Get-Aways

She said thanks,
He was too busy to hear;
She said sorry,
He really didn't care.

She came in front,
He said you are blocking;
She turned away,
He said you didn't stop me.

She asked him out,
He said its always about you;
She sat with him at home,
He said its boring with you.

She asked him where he was,
He said he is not used to answering that;
She didn't ask when he went away again,
He said it was her ego playing that game.

She kept silent,
He said share problems that brew;
The moment she started,
He burst in anger and said 'screw you'.

And the cycle started again,
With 'thanks' and 'sorry',
And many more get-aways...

That One Look

That one look,
Was so different;
From all the earlier times,
Their eyes had met.

This look - was not of love;
Love that brought them closer,
Had vanished in thin air.

This look - was not of care;
The bond of care and affection,
Had suddenly lost traction.

This look - was not of guidance;
The direction she sought,
Was now pointing to a dead end.

This look - was not of support;
The reassuring comfort,
Had flipped into a disheartening crush.

This look - was not of anger;
The rightful anger and understanding,
Had lost way to distrust and disdain.

It was just a stare,
A blank stare;
Difficult to comprehend;
And she kept wondering,
Were there words to be read?

Beyond Comprehension

Some wounds don't hurt,
Some wounds don't bleed;
Some wounds don't look,
As they would heal.

They just reside,
Somewhere deep inside;
Corroding your happiness,
Even though, out of sight.

Like shards of glass,
They cut and pierce;
Tearing apart the joy,
And peace, that was there.

Neither you, nor the world sees why,
The hollow that is created inside;
The pain is beyond comprehension,
What oozes out, is only a fraction.

Pellets They Throw

They question when you do good,
Doubting the intention with which you stood;
The lamp you were holding to show light,
Is mistaken as devastating missile.

The dirt in your hands,
That was clinging while cleaning;
Is scornfully seen as,
Maligned interests of ruining.

Every step forward you take,
Threatens them;
And, pellets they throw,
To keep you away.

Insecure hearts like these,
Should know, humans are no one's property;
You might put tags to claim your rights,
But, love and care is beyond those boundaries.

अश्कों की सौग़ात

उम्मीदों का कत्ले-आम ,
मुहब्बत का जनाज़ा ,
दर्द का पैग़ाम ,
बेशक़ीमती तोहफ़ों की यह खान  … 

अश्कों की सौग़ात ,
दे गये वो अल्फ़ाज़ ,
जिनसे हमारी धड़कन ,
कभी मिलाती थी साज़  … 

Final Goodbye

Its the eternal verity,
The ultimate truth;
All others are just,
Hoodwinks to amuse.

It greets us all,
But only once;
When, as guest of honour,
Our name is pronounced.

When and how,
It decides to pay a visit,
Is beyond all measures,
Of predictability.

Some face it with a smile,
Some run away for a while;
One welcomes or not,
It thrashes all doors and comes inside.

Face to face with it,
I wonder how one feels;
That moment of truth,
What a peril it seems.

The wishes, the memories,
The guilt, the remorses,
The anger, the envy,
All evaporate in a jiffy.

Life bids a final goodbye,
As death engulfs its prey.

Castle in the Air

It lifts you up,
But only momentarily.
Thought and action goes in,
To complete it in entirety.

Then comes the question of testimony,
And, it again, fails the test of reality.

Sad is not that it crumbles down,
Neither that it crushes my heart along.
Sad is that,
You yourself knock it down,
In your wish of dancing around.

What makes it lamentable is,
You ask me to build it anew,
Just to crash it once again.

I create it, without refrain,
In spite of knowing,
Not for long, its gonna be there.
After all, its just,
A castle in the air.

  

Mirage

Its all intertwined;
Who knows at which point,
The thread would shine.

Happiness and sadness,
Hope and despair,
Love and hatred;
Are just the extremes,
On the same continuum.

While we strive to inch,
Towards one end;
Reality strikes in between,
And the thread is bent.

Perfect bliss,
Pure love,
Unconditional hope;
Is all a mirage,
In the desert of life.

Through the glass facade

Looking through the glass facade;
She can see the world,
But not feel it.
She misses the touch,
But then, is shielded.

Pitter patter rain drops,
Feel so dry;
All she shares is,
Their charming cry.

Shining sun rays,
Feel so calm;
All she shares is,
Their light, not warmth.

Cool, windy breeze,
Feels so arrested;
All she shares is,
The sight of those who grasp it.

Makes her wonder,
Does she have a choice,
Not to surrender -
To step out and feel the world,
To celebrate and heal the world;
And yet, come back,
Into the safe haven;
When she's had enough,
Of all of them.

Who has the key to the,
Door of this glass cabin;
Or, there is no door at all;
Either in, or out,
The choice is made once, and for all.

While I am writing this,
And while you might be reading;
She remains busy,
Chiseling the glass,
Crafting the door,
To her distant dreams.

दस्तक

वो दिल पे दस्तक देते नहीं ;
हमें उलझन में न डालें ,
यह सोचकर भीतर आते नहीं ;
पर हमारे हाल से अनभिज्ञ रह सकते नहीं ,
हमारी गली से न गुज़रे, वो रास्ता चुनते नहीं …

इधर हमारा दिल है ,
जो उनके क़दमों की आहट को ,
अपनी धड़कन से ज़्यादा पहचानता है ;
हम दौड़ कर चौखट पर जाते हैं ,
उनकी एक झलक पाने के लिए ;
वो आँखों से सब कह जाते हैं ,
हमारे दिल को समझाने के लिए …

Mischievous Leagues

Inside the dark canopies,
Where your mind is playing,
Mischievous leagues.

Take a break,
Give it a shot;
How good it feels,
Not to plan and plot.

Remove the veil of negativity;
The world is not bad,
If you see through it.

Pulling down the mountaineers,
Is no fun;
All would be sobbing,
At the bottom of the rung.

For once,
Try climbing with them;
Applauding their feats,
And drawing inspiration as well.

Every one has their own rope,
That leads them to heaven or hell.
Why focus on cutting others' ropes,
When you can use yours to move ahead.

For once,
Try holding them,
When they stumble;
The look of 'thanks' in their eyes,
Would keep you going for miles;
So easily you reached the top,
You won't even realize.

Vulnerability

It was lying dead on the road;
Crushed and crumpled,
All worn and torn.
Was it chosen and plucked,
Only after a while, to be thrown?

It was a saga of love and untiring devotion;
To be plucked to spread joy and warmth;
To be stripped off to decorate homes;
To be a part of the bouquet to send good wishes,
For happiness, health and forever well-being.
Nothing less, but the best it was;
Personification of "love",
Was no one else's task;
And that was the reason,
For the terrible fate it saw.

I picked up the remains of,
Whatever was left;
The fragrance now,
Being forced to dirt and dust.


I passed by a plant,
No more than a thin trunk;
Once the flowery abode,
Was now nude and bare.

What was still left,
After the ravaging theft,
Was the abundance of thorns.
They stood haughtily,
Mocking the gentility;
Pricking any hand,
That threatened their stability.
The sharp stinginess,
And personification of "hate",
Was what kept them,
Safe from harm and hurt.


Stark contrast it was,
Flowers - strewed apart,
Thorns - no one dared to touch.
The only question it raised,
Why is love more vulnerable than hate?

Traces of You

"My past was glorious,
Coz I had not met you.

My future is gonna be wonderful,
Coz I will soon forget you.

My present, though, is a rough patch,
Chequered by traces of you."


These were the words,
Etched on the walls of his heart.
Reading which,
In a moment, her world fell apart.
"Welcome" was a distant dream,
Even the "Goodbye" was so harsh.

Eddies of Wind

I craved for a gentle breeze,
To waft the freshness of air,
Through me;
To rejuvenate myself,
From the worries and tangles;
Relax for a moment,
And be prepared for,
More to handle.

What struck me, instead,
With a swooshing sound,
Was whirling dust,
In eddies of wind.
Left me jarred;
Gifting, what others discard;
And kept me wondering,
At how salve turned into abrasives.

But there I was up again,
Even the next day;
Making myself vulnerable,
For the play.

'Ifs' and 'Buts'

Its always there,
No matter you land where;
The 'ifs' and 'buts',
Make you wonder, and stare.

It stirs you with its glow,
Like  a flame of light,
You know you cannot hold;
For that light,
Would no longer be bright,
If you capture it with your might.

It surprises you with its calm,
Like a serene ocean,
Playing its charm;
But you know you cannot jump in,
For that itself would,
Break the rhythm of the divine.

It mesmerizes you with its fragrance,
Like a fresh flower,
In full bloom;
But you know you cannot pluck it,
For that would turn it,
Forever, into gloom.

Such is the fate of our wishful fantasies;
'I wish....',
'If only....',
And many more like these...

Deep down you know,
Its not going to happen;
For good or bad,
Unable to fathom.

But what's the harm,
In wishing and aspiring;
If nothing else,
You are living that dream,
In your heart, already.

A String of Memories

A string of memories,
Adorns the song of my past;
Whenever struck,
A special one surfaces up.


The happy ones,
Remind me of the times;
I laughed and danced,
And swung in your arms.

Walking down that lane,
Which was once a frolicsome terrain;
Now makes me nostalgic,
Of those good old golden days.
Brings tears in my eyes;
Tears of joy, for I lived those moments;
Or of the pain, for its over and bygone,
No longer there, to hold on.


The sad ones,
Remind me of the times;
I struggled in troubled waters,
Without a savior to obviate.

Walking down that lane,
Which was once dark and grim;
Now leaves me bewildered,
With reminiscences of grey.
Should I be sad for those harrowed days;
Or be happy to,
Emerge stronger since they came,
And now, are left behind in the lane.


Treasured is this musical memoir,
Every note plays a unique memory;
Happy or sad,
Those are all mine;
The ones I have lived,
Through the passage of time.

The Futile Chase

Flapping its wings,
It hopped,
From one flower to another;
Creating a beautiful sight,
With bright hue and colour.

She was running behind to catch;
Working hard,
And sweating her way,
To take it in her grasp.

But as they say;
The closer you go,
The farther it flies away.

Not the story of a day,
Continued for ages - the play;
She would run through the garden,
Just to do - a futile chase.

One fine day,
The realization dawned;
She sat peacefully,
Enjoying the sun go down;
Getting absorbed,
In the lovely vista it formed.

Made her happy,
She exuded charm;
Her pleasant fragrance,
Adorned the air around.

Cynosure she became,
Calm and composed - was her frame;
Not bothered by the worry and hurry,
Not smothered by the thoughts of pain.

Who else,
But the butterfly itself,
Leaving the flowerbeds,
Made its way;
To steal the nectar from her smile,
And enjoy the caress of her breath.

The Dark Side

Its harsh,
Just rips you apart;
With its dagger-like tentacles,
Cutting deep into your heart.

With the shrewdness of a chess player,
And the strength of a boxer in the ring;
But alas, all the games it plays,
None of these, are fair and clean.

Masks of different shapes and colors,
Is what it wears,
To hide the treachery and deceit,
That it carries, without fear.

Murky and shabby like a swamp it is,
Once you get in, it just keeps you in;
And waits for you to start rotting,
And lead the life of a lowly being.

That's the dark side,
Of this world;
Which we call our home,
And in it, we twirl.

Face of Adversity

Its deep and dark,
Inside the well;
Excruciating,
Just like hell.

The surface is,
A bed of thorns,
And pierced stones,
That make you bleed
With pain, and groan.

The walls are,
Slimy and filthy,
That make you tumble,
Whenever you
Try to clamber.

Stifling with
An air of oppression,
Sweltering with
The heat of suppression.

No ray of hope shines,
No shower of mercy pours,
No sign of escape appears,
No one answers knocks on the doors.

Afflicted by disaster,
Brutally tortured;
Here you are made to,
Go through the wringer.

A trap it is,
Which sucks you vehemently;
Leaving you traumatized,
In the face of adversity.

A Poem

Flows like a river of thoughts,
With the pen marking its path.

Meanders gently through the meadows,
Collecting words on its course,
Remoulding those into expressions,
That strike the chords, and feelings evoke.

Rejuvenates by its touch,
Gives life to the otherwise dull;
That's the beauty of a poem,
Enlivens the minds, tired and worn.

Rise from the Ashes

You pull me down,
You chain me down,
Even if you try,
To burn me down.
I would rise;
Rise from the ashes,
Like a phoenix,
That never crashes.

You encage me,
In the dark clouds;
Fear and dullness,
All abound.
I would fly;
Fly through the dark;
High up,
Up, above the clouds.

Where, I,
Shake hands with light,
And make my days bright.

Where, I,
Break the shackles,
That arrest my growth.

Where, I,
Think and act freely,
And get myself out of ropes.

Where, I,
Play the host;
And share my love,
With the ones I indulge.

Where, I,
Be the shield,
To protect the meek,
From uncanny tyrannies,
Of the winds and the heat.

Where, I,
Raise my hands,
To give;
And not, to seek.

Where, I,
Succeed in,
Lighting a spark of inspiration,
In those surrounded by desolation.

Where, I,
Rejoice in,
Kindling feelings of joy and hope,
In hearts from which these have eloped.

Where, I,
Fear no limits;
And keep moving ahead,
Crossing daunting goals,
Achieving miraculous feats;
And spreading invaluable smiles,
Across far and wide.

Then, as they say,
When fate comes to play,
One day;
And, I fall,
I would not regret,
Coz I,
Would have, lived it all.

Souvenir of Pain

She knew she'd find,
Under the wraps,
Cruelties of the world;
Alone she came,
And alone, had to return.

Was not shocked,
But just saddened;
This was exactly,
She knew would happen.

Found companions,
While going up the hill;
But no one to hold her hand,
When she stumbled down.

The world was busy,
Jostling to move ahead;
No one cared,
What broke, and, what was shred.

The bruises that were seen,
Evoked sympathy momentarily,
In the eyes of passers-by;
But none could see,
The stabbing pain,
That made her heart cry.

No howls were heard,
No tears were seen,
No ill feelings were bred,
Just,
A souvenir of pain,
And a heavy sigh,
Was all, that was left.

The Wilted Plant

Alone it stood,
In isolation;
Waiting for someone,
To rescue it
From desolation.

The scorching heat,
Made it look parched;
Still no one came;
The thought,
Never sparked.

Nourishment was,
A far cry;
Water alone,
Would have made it high;
If only
Had been given a try.

No mercy showers,
No droplets of affection,
No signs of love,
No care or concern.

Still it stood,
Till the time it could;
Dying a slow death,
Without any regret.

Such was,
The sad plight
Of the wilted plant;
Shrivelled and cramped,
Was its stance.

Soul that was Maimed

Burning in flames,
Without any fire,
As on a pyre.

Dead cold as snowball,
That does not thaw,
As in a morgue.

Ruptured, bruised and,
Dull it looked;
The broken chord,
Made the music mute.

A deep cut,
Without any blood;
No oozing out;
It was all kept,
Under a shroud.

The scathing pain,
Was unbearable again;
This time,
It was the soul,
That was maimed.

Vacuousness

The blankness in looks,
The bareness in nooks,
The meaninglessness in actions,
The worthlessness in reactions,
The futility of worrying,
The triviality of hurrying.

The darkness of the abyss,
Engulfing us admist;
The largeness of the void,
That we try to avoid.

The vacuousness of life,
Comes striking at times;
Savaging with a blow;
Raising questions,
Answers to which
I do not know.

एक ख्वाहिश

एक ख्वाहिश है फिर से जगी ,
एक कसक है फिर से उठी ,
एक आरज़ू है फिर से पली,
एक तमन्ना है फिर से उभरी …

ज़िन्दगी को खुल कर जीने की ,
मंज़िलों पर फतह पाकर
नयी मंज़िलों की ओर बढ़ जाने की ,
ख़ुद को ज़ाहिर कर पाने की ,
एक अलग पहचान बनाने की …

खुशियों के पैग़ाम बाँटकर
ज़िंदगियाँ सँवारने की ,
ग़मों की चादर छीनकर
हँसी की फुहार चलाने की ,
अनजानी आँखों से आँसू चुराकर
ख़ुद उस सैलाब में बह जाने की ....

दीये की जलती हुई लौ बनकर
अँधेरों को उजियारों में बदलने की ,
फूलों की तरह खिलकर
खुशबू हर तरफ महकाने की …

एक ख्वाहिश है जगी ,
एक कसक है उठी  …

Wheel of Life

It keeps moving,
Round and round;
Gathering the dust,
On the ground.

Sprinting across the milestones,
Or dawdling leisurely in the woods;
Striving to climb rocky heights,
Or sliding gently down the inclines.

Walks, runs, trots,
On surfaces rough and smooth;
Bumpy rides on patchy roads,
Takes it all and comes through.

Keeps moving inch by inch;
Until one day,
When it breaks its spine,
Wears down and
Crumbles flat on the line;
No longer able to breathe in,
The invigorating air
That keeps it going.

And thus collapses,
The once bouncy,
Wheel of life.

Imprints on Sand

She was walking,
On the beach.
Letting the soft sand,
Touch her feet.
Amused by the beauty
Of nature;
The bond shared
Between
Land and water.

Unaware of others around,
She kept walking;
Marking her own trail,
On the ground.
Leaving footprints,
On the sand;
Just
Creating memories,
Without any stamp.

Then roared the waves;
Erased
All that was engraved,
Taking the sand away.
She felt sad;
Losing the
Collection of memories,
As that was all
That she had.

Sat brooding
For a while;
Just when a thought struck,
And she stood upright.
Only to start walking again,
Let the wave play its game;
She was getting ready,
To create another memory lane.

Yearning for a Lighthouse

Rowing across the rough sea;
Wandering are ships,
Up and down the stream.
Not knowing where,
The current is leading;
Towards the destination,
Or away from it.

Engulfed in the blue,
With no other
Color to be seen;
Longing they are,
To see the land
And the green.

Yearning for a lighthouse,
That shows direction
To the navigating ships.
Hankering for a calm,
That softens the rough waves,
And smoothens the rocky trips.

Moving on,
In the pursuit
Of embracing the shore,
Even with
The darkness galore.

With a strong belief,
That You are there,
To rescue them
From what's not fair.

Gift of Grief

Freezing the blood gushing through veins;
Pausing the thoughts running in the brain.

Rendering all colors, as colorless;
Making dark, even the brightest.

Robbing you of all the valuables;
Making poor, even the richest.

Clouding all the joy and happiness,
In the mist of gloom and sadness.

It does it all,
Corrodes even a rock.
Comes like a visitor,
With a gift of grief,
Its - Loneliness on a spree.