Table; knife kept.
Happens a billion times.
Knife on the table.
Unsuccessful: too afraid.
A bloodless mark on the skin
fades away in obscurity
soon to be mine.
Knife on the table,
life cut in half
that night a lot
died a bloodless death
A death they cannot touch
only glance from afar
not reaching much beneath
the veneer that clouds.
No wonder they don’t understand.
Another poem written for another amazing friend on her birthday!
Neha. Kuch mithaas,
kuch khatti, kuch meethi
aisi hai hamaari ye Neha.
Kabhi chulbuli, kabhi shaant
waise jyada toh chulbuli hi rehti
itna bole kabhi to ki bhagwaan hi sambhaale
Par insaan dekho ye awwal number ki hai
pyaar deti bhi hai aur leti bhi hai
dil bilkul swachch hai iska.
And this is where the poem takes a swivel
and turns into a reminscent memory
It has not been
a lot of time
since we met
only maybe a quarter
year or so
the cup of memory is full to the brim
of all you, Gunjan, Ishan, Bhumika
and many others have shared with me
in such a short time
But since this is your birthday
to hell with them and focus on only you.
The first time we really met
in June was it?
I knew I had met a friend
the camaraderie built up
with the day at Bhumika’s house
to the amazing birthday of Ishan
to the mindbogglingly insane facebook group chats
to the warmth that you exude
and to this day! Glad to have come so far!
Ab phir hindi mein kuch alfaaz
tujhe pata nahi ye sab kitna
kartein hai tujhse pyaar itna
Jo bhi tujhe jaane
taarif kiye bina na rehta
par tu nahi jaane
kitne logon ko jeena sikhaya tune.
Par tu karle kuch bhi,
tu rahegi to Vasmol hi
surakshit kaale tere baal
vasmol ne *kiya kamaal*
ab bas itna kahunga mai
saari ki saari khushiyaan pare tere palle
happy birthday Neha Jaini, kartein hain ab balle balle! :D
Today I evoke again a very profound question. A question which I and we have been answering for years, decades, centuries now. The answers have been flowing through the inks of our pen, through the vibrating vocal cords of our throats, through our actions, through our reactions, through motions, through currents. They’ve flown through all these and rusted. Flown through the pens and laid to rest in the same tombstones in which we will die, long before we have died. The tombstones in which we will die, they will be smeared in proverbial blood of all the deaths of dreams, the freedom, the fact that we did not speak up, did not tear the pages of convention, did not write the other way on the ruled lines; not when we had the leisure to do so, no. But when time called, when our beliefs were questioned, when they told us to put on our coats and zip up our pants. Did our wings penetrate that opaqueness of coats to unleash their beauty in gleaming sunlight of the day, and glide away into the sky, for themselves, for themselves sire? Did the shirts unbutton and pants unzippen and belts unravel and let ideas flow from wherever they could be? Did we eventually conclude that our ideas were like the sunlight that would never fall on the dark shadows of our life and dissolved in community, in society, in harmony? That ruckus, that ruckus in our hearts, dear lord we rendered it into order. We abided by the rules, gave up on the chaos that was in our hearts and minds. Chaos that rips apart civilizations, crackles like thunder, rolls like the waves, falls like the staccato rain. No, we didn’t give in to that chaos, we gave up. We gave up upon ourselves, for that conformity. This emotion. Did we just transcribe the longings, the desperateness on to a piece of paper and let it rot away on top of heaps, soon to be pattered by more heaps and let it sink away in corner lurking among cobwebs? Or..