Eid In India, 2017.

A message from the Moon

Was just received,

That this Eid, he will arrive

A little later than believed,

For that silver man is yet confused

About what to do,

If Indian railways can’t be used.


I tried to converse with him for a bit,

And question what left him this perturbed,

To allow the sumptuous delights

To be served,

Under an unlit sky,

And to this he very eloquently replied,


Sir, this happens to also be

The first Eid,

Where even Allah can’t say with surety

If those that hang on seekhs,

Are carcasses of poultry,

Or the body of an innocent man,

A Muslim, who enjoyed his share of meat,

Being roasted till cooked just right,

while the keepers of our democracy fan

The fire of the tandoor.

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A Gathering of Rebel Meteorites, In The Middle Of Nowhere.

Bar stools, twisting,
On orbits of steel,
Reflected, that night,
The shine
Of a fifty few stars
That were all
‘Made in China’
And sold in Delhi ─
Gift wrapped in
Copper and tungsten wires ─
To adorn the walls
Of an apartment that had,
No one to call
His own,
And yet smelled of
Leather upholstery,
And hung-over infinities.

And on them sat,
Meteorites who had
Sneaked out, away,
From their inconsiderate parents,
To do the
Mambo number five,
And craft, in this

Inebriated haze
Their own galaxies.


A bunch of wayward meteorites, 4:59am.


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Radiohead, You And Me.

We reminded me

Of Radiohead songs

In the manner with

Which, we swayed

Against the tide of

The several instruments,

Soft and mellow, one

Second, and blaring

Our beings, to each

Other’s naked ears,

In another. Tracing

Words and worlds

That spelled


In oddly placed

Riffs and refrains,

Upon our bare and

Corroded chests

With our chilly, bony

Fingers, making each

Other bleed verses

That could only succeed

As songs of defeat –

In love.


Radiohead, Danny Clinch, 1994.

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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: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PNL8zhQf4xY

‘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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