the French toast is going to be for real. The scramble this time would be for the human survival.

The Coo Cluck Clan urges every self respecting chicken to join this war in defiance of tyranny. You bled in the hands of the humans now bleed for the Coo Cluck Clan.
Bleed for freedom, glory and the right to cross the road with dignity.

Stand guard, take aim, FIRE!!!

Let’s see who the real chicken is? Chicken shit!!

I had written this piece for the Flash Fiction contest at the Times Kala Ghoda Festival , Mumbai.
The Theme of the contest was Black Horse.

The battle
The atmosphere at the battlefront was electric - a powder keg ready to explode. I felt the tension screaming through my nerves. Hours of non-stop fighting had taken its toll on both armies. I moved a few paces forward and then sidestepped to avoid the enemy lines and then lay in wait. It was a slow, grueling push forward and I was running on pure adrenalin. The enemy was within striking distance and even death would have to wait. I could sense that the battle was reaching its final stretch and the pieces were finally falling into place for our final assault. I was perfectly aware of what had to be done. I had practiced it hundreds of times during the war games with my mates; my mates who were now martyrs in the name of war. I heard my foot soldiers move and take up forward positions on the frontline. My moment of reckoning was just round the corner. The final cog had to be fitted in to set the wheels of victory in motion. Years of pain, suffering and sacrifice had all funneled down to this very moment. If only I could slip around the corner unnoticed. It seemed like eternity and even time stood still with bated breath. My trembling body moved forward, driven by some unknown force, while the brain kept screaming-‘death’. I moved on all fours- two paces forward and then one pace sideways- and lay cowering on the white floor. Blood pounded in my ears and the eyes were shut tight in anticipation of pain – the pain of defeat, damnation and death. A voice suddenly boomed in the background, “Black Knight moves from e3 to c2; ‘Ne3 c2’, Checkmate!! Black Wins”

sitting alone,

on the empty train

ah! life

A Room with a view
Despite the limited abilities, the intrepid writer in me keeps wandering off at his own peril. I was ruminating about writing and realized that the most difficult aspect for any writer would be description. The description of the scene, the setting, the mood, the light, the hue, the smell, the feel.

I can imagine this gaunt author stooping over his checklist and wondering aloud - "ok I have a tale tell. I have conceived my grand central theme. My unique underlying plot is all laid out. All my characters are sketched to perfection. I have a beginning, I have an ending, I have all that goes in between. I even have the foreword all ready. But still, I have that feeling; the feeling of having my skirt all bunched up."

It was hard enough for those six blind men trying to feel up the poor old elephant. Now, imagine one blind fool, conjuring up a gigantic wooly mammoth with wings and wearing panties, standing tall and proud, looking down upon other creatures with contempt ( No, no wait...is that "look" - "contempt"? no I guess he is looking down with pity or maybe he just standing there totally blank. God ! how can i get my readers to see what i see.), and then try to paint this picture on the mental canvas of another blind fool. Its a real tough job.

How do I translate the scene laid out in front of me into accurate words?
How do I capture the colors, the shadows, the hues, the smells, the sounds and the feel on paper?
What metaphors would my readers relate to ?
Of what shade is the darkness, that engulfs me ?
Can my readers feel the unearthly dread that I feel ?
How can i make this piercing silence scream out through my words?

How can I make my hand write what my heart feels ??