Storyteller of mud and grass

When a poet turns to face the realisation, that, words are always inadequate in carrying the weight of articulation, there is a surprising feel of both emptiness and liberty in his heart.  The liberty comes to untie nerves, or to relieve heat off the formats and patterns. The freedom comes to let in everything that we are here for. The content comes of having gone the full circle from finding love in poetry to see it as an art to touch the divine and finally to understand its insignificance.  The emptiness comes of not knowing the revelation all the way. The emptiness comes of not knowing that nothing was actually articulated in spite having written hundreds of poems. The reader was reading but the yearning his own nerves, aches of his own heart and whispers of his own unsaid. The reader was never reading the poet's poem.  Writing, composing or the very effort of articulation in any form may be comparable to drinking or any other form of tranquilization, because these art...

Dear Nemesis, Please read this letter at a time when you feel that I am gone. I might have not died but gone in much a real sense. I might have changed, I might have no longer been the same person who used to look into your eyes with an anger, that was more intimate than love could ever be.  I am not gone at all, that's why I am here in this letter. My actions do not align with my core anymore. They never did. That, I have been upsetting you for the longest of times, is why I address you as nemesis today. The language of love, kindness and empathy is unknown to me. I speak in anger, complain, despair, jealousy and defeat. I am inept in speaking the right music. More than love, I have deeply felt the fear of losing you. I am so much in fear of the fixed patterns of losses in my path, that I opted out before you did. My handicap would never see the light of change. I would upset you till the point of being strangers. I sincerely apologise for such poverty.  My idea of life was n...

the thing about unwritten poems  they never heal i hate to remember you in the unwritten pages of my diary not that i don't see, i do at times, i confess,  to self that i haven't stopped seeing you yet in vengeance, in frustration,  in despair  in the desert like longing to see you i see you in all the unwritten pages i write poems  to remove your shadows from the the unwritten pages  love that's not soiled with metaphors and mediocrity  burgeons in health not in diaries  the thing about unfulfilled love, in our despair to forget we remember and remember  i had sworn to move on but the thing about unwritten poems  they never heal

उस टूटी दीवार के पार है  आज अमावस वाला इतवार है  यहाँ से निकल नहीं पायेंगें ये भी एक डर  था कभी  हर तीसरा मकान  दोस्तों का घर था कभी  चाय में सिमटी बारिश मिलती है  धूप  में भीगे बचपन मिलतें हैं टूटी दीवारों पे यादें मिलती हैं सब मिल जाता है पर नही मिलता  तेरे माथे के शिकन देख लेते थे अँधेरे में जीवन देख लेते थे  हर नए पते से ढूंढते तो हैं  पुराने पते पे अब घर नहीं मिलता  रोज़मर्रे में दफन मोहब्बत  आज हमसे भी ज़्यादा बेकार है  उस टूटी दीवार के पार है  आज अमावस वाला इतवार है