Love, Old And New.

The monuments that were so crafted to stand as witnesses to the beneficence 
and magnificence of the rulers that ruled over Delhi, for however long, have
become the favorite playgrounds of the young lovers of the city. If you walk
through Lodi Gardens, or Humayun's Tomb, at any time, even in the scorching 
heat of April, you're more likely to run into a couple whispering sweet 
nothings to each other, under the shade of a tree, than a tourist appreciating 
the meticulousness of the architectural wonders. This poem is in regard to 
the same idea and is, in parts, inspired from Ravish Kumar's absolutely 
delightful collection of nano-tales, 'Ishq mein Sheher Hona'.

I don’t understand Delhi.

Why do we come to buildings

The walls of which, reflect

The Sun, with a funerary gaze

And allow Amaltas to bloom

in their shades, like only

Planted to be displayed

On biers of glory

That doesn’t remain.

Leave the tombs

To the dead, and let us

Craft our own infinities

In squalid alleys that

Reek of sweat, spit and

Alcohol-laden morning breaths

That went to sleep, very late.

Come, let us build our own

Shrines of love, in between

The corporate rubble of

Gurgaon, and on the glass

And concrete inscribe our

Tales of gentle caresses

Stolen from this city

Of callous denizens,

And dreary dreams

[verses to match Khusrau’s]

somewhere under the

Moolchand Flyover.

Processed with VSCO with p5 preset

Kailash Colony, languidly reflecting the Sun on a Sunday morning.


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Another Pointless Translation – Saara Pyaar Tumhara.

Alternative title for this translation – Happy Birthday, Karunya C Banerjee.
Link to the song:

‘Aanchal’ refers to the extra fabric that remains after a sari is tied and is usually hung over the shoulder. It is a very popular image used in Hindi poetry and Bollywood, and as tradition remains, several women, across India, even today, tie their most precious possessions to it, whether it be money, jewels, or the keys to their wardrobes.

Gathered, I have, all

your love, in the

folds of my aanchal.


The grace of you,

I shall forever see,

in the hands of a clock,

as they swiftly flee,

against the passing

of every second.


Upon resting my eyes,

on your glimmering face,

from exhaustion of

this life, in a passing

moment, I feel salvaged,

I feel safe.


Embody all my dreams,

you do. To have you by

my side, is to fulfill the

purpose of this life.


Shone the lines of my

fate, in the lines of kohl

that adorn your eyes.


We shall be brought

even closer, by a

lover, somewhere,

sometime, and the

world shall see, our

reflection, in all his

tormented smiles.


It is a different time

that passes now,

don’t leave me alone, I

implore. The Jasmines

bloom differently, I fear.

Stay by my side, don’t

let me go for the

endlessly flowing tide

of this World and its facades.


Gathered, I have all

your love, in the

folds of my aanchal.



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Simran, Agar Mujhse Hota.

Simran, agar mujhse hota toh mai
tumhare liye kayi nazmein
likhta, aur un nazmon mei
apne ehsaaso ko shabdo
se saja kar tumhare saamne
rakhta. Tumhare bachpane
ko kisi hava mein khilkhilati
dhaal pe gaata huya phool
bolta, aur tumhari payal ki
khanak ko kisi jaam se
chalakti sharaab keh kar,
un lafzo ko jakad kar, be-
intehaan jhoomta. Par
mujhse hota nahi, kyunki
tu bhi kisi roz, nazm ban
kar mere labo pe giri thi
aur har nazm ki tarah
kuch hi lamho mein
hava mein mehak gayi thi
jaise baarish ke baad
mitti mehakti hai, kisi
garmi ki shaam ko raat
ki rani, behakti hai.
par fir, tu bhi har nazm
ki tarah, mere hothon ko
choo kar, udd gayi, aur
peeche bas apna ehsaas
chorh gayi.

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How To Make A Dream.

It is a terrific process
to make a dream, you
start with three spoons
of full-fat cream, and
fold into it, the skyline
of a foreign city, that
sells, wrapped in lights
and Marijuana leaves,
a glory that you shall
blindly seek, until it
fails to serenade you
further or your bones
begin to crumble at
their seams.

Once the rocketing peaks
of the silver skyscrapers
have started sticking to
the corners of your mind,
add three ounces of finely
crushed memories, of what
was and what could have been,
solely for the slightly
wistful flavor, it leaves
in the back of your teeth,
but, remember to make sure
that they’re ground to
perfection, for from what
I’ve heard, when allowed to
exist too extravagantly,
memories can make the
inside of your cheeks
bleed, and also, ruin
the flavor profile of
amateur dreams.

By now you should
be seeing the batter
turn slightly red, with
an unlikely sheen,
reminiscent of men
that work every day,
every hour, chasing
hollow moulds that
promise joy, endlessly.

When the effort you’ve
put in, starts to match
theirs, know it’s time to
let that dream bake, in
the chambers of your
heart, you’re most likely
to hear wails and sobs,
for dreams are not unlike
schoolboys that throw
tantrums for fulfillment
of their juvenile whims
and shed tears thereafter.

But hold your own and
put your finger down
and watch it grow and
flutter its wings, longing
to be free, and eventually
leave, through your chest
and out, brushing against
your quivering lips like
a silent scream.

And that’s how you make a dream.

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Another Pointless Translation – Sabse Peeche Hum Khade.

I've added a link to the original song here, please give it a listen.
Happy Birthday, Maths. 

Lift your eyes and you shall see,

it is here that we happen to be.

Why do you choose to be indifferent,

not bad enough for this, are we.


Do not believe what the World sings.

Do not let us be lost.

It is easy to know this,

whether we belong to you or not,

only ever, if you ask within.


En-charmed by your eyes,

the world seems to be,

and in this crowd we stand,

[waiting] hopelessly,

right at the very end.


Came and went, evenings of pleasure,

came and went, people,

but today, that you come,

you shall forever rest,

in my heart and me.


Do not smile, and let this

pass, for if we ever happen

to cross paths, again, after

tonight, you shall only say,

not bad enough were we.


En-charmed by your eyes,

the world seems to be,

and in this crowd we stand,

[waiting] hopelessly,

right at the very end.

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Happy Birthday, Dïto.

Walking down boulevards that smell of 
freshly-baked croissants and romances 
that dwell in the lanes of Montmartre, a 
hand-rolled cigarette hanging from my 
mouth, playing its part, with rain creeping 
her way in, running down my fingers, 
dripping from my navel like my last lover, 
I’ll always think of them who dared to 
dream, to play songs that’d tear through 
the night and herald a good winter. I’ll 
strum the strings in my mind like the last 
call of the crow before it retires for the night
and question the waste of all her love, if I 
was always there. ‘I’ll try to be patient and 
I’ll try to be kind,’ I’ll try my best 
to wait for happiness to sneak in from behind.

Humming the wrong words to myself, I’ll always
lend some space in my curdling head to a lovely
maiden who goes to embassy parties to speak in
cringing Russian and Greek on days when my
body will feel like ‘Himalayan glaciers in the Fall’,
when the stars will refuse to shine over my head
and all love will seem like mannequins at the mall.

I’ve never been to church, but every time my
mother will talk about how she’s hurt, for my 
love and life doesn’t fit into the moulds, 
she has morphed for me, I’ll play the tunes 
that remind me of, the song you sang for the 
amateur me, and bounced my dreams, 
on your dancing fingers.

And it is all because of you.

You’ll always come back to me
like a song and not a time of a
day. You’ll always come back
like a subtle reminder of how
pretty things rot and how they
bloom, into exuberance and 
light and colour, like flights
right before they take off, like
prayers right before they leave
my lips.
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To Piyu, How to Bake Bread.


The first step to baking bread from scratch is to move yourself 

to a coastal town somewhere around Cancun and rent a lodge 

that costs nothing more than 12 cowrie shells, cleaned and placed, 

systematically, in a row, through a strand of seaweed, to adorn the 

landlord's neck. Then you find a friend, in a canine that refuses to sit, 

in silence, for more than a minute, at a time. Juggle ideas for his name,

while he rushes through the clear waters and allow yourself to be drowned 

in the honesty of his eyes and his proclamations of temporary forevers

in his imperceptible language of whimpers barks and howls. Then go on 

to name him after an alcoholic beverage you’ll grow to appreciate, 

as much as you shall grow to appreciate him. Once you have your 

superman lair and your woofing apprentice, wrap yourself in a saree 

that spells out incantations that trap men in an admiring gaze in golden 

thread and silver sequins. Now you’re ready to get down to the kneading 

of the dough that shall rise and fortify your heart, protecting the little daisies 

and dreams you nurture in its crimson chambers, behind the cage of hollow 

bones. After the dough is kneaded and the warmth of your body, your words 

and your curious mind has heated the corners of your World, you let it bake 

and revel in the scent of freshly baked bread while dancing around with puerile 

exuberance on your maturing face, shedding some light and happiness, that 

tends to unarm the sternest of men and forces them to smile, on everyone that 

manages to be blessed with a moment or two in your immediate vicinity. 

Or you could just buy the perfume that your van mate wore, that smelled like

bread and carry it around to make the World easier to live in for yourself and

for everyone you hold close to your heart.

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