An Affair with a Foreboding
I no longer feel my tears when they roll down my cheek on the left side of my face. It is a rare feeling per se, for when a teardrop does fall, it remains stranded on the precipice of my eyelashes whilst my eyes don’t
Tag Archives: life
The Recuperative Road Ahead
I often find myself being riled up by a constant foreboding owing to my recent severe headaches. I remember the day I was hit by it. I was working on my computer, been staring at the screen for a long time, for I code, which
सब कुछ है नीला
चलो कह देतें हैं एक और झूठ,आखिर दुनिया में सच है ही क्या? आकाश का रंग,है आँखों का छलावा |अगर अंबर है नीला,तो मेरा मन भी है नीला,मेरी ज़ुबान भी है नीली, मेरा पैसा भी नीला |मेरे बाल,चलो कुछ तो सफ़ेदपर बाकी सब है नीले
मेरा छोटा सा जहाज़
बादल नीचे,आसमान अब भी ऊपर,तैरता सफ़ेद रज़ाई परमेरा छोटा सा जहाज़ |पंखियों से अपने काटे रस्ता,रस्ता नापे दिशाहीन नीले अंबर का,ऊंचाइयों को बतलाताअपने कद का मसलाकैसे लोग उसे हमेशा,हमेशा ही नज़रअंदाज़ करते |कैसे तौली जाती बाते उसकीआकारों के तराज़ू मेंऔर मोल कभी सही न लगताउसके
Time for Bed
Sleep, sleep now,My sleepless nights,You have earned it. Haven’t you toiled enough?In the scorching sun,Your body is burnt. The mountain has moved an inch,The world, shaken by your faith,Repose! Splotches of your blood Are all dried up,They will heal soon. Lie down on this complacent
Blues
At times it goes quiet,Quieter than usual,When you go away,It feels as ifSomeone turned off the lightWhile I was still reading.I sit in the darkFor a whileTo make out the edgesOf everything around,Only to discernHow nothing is in The shape of you,This solitudeIs a poor
साक्ष्य
खोजूं तेरे समभावशब्दों की धुरी में, तेरी आदतों में छिपती हैमेरी परछाइयों के निशाँ |तू सर्द में है वो मख़मली कम्बल,ओढ़ते ही जो भुला दे दिन रात का पता |हरारत में तेरी उँगलियों के छींटे,सौंप दे जो ओस की सीत्कार,तू शब्द है ऐसे प्रचंड,लगते ही
A Poem
How would you rather have me?Between the words of a meterOr in a misshapen form.Fighting a war with syllablesOr ridden with adjectivesWith allusions galore.Do you like me in a rhyme?Or prefer me not in a noteTo a metrical song.Do you want to sell me?In the
My Writing Pad
Each day is my writing pad,I carve letters through my routine,Some days sound the sameBut every page remains different.Some days don’t speak at all,While some days sing a song,Some end up getting torn,When I trundle on their edgesTo test at what point do I fallOut
If I don’t wake up tomorrow
Today I sleepA slumber so deep,I might not wake up tomorrow,While the world I keepWouldn’t care to peepInto the foreboding of my sorrow. Might I lie,If fine am I,It is the knell that peals yonder,That brings nighA will to dieTo end my ceaseless wander. Some