Penned Ego

Nation of Paradox Donne has become none For we become the practitioners of paradox, Not in poem, but in life. For our hands applaud for Mary Kom And lips utter praises to God, to restrict Woman's right for belief. For Rahul Nair, Vishwanathan Iyyenkar, Krish Malhotra and all preach, "The caste system is no more". For we create the creators everyday, And save the saviour by chanting prayer. For we united to discriminate and Discriminate to unite. For we elevate statue of unity, And preach to exile muslims. For we have the richest, And famine in the same bag. Paradox is a part of our life, For we live in the paradoxical nation. -Arjun R

Careless One The one riding Is the one, who doesn't care About the ones loving this one And the ones this one loves. The one who doesn't care About the ones on the road Or the ones that one loves Or the ones loving that one. -Arjun R

Follower Walking "with" his master Sixty four feet behind him, Carrying the masters stuffs, The setting sun, projected The enormity if his fear. His desolate mind, sometimes Filled with the image of Half covered eyes and Vrukodara's stomach of Four hapless souls, Wondered how the "representatives Of God", had sex with the untouchables Without being polluted by their touch. Far away, from the unreachable distance of vision, Beyond the next curve hailed the sound of an "Udukkai". Panicked and petrified all at once, He rushed to hide somewhere. Missed a step, and fell into the well, Unguarded by the bricks of hegemony. Poor soul drowned, choking the dependant lives, Waiting for their food at home. From the cover of the curve, ran furiously, His dog, dragging the Udukkai, Biting the lace of it, for forcing his "Master" To hide behind bushes, out of fear. On the other side of the river, Waited his kids for their fo

The Abandoned Girl, the Benami and the Forest The lust hungry wolves Dragged the girl to the old bungalow Their ancestors bought in a benami name. One bit her neck, And drank her blood. One chewed her eye, Then choked her to death. All she did was scream and cry. Then she tried names one by one. Cried out the name of the benami first, Then the names of other benamis too. The deaf benami, sleeping like a baby, Couldn't grasp her helplessness. Being unbothered and ignorant, He neglected her cries. The real owner of the bungalow, From whom it was stolen, Lay beneath the mansion, Silent and helpless. He wished to decapitate The wolves and cleanse the bungalow. But mourned, thinking, What a long forlorn corpse could do. Then arrived the rest of the pack, and other animals They danced around the girl's corpse, Some mourned her death, Dogs barked at the wolves. Animals left for the jungle One by one, as days passed. The girl, like the real owner

The Tattoo Pointing at my rear neck, they said There is dirt on your body. For it was on my back, I couldn't see it. I, ashamed of myself, tried To wash the dirt away, but in vain. I was forced to think that, It was a tattoo on my body. The tattoo made on me, Long before my birth. Then, the unseen tattoo was seen As a part of me. Later, books told me that The unseen tattoo never existed. The dirt they saw on my body Was an illusion by the dirt on their glasses. They wore glasses whenever they saw me, Assuming that I can't be seen as myself without it. I felt sorry for them at last, For they couldn't buy a new clear glass. -Arjun R