rab mileya raanjha na mileya...

ye dekho bazaar laga rakha hai.
kaisi dukaane saja rakhi hain?


udhaar me kahin mohabbat milti hai; 
kishton me imaan bikta hai. 
darzi jo mila kahin dil ka, batore tukde sil lie. 
umeed ki chaadar khareedi hai kisine shayad,
sapnon ka takiya bhi lia hai. 


dhoondha bahut hai magar, koi dukaan yahan mere kaam ki nahin...
..tu anmol hai, aur meri, meri to koi aukaat hi nahin. 

words

Words make love on the page like flies in the summer heat and the poet is only the bemused spectator.

-Charles Simic

Writing is like making love.

The tease when abstract words are jumbled together, hinting at something but at the same time not making complete sense. Confusing, intriguing, attracting. Stop. Wait. Continue with the foreplay, the act and the climax.

Writing is like letting it out.

You make music. The symphony, the rising and the falling notes. The Madhya ‘ma’, the komal ‘ni’ and the tivra ‘sa’. You have 26 notes to convert your feelings into music. Paint a picture with words.  Pick up a red tone to denote passion, a blue to show nostalgia, yellow to show the funnier, lighter feelings. A green to remember that special someone that never could be, a black to denote darkness that you are not afraid of, that your acknowledge as a necessary appendage.

Writing is chronicling.

Writing is making your journal entries. Writing is filling those last pages of your school CW copies, your college notebooks, your office log books, the coffee house tissues, newspapers. Writing is noting conversations you have had, helping you live them all over again; life realisations that could be forgotten in the rush. Writing is living with a witness. Writing is being your witness. 

writing is like living it all over again.

 bliss. pathos. love. lust.

…..

I may not make sense. I wear a yellow t-shirt to kill my blues. 

I am like that. Incorrigible, moody and 24X7  PMSing.

Bite me

(Not for YOU there hiding in your blankets; you, love me)

p.s. writing is like PDA in a very subtle way. ;)

...

this heart is a slut, and a bad one at that, falls for every man who knocked on her doors.
they mess her up and go away, she picks the change they throw at her, does a little soul searching a little window shopping and then waits for the next client to walk in; seduce her with intrigue, do her with his charms and leave her with regret.


the heart is a she. the clit a he.
the man in the woman.


she misses her. she has to learn to not do that, let him guide her as of now. 

the begginning of yet another end.

It hurts only as much as it was a pleasure. Not an ounce more not an ounce less.

What has come has to go.

When has it stayed back? The river was destined to flow. 

if only if

He has a slight stubble on his face, a never-ceasing smile on his lips; and a slight silent hint of adoration, when he looks at her from the corner of his eyes.
He looks at her, expecting nothing but a hello; for who but he knows that she talks a lot, but is not saying.

He walks next to her, as if the road next to the one which she treads upon be his. He walks besides her, always. Sometimes behind her, sometimes ahead but hearing her footsteps; her faltering, dancing half-hopping, half-walking footsteps; her clumsy self keeps missing the step and slipping all the time. He knows those footsteps well enough now, they walked a lot together. Together but never holding hands; sometimes their bodies touched, their glances held each other, but he looked away always. It never mattered much, for there was always a lot to talk about and whenever they ran out of things to talk about they always found something or the other to gorge on.

Nothing was different today.

He never misses an expression; the smiles, the frowns, the look of awe and the hint of wrath. She was the cloud, ready to burst at times…promising sunny afternoons later on.

Knowing just when she was enticed by that bookstore, his eyes followed her when she maneuvered into that filled- to-brim bookstore that promised a good bargain. His eyes held her still when she came out with a frown saying that it was not good enough. He smiled at her. He would not let her out of his sight, how can he, nowadays he just did not see her enough. It was never enough.

A shade of jealousy spread over his face when he saw her half-flirtingly joke with that other guy; he immediately smiled realizing his folly. He looked at her. Did she notice that? She did, didn’t she? Well, she always does. Their eyes met, they always smiled it away

.

She could be his, his to call. But he was someone else’s since forever, for forever.

They were bound in silence, or so he supposed.

Drunk lived felt and read in the umpteen coffee outings, unplanned local train escapades, NFAK’s and Alchemies.

She was a nut-case. He was the nut and the case.

P.S. I like the Valentine’s Day. Just as I like fairy tales and love stories. 

mind over matter

I think I have lost it.

It is an empty mind that I have.

Totally, completely, empty.

It likes peace. Wo kehte hain na zyada shor nahin pasand.  

I am a loner who is attracted to loners, sits in a corner and looks at people. I love stairs, any kinds, it is an innate desire to sit on the stairs, as opposed to the desire where people might want to climb them. I want to sit there and look, watch.

I can spend the entire life watching people.

Watching people with headphones on. I hate the noise. The clamor. I have enough noise in my head already. Empty mind creates a lot of demons like an empty house echoes every gasp.

An empty mind is impulsive, does not think.
Or sometimes it mulls over things at end and loses the track of time.

I am neither a fool nor wise; I am neither not a fool…neither not wise.

hush now, don't speak too loud. 

 ...