Being There

Her eyes shut in his heart
Like death pervading through
Each speck of blood
Which dignified his breath
And merited his existence.

Her sound rang
Sublimely in his mind
And he conversed
With the nothingness
Of the universe.

Her shadow cast darkness
On the happiness
Which grew in the black
Corners of his thought
And brightened his depths.

Her inquisitiveness
Asked him, “are you there?”
And his hands tightened
Around her nerves
And replied, “what do you think?”



My past does not know
my present,
and my future, in turn,
is alien to my present.

Ask my mirror
how hilarious this
seems to him,
for he shows two images
of myself.

The real
behind itself
and the fake-
the one that stands
in front of it.

Neither knows the other.

I Like Such Deaths

You know how
you are drowning
and that complete
enigma of the moment
is ruined
by a rock
that breaks your fall…

that is how devastated
she left me
while, when staring
into her excited eyes,
she blinked.

And there I sat
with my eyes wide
in shock
and the hope
of her blinking again
was killing me, intently,
I liked such a death.



Dying Beautifully

I had my gaze
upon a blessing
of beauty.

I don’t know the
color or the hue
I was looking into.

It could have been
blue, or dark
or shades of grey.

But this once,
was the only while
I saw into nothingness.

First time, when,
I could not see
an image of myself.

A vacant mind
and not a heart beat
and no movement.

That is how I was
for the first time
looking into her eyes.

I’ll never regret
this one moment
I died a beautiful death.

Her Eyes… And Death.

Thought or no thought,
the mere gaze
into such
deafening emptiness

where the bees
would think twice
before directing
their wings;

where the petals
do not dare
to spread
their scented beauty;

where laughter
is heard
but only in fiction
and thus, never;

where the rain
can only be
compared with
equatorial deserts;

that is her eyes…
is looking into death.
Ah, the pleasure
that is… death.

एक तालाब की कहानी

दो बतखों की
कहानी सुनाता हूँ.
एक सफेद था,
एक पीला था शायद,
रंग इतना मालूम नहीं
की अंधा था वो.
हर बसंत मिलते थे
अपनी-अपनी कहानी सुनाते
फिर जाड़े में उढ़ जाते.
आधे साल बाद
फिर वही तालाब-किनारे
मिल जाते थे.
अब कयी बरस हो गये थे
उन्हें मिल.
याद करते हुये वो दिन
जो साथ नहीं बिताये.
बूढ़े हो गये थे
दोनो बतख. सफेद,
अब दोनो. दोनो अंधे.
तो जब बात चली,
की उस बीते समय में
साल कितने गुज़र गये,
तो बूढ़े बतखों
को याद नहीं.
“चार,” तालाब बोला.


मा की कब्र और मेरा घर

सीने से लगा ले माँ,
उठ, और मुस्कुरा दे देख मुझे
आज मैं तेरे पास आया हूँ…
तो क्या हुआ
जो बदन पर कपड़े नहीं हैं,
और पैरों पर छाले हैं?
तो क्या हुआ
जो थोडी सी चोट लगी है, और
माथे पर थोडा खून है?
तो क्या हुआ
जो कुछ खाया नहीं है
और गला सूखा पड़ा है?
जंग से पहली जो बस चली
उसी में सवार,
अपने घर अया हूँ माँ…
उठ माँ,
देख मैं अब भी अमीर हूँ…
मेरा घर मुझसे मत छीन|


The Portrait Of A Woman


Who touches her,
she who’s so sublimely
standing with her saree
draped modestly around her?

Who dares anchor vision
but into her eyes
that look far into nothingness
trying to find home?

Who clears his throat
that goes dry with the thought
of colouring her
white saree red?

Who does not see
the woman in her
and realise the human in him
and keep his nails trimmed?

Who wishes to tear
the canvas on which
I have lovingly painted
the portrait of a woman?

Gazing Oceans


on naked, cold floor,
walking slowly
on a winter night
through empty rooms…

mild fog escaping
my parted lips
among heavy,
slow breathing…

silence surrounds me
and so
does dread
in the companionship
of darkness.

And if I can find
in the image
of the moon
in my eyes,

I should,
step out and gaze
at the vastness
of oceans.

कोई ढूंडो मेरी माँ को

खो गयी है मेरी माँ…
वो प्लास्टिक के ब्रश से
रगड़कर चमकाये हुये
मेरे जूतों में कहीं.

खो गयी है मेरी माँ…
कंधों में घुसते
कोट को चीरते
उस भारी बस्ते में कहीं.

खो गयी है मेरी माँ…
मोबाइल पर टक टक करते
मेरे अंगूठों से लिखे
संदेशों में कहीं.

खो गयी है मेरी माँ…
कयी मिन्नतें करके
वो बॉस से ना मिली
एक छुट्टी में कहीं.

खो गयी है मेरी माँ…
बरसों से इकट्ठी करी
मेरी यादों में कहीं.
कोई ढूंडो मेरी माँ को.