न तुमने इत्तिला की
न हमने गुज़ारिश
और यूँही अरसा बीत गया इस बात का इल्म होते होते
कि तुमसे इश्क न किया तो क्या किया?

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मेरे आँगन में धूप बिखरी हुई है, तुम आ कर लेट जाओ। जो धूप तुम्हारी परछाईं से छन्न जाए, वो मेरा इश्क़
और जो धूप तुम्हारे बदन पर निखर जाए वो तुम्हारी बेरुखी

कहने को एक ही चीज़ है, पर तुम्हारा बदन है गोरा
और मेरी परछाईं काली

वैसे तो तुम्हारी परछाईं में रहना गवाँरा है मुझे, पर ये जो नए नए मर्द रोज़ रोज़ तुम्हारे गोरे बदन को पूजते हैं न,
उनकी परछाइयां भी मेरे ऊपर पड़ती हैं

और कसम तुम्हारी, ऐसा लगता है जैसे काला होना सच में एक गुनाह है

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बस आज की रात कट जाए...

(Poem in the caption)

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For a man, there are only a few things harder than to accept that he has lost something precious to another man.

It is even harder when he has to admit that there wasn't much he could do about it.

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When lovers leave your bed
the bed smells of them
for days.

When lovers leave you
you reek of them
for a lifetime.

It's a pity that we take
so many of them
to bed
and change the bedsheets
every now
and then
conveniently forgetting
that while bedsheets are replaceable
hearts aren't.

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Your black sweater
gently hugging your breasts,
my yellow sweater
which you had cradled
between your arms,
that strand of hair,
which always rests
on your forehead,
your blue shoes,
and your closed eyes
illuminated by the setting Sun
made me believe
with absolute conviction
that I was in love.
I knew then
that she is the woman
I'll always love.

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Loving a living being is an act of subtlety. It's like watering a plant - a little every day. 

My father loves gardening. He raised a guava tree in my garden. It took time and constant, albeit fractioned, attention. Not all of his attention was there but he kept looking out for the plant. He kept nurturing it for weeks. When away, he would ask my mom to water the plant.

Finally, when the tree bore fruits, when I had my first guava, the feeling I had could be best described as innocuous. I was mindlessly slurping through it. Then I had another one, and another. It wasn't surreal or magnetic, but innocuous, despite the time it had taken to bear fruits.

That's what love is. Innocuous. You don't feel the magnanimity. You feel the subtlety.

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The mind wages battles the heart cannot bear.

The mind wages battles. The heart cannot bear.

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- F. Scott Fitzgerald

When you held my hand, I wanted to take yours and place it on my chest. My heart was still racing - as it had been since the moment you sat next to me. It was cold, and I was only wearing a tee. I wanted to cuddle. I wanted to kiss you. So I did what I could. I looked away.
(Read more in the caption)

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I extrapolate your moans,
of which I had only three,
to try and sniff how loud
and fearsome you could be
in pain and pleasure.

What I don't have a metric for
is your indifference.
I have nothing to measure
the sound of your silence
and the extent of your coldness.

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