Tuesday, 29 November 2011

The Cleaning Lady



She is invisible. Clad in her simple green uniform salwar kurta, a spray bottle in one hand and a cleaning cloth in the other, she walks around the cafeteria to no one's notice. People would move around their lunch plates in their hands, looking for a clean table to sit and suddenly finding one not realizing that they had discarded it earlier and that the frail woman had walked up behind them while they complained of negligence and laziness. 

She is frail, with tiny hands and a small expressionless face, only caring about doing her job and not stepping into other people's way in the crowded cafeteria. She is there in the cafeteria, whenever you would go, but you wouldn't remember her. You wouldn't even remember her face. You might remember the flick of her chunni as she walks by or a blurred image of her scrubbing the table next to yours. An image you registered from the corner of your eyes. Or you might have seen her sitting with her other green-clad friends, chatting about merrily, yet in a very low voice and eating from their small steel tiffin.

Walking carefully to not tread in some other person's path, she once got lost in her thoughts and almost collided with a man coming through the gate. The sudden realization of the impending collision hit both of them and they stopped dead. The guy with his hands raised and the woman simply frozen. For a split moment, they were both looking into each other's eyes. For a fraction of a second, she was getting registered in his consciousness. It was a look of acknowledgement, even if accidental. And then suddenly, as if time had been fast forwarded, the guy lowered his hands, smiled graciously and excused himself. The lady smiled, lowered her head and stepped aside to let him go. She then walked with a gentle spring in her step, a quality of life in her actions as she basked in her one small moment of existence. 

Meanwhile, the guy sits here in a fancy coffee shop surrounded by pretty girls and boys with his diary and pen in front of him, struggling to remember the face of the lady he almost bumped into earlier in the day. 

Thursday, 3 November 2011


I don't know if I will make or fail,
If I will smile in bliss or loudly wail,
but against all odds and amidst all they say
I will make it right and I will make my way.


Monday, 17 October 2011



The liquid burns down my throat and the heat permeates my body to make it vulnerable to the thumps, the thumps hitting my body, thrashing my body, beating my head, driving all care out of it, closing the door, inviting me in. 


The smoke burns through my soul and I blow out puffs of it from my mouth only to watch it disappear in the air. And as the shimmering, writhing bodies inhale, I realize ...

I am one with them.

"धुंए की धुन में बढ़ते हैं यह कदम 
अँधेरी है यह मस्ती अय्याशी की कसम "
                                      -josh, shaitan




Thursday, 15 September 2011



चट्टानें भी बहती हवाओं का सिर्फ रुख बदल पाती हैं ,
रूह तक को छूती हैं पर उंगलियों से निकल जाती हैं | 



Wednesday, 20 July 2011



मीलों चल कर भी यह फासले कुछ कम नहीं होते 
पैर छिल जाते हैं पर 
इस रास्ते पर मेरे कदमों के निशान नहीं पड़ते|


Thursday, 9 June 2011


And given one more chance
I would go about it the same way
And still not be content...


Wednesday, 18 May 2011

इस रात की सुबह नहीं|



काँच से छनी चाँदनी भी
धूप से कुछ कम नहीं,
थके हुए मन की चंचलता को
रात के सुकून में भी चैन नहीं,
निश्चिंत नींद के वायदे में भी
इन बंद आँखों में नींद नहीं,
इस रात की सुबह नहीं|


सपनों के आँगन में सोते इस दिल को
थी कुछ और की जरूरत नहीं,
पर असलियत की झाँकी देखी
और अब इन सपनों में रंग नहीं,
और अब हकीकत की चाह में
इस दिल को झूठे दिलासे मंजूर नहीं,
इस रात की सुबह नहीं|


ठहराव के इंतेजार में
चंचल मन को चैन नहीं,
दिनभर के शोर के सिवा
दिल को कहीं और आराम नहीं,
और इसी शोर के बीच होगा 
इस इंतेजार का अंत कहीं,
इस रात की सुबह नहीं|


Wednesday, 23 March 2011

The Dream


Awake. Slow Breathing. Blurred Images. White Images. Fuzzy Outlines. Dark Hair coming down on a White Face. White Face. Beautiful Face.

Awake again.

He looked at her and smiled weakly as the white light from the window behind her filtered through her hair and lit his faces in patches. A deep smile, yet weak. A face that is unable to express the jubilation of his heart because it had forgotten to. Because this cannot be real. And yet he turned slowly towards the beautiful figure sitting at the edge of the bed with her arms around the headrest as if creating a protection that no one and nothing can break. Her smile permeated through his flesh to touch his soul and comfort it. She brought her tender hands to his head and ran her fingers through his hair ever so gently. In each gentle stroke, she was picking out all those weights that had disturbed the balance of his mind for so long. She was undoing everything. Everything. And yet her face continued to emanate the white light and cleanse him. He moved his head forwards, coiling his body and putting his head in her lap. She continued stroking his hair while her other arm rested on his shoulder, rubbing gently. He brought himself closer and wrapping his hands tightly around her waist, he wept. He wept like a baby.

Monday, 14 March 2011

The Flower on the windscreen


Trapped against the windscreen,
an oddity on the scene.
Racing ahead on concrete,
metal boxes on wheels.
Fluttering against the wind,
yellow petals trembling,
the rushing car pushing it away
far from its kin.
And in a swift turn of the car,
flew apart the flower,
higher and higher with the wind it rose
and embarked on its journey afar.


Wednesday, 9 March 2011

Reverie


Quiet and shy he was when he came
And meekly did he tell us all his name
Reserved demeanour and a lost face did he keep
But on gentle prodding he would speak

In small small steps and a pace that was slow
Steadily and solidly did our friendship grow
Together always, we were seen to be joint
Space-time folded us both to the same point

Together we would walk, together would we reach
And together we would plan and do our antics
Answering in unison, our names merged into
We both had become one of the two

And behaving in a way to what I was prone
Unwillingly, I had to leave my friend alone
Hated he must have for doing that to him
And guilt erupted inside every time I faced him

But today he seems happy, at ease and content
With his funnily sarcastic yet harmless intent
And I am happy for him for what he longed
Is now truly his and has become his own

And as I stir myself from this addictive reverie
And open my eyes to a lonely reality
I realize that I have missed him for so long
And catch myself wishing that I had never gone

-dedicated to a friend

Sunday, 6 March 2011

Transcendence

I look into the mirror

See Myself, I am over me

I need space for my desires

I have to dive into my fantasies

I know as soon as I'll arrive

Everything is possible

Cause no one has to hide

Beyond The Invisible



Close your eyes

Just Feel and Realize

It is Real and not a Dream

I am in You and You in Me

It is time to break the chains of Life

If you follow you will see

What's beyond Reality...


-Beyond The Invisible,
Enigma: Le Roi Est Mort, Vive Le Roi!



Wednesday, 16 February 2011

The Imposter


A strange clammy feeling
has crept inside me
and the world suddenly seems
so unreal around me

I feel a hollowness inside me
Is it a bad dream?
but the dream was the one
from which I woke up it seems

The world has shifted left
or has it shifted me?
Everything seems moving
yet I feel stationary

Naive and challenged
I lived life quietly
and the silence has now
strangled the reality

Immune and invisible
I am a shadow on the street
at the corner I turn
and The Imposter do I see

Eyes, hair and built
he even smiles like me
he is in the center of
what I wanted for me

In calm disbelief
I turn back to the street
The Imposter now lives my life
and has replaced me


Sunday, 13 February 2011

The Painting on the Wall



As old as time
and hangs pristine
mark of perfection
of an artist's prime
is The Painting on the Wall

Hooked by my eyes
I gaze mesmerized
every time I pass ;
intriguing through it's disguise
is The Painting on the Wall

It paints a scene
of what could have been
Immuning my senses
by it's purity and sheen
is The Painting on the Wall

And subdued emotions rise again
I am living in that time again
and making me believe
in that reality again
is The Painting on the Wall

And the clock on the wall chimes
reminding me of the lost time
and what is not mine to call
yet will forever be mine
is The Painting on the Wall