Now that it’s almost morning...

Now that it’s almost morning,
Let me remind you that this
Is a stale day, the night hasn’t ended,
The darkness is still raw and real
Your fears and my scars
Are still afresh,
This morning to be,
Is just the clock mocking us
From black to blue,
Moon to sun,
Rum to coffee,
Nothing has changed.

I am not at peace,
The old war, is depreciating our infantry
Our weapons of hope and light
Are almost over, the shield has cracked
Still this lust for the light hasn’t ended
For how long will we fight this darkness?

Are we going to fight it till our end?
Are we at the verge of our end?
Will we lose this disgracefully fought battle?
Will our weapons exhaust before,
We break into pieces or get transformed into ashes?
What’s next?
A darker morning?

To the fairy who is going to bring sleep and peace one day!

Hello fairy, I recall our conversations when I was ten years old and grandfather used to tell me that you have a script to please sleep and bring it to me. I was told that in the script, there were verses written about the stars and the moon and the skies and my favourite cartoons.

You know fairy, I am 22 years old today, and my prioritise are obviously out of form. I don’t sleep well, and so I don’t try anymore. Does your script have those magical verses to bring back that sleep, which grandfather gifted me each night, as I put my head on his lap?

His fingers would gently massage my scalp, or on some days he would pat my head, telling me that his peaceful pat is beating up the demons inside the head. The demons that are dancing inside my mind, disrupting my peace. It’s been a decade since he left, weren’t you supposed to put me to sleep in his absence? Are you a promise breaker? Didn’t grandpa tell you that promise breakers get empty wrappers of chocolates? Do you not love chocolates? Are you gone, fairy? Can you not bring the peace back? The peace that’s my very own?

Out of love - 98!

Have you thought about forgiving yourself?
Has that idea struck you?
How odd does that sound?
Have you thought about not punishing yourself for their sins?
Have you imagined yourself
Just breathing, being
Yes, just that and nothing else
Does that sound like bliss?
Yes! It does, because it is
That’s how easy bliss is
What complicates your relationship with bliss?
You? You!
——————
Petals,
Fallen or not,
Are soft, fragrant, fragile
Falling doesn’t change being,
Does it?
————
Who’re you to call Spring magic and Autumn tragic?
————
A cage will always be a cage,
The one which curbs your being,
Exploits your dream,
Don’t fall for its gold,
It’ll make you hollow from whole.
—————
It is in these structures,
you put in your heart & soul,
to create something much more precious than pure gold.
—————

Who watches over,
Us, the ones who perform for Satan
We who must never be named
In front of those who boast about their goodness
The beings whose heart can explode
And mind could blast any minute
But we must always suppress our volcanoes
In the world of those who claim to be nice.
Who watches over us? None!
————

What have the unholy sinful hours
That trickle in at 2 in the night
And choose to do salsa till 4 in the morning
Given you,
Except, doodle ideas on unacknowledged pieces and not sheets of paper
Shapes to your restlessness
And comfort to your loneliness.
What have the unholy sinful hours given you?
—————-
And when you nurse that broken soul,
And not the body, remember it’s
Tiring, consuming, painful,
Just like that shot of anaesthesia,
Before that damn operation.

It’ll be good, dear soul,
You’ll heal, or we’ll have
No option but to deal
With your pieces without zeal.
————————-
You will never know the difference
Between building and creating,
You, the collators of bricks, stones and cement
The ones who are always right, the ones who fear & praise the lord
Yes, you, wouldn't know that difference.

Ask us, the losers,
The ones who dance for Satan
How obnoxiously stunning it is
To create a home without a roof
Where there are imaginary doors of misery,
And windows are made of broken dreams.

Your house is a shoddy spoof,
Of this losers creation,
Sigh.
—————
When they talk about palatial bungalows,
And fancy apartments,
Which they want to call their house
And mind you not home,
Do they even think that this won’t
Bring peace, ease, sleep and smiles?

These bricks and bones, sticks and stones,
Won’t create a home,
It’s not a thing after all,
It’s an emotion, a feeling,
Your share of peace.

But when has sleep and peace won in front of pride? Sigh.

कुछ अल्फ़ाज़ बस यूँ ही-27!

अब ये कमबख़्त शाम गुज़रे,
तब जा कर कहीं रात आएगी,
फिर वो रात आधी उम्र बीत जाने के बाद
शायद सुबह में तब्दील हो,
और आप हैं कि सोच रहे हैं,
दो कश के धुएँ में वक़्त गुज़र जाएगा.
——————
अगर हम जैसों को सुकून मिल जाए तो,
उस बेग़ैरत सुकून के हक़ में क़सीदे कौन पढ़ेगा.
—————-
जिस दिन अग्नि ग्रहण करना आ जायेगा,
उस दिन राख की जगह तेज में हर अग्नि लिप्त
अंश तब्दील हो जायेगा.
——————
पूछ रही हो ना क्या छुपा रही हूँ?
चलो बता देती हूँ, जब तुम पूछ ही रही हो
अपना डर छुपा रही हूँ,
डर तुम्हें खोने का, तुम बिन होने का
लो बता दिया, अब बताओ, क्या करें?

रहने दो, तुमने ये सोचा नहीं है,
सोचना भी मत, कहीं ये ना लगे की हम कुछ हैं
वैसे भी तुमसे होगा नहीं,
तुमने कौनसी बेपनाह मोहब्बत
और बेबाक़ इज़हार किए हैं.

तुम जाओ, आबाद रहो, आज़ाद रहो.
——————
अरे तुम तो शुक्र मनाओ कि तुम,
प्यार नहीं दूसरा प्यार हो,
कहीं पहला होती,
तो समझ नहीं पाती
की हम तुमसे प्यार करते हैं,
या तुम्हें जीते हैं.
———————-
ये क़िस्सा है, कहानी नहीं;
यहाँ हर आग़ाज़, यलगार में तब्दील नहीं होता.
—————
ना जाने कितनी रातों को सुबह की अज़ान में तब्दील होते देखा है, अब तुम्हीं बताओ नाउम्मीद हों भी तो कैसे।
—————-
इस तरफ़ से तुम मेरा नाम गुनगुनाओ,
उस खिड़की से मैं ताल दूँ,
एक इश्क़ ऐसा भी हो,
जिसमें सुर और ताल का संगम हो.
———————-
कभी रात को सुबह होते देखा,
कभी सुबह को शाम में तब्दील होते निहार लिया,
कुछ रोज़ उनकी बेरुख़ी को इंतज़ार का नाम दिया
कुछ दफ़ा तन्हाई को अंजाम कि तरह सराह लिया.
----------
अरे वो क्या लौटेंगे जो हमारे ज़ेहन से कभी गये नहीं,
हाँ, अगर उनकी बेरुख़ी ज़रा कम हो जाए तो बताना,
हम भी कुछ गुफ़्तगू, ज़रा सी मुहब्बत कर लेंगे,
वो क्या है की दिल तो आख़िर दिल ही है ना.

If I had a fork in my hand...

If I had a fork in my hand
At this time, I’d pierce it
Right into my heart,
To see what’s it made of
Is it steel? Or glass?
Or is it just stale blood
That would ooze out of it.

The warmth in my blood
Is not there anymore
Been a while I felt
That heartbeat
The one which dances
To the tunes of dreams
And not the one which
Is made to fear wretched screams.

Had you asked me a while ago
About how I felt, I’d say explosive
The one who’s head could explode
But today if you care to ask
I’d just say I’m too tired to even
Acknowledge the numbness.

The sleep and the smiles are not mine
I didn’t know when sadness and sorrow
Abandoned me in the middle of nowhere
This breathlessness would kiss me
And leave, as I crave for fresh air.

I know, I told you I’m a warrior
I am sorry, I am not, I failed
Can I please get back to
Being a loser self and a failed warrior?
Please.

Out of love - 97!

You spent all your life
Building those tiny boxes,
Of walls and locks,
How will you know
What captivity and freedom are
If your dream is to create a cell,
So dark!
——————
Amidst this race of
Getting this and that
Didn’t you forget
What you had?
—————-
That's the sorcery of knives
They are of two types, blunt & sharp
The blunt, the one which refuses to rip apart
Yet hurt immeasurably
The sharp, which cuts, rips, hurts, let go
The former is like an heartache,
The latter is your gold old heartbreak.
—————
Don’t be so cold my love,
That even the winter doesn’t,
Make you feel the warmth of
An innocent shiver.
—————
It’s okay, you weren’t trained to deal with fire,
Not surprised, that you and I couldn’t co-exist
—————-
But those who make love to the mellows, don’t indulge in one night stands with the merry.
—————-
How much pain is enough pain?
What amount of longing, is sufficient longing?
Till when should your fire, consume you?
Will the dark, translate into light?
Can plight, convert itself into might?
Is the end, going to begin?
————-
Even if you’re stretched from left and right, hold on to your centre, the moon said to the moon gazer.
—————-
Wars are attention seekers,
They demand to be warred with grace,
Nope, not fought,
Fights are too petty to even touch the stature of war.
——————-
What is soulful?
A sip of perfect latte?
A blanket of loneliness?
Warmth the winter beholds?
A hug from you?
A full moon?
Is it real?
Is it an illusion?
Did the Gods trade it?
Did a devil inhale it?
Is it lying in something green?
What. Is. Soulful.

But how do you begin?

But how do you begin,
Before it has ended?

It, the long god forsaken battle
That I’ve been dreading on good days
And losing on the bad ones.

That battlefield where you bleed
Without a drop of blood
Making love to the soil,
The war ground where you’re
Left abandoned without weaponry.

The battle needs to end,
The soil demands to be loved
The warriors needs rest,
An end is needed,
A start is craved.