Dreams on window panes
with moonlit shadows
from yesterday ceased
to move.

I wish, the sun
would hang low
and pierce the darkness
that settled with the snow.

You find it meaningful –
to trace the stars
with bitten finger nails
and shift the sky

with a wish;
turn the day into
yesterday, and then
fly away

with all clocks, all watches
all the time bundled
into a knot, and
tied to memories

With a red thread;
the other end, my garment
unfurls like yesterday –
bearing the naked self,

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News arrives in flashes
over the radio.
I try fixing the antenna
before the announcement –

Occupied, noise
death a, noise

I weave a story.
Fill the noises with
cut outs from dailies –
all of them.

It takes years.
And the news isn’t
still mine.
Words envy me
and, I despise them.

Perhaps, we will
look in the eye again,
when your truth
become mine.


Meera Ji

Door O Nazdiik: Meera Ji

Your heart would throb,
my heart would throb,
even far apart!

Beautiful times would come and pass
just like that, far apart!

The stars would shine
just like that, far apart!

Every entity would remain
just like that, far apart!

But this passionate love of you,
this savage song
would remain forever
inside my heart
close to me, very close to me.

Sounds of nothingness

Today again,
sitting beside the old chinar
I search for the voices. The thumping
boots have shot the Bulbul I am told
by a seven year old
whose pheran is still warm.

You must visits us, he insists
seventeen odd people in a shallow dig
marked by a stone, that’s my home.

Uncle Ganie likes blue eyed people
and he knows Abu will find
us all. He promised to come
and see me play after asr prayer;
cricket matches are long at times!

I ask him about the stone.
Not the shale one near the stream
Arshad lives there, not us,
of the size of my fist,
haven’t you seen it before?

A thousand of them, I have.

All in a hurry, silence prevails,
I must go.
The curfew starts at six.
Who knows I would be shot again,

Whispers of wind

Words fly by me
like a super train on its magnetic track,
like an aircraft piercing the dead sky,
like a Shikara wading through fumigated Dal.

Nausea stirs their meaning, their form,
like fumes of an exothermic reaction,
like monsoon clouds on Himalayas,
like faces of dead in a fake encounter.

Do they fear abandonment
like the wish of every child to grow old,
like Sohni clinging on to molded clay,
like Dhoks of the detained shepherds?

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