Friday, May 12, 2017

विस्तार का भ्रम

विस्तार का भ्रम बस है, 
सिमटा मैं भी हूँ 
कभी आधे बासी शब्दों 
में , कभी पुरानी आदत में।  

अंत की जो पंक्ति है 
उस तक नहीं पहुँच 
पाता, फिसल जाता 
हूँ फुर्सत में चुराए 
किसी एक पल में।  

ढूंढनी पड़ती है उस वक़्त 
कोई खोई हुई चाह, कोई 
बेतरतीब सा सपना।

मलिन,पर खोया हुआ
मन।  

Saturday, January 7, 2017

A desire for the new year

Sometimes it's good to slip in 
slow in the new time
lest the thin crust of new
breaks in the dissolving old

Everything in its place, nothing extra

An unedited time
to rearrange desires, 
the dusted shelves of habits, 
the rusting ruse of dreams,
the open cracks of past,
the unattended anticipations of the future, 
the fogged horizons of togetherness, 
the misty mornings of solitude, 
the rainy afternoons of memories, 
the windy evenings of temptation, 
the long nights of separation.


Slip in slow in the new time, 
like a faint rustle, 
without a trace, 
in an unsolved puzzle.  
Sprinkle silent winds to the roaring uncertainties.

Let the dust of the old settle, sail slow to your new sun.

Sunday, December 4, 2016

बिखरा केवल मैं ही नहीं

बिखरा केवल मैं ही नहीं 
आदत में अक्सर हर चीज 
बिखरी लगती है, शब्द, 
चाय के गिलास, कपड़े , 
और स्मृतियाँ।

कितना कुछ है अतिरिक्त जो 
बीता नहीं. 

Aug. 17, 2016

Why cure words?

The muse is afar 
A single soliloquy is 
all I can muster 
I have forgotten the 
words of loneliness 
the syllables of despair

The drifting moon 
cracks open the secrets 
of longing but the text is 
 undecipherable 

Why do you call forth 
in unfathomable gestures? 
Can't the rain be simple? 
Can't the dusk just slip
into the script of the night
unwritten? Can't love be 
longed for silences? 

Why cure words? Why 
run through language 
holding our hands like 
strangers?

Aug. 19, 2016

Tuesday, July 19, 2016

Notes to the confused self

Be eager, in the monotony
of the day lies a crack that 
only some fathom, others 
rarely see, and some 
pass it by. Take time not 
to injure your solitude with 
the reckless pursuit of 
meaning. Not all that 
passes is worth the distraction, 
not all that arrives is 
worth attention. But look 
you must, reason dawns 
slow, understanding is 
an accumulated bag we 
never see. Sit alone 
and pursue the breaks 
in time, ponder over 
memories and their 
fragile corners, dust your 
inner shelf, let some 
stick in your hands for 
a lingering aftertaste. 
Sometimes drag 
yourself out to the 
cobbled streets and the 
chaos, let the wilderness 
of the city drown you. Attend
to the idle chatter between 
the pauses, listen. You have
arrived at a contradiction, 
begin again. Rewind your 
routes and feel the changing
acceptances of the earth. 
Perceive the openings in 
the doors of perception, 
urge your curiosity to go 
on. 

Sunday, July 17, 2016

Evening musings

 Slouched in the easiness of my bean bag I listen to music from far, the rumours of memories faint for a while. The light has gone dimmer, an easy dusk slips through the window and settles on the tip of the coffee table. I switch on the yellow light to enervate the temptation of the evening. A rustling wind comes and plays with the edge of the folded bed, a tiny piece of the night winks at the pillows. The books laid bare still the void in time. I wonder at the 'chronology of water', at the chronic pauses that lovers leave in their conversation. Will you again come and paint the words for me? You were good with colours, now the house looks bare, the posters lying astray waiting for caring hands, the empty walls wait in expectation, they give me the quizzical look of the woman wanting to speak at a bus stop to kill time, to share the burden of waiting. But I hear only faint rumblings in a foreign tongue, I listen deep to decipher the words, but understanding has gone missing. I accept my failure, affirm my ephemerality, and bind myself to the waiting for things to dawn on me. How long? 

Untitled

We wondered whether we could push 
through the dusky silence of the mountains,
an old song stabs at the corners of the evening.

In the folds of the hills we read our fault lines. 

Desires, like distant echoes, ebbed and flowed
like a dead melody over the vast expanse 
of emptiness

Its time that returns are planned, some bags are packed, 
some silences affirmed.
Its time for the awe of wonder to dig deep within.

Its time that the eyes see, accept the 
changing proclamations of time