'119'
A poem

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On my wall,
in a long forgotten home,
there are blackening
medals of gold,
which I won in
Olympiads.

There are trophies
and cups,
of myriad shapes
that honour
my prowess at quizzes.

Old they are,
for, today I failed
to answer
one simple question.

What have I done with my life?

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/*Piece in caption*/

-

Would my words
reach you
If I packed them
in a poem
and shipped them
over the internet?

Or,

have we drifted apart
so far away that
even our words can't
travel towards each other
in our silence?

-

As writers and poets, we are quite an imaginative bunch of people. We animate dead stuff. We make birds and inspects speak. A natural phenomenon becomes a symbol of hope. A season of rain depicts abject sadness. Well yes, we over do things. But don't forget in the process of looking at the world around us, we are avoiding to look at the person in front of us. It's good to animate and anticipate their love with the words that we write, but once in a while, pay attention to the love they seek. We will always have silence to do our conversations for us. Yet, when they stand right in front of you, for god's sake, speak! If you don't, your secret unspoken words will ricochet right back at you from their so called heart made of stone.
So speak out your heart to the ones who need to hear it. You will save your love that way.

-

Love is a broken mirror.

Look too deep inside it
&
you find yourself broken too.

-

The death of a dream.

-

आँखें खोल के बहुत दुनिया देख ली साहेब,
कभी दिल खोल के भी देख लीजिए।

-

The first rains in a town evoke feelings that cannot be captured in words. The smile on my face was drenched. Forgetting umbrella was my habit which I secretly cherished. I wiped my spectacles on my wet T-shirt. But the visibility did not improve. Suddenly, the sky thundered and the shower intensified. I rushed into the bus stop which was the nearest shelter. I removed my glasses and peered around. There was already someone. "Are you the astronomy guy?" A familiar voice, a familiar tone. I wore back my spectacles to check the source. "The art class girl!" I don't know why but I was happy to see her again. We shook hands and exchanged smiles. The petrichor was subdued by her perfume of jasmine. Just then, the showers subsided. "The rains here are beautiful. I love it here," she said. "I agree. I guess you are going to see more of this?" I asked her. Her eyes turned playful as she retorted, "Including yourselves?". "Maybe, yes" I answered. With a tiny laugh, she waved to me and left.
The mystery of this girl was messing with my heart. It still does, when the first rains of the season arrive.

-

If conscience is a lovely pillow,
love is a comforting blanket.

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