आज एक अजीब सी घबराहट है,
थोड़ी सी बेचेनी है,
शायद अकेलेपन का रुतबा है,
या अंधेरे की बाहों में,
पहचान मेरी सहमी है।

कुछ पेचीदा से हैं यह लम्हे,
लबों पे शब्द ठहरे हैं,
जो उनको कुछ कह न सकें,
तो बेजुबान पन्नो को बेदर्द रंग दिया,
आज मुझमे इतनी बेरहमी है।

(Inbox me for translation ☺)

It’s you

When I tear apart,
I see a man,
my verses sit inside his heart,

it is better to stand still,
and not, to move along
with words of past,

the man I see would someday be my part,
and someday we would struggle
with our halves,

for I know nothing of his being,
for I fell in his arms
when your reflections were seen,

I move along,
I move along with you.

Let the ink dry

maybe, a few branches were let off the trunk,
nevertheless, it was meant to be burned,

each day someone would die,
but the dying puppets on stage
must let the ink dry,

weave words, scribble stories,
times are tough, sweet and deep,

but I promise you,
there lies hope in between imageries,
there lies strength in between metaphors,

after millions of crumpled dreams,
trust the paper one more time,

let the ink dry.




Today, I saw my curves,
fat balls peeping through spaces,
the sagging skin oscillating when I comb through frizzy hair,
the stretch marks on thighs which I refuse to share,
darkness underneath my breasts,
the underwire which restricts their breaths,
I saw smiles walking down to the ankles,
depression hanging on waist,

a tarnished soul is acceptable,
only mirror can make me a forbidden taste.


Maybe this is how every night conspires. Shivering lines, broad and deep, as if the suffocating world lies on the shoulders, fragile and weak, heavy gait and surrendering breaths as if the doors grazed over the efforts, but weren’t the doors meant to be shut? The soothing ball, pale yet bright, sneaking through trees loving the sky all night, is a little more beautiful than sugared plate, love sprinkled roadside is a little more real than the packets inside, snoring leaves are a little more sleepy than eyes passing through midnight, broken twigs are a little more gorgeous than the mirror’s sight, the quietness is a little more intense than the within tides.


The streets suffer vengeance
for supporting footprints;
like a betrayed friend;
ensanguined and decorated with dead bodies,

the king wakes up every morning 
only to win against his song of despair,
slicing arms, crumbling hopes,
to satisfy the inside fire,

war is war and not peace,
revenge does not equate but increments,
the world is falling in arms of souls and minds,



Eras passed by, still I stood, refusing to be defined for I would lose fragrance if you try to mix the shades of sky with eroding soil, have you touched words that float and sink at the same time, that drift and yet rhyme? This time let words sit paralysed, come; sink in me for there is infinity to find.