Kalyug Kings and Locker Room Lies

They sit in circles, patting backs,
Whispering tales of their so-called attacks.
"Breaking a woman," they say with pride,
While hiding their ignorance deep inside.

Their mothers taught them they’re gods on a throne,
While teaching girls to stand alone.
Self-respect in a woman? That’s called a flaw—
But their ego? Protected by unspoken law.

They say they admire a woman’s mind,
Yet mock her strength and try to bind.
Call her “crazy,” “obsessed with pride,”
When their own insecurities they can’t hide.

In the locker room, they measure worth,
Boasting of dominance, power, and mirth.
Yet real women aren’t ranked on a scale,
No prizes to win, no points to nail.

They ask if we pray, or if it's just for show,
While scriptures and verses they don’t know.
Lecturing on faith they don’t own,
Judging our values, but hiding their own.

They’d say it’s “Kalyug,” and things are grim,
An excuse for hypocrisy buried within.
Star Wars tales borrowed from Vedic lore,
But they’d teach us religion as if they knew more.

So here’s a toast to these “kings of the mud,”
Who rage and whine at womanhood,
Claiming strength in voices loud,
But fearful of a woman unbowed.

Comments

Game Of Fire and Ice

Hey Mister, Why won't you play a game of Twister? I promise I won't play coy. Won't you love it if I were your only toy? You can be the Lion in the boardroom, Then make me roar in the bedroom. Let's play the game of fire and ice. You bring the sugar, and I get the spice. I am praying by myself these nights, Drowning my moans when the city sleeps tight. We can play the game of Super Sonic, And then have our own race over some gin and tonic. So find me, like an app can find a phone. No, I won't bring out my Medusa and turn you into stone. I have been getting over my fears, Learned to make my tears into spears. You can take me as you like. We can go until we hear the third strike.

Polished Sins

A suit and tie, that polished smile, Covering up sins stacked mile by mile. They flaunt “new love,” someone else’s child— A ready-made story, perfectly styled. They’ve “levelled up,” or so they preach, But on someone’s pain, they made their reach, With vows of loyalty, words so neat, While another’s screams lie beneath their feet. Oh, they “moved on” to brighter skies, Leaving someone broken, with silent cries. They mount new heights, they shout and boast— Scaling peaks on another's haunted ghost. So smile for the camera, flash your pride, Show off the life that you tried to hide. For we know the truth beneath your gleam— A hollow show, a self-made scheme.

Till You Sing

Some would say men went to war for women like you, But I would still choose war if it meant choosing you. You say you write in amorous lines, But I would let you be the woman of my tribe. You had your adventures Under The Buda Moon, But have you been loved past noon? So I can see you shine like a magical flower, In the quiet warmth of the golden hour. The invisible strings pull at my heart Can I do justice to your name? Caress you right, Till you sing like a Carnatic hymn. Inspired by the author of Under The Buda Moon, Veena Rao

Cruising Alone

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