ABOUT THE POEM: This poem Leftover Man - the Common Indian Man speaks from the perspective of an Indian man wrestling with the contradictions, pressures, and unspoken rules that shape gender expectations in modern desi society. It examines how men are often judged harshly for their appearance, financial status, and behaviour, while women—at least in the narrator’s eyes—navigate the world with more social protection and fewer consequences. The poem pushes into the uncomfortable territory of desire, insecurity, and the marketplace nature of relationships, where money becomes a gatekeeper and masculinity is measured by what a man can provide rather than who he is. The narrator frames himself as someone discarded by women, left questioning both societal norms and his own worth. His tone blends sarcasm, bitterness, satire, and confession, illustrating a lived frustration rather than a universal truth. Even provocative lines—about clothing, sexuality, or perceived hypocrisy—serve to unveil his emotional landscape: loneliness, exclusion, and a desire for fairness that he believes he has never received. The poem ultimately becomes an argument about imbalance, not in a scientific or objective sense, but in the deeply personal way someone feels when the world seems rigged against them. The final note lands on alienation, longing, and the stubborn insistence that his story deserves to be heard.When a girl-
or a woman-
scrolls past my profile,
the desi lens brands me:
womanizer, playboy,
cheapster in a sleeveless shirt.
Meanwhile she walks out
in a Lucknowi kurti,
pencil-tip sandals,
jeans vacuum-sealed,
leggings painted on,
a deep-cut blouse announcing
every breath she takes-
strolling the streets all day
wrapped in the word “naive,”
insisting the world read her character
written in invisible ink.
Sister of someone,
in this country
men turn old at thirty,
grey at the temples,
while you still burst
like firecrackers on steroids.
What does your man think
when you step out dressed like that,
while he looks like a broken cupboard?
He isn’t insecure-
but how long can any man hold the pose?
Yet if he returns
one hour late from work,
you sling the labels:
cheater,
liar,
dog.
Where is this equality?
Men here are poor souls-
either depressed
or stamped “lusty” in red ink.
Still, he loves,
he works,
he hands over the money
so she can sell him
the one thing
he’s told is priceless.
Worse than being a woman.
The Indian man
is the poorest creature alive.
Society hides the fine print:
to be an infidel,
an Indian man needs cash.
An Indian woman does not.
And the bhangra on dicks
keeps pounding
to special Punjabi beats.
I’m not telling anyone
to cover up
or strip down for my approval.
A real man doesn’t care
what you wear.
I’m stating the truth as I see it.
Final verdict:
She has nothing to lose
and loses nothing.
He has everything to lose
and gains nothing.
If pussy is a favour granted,
why isn’t dick a gift of equal weight?
Because without money
he won’t even touch
the thing he’s told is priceless.
Look at the Taj Mahal-
the world’s grandest monument
built for a woman,
never for a man.
The deal was never equal.
And to anyone preparing outrage:
save the lecture.
I speak like this
because I’m single-
every woman I met
walked away,
no girlfriend,
no hand in mine.
Even the AI joked,
“Bro, don’t defame me-
you can’t blame a machine
for your empty bed.”
When I stated that AI is taking away
the originality of art and humanity,
the AI teased me about not having any woman
by my side,
leading me to vent
my frustration on the AI.
So go ahead,
run after those plastic
and wooden men
cluttering the streets,
to shoo them away.
Your darling women keep searching
for only “real men”-
and the Dinosaur still stands here,
flesh, bone,
and unpaid.
Equality?
I have given it-
in bed,
in classrooms,
everywhere I could.
Have I received it?
No.
