अक्सर किताबों में मिला करती है
उनकी रूह की महक कोई नज़्म सी मालूम होती है
हज़ारों दफ़ा पढ़ी है
समझी है, समझायी है
कुछ लफ़्ज़ अधूरे रह जाते हैं
कुछ बातें फिर छिड़ जाती हैं
वो फिर एक बार उनका ख़फ़ा होना
और बहाने से मुझसे जुदा होना
नाराज़गी के क़िस्से भी यूँ साँस ले रहे हैं
मानो वस्ल की सुबह अब नसीब ही ना हो


हर कोशिश नाकाम लगती है
इंसान इस कदर हार चुका है
हर आरज़ू भी नाराज़ लगती है
अब जो इंसान थक चुका है
हर पल बेचैन और हर धड़कन तेज़
अंधेरा गहरा भी हो तो ख़ौफ़ नहीं
जब दिन के उजाले में उम्मीदें ही
सहमे पैरों से चलती है

That’s So Raven

petrified by its sheer hideousness
that flew across the block
only to sincerely land upon
the corner of our window space
for the nest of pigeons’ offspring
was evidently its go to prey

with the eyes mysteriously darker
than a new moon night
and an open beak attracting attention
with its loathsome caws
the cries of so-called common raven,
disturbingly villain-like
were about evoking whimpers
in the home of little birdlings

of being regarded as an evil omen
from ages and ages ago
and relevantly so, for its dripping negative conundrum
associating with all-things sorcery
hiding beneath the furry coat

its questionable size larger than
a usual crow’s and flapping wings
instilling horror among the civilised nestlings
and humans alike
frightened by the witchcraft
in a disguise of northern creature
sunset-reflecting barks and branches
shadowed like an eclipse

and as the appearance of dusky hour
and illuminating stars rose
camouflaging the terror of a being
so wildly monitoring the bird
now stepping closer to casually kill
a life with its dagger-like mouth

vigorously poking and piercing
the flesh within a fleeting second
spilled crimson on the earth,
each drop reasonably suffering to fall
with an ending so tragic for the wailing bird
residing now in after-life
mourning the loss dearly but none would sing a eulogy


the shy colors of a dried plant by my window
withering away with the changing seasons
swaying in a blow of breeze nevertheless
while being perfectly dead, an art in itself
the iron rust around corners of the sill and
a high-pitched stutter of machine from outside
the cawing of crows in my neighborhood and
a broken mailbox standing alone but almost alive
still didn’t make for a situation more hideous
than mine on a friday afternoon singing along
to a tune of typical ache familiar to downing a shot
coincidentally enough, a shot or 5 were included too
with a top up of exactly five beers for breakfast
rather than my steaming hot cup of brew
appareling stopped making sense a week back
dwelling in the same comforting coal black
it was either the beauty sleep or solitary indulgence
and nothing quite in between
the existence of my ruins was speaking volume
in languages i hadn’t learned
screaming to be discarded by peeling layers off my skin
puking the old feelings out to consume healthy again
gagging on the tastelessness of past tales like a sin
what had become of me?
when did i go so down the hill?
to only ever feel remnants of yesteryears
nagging on me, biting on my brains and
in no way feeding my present
but boy does it feel like home
when the old habits die hard
either out of love or sheer resentment

Evermore, Ever Mine

To the song that has me imprisoned in love and is often my only escape from world,

you touch me slow, kiss my hollow breaths
placing a finger right where it hurts
aching the life out of me, but for what it’s worth
your whispers grow on me ever so softly
yearning for more, i scream and beg and wallow

mere din khushi se jhoome, gaayein raatein
pal pal mujhe dubaayein jaate jaate

you make me shed rivers of joy & laugh at my misery
like it’s a plan all along to have me visit bitter-sweet memory
wouldn’t you rather knife my gut like a decent killer?
the unforgiving ways have me caught up with life, time and again

haaye aise main nihaaroon, teri aarti utaaroon
tere naam se jude hain saare naate

giving in to prayer of love, summoning the gods
for the underlying harmonium with holy awakening
only gets lucid enough as you let thyself consume in love
my devotion is yours to blame, my heart, your keepsake

yeh naram naram nasha hai, badhta jaaye
koi pyaar se ghunghatiya deta uthaaye

the restraint will only go so far, why bother at all?
the indulgence leads me to up above and farther away
i often see my beloved there, at not much distance
with his hands in the air but his soul not quite there

main toh teri, tu hai mera

featured image by divaniindia

Buy The Damn Sky

thermocol dream
in a loose satin attire
what good is wishful thinking?
glue it with a brown broken button
onto floating realism to be on par
would you still frown upon your star
for never being in your favour
or running out of charm
mindless wander around the corner
neglecting thoughts, avoiding tall trees
it’s a relief to be human
to be able to dream
let not your inhibition decide
the colour of your sky
let not other dreamers define
the pace of your flight

Friendly Shadow

an uninviting and rather consistent knock
disrupted my sleep at three twenty-four,
said it had important business to finish at
ungodly hours popping blue pills galore

with the out of proportion indulgence tonight
and purple hair frantically grown out of place
alarming my sense of being with its existence
almost as good as grotesque for a pretty face

i blurted out nevertheless
make yourself at home

and there we were again raising wine glasses
making celebratory toasts to our very lows
resisting the urge to make love, anxiety and i
spoke for hours at length until we doze

featured image by Morteza Yousefi


फ़ासले इस कदर भी नहीं थे
के मोहब्बत साँस ना ले पाए
अब भी थोड़ी जान थी दिल्लगी में
जो मेरे वजूद में भी तुझको ही मौजूद पाए

दिन ढले, पलकों के तले
आहें भरते हुए तुम्हें पाया है
खुश्क मौसम में भी आँखों ने
सैलाब के रूप में तुझे सजाया है

नाकाम रही हो हर कोशिश
सर-आँखों पे तो बिठाया है
तुझे ख़्वाहिशों से नहीं बांधा
पर इस रिश्ते को मैंने अकेले ही निभाया है

तन्हाई का दौर तो कुछ और था
तुम्हारी चाहत को महफ़िल की तरह मनाया है
बेदर्दी ही क्यूँ ना ठहरे तुम जनाब
इस रुस्वाई से भी हमने दिल बहलाया है

फ़ासले इस कदर भी नहीं थे
के मोहब्बत साँस ना ले पाए
अब भी थोड़ी जान थी दिल्लगी में
जो मेरे वजूद में भी तुझको ही मौजूद पाए

featured image by divaniindia

Isn’t Love Fiction?

How do you begin to write about love when you’ve been a cynical romantic for ages? It’s almost funny because writers would romanticize every damn thing in the world only to bleed poetry out of their ink. But love? It’s so heavy I can barely type the word and so non-existent and probably only in our heads. This might be coming from an emotionally deprived person but what the hell, love is still very much a fictional tale.

It’s a vicious cycle if we come to think of it – at our young blossoming age, we start to learn the basics and grasp the idea of love by adapting the bits from our surrounding and that defines it. We gradually grow into these individuals curating our own thought process around it, now you do have a little more than the basic knowledge. Suddenly you’ve turned 18 and you find yourself making a list of what love should look like, the necessary qualities that they absolutely must have, what they should smell like, how you expect them to dress. Amidst all this, it never dawns upon you that the apparent love you’re looking for, is busy preparing another list that you perhaps don’t quite fit in. So, you get your heart broken, have your idea of love shattered and list tore to pieces because what’s the point of anything anymore?

But then walks in another person and with every bit of uncertainty, you give them a chance to make a list for you. You give them an opportunity to just be. Turns out they are all the things that you ever wanted from your 18-year-old list, but you’ve outgrown that self now. You no longer feel relevant with your past version and you still try with every ounce of your energy to feel the love you’ve always wanted. But, how could you? It doesn’t serve you anymore.

And in between all the chaos of finding true love and ending up as a heartless wreck, when exactly do you know it is love and not just another unknowingly selfish act to feel the need of belongingness?

The Shut Doors

dipped in the pools of honey & spice
your inviting lips of rose were such a host
died a little death not once but twice
as you placed them on mine to raise a toast

now my sweet tooth grew to ache for you
but only to have the house burnt to ashes
and to turn my lips pale blue

of the salty air meshed with musk & wood
defining true smell of your earthy being
unfolding a saga only i understood
oh how you had me on my knees grieving

the distinctive notes began to engulf me whole
but only to chase & dodge within a crowd
losing its self from the very soul

crafted rather skilfully with a meticulous eye
your enchanting body put any art to shame
and any artist into an introspecting cry
out of our mere touch as the sparks aflame

your canvas was set to be my heavenly abode
but only to have you shut the door on me
and walk past the paved road

of pronounced charisma for personality
and aura resonating with the sound of beach
like our sand granules gave in to the clarity
of cosmic connection that’s never out of reach

with sand in my feet and sand in my hair
put my guard down for you, only to have you
laugh at my funny little despair