I couldn’t hold the sunshine in me,
only the warmth of afternoon
which didn’t shy away
even in the haze of winter,
which engulfed the city
like never before.

Or maybe I let my thoughts
paint the canvas of the city
with colors of white.
I left it to overexpose
and the bright sun
wasn’t brightest anymore
and the print turned into
a giant sheet of white-
void of any borders or textures
void of existence,
which couldn’t hold back time

The loss of time
etches memory intricately
much like a miniature painting
depicting sultans and sufis
and paradise.

Loss of time
is yours too,
when I take off
my plastic electronic watch
and let the sounds of Ghazal
decide when the dusk enters the house,
decide if the time for goodbyes is here yet.



Hold on to it tight.
The rope disintegrates
sometimes without leaving a trace,
and is absorbed into the ground.
And sometimes it break with a jerk
swifter than motor response.

But don’t wrap it around
or it would rust and grow on
fear and psychosis
and decay with every dream.

Forget about it
and its existence,
but would Azrael look away then
and deny existence too?

The rope of life invariably
comes without any warranty
even for fair use,
without any manuals
listing instructions to
hard reset the internal clock.

Nimble Nemesis,
never say good bye
bequeathing an earning of grief
to solvent time.

The colors of joy
may grow fainter and
lose a set, rubbed off the canvas
by an insolvent eye.

But, let the march stay
and the rain too
even when words wobble in space
along the axis of time.

Look for metaphors
with a uniformed distribution
and extend them to infinite
along the axis of time.

Save yourself from graciousness
of a promising monsoon in the ghats
when petrichor is all
that you seek.

Hum khasta tanon se mohtasibo, kyaa maal manaal ka puuchhte ho
Jo umr me hum ne bhar paaya sab laa ke dikhaye dete hain
Daman me hay mushht-e-khake-e-jigar, saaghar me hay khoon-e-hasrat-e-me
Lo hum ne daaman jhad diya, lo jam ultaye detay hain.

Are we immovable now?
Like the giant pillars of a temple
held together by an overhead beam,
eroded by the miseries of wind and time.

Would we fracture like
the crumbling blocks of
an old industrial house
which over lived its purpose and time?

Or would we stand tall
like the sand castles
that delight children for a day
and wither off with waves and time.

And then what?
Would the bricks and the bones
be dismantled
or would a structure be built with them
at some new address
with some false color painted over.

And what about emotions?
Would they evaporate with dust
and settle somewhere far off,
scattered in all directions.

What about us?
When the space begins to shrink
and the color of the walls
changes every moment
as if projections
of every thought, every memory
every plan
somehow unlocked themselves
and now crowd the shrinking space
between us.

Isn’t it all utterly chaotic?
Like the platforms of
a busy train station
before the Diwali break.

Evening Auto Ride

Evening Auto Ride