Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Idhar Udhar

O raahi yeh to bata hai jana kidhar , 
O bhawaren yeh to bata udta kidhar kidhar..... 

 Rasta muda jidhar , dali jhuki jidhar, 
Vo dekho badal aaya , main chala udhar...  

raasta jahan hai manzil vahan hai, 
Titli si dil mera firta idhar udhar...

When I was 13 years old...

I fell in love when I was 13 years old,

I loved her eyes, I loved her smile,

I loved everything about her, except that she was old.

I fell in love when I was 13 years old

She was an angel, she was beautiful,

I was in love, it was wonderful,

I used to live in dreams, and sung songs all day long,

Yes, it was love and I was 13 years old.

And one day she left, and she didn’t even said good bye,

I thought about everything but I believed she was shy,

They said she got married, and now she is gone,

I cried a little and then cried some more,

I never loved anyone after it, instead I found a beautiful whore.

I am happy, but now I buy love which is already sold,

True love has gone long ago, and yes I was 13 years old……

Monday, May 17, 2010


Cigarette is a friend, is an enemy, can kill you, can save you, is a time pass, is a need, is nothing, but everything sometimes. I love the smell of newly lit cigarette and also of the freshly stubbed. I like those youngsters, who feel proud after smoking one, I like those aged men, who smoke it with “been there, done that” feel. Cigarette is taking up many lives but surely is saving mine. Yes, I love to smoke.

On that usual normal sunny day, the sun was playing games with the clouds to make the day not so usually normal. I had woken up quite early, but had left my room only in the afternoon and that only because of the cigarette. I went outside and bought a pack, a pack of twenty.

Next day it seemed clouds had won the battle and it was the perfect clich├ęd romantic weather. The birds chirped, the green leaves waved at me , a hawker passed by, my TV said random things, my favorite tree just stared at me as always and I smoked the last one of those twenty. It actually happens, the habit of thinking just shoots up with the day’s first and the pack’s last cigarette.

I saw the empty pack and tried to remember all of those who were beautifully placed once inside the pack. I remembered the one, the first one of those I had smoked alone near the cigarette shop. The frail dark shopkeeper had spared a few glances, but hadn’t uttered a word. May be he found no reason to do so, and yes shouldn’t we do everything for a reason? Luckily I didn’t go there and moved on with the same thought and I remembered the one I had smoked with her, while her legs were beautifully crossed and her long slender hand gently placed on them. Interestingly every time she had nothing to say, her eyes met mine, and all other time she had something to say about some random stuff. As soon as she had gone I had lit up another one. Somehow it tasted better than all the previous ones.

I remembered the one I had in my room while I read a book, sat quietly and thought about some mundane incident simultaneously, before I went to bed.

Out of those twenty I remember only four to five, and I wonder why when they say all the cigarettes in the pack are totally same, to the last of the detail.

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

diary of a dead poet

“I am an arrogant bastard; I think I am quite intelligent at least more than any other bastard that I have seen. I am very much into drugs, I loathe those practically right dudes and I loathe myself sometime too. I am not in a very good mental condition you know, and every other day I am in a fight with one of many my so called friends. I am in a habit of speaking f words to people, and one day I said those to my mother too. But not so long ago I quit. I quit smoking, I quit drugs and I quit talking too….”


“It is weird sitting in a room, situated at a place where everyone is a stranger to me. I assume u know who strangers are, the ones who would make an assumption about you in just a flicker. I used to hate them, but maybe I was wrong, I am indifferent to them now”.


“How those people live who don’t speak? it is tough explaining without words, but I am liking this. I saw pity for me in their eyes, I ignored it, but still I can’t ignore- old habits die harder.”


“Music, music, music!! It’s in my head, I miss the older days, I miss my mother and also the so called friends. But I know it is nothing but a mere human nature and I hate them, I hate them and I hate them.”


“Finished all of the novels I had today, feels great. To read how someone felt about the world, the perception, the interpretation, the thought, the view, the vision, the fiction and the reality.”


“I saw my neighbor today at 4 am, drunk, singing, he came roaring his bike. I saw my neighbor again today at 2 pm telling the landlady that this won’t happen again, when he knew this will and when she knew he lied. I saw complication, I saw one of those, I saw the world.”


“The great ones are those who think manly and act femininely. And people on the other end are just lost between sexualities.”


“The man who achieved nothing but self satisfaction, the man proved to none but himself, the man who look nothing but ordinary in the first look, is the one you need time to understand.”


“I am happy being a stone, at least throw me in a river.”


“Can’t I be the one who is normal? Can’t I be like the ones who fake stupidity and intelligence? Can’t I be conventional and yet alive?”


“I remember one of my so called friend’s friend who had came to his house for a work which was a “big deal.” I remember how the words he said were so right, how he was telling people what to do, how he was always boasting about his ventures and never forgot to add the line of humility in the end. He was a successful man and also the one with a pragmatic approach. Everybody had long conversations with him, alone and in a group, while he talked for most of the time. Something about him was not right, I never liked him.”


“To think is to progress?”


“Sometime I want to be the one who doesn’t think much, he simply can’t hold the thought. Is he blessed? Who is blessed?”


“How are you doing?”


“The ones filled with negative feelings, the anti-religion ones, ah! They are different, they are unique, they simply can’t figure out a strong reason for their liking towards the morbid. But then there are extremists, having thousands of reasons to prove they are right but not a single one for the other side of the coin. ”


“The good one is good to you.”


“Power, Fame, Money….and I laugh again.”


“Thought of her haunts me, she is an enigma, wore the white cloth, teaches me, preaches me, I never understood, language is cryptic, I am a fool, can I see her again?”


“Fear of the unknown; strange but true; Imagination !! It is a powerful thing.”


“Not always I wrote about my grief,
I knew the pond isn’t pure,
Not always I told you about myself,
I knew you don’t listen to me anymore.”


“The vow ended today, the first word I would speak hence was a great deal for me. Hours passed and I said none. It had rained heavily last night, streets were full with the water and mud, and the speeding rickshaw didn’t bother to notice someone is standing on the roadside, quite near to the rickshaw and moments later the splash of water was right on my shirt and a bit on my face. I was going to swear but I paused, I thought, I smiled and walked. I decided not to speak again ever.”

Sometime again
“Three phases of death
------“a room full of strangers”
----------“new but not strange”
-------“there is no way outta here, when you come in you’re in for good”
You said I’ll be alright. I am sick again.”

And again
“I am a poet!!!”

The poet died after three years, his mother, his father, relatives and also his “so called friends” came to his funeral. They found a note in his pocket which said “Father! I love you a lot.”

Monday, October 5, 2009

Not always…

Not always I say it doesn’t rain,
Not always I cry about the pain,
Not always I have seen you under the mask,
Not always I have been so happy that I can’t laugh.

Not always I wrote about my grief,
I knew the pond isn’t pure,
Not always I told you about myself,
I knew you don’t listen to me anymore.

Illusion it is nothing more,
Cry aloud, someone is standing at the shore,
Not always, Not always.

Friday, September 4, 2009



A movie, a book or in short each and every story we have heard or watched has a hero, the good guy, idolized by some of us and just perceived as a nice human being by some. The Hero, is sometimes a Prince, a beggar, a sailor, a school teacher, a lover boy, a drunkard, a musician, an actor and just another guy sometimes. Has his profession ever mattered? Has the looks? No for sure, if we really think. It leads one to think, what it is so common among them? What it is which makes them a Hero?

A movie, a book or in short each and every story we have heard or watched has a story, about some one. The story reflects a life style, a perception which came across each and ever time one made decisions and respective action followed. The story reflects a point of view one had about Life, about people and about almost everything. The story tells us all the circumstances which changed one’s perception and his point of view. The story we saw or heard or may be read, we did it through the one’s eye. Then how is there a chance that one is not the hero? So it leads us to conclude that every story we hear about someone from his point of view makes him a HERO, which means every one is a HERO in his own eyes because if life is a movie then everyone has watched the movie from his own point of view and has always known the perception. Aren’t you?

Sunday, July 5, 2009


Gira pada tha yahan, tumne thoker mar ke pare kar diya,
Dekh raha tha aasman, tumne mutthi mein bhar liya,
Kitni lambi udaan thi ,tumne vo dikha di,
Raaste ka kankar tha, tumne jindagi sikha di….

Kal milunga kisi aur mod pe,koi aur thokar mar jayega,
Laaoge apne kadam ke neeche, tumhare sath vala kuch suna jayega,
Hasi khushi,gum aason sab dekha hai sab dekh ke jaaoge,
Pathar dil pathar ko jano,jeena seekh jaaoge.