Wednesday, 27 February 2019


जंग की सरगर्मियाँ हैं,
और शाख़ें मुन्तज़र!
वो परिन्दे जो घरों को लौट कर आने को हैं ..
सर्द आहें, ज़र्द चेहरे,
बेकल-ओ-बेचैन दिल,
औरतें वो, मर्द जिनके जंग पे जाने को हैं ..

झूठ, नफ़रत, बदगुमानी, बदहवासी, बेबसी,
है अज़ल से बस यही जंगों का हासिल,
और हम,
आज फिर ख़ुद पर इसी आसेब को लाने को हैं!

हम भी न समझें सियासत गर जुनूने-जंग की,
हम भी ख़ुद को झोंक दें इस खेल में,
तो कौन फिर,
पूछने वाला रहेगा इन सियासतदाओं से,
झोंपड़ों में भी ग़रीबों के भला खाने को है?

Wednesday, 7 November 2018

This little lamp

As a million
little lights
perish into oblivion,
a little flame flickers
atop a tiny earthen lamp,
as the soothing fragrance
of camphor,
melts into the air,
as bright marigolds
sewn into garlands,
adorn the deity,
I think of you!
The gentle gaze
of expectant compassion,
the soft fragrance
of hushed whispers,
laughter and the kind touch
of molten desire,
this little flame,
a rare spark
in the heart of existence,
and the all-forgiving embrace of love!
This auspicious hour,
this blessed day,
the sublime joy
of togetherness
and you!

Tuesday, 6 November 2018

A grey morning

As tired stars
melt into
the morning sky,
the night gathers
its dark robes, receding.
A solitary sparrow
chirps a melancholy refrain
in the far distance,
a squirrel
running up and down
a branch, restless! 
Restless dreams
of primordial persuations
subside into a thought-out silence,
as an ordained calm,
dawns upon
the heart.
The morning spreads
its firm concrete
across a still-born sky,
A new day starts! 

The autumn of love

Life, they say,
is death turned
inside out,
darkness: light,
travelling backwards in time!
Hope, they say is
fears overcome,
strength: weaknesses won!
though they'd
probably never tell you,
is often only lonliness
tied in knots,
hope travelling backwards,
in the time-space of faith,
incumbent autumn
in the guise of spring!

But autumn, as they say,
is again,
only spring awaited,
only a wait untill a new dawn!  

This old house

Like an old painting,
taken off the wall
for no fault of its,
except for 'being',
the greatest
of all punishable faults,
the old house
is being taken down at last.
Being taken down though
is not new to this house,
a house
that has stood taken
by hail and snow,
by time and trials,
by rust and rain alike,
all along while it 'was'.

This old house
that has for long
hidden inside it
broken vases,
old shoestrings,
discarded vessels
and useless furniture!
Faultless decay: the fate of the abiding.

An old window

Like abandoned railroads
that lead to nowhere,
a broken window
opens into
an unyielding sky,
and stares at me
from across the road.
Guarded by
a grid of iron bars,
an empty house inside,
the vast open sky beyond,
the window
its glasspanes still intact,
pristine in its purposeless beauty,
outstands its surroundings;
a dilapidated building,
falling apart inside-out,
cables dangling around
like broken necklaces,
as the unhappy smell
of damp rust
rises from old drain-pipes;
homes breaking up inside,
families breaking down,
a lonely tree outside,
head bowed down,
in defeated submission,
its lush green branches
raised heavenwards,
heavy with the burden of life!

An old window,
frozen in time,
into the past perhaps,
obedient, unthinking. 

Monday, 5 November 2018

Through the broken window

Through the
broken window,
the frame hanging limply
onto a rusted hinge,
a patch of green,
in the far distance,
she stood
gazing at life
with a childlike wonder.
In the far distance
a solitary blade of grass
stood soaked
in the fresh glory
of an iridescent winter morning.

With an unsure thrust
she pushed the panes ajar,
a gust of wind
rushed in,
fresh mist and dew, 
and the musky inebriation
of fress grass
in far distance!

'Love' she wrote
with a finger
on the windowsill;
love and the subtle beauty
of all things mundane!