कभी हंसाते कभी रुलाते
न बनाएं दोस्त न बनाई सहेलियाँ अपने बच्चों में ही बसाई एक छोटी सी दुनियाँ
Nation: A Notion
A Mother’s love surpasses every Love,An Unconditional Love in its truest form.Peace, joy, and comfort;Where can you get it all?I got it all from my mother’s Lap.
My Heart bleeds,
Someone is out to get me, I thought;
The sky and its azure
The Prince of Patriots rears his mighty head once again.
हम अजनबी से मिले थे,
Some say patience paysSome say don’t wait
It is indeed true that her Hindi poetry attracts lesser loving attention than her Punjabi poetry which is loved and adored, in Punjabi, and in several languages of translation – minutiae of everyday life, evanescent impressions loaded in permanent literary memory.
In 2020, I began to wear a mask.My expressions shrouded;the eyes the only window to the soul.Like the rest of the world,Shielding ourselves in battleAgainst an invisible enemy.
I got shot Straight in my back By my own family & friends Never thought In my wildest dreams They’d turn out like that And like any Bollywood Or Hollywood thriller packed movie Bullets in my body I ran I escaped Ran and ran and ran way And I stumbled on you
Writing, feeling, thinking, writing a poem or a prose or a story, it’s unlike any other form of creation. It’s not like the content creation of modern generation, blog or vlog or TikToks; it is an exercise of drenching the soul in the hollows of sorrows and trying to swim out of it alive. The best writers of times, the best poets of ages, were never happy people, were never logical or pragmatic, they were all hopeless romantics. Writing, poetry or prose or a story, an observation, articulating a problem or a pain, is unlike any form of articulation. It’s not logical, argumentative, it’s emotional to its core, dripping in love and care, killing the writer with each word, each sentence, each utterance. A writer can’t ignore, can’t turn a blind eye, the very process of sitting down, picking the pen, means allowing all of the world's problems and pain, each tear each outcry each mumble of each liphapless and helpless all channeled through a means requiring no technology no communication just pure divine humanity, just heart and soul, it all flows through the eyes and hearts of a billion through the spine and fingers of the writer to be poured straight on the page, Not in a blue ink, but a page bloodied red with pain. The process of writing about grief or pain has no pride or glory but a not so short visit to hell, an exorcism of a kind, the writer much like every soul she writes about, their bones much like a billion broken tired bones, their muscles much like the cold dead muscles of the corpse, the writer dies at every moment she tries to write about the dead much like the very intention with the reader, very purpose of writing, very calling of the billion souls channeled through fingers ten for the ears and eyes and minds of readers millions, the writer cries and dies at every utterance to describe the pain and helplessness of every million to bring to light the closed eyes and hearts of the guarded billions. The writer dies with every word she writes about the dead with only intentions to kill the readers with trenches of pain, sorrow, grief, guilt; for the ghosts are calling and the writer must listen, for the ghosts are shouting and the readers must hear, for the ghosts are crying, and the living must weep.
The rain in summer gently murmurs
The shadow in the fetid stream stares back.
ખૂબી અમારા મજૂરોની એ તો છે બાપુ
What are you waiting for? Share your passion with the world. In your language. Write, Speak, or Show.