I dove deep down yesterday, under a pile of books

Looking for a poet who had been lost since days

I found her hidden in a corner, behind a page

Chewing on a word- ‘lonely’

She had tears in her eyes

She too had been searching for me.

I sat with her for a while, on the edges of her book

Our backs resting on the walls of a poem she had written

I was with her, listening to her tales of sadness

Of words that had left her

Of feelings that no longer inspired poetry

Of the ache she didn’t want to write about

After a while, she sang to me old poems

Those that were written

during a happier time.

When I was leaving, I picked my poet up

Thought I’d keep her in the front pocket of my shirt

Right in front of where my heart was

But her home was in those pages, her soul in

those words

So I settled her on a nice cozy bed

of a brand new page

Promising her happy dreams

And a dose of hope, to help her write again.

I know ‘right before the exams’ is a crazy time for me

Sometimes beautiful and sometimes incredibly difficult

Sometimes all about poetry that flows through my blood in those days

Sometimes the hollowness of my room, sometimes of my thoughts

Sometimes the emptiness in my heart, and sometimes how full I feel

because I took more time than usual in finishing a meal

that would otherwise be over in less than 10 minutes; the slowness comes

in the avoidance of books that I love but hate because I have to glance

through them fast and I can’t taste them slowly and swallow them with

joy; the way I enjoyed my food today.

So I glance at them and look away, at the choices I have made

Of distant poets and story tellers and lovers of words whom I love

and I stare at their lives so deeply with tears in my eyes wondering

if they ever feel the way I feel sometimes; and if I will ever feel the way

they do; and if ever somebody else will wish to feel the way I feel

today

And whether the hunger in my soul and the thirst in my heart

will ever be quenched by my fulfilling the promises I keep making to

myself every now and then.

The book continues to stare at me and I continue to smile at the computer screen

telling myself that there are more important things

and that this time here, my laptop and the candle right next to it,

and the fire it holds, is much more important than learning I will forget

the day my exam gets over; though I hope I don’t.

The Boy Who Creates Music

Right across my room lives the boy who

creates music; dham dham badampam dham dham

giving me wanted and unwanted sounds all day

dham dham dham dham; and inside the room I can see him

his specs staring hard at the screen, his face wearing a

smile; dham dham dhadam dham bam

“Would you like to listen to my new piece?” he says

“Nahhhh, I haven’t got the time”; dham dham

“aacha chal jaldi se suna”

He’s the guy who gives background music to

my life.

But this boy who creates music doesn’t really know

that he creates so much more.

he creates joy for those struck with sadness

and laughter for those who have been serious too long

he creates sparkles in eyes

he makes complete opposites stick along

he creates food everybody loves

and the best chocolate coffee I have ever known

he is everything that is right with me

and everything that is wrong, corrected, and then rolled

into one.

He is crazy plus innocent

like a recipe made of chocolates and music,

psychology and sudoko, chicken shawarma and momos

a pinch of french fries and chhole bhature

and of every random tasty street food

the streets of Lajpat Nagar can produce.

The boy who creates music

gives rhythm to my heartbeats

and a base to my life

a tempo to the speed of work

and a sound to

make everything alright. 

Happy birthday, Sid. You are loved :*

Winters

Like saying ‘hello’ when meeting a treasured friend

Like hugging the warmth of the sunshine

Like warm feelings that had been tucked away under warm clothes

kept in care for colder times

Like reasons to let people come closer

Like excuses to hold them tighter

Like a short day that begs to be lived to the fullest

Like a star-filled night that refuses to get over

You come back to me like an old lover

You whisper in my ears long forgotten songs

You play with my hair

You tickle my heart with your gentle breath

You fill my mind with your scent.

You come to me like an old lover

who will one day say goodbye again.

There are promises that you make to yourself

that will change the way you live your life; and sometimes

you will be able to see as you make them; other times

it’ll be years before you knew you were following a mantra

a motto, or something; and when you look back

it’ll shine through everything you have ever done

and you’ll love it or hate it; but years later, you won’t be able to

do anything about it.

I have made some promises too.

Like the promise I’ve made to never regret the evening I spent

swept in the arms of something I love; like reading poetry

Or listening and singing along to songs in the happiest voice,

Like the day when I chose to ignore a pending assignment

so that I could go and listen to two old men, both poets

as they recited words weaved in magic, casting a spell on me

And the wonder I felt when I saw them grow young

in the span of an hour or so.

And I will never look back with contempt or anger

at the things and people that once made me happy, so happy

that the world seemed brighter when I sat next to them;

and time got wings as I saw it fly by me; and every 'goodbye'

seemed too hard, and every 'hello' so warm..

Because it doesn’t matter if they made me cry, they also gave me

the time of my life; and I promise to be grateful

for each laugh, each smile.

To never regret the time I spent, making people laugh

making them happy, with jokes and stories; truth or fiction

but giving them a time they cherish; time spent with children

listening to their stories of toys and school; of puppies as they

wag their tails, smiling with their eyes and loving oh so completely,

like games played with my mother, or evenings spent with friends

times that needn't be recorded in diaries, and feelings that are hard

to put into words.

And I will never let anyone tell me, to look at my world

with anything but pretty heart-shaped rose-tinted glasses

Because the truth is, we’re all going to wear lenses anyway

so I’ll look at my world with hope and love and its beauty

and people for all the magnificent charm and joys they hold

each person with his own ways of giving out happiness

each person with her own way of showing that she matters.

I made promises to myself the other day

promises I should have made a long time back

promises I intend to keep for a long time to come.

I feel cheated on, today

Because there is someone else out there who is

Living my life—wearing the shoes I would have picked

had I gotten to the store first; and in clothes

that actually belong to me; telling stories

that are hidden in the corners of my heart

And I don’t know how she knows, but she knows

And she flies, while I float around today,

holding on to temporary anchors as I search for wings.

Because there are no words for the things I feel

And reasons for what I feel, but I feel, so much

About so many things—like when I cross the road

And stare at faces that say to me- “you know,

I have an interesting story to tell”; and when I see

mothers holding daughters as they cross roads

and on the other end, daughters holding their mothers

who are children again, once their job is done

And how I laugh and smile and cry

Because I can see the circle of life; but there is no one word

Or even many, that can ever describe the warmth I feel

That sometimes burns the inside.

Because I can see time slipping through my fingers

and life passing by my eyes; while I’m consumed

in work that makes no difference to me, but have to do anyway

and the panic attack I feel, when I see the date

because it’s already October and my friend told me,

that the year ends in 74 days, and because I have no clue

where the rest of the weeks and months went away

And though I know I have changed a lot, as time added

something new to my eyes; I just wish there was some more time

so that I could stop and just feel the change as it occurs.

Because I cheat myself when I don’t say the things I feel

Like the words that sleep dreamy-eyed on the tip of my tongue

waiting for the day they’ll finally come out; and the fine line

between who I am and what I wish to be, and the game

I play as I cross over from here to there every once in a while

And because ‘love’ isn’t such a big word anymore, but ‘feelings’ is

And because you could hold hands and hug people all day

But that in no way means that they understand, or you do

And because we walk but don’t know where to go.

I feel cheated on today.

Cheers to the being who does not keep

A hidden box at the top of the closet

Or in some corner of the heart

Or in its mind

Where it is covered

By the cobwebs of memory

A box that contains bits and pieces of paper

Words and dialogues

Quotes and lyrics

Photographs of smiles

And pictures of views

Letters that haven’t been opened in years

And phone numbers that will never be used

Pens whose souls left them

When their inks ran dry

And papers who knew they had died

When dust came to reside on them

Where once fingers touched,

And tears smiled.

A box

The box

The most dreaded box

The most loved one

The one there

But not really.

Cheers to the being

Who can let it go

Who can but throw

Away the things

That matter no more.

And I will come

looking for you

soon

but I have a box

as of now

to look after.

Have you ever felt so happy in a moment

Maybe after a phone call that lasted not more than 600 seconds

But made you smile all day after that

Because every once in a while, people say the sweetest things

And the euphoria in that minute makes you feel

That no riches in the world

Could make you even half as happy as you feel today

Have you ever felt so complete for a second

That you thought that life is most perfect in the now

And that joy came from nothing but a rooftop

That showed the wide sky to you

With clouds that looked like cotton candy

In the company of people you love too much

And the sounds of songs that sound much better in their voices

Than they ever did on tv

Have you ever felt the warmth of a person

When they hug you in a hurry

and you know that both of you don’t want to leave

so you just stay there, holding each other

and smiling in each other’s ears

wondering that throughout the years

you had waited for this time to come

and that if the wait was so long

is it fair that the moment passes by so soon

have you ever created something so magical

like a poem or a painting or a story

a character, a letter or a joke

that it felt like your own baby to you

that pride you feel when you show it around to people

and say- “you see this beauty?

I created it.”

because lately I find myself concentrating really hard

at my feet

wishing that they could grow roots

that stem out and tie me to this ground

this here, this now

and all my life, I've waited for wings

but in this moment, I guess, I can do without.

She was walking on a way
So confident and bold 
She loved it so crazy 
She could have walked till she grew old 
She walked a little longer 
She walked a little more 
Before she asked herself
What does she really want?

It was a straight path, really
And she could have walked and walked
But how would she then discover
The joys of being lost?

Two roads diverged in the woods
Seems too old now
And it isn’t about the path I want to choose
Its about the million roads that lie ahead of me
Each more wonderful than the next
Each that terrifies me more
And the silent scream
In my heart
Because I don’t want to chose
Just one 
Or any
At all.

I was scared

Once

A long time back

Or so it seems

Of being hurt,

Scared so bad

That I couldn’t let anyone

Come close to me.

Then you came along

And I feel warmth

And strength

And faith

And hope

Somehow

I’m scared no more.

But

Now I have

New things to be scared of

And today

I feel most scared

Of myself

Because

When you stand by me

All weak and soft

Telling me things you tell no one

And believing in me

Not to hurt you

The way I look at you

I’m terrified

Of the me

That’ll want to pinch you

Slowly

And deep

Into the part of your heart

That needs most

To feel loved.

I love a lot of poems

And stories

And people

And things

That break my heart

I love them despite it

and

Sometimes, I guess, I love them for it.

Thinking of all the things I think will make me happy

But what if one day

By a swift move of some fairy godmother’s wand

Or some blessing

Or by sheer hard work

I do get all of it

And what if it doesn’t make me as happy

As I thought it would?

What if all the people and places and pictures

Can’t destroy the fire burning my soul

And what if all the music and dancing

Doesn’t tire me at all

And what if I keep looking for

A place called home?

What if I tell myself

That the true days of joy are somewhere ahead

And for now not laugh a lot

And what if in reality

Maybe the time to be happy

Is now?

Man of a Few Words

I told him he was

a man

of a few words

he said

"Yup, I know."

Hold on to things that give you meaning

The rest don’t belong in your home

Your heart, your mind, your life

Hold on to things that make you learn

Make you grow, make you yearn

The rest don’t belong.

Hold on to things that make your life

Not the ones that ruin it

Or make it sad

Hold on tight

And tighter

To things

And people

That will make you smile

When you think

About them

10 years from now

The rest

Just don’t matter.

I wonder what happens when

The light hugs the darkness

And the smile kisses the tears

Who melts into whom?

Does the darkness grow lighter

Does the light become dark?

Does the smile turn away the tears?

Or do the tears leave a mark?

And what happens when a person is in love

And the other is not quite so

Who decides whether it’ll reach an end?

Or it’ll be love forever for both?

I don’t see how these things mix

When opposites come to interact

From different ends of the city

And from far away points in the mind

To bring to each other

What the other has never seen

And become for each other

What they have otherwise never been.

Painting

I have the perfect painting in my hand

With all the right strokes, from all the correct angles

The figures are beautifully made

And the shades are just right

The paints mix in the ideal way

And it’s neither too dark nor too bright,

I love it when I look at it

I miss it when I look away,

My perfect painting

Then you come along

You show me how one stroke is wrong

And how I missed an angle by 5 degrees

That figure has a hand too big, and that nose doesn't look too real

How a pink would have been better than red there

And how it’s a little lighter than it should be

And I know you are right

It is not perfect

But I would have loved you more

If you would have just let it be.

The worst taste in the world

is not of curry with too much salt

Or of coffee with no sugar

Not of a chocolate

when you eat it

an year after it’s expiry

Or of your chicken when it is undercooked

The worst taste isn’t of a bitter vegetable

that was churned and churned

to get a bright green juice

to heal your upset stomach

The worst taste is

of anger

as you swallow it deep down

Where it stays

longer than

you want it to

And of its little pieces

that stay in your mouth

with a taste that lingers

just to torture you.

Sitting on a bean bag

placed on my balcony

With the sound of my favorite music

playing in the background

And my annoying little brother

trying to correct every single word I write.

But still I write.

Because from where I’m looking

the building right in front of me

is as tall as my hand

And the person

walking on the road

is not even one finger tall

So I sit

and measure everything

from where I’m seated

The trees, the cars

And I try to look at tiny little smiles

But people are just too damn far

And I think of other places

where I can see the world

through such different eyes

Wondering

why I don’t go there

more often.

I want to write a poem on wet mud

Not flowers, or love, or how I feel

But just on plain wet mud

Because to my eyes it reminds

Of the delicious color

Of my favorite chocolate

And to my nose, the favoritist smell in the world

A scent that gives

Such immense, such intense joy

To my mind it brings back memories

Of rainy days

And of those childhood times well spent

Wrapped in mud

Dancing and laughing

It reminds me of the earth

Where everything comes from

And will go one day

Wet mud

Because when I take it in my hand

It can become anything I want

A snake, a pot, a clown

Wet mud

And how it gives life

To all the beautiful trees I love

And I realize

That I have stared at the sky too often

And too long

looking at the stars

And thinking of places where I don’t belong

And now

I stare at this mud

And I know it’s there

I can touch it, feel it, smell it, see it

And as I touch and smell and see

I somehow become

Closer to me.

I hold a record for falling in love

With people

Whom I’ve never looked in the eye

And being so far away from them

That we never even shared

The same air

And because I never knew them as people

I dug as much as I could from afar

For more things about them

That I could love with all my heart

But more often than not

I just fell for a piece of them

Just one single part

Like the guy I loved because I loved his voice

And the jingle in his laugh

The way all words sounded

So much more beautiful

As they came out of his lips

And so it didn’t matter to me what he said

Because I was already in a daze

I loved another two or three

For the thoughts they had

The way their words would rhyme as they spoke

Like every sentence shared its heart with the other

And like words got a whole new meaning

And I was but a student

Trying to learn their magical art

I hold a record for falling in love

With people

So deeply and with all my heart

But loving none except a single part

A soothing voice, a magical soul

But never a person, never a whole

I just know how to love just one part

Maybe that is why I know of love

Only from afar.

Tied to so many people
so tightly
without really knowing
the quality of the rope.

Things I Need to Tell Myself

It is okay to be alone

and it’s okay if you can’t love everybody

It is absolutely okay if you feel sad

or angry

and it is alright if sometimes

life seems unfair.

It is okay to feel lonely

when you sit by yourself

and wish there was someone by your side

and there is nothing wrong if you can’t do

every damn thing you decide.

It is okay to be stupid sometimes

and make a really bad joke

it is okay if you can’t say every little thing

with a voice that isn’t broke.

It is okay if your shoulders slump

on a day you feel too low

and don’t worry so much about tiny

or big things

or if sometimes you don’t like the flow.

It is okay because you’re still awesome

and you will eventually get up and shine

but it is also okay to let go of things

and just rest for a little while.

I have felt anger in its cruelest form
and sometimes its way more right
than wrong.

If I needed to be saved

I would have cried for help.

If I needed to be loved

I wouldn't have let you go.

If I needed to feel complete

I’d never draw half a picture.

If I needed for you to hear my voice

I would have sung my song.

If I needed for you to fall in love

with me

Maybe you would have.

But I don’t,

I don’t,

I just don’t want to.

I Love 4 o Clock in the Morning

I love 4 o clock in the morning

when I can sit in the dark

and write on a piece of paper

with a pen I can hold but not see

and scribble words

without thinking too much.

I love 4 o clock in the morning

when it is so quiet and empty

that it's possible to smell the ink of my pen

and hear the sound of my handwriting

and see the outline of the paper

through my fingers.

I love 4 o clock in the morning

when a thought that had been

sitting in a corner all day

can finally come to light

in the dark.

I love 4 o clock in the morning

it’s the most beautiful hour

when you talk only to people

who matter

and when you think of things

that are most important to you.

I love 4 o clock in the morning

because though technically you’ll say

that it’s morning

and a new day is beginning

For me, it's just the calm peaceful end

to a day full of chaos.

I just love 4 o clock in the morning.

P.s- as a rule, anybody who writes should ALWAYS keep a pen and paper by the bedside. 

:)