tere bin

palkhon se bhikar,
sooni sooni si yeh nazar,
har patey par talashe tere hi akshar.

lakh kari is dil ne koshish,
har saans se ki ek hi sifarish,
sookhey pannon par dhoondi teri naam ki namhi.

is tanhayi ko sahara de de,
marti huyi rooh ko sukoon dede,
in aakhri lamhon ko rahat dede.

tum nahin aaye

aas bharkar tik tik bhi tham gayi,
thak thak kar aahein bhi bhar gayein,
par yeh kamhakht nazar hi nahin hati.

har aate jhonke se poocha tera naam,
jawab mein har lamhe ne kiya ek hi sawaal-
-pagli, kya kabhi din mein bhi chand dekha hai?

hawa chalti rahi,
par dhadkanein ruk gayein.

your pretty words

i fall for your pretty words,
stars which i can never touch.
sweet are such your words,
like an adamant child,
hope jus wont leave.
my faith still wont see
it is only a matter of time,
before one of us turns blind.

benazir si, par bewafa si yeh shaam..
kya hai yeh najais sa rishta tera, raat ke saath
abhi toh mulakat hui thi unse,
aur tuney alvida keh diya
kyon raat ki bahon mein ja chipi,
aa, ek baar phir khoobsurat, thaamle mera haath

The more or less of love

These strange chords wrapped around one’s heart are the toughest to tune. There is no ratio one gets right for this math…actually there is no math really. Just more or less. The more you get the less you like it. The less you get, the more you want it. Stranger than the promises people make to each other is what happens next..Why is it that there is always one who loves more and the other who cares less? Why is it that when one is loved more, the wretched, twisted demented heart turns into this super meanie from a highway to hell type of a flick? Why does the evil of doubt, clandestinely dressed as boredom crop its ugly head? Why are questions more and answers less? You more or less know the answer to it, don’t you ?

misery my opium.

as the years go by, and the tick tock turns more rapid and less logical, i see myself asking questions which till a time in recent past, were completely alien to my thought process and social conditioning.

as the the seconds turn into years, i realize that love is a highly over rated emotion, but not half as under rated as the opium to kick start our lives all over again, as we pass the mundane cycle of repetition of the thing called life.

I realize that the age old saying is correct. that you never forget your first love..or the fact that it will never forget to remember you. And once you have tasted the misery of a lost love, you shall keep mourning it till the next bout hits you in your guts. And till your guts are hit so bad that you double up, more in pain than in bliss, you shan’t stop. It takes form of a phantom, after which, you begin your chase. And that is when the entire loop of love being a habit, an addiction, an opium begins.

Love…is a fairly simple word, but a highly romanticized emotion. Might as well be. After all, that is what keeps us moving in this mechanical circular life. As the wretched stupid heart keeps pounding, pumping in misery…more and more by each passing love affair.

But I do not have an answer to the question of when does love cross over to lust? And when does love consume us in the façade of lust? Why do we become victim to the despair of happiness? Why does happiness not be the opium?
Am I asking questions of a commitment phobic? Or are these simple outlines of a foolish romantic notion?

After a failed love, as intense as the sting of a Scorpio, as pure as an infant’s first breath, as magical as life, I began my quest of the eternal emotion, solace in the presence of a crazy little thing called love… only to realize that it is nothing more than my misery. Nothing more, than my opium.

Rented space

The air we breathe is borrowed.
The space we occupy is temporary.


This city makes me think, makes me stare blankly... Oops, am I staring into some one else’s space? Borrowed space is not just a concept of a physical dimension of space. I think it also means borrowed space in situations that we find ourselves caught in. those situations we think others belong in, the spots that we thought we’d never find ourselves in.
Does that happen to you often? At times? Has it happened ever?

I think we create a world in which we borrow so much in…it starts when we are tiny, really tiny...we grab impressions that we see or experience. Then we grow up and borrow images which we want to cling on to…of people we idolize, of personalities we want to exhibit...and then begins the process of transition...from one space to another bubble..and we lose some imprints in the passage and few new ones come along..but does the new bubble give you the warmth of permanence? does it make you say with a zing: this is it! this is the zone which will by my ozone? is a part of rented space a term of continuous existence? guess the theory applies to it...jus the way the say "only change is permanent. "