एक ही सवाल वो बार बार दोहराते हैं

महंगा फ़ोन लेने पर जाने कितना सुनाते हैं

तुम्हारे बड़े मुकामों पे मिलती हैं छोटी छोटी शाबाशियाँ

पर अपने दिनों की चलती रहती रात- दिन किस्सेगोइययाँ.

थोड़े ज़िद्दी, थोड़े अकड़ू अब होने लगे हैं

रोशनी के साथ आँखों की चमक भी खोने लगे हैं

बचपन के कंधों का सिंहासन अब झुका खुका सा लगता है

एक निवाले के लिए पीछे भागने वाली के घुटनों में अब बस दर्द बसता है

एक पल के लिए छोड़ दो तुम अपना सारा व्यापार

और बटोर लो दोनो हाथों से उनका आशीर्वाद और क़िस्सों का भंडार

क्योंकि जीवन ने अपने आप को कुछ ऐसा लाकर मोड़ा है

की मां- बाप के साथ अब वक़्त बहुत थोड़ा है

It took me years, decades, centuries, millenniums
To find a voice
That sounded like me
Until then
Something buzzed in my throat
That would resonate someone else
Something rang in my ears
That would make me cringe
Something rode on my shoulders
That would crush my back
And then in years, decades, centuries, millenniums
My namesakes
Formed a pyramid of hope
A pyramid of courage
A pyramid of dignity
A pyramid of respect
A pyramid of love
Only to put me at the top.
It took me years, decades, centuries, millenniums
To find a voice
That sounded like me
And when I found it
It took the ungrateful me
Only days, hours, minutes, seconds
To lose it all again.

ना फूलों पे सोई थी मैं
ना पलकों पे खेली
ना रेशम में लिपटी थी मैं
ना झूलों  में झूली
नरम नरम बिस्तर ना मेरा
ना षटरस  पकवान
ना कोई थी मधुर कहानी
ना लोरी की तान
रंग बिरंगे कपड़े कब थे
कब थी बिंदिया लाली
ना ही कोई गुड़िया मेरी
सुंदर आँखों वाली
मिट्टी ने हैं पाला मुझको
मिट्टी ने है काढ़ा
मिट्टी का ही रंग चढ़ा है
मुझपर इतना गाढ़ा

कहते हो तुम नही है मुझमे
कोई अदब की आशा
कहते हो तुम भूल मैं जाऊँ
अपनी ये परिभाषा
कहते हो तुम जंग  नही ये
दुनिया की रीतें हैं
कहते हो की मुझसे कम हैं
सब रीतो में जीतें हैं
कहते हो तुम मैं छुप जाऊँ
सोने के महलों में
कहते हो तुम मैं घुल जाऊँ
मीठी इन गज़लों में
कहते हो के बन जाऊँ मैं
सुघड़ और संस्कारी
पर ना जाने कब समझोगे
तुम मेरी लाचारी

कैसे मैं बतलाऊँ तुमको
नदी नही सागर हूँ
जल कर, तप कर, आज बनी जो
सपनों की गागर हूँ

साँचे में ना आऊँगी मैं
नही बनूँ परछाई
मिट्टी हूँ, नही ख़ौफ़ किसी का
मैं संघर्षों की सिपाही।

In infinite numbers
In infinite shapes
are these paintings.
These tiny crimson droplets
These stamps of bravery
or cowardice
Nobody knows
or everybody does.

A was merry, B was radiant
A's feast was tomorrow
B's deity was waiting
A's odyssey was taking him home
B's voyage sought the Almighty

A was stabbed
B was shot
Both amusing the lovers of crimson

In infinite numbers
In infinite shapes
are the likes of A and B
Lost in the Arcadia.

तुम सा नहीं है मेरा शहर
सतरंगी है, एकरंगा नहीं.

तुम से बिलखते बच्चे हैं तो क्या
चमचमाती इमारतें छुपा देती हैं उन्हें
बहन का दुपट्टा खींचा है बहुतों ने
पर ज़हानत की चर्चा है समंदर पार भी

क्यों न इतरायें हम खुद पर
तंग नज़र नहीं जो तुम जैसी
राह थम जाती है काली बिल्ली पे
पर सड़कें तो बेहतर हैं तुम से

हरफनमौला है मेरा शहर
दिल दरिया और नज़रें पैनी हैं
होंगे हुनरमंद तुम्हारे भी चमन के
महकाया होगा गुलों को तुमने भी
 पर अब ना देना दस्तक चौखट पे
कुंडियां लगा दी हैं दरवाज़े की
क्योंकि तुम सा नहीं है मेरा शहर.

Expectations, they say,

assassinate bliss

Expectations, they say,

tempt tears

Expectations, they say,

demolish castles

Expectations, they say.

break hearts.

I have, a zillion times,

begged them to stay away

I have, more than once,

snubbed their lofty kinship

I have, with a heavy heart,

pushed them in the secret closet.

God only knows why and how

have they gulped down

oaths of the strangest nature

Oaths that bind them

to pull out all the strings

that keep my joyous packets together.

My mother tongue sounds Swahili
familiar words are drowned
My favourite author makes no sense
even after a dozen pages

My obligatory replies are mere nods
most questions go unnoticed
My thoughtless smile does the job
for the demanded greetings

My mind succumbed to a haemorrhage
the moment after I saw you the last.
My injury might take ages to recover
for the cure lives miles away.

Wiping my tears
I realized
how hot in the inside
and cold on the cheeks
she must have felt
being the casualty of my screams.
I am the boss,
I thought
and my universe
should make and break stars
when my heart wishes
I thought.
Now, I too have a boss
and her universe
should make and break stars
when her heart wishes.
I am a meek meteor
that should hit the planet
with her remote.
I realized
how the meteor of my universe
burst itself into flames
with my remote.

Crimson, lavender and pink
have had a strife
for dominance.
Robin, sparrow and koel
all want to become
the singing sensation
of my grove.

The green
 is not just in the orchard
the creepers have covered the roof
with their mighty net

Why do you have to
knock the content door
every now and then
and bring back
the yellow leaves of autumn?

Green makes me look dull
you might think
but my gardener
knows the best for me
and my grove.

So stop invading my subconscious
and keep the hailstones away.

'Books are a man's best friend'

And for her, they were
till she was inconsiderate
of what was seeping in.
As she grew up
she was made to develop
comradeship with
the needle
and the spices
and the washing soap.
Books she saw
only at her brother's desk.
Later, she was sold
in a bizarre market
where give and take was odd.
Where the seller
was also the payer.
Customer satisfaction , however,
is a difficult promise to keep.
When she tried comprehending
the enigma
of the ensnaring trade
her voice was cut out
by the roarings of other animals.
That worldly matters are not her concern
declared her in-laws.
That wisdom tags itself along
only with the college degree
declared her brothers.
She understood
that superiority was granted
only to her folks
and sensed rightly that
decision making
wasnt her right.

'Books are a man's best friend'
Her daughter alteredthe quotation
to make them
a woman's best friend too.
As she grew up
her comradeship developed
with Marx
and Luther
and Literature.
When she was brought
in the same old market
with the thickest of make-up
and the shiniest of attires
and the gradest of sums
to make her
the best pick,
she protested.
Her voice was cut out
by the roarings of other animals.
That she reads impractical stuff
declared her neighbours.
That books do not mirror reality
declared her father.
The repetition of history had occurred
its just that
she couldnt understand how
her folks had the right
to overpower her
and why
the decision making
wasn't her right.

She could hear the squealing fading
as she was walking away.
The noise was a competition
to the 24-hour FM stations;
The difference being
The tone of hatred in the former
and affection in the later.
That noisy place was where she belonged
and the ones who screamed and swore,
brought her to the world .
While she was walking back home
as the sun dropped down
the voices were growing clearer
and when she retired to her room
in her thoughts was roaming
the man who she thought
had the best of looks
and the best of cars.
And the best of diamonds
was offered to her
fitted in the ring.
And yet
the acceptance couldn’t come naturally.
She saw a moving picture
on the wall
She and He
Curled up in the silken blanket
Near the tranquil fire
Him singing her the love ballads
And her cheeks picking up shades
From the family of red
Suddenly, out of the reel life
the sound of the flower vase breaking
from the adjacent room
hit her eardrums.
And then in the moving picture she saw
him lifting her up
and throwing her viciously on the ground
when she collected herself
and tried to get up
he pushed her again
this time with feet
calling her names .
The fire was not tranquil anymore
Nor were the things
She woke up the next morning
and went to see him
only to leave him brokenhearted.
Finally rejecting his proposal
just the way she did that
of the boy next door
and her best friend at college.

Late in the night
my dormant senses
felt Beethoven’s symphony.
I heard your familiar voice
as I pushed the green button
wondering why do they say
you’re not the same.
I didn’t cry
nor did I complain
for staying aloof
all these years,
for not holding on to me
for not wiping
my tears.
I talked the way I did
when we talked everyday.
Your last girlfriend
didn’t find a mention
nor did you ask about
my current relationship status.
You talked the way you did
when we talked everyday.
And this darkest of the nights
became the brightest for me.
The next thing I remember
was the creaking sound
of the bathroom door
and my landlady yelling
at the housemaid.
You were gone
and so was your number
from my call history
when I opened my eyes.

In the garden of Eden
I saw you relishing the fruit
from its first encounter
with your senses
and you say
I was the stimulus?
You charged me for that
through books
through epics
through minstrels
and have been cursing me
since ages.
My captivating beauty
mesmerised you
till labour was alien.
My acts of breaking through
your prison walls
were sinful, said your Prophets.
My second sin makes me a castaway.
If not, I am whipped
and dragged by hair
back into the confinement.
I thank the enticer, however
for the fruit has made me mortal
and has thus afforded
the only possibilty
of liberation.

When those ever twinkling eyes
become a brimming bag of salt water,
you feel your heart getting heavier
filled with something
that hasnt yet been christened.
When a pearl falls,
white curtains are drawn
restricting all your sensibilities.
A wave drives you to her
and that is all you know.

You grew up with her
pulling her hair,
spoling her drawings,
misplacing her specs;
annoying her to the extent of crying
not just once.
And now,
watching that stream of sea water
finding its way
through her round cheeks
is unbearable.
Childhood is nowhere
but in the golden frame of memories.
A grown up girl she is called now
courted by many
with roses and songs
and her tears say
even dejected by a few:
things that you refrain from discussing
and even denying
any knowledge of.

You know your stupid jokes
might bring a grin
but the dampness of the face
and the heart
will remain.

Being the elder one, you think
sensibility of a higher degree
comes naturally.
Neither will you ever realize
nor will she declare
that despite all the adversities
the greatest gift
the Almighty showered upon her,
she thinks,
is sending her as the little sister
to a brother like you
who grows restless
when her smile ceases to show up.
She runs and falls
but runs again
because the first aid box
for her scratched knees
will always be there
with you, she knows.

The sun rays travelled
from the window to her face
but nothing moved her closed eyes
or her body
not even his shudderings.
She wasnt answerable to him now
because her citizenship was granted
by the world of senselessness
Her loss, was less; his fame, was more
a matter of concern.
Auden's 'Unknown Citizen' was he.
Not a begetter of stories
till yesterday.
From today
the neighbours, the kinsmen and others
will be the news channels
contesting to be the first one
to report
and investigate the mystery underneath.
The flowchart functioning in his brain
was this.

Husain died in exile
and so did she
Though at her home, away from his heart.
The 'Happily Married' tag
expired within months of its issue
yet they carried it along
well aware of its inautheticity,
as a substitution
would have invited tales
and decreased the status quotient.
Watching from somewhere, up there
she was reflecting
on everything she had left behind
and thinking
only if, to him
the world that bothers
was not beyond her now closed eyes,
the 'Happily Married' tag
would have passed all the quality checks
and they would also have
'lived happily ever after'.

No, we are not together
and nor will ever be.
Yes, we have parted ways
and embraced the left bits of life.
But somehow I know
sitting drunk with a college mate
in a lonely bar
you mentioned my name
and swinged back
in antiquity.
Addressing a female colleague at work
my name reached your mouth
but you swallowed it back
realizing the sin
you were about to commit.
Holding your spouse's hand
at the windy beach
her face looked like mine to you
in the uncooked light
of the twilight
but the adjacent second
brought with it the truth.
A cut-paste option
is not life.
Its a cloth dipped in ink
leaving impressions
all over the silk route.
'Lovers' is not the word for us
but 'strangers' we can never be...

Arrogance is her mate,
they say
Snobbishness, her sister.
Her mood swings are lunatic
and her witch- like arsenal brain
leaves none uninjured
they say.
A kin of Satan she is;
Her face, the primary seducer
Her voice, the other one
Her smile, yet another
they say.
Her trap isn’t an artefact,
she knits it with her look
and extracting energies
is her artifice
they say.
They say what they hear
But say not
what they see:
Those impotent eyes
abandoned by innocence
devoid of love
and now, even tears.
Her blink had clicked his snap
that was to be with her
till the final sealing.
The image is stolen now
Cataract seems to have hit her.
Longing tried to make it
its residence once
but they say
such guests are ephemeral
and before they go
they kill the optimism bug.
All that her eyes are known for now
are layers of kajal
and coloured contact lenses
that conceal the cataract
and infertility.

Like the candle flame
their love
finds its meaning
only in the dark.
In the daylight
they are like strangers.
An acknowledgemnet of acquaintance
is a mere formality
that they exercise
with several others.
He has a family
on this shoulders
and she has a society
to answer
Yet
the best place to dwell, they know
is in each other's arms.

He bought her diamonds the other day
and a dress a week ago
But they do not seem to
enchant her anymore.
Why she keeps on asking
the same question
"Do you really love me?"
He has affirmed the statement
a thousand times.
Why would he sprinkle the reward
of his hard earned labour
on someone he doesnt?
Of course he does.
More than any woman on the planet.
Atleast this is what he says.

Stupid woman,
Stupid desires.
Diamonds do not content her
Now she wants everything
His house
His family
Even his name.
Her wadrobe has a section for
a box of vermillion
but its empty
and she knows
that it will always be.
Because she is the 'other woman'
in his life
And no matter how much he proclaims
inside those four walls
his love for her,
the 'other woman'
she will always be.

Can you destain that
snow white garment
over which
you spilled the red wine
while making merry
during that Christmas eve?
The snow has rusted
robbed of
its soothing behaviour
and all its piousness.
You thought
that five letter word
would renounce you
from all your sins .
That magical word 'sorry'
would wipe off all the weeds
from your path
of karma.
Can you reassemble those pieces
that were one
before you loosened your fingers
to let it hit the ground?
Can you join them together
unlike the jigsaw puzzles
so that it never would recall
that it was once broken.
"Sorry" is the only word
left in your dictionary.
I want to know
what do you mean
when you say
"I did not mean that".
Tear yourself into pieces
and stain each one
with red.
Feel the pain of breaking
and let the world ridicule you
for your blotted self
Will then you tongue and voice
ever consent
to reduplicate the sentence
"I did not mean that"?
If they do
and only if they do
will this five letter word
fulfill the task
appointed to it.

The door opened
and my eyes
could hardly capture your face
because my body
was wrapped
in the blanket
of your skin.
The warmest welcome
I ever got
had you
as the key player.
What authority have the people then
to declare
that you were cold
during my next visit?
I know you were not.
Sleeping though,
could yet sense
my presence.
I know you were there.
Immovable though,
could yet read
my thoughts.
Even while concealing
your presence
from the world,
you come to see me
when the world
lies asleep.
Can't forget that night
when we held each other
and cried
for hours
without letting a word
travel in the air.
I know you will come
someday again
when the world will
re-vision your charm.