हम अजनबी से मिले थे,
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
The days spill into nights;A man boasting of his 56-inch chest,Of the crowds that cheer him on;Proud to lead thousands into the GangesNaked in their blind faith in a GodWe have conquered the beast, he proclaimsThe nation celebrates a returnTo the hustle and bustle of the everydayWeddings, events, homecomings;Feels almost like a dream.
हर सुबह नहीं ख्वाहिशों और अरमानों की
Urdu verse by Ghalib
When I close my eyesI can see your charming faceWhen I breathe the AirI can feel your gentle CareCaressing my labored heart … Attempt at "Waka"
Aazaadi ke rang
Did you know that words on your computer screen are formed by blocking letter shaped light? That pixels are so close they appear to be connected, that they form pictures from your mind to your phone screen? And you thought that you were carving out bits of your heart, searing your soul and seasoning it with pain and ecstasy to that moment of creation before you take a deep breath and click that share button on your screen. You hope your poem would make grown men exult, cry, feel that sucker punch in their gut, that it would shatter commonly held beliefs and create new wrinkles in their perspectives. You hoped they would sigh deeply to read ‘what oft was thought but ne’er so well expressed’.
Peacock, oh peacock,What beautiful feathers you have,Sapphire blue,Emerald green,Auburn orange andPurple amethyst,Open your tail,Like a fabulous gigantic fan Chinese fan,Circles within circles,Like magical all-seeing eyes.Your feathers are magic,Sort after quills,Every letter written isA different mystical colour.Oh peacock, oh peacock,You are such a show off,Elegant, haughty and proud.
I dreamed I was cloud floating over the lofty mountains.
What are you waiting for? Share your passion with the world. In your language. Write, Speak, or Show.