Those Eyes



Those deep drowning eyes.
Which look at me with questions.
And want to ask me a lot.
Those crystal eyes.
With some fear in them.
With some hesitation in them.
Which makes me feel stronger.
Those tearful eyes.
Which show me happiness.
Which show me pain.
Those blank eyes.
Which feels lonely sometimes.
Which thinks a lot.
Those beautiful eyes.
Which are like you.
Which are the door to you.
Those closed eyes.
When you want to be alone.
When you want to block yourself.
Those blazing eyes.
When you are filled with anger.
When you want to spill everything out.
Those sad eyes.
When you want to cry.
When you want others to understand.
Those dancing eyes.
Which glow in gleefulness.
Which are filled with life.
Those sharp eyes.
Which doesn’t take life to be easy.
Those bright,shining eyes.
Which makes me forget pain.
Which bring joy to me.
Those silent eyes.
Which say a lot .
Which shout a lot.
Those soft eyes.
When you are melting.
When you feel the words.
Those illuminated eyes.
When you debate with the world.
When you put your point forward.
Those soothing eyes.
Which have care in them.
Which feels for others.
Those clear eyes.
Which know What to do.
Which know the right and wrongs.
Those believing eyes.
When they trust someone.
When they have faith.
Those gentle eyes.
Which are full of tenderness.
Which are emotional.
Those simple eyes.
Which have no complexity.
Which have no untold secrets.
Those eyes.
Which hide many a sharp pains.
Which cry when they smile.
Those transparent eyes.
Those glistening soothing eyes.



Have you ever heard the silence speak?
It do speak if you try to listen.
It is never silent.
Sometimes there is a rumble of thunder.
Sometimes there is rustling of leaves.
If u try n hear.
You can hear the whistling of wind.
The murmur of sleeping birds.
The dripping of that open tap.
The voices coming from far.
And if u can’t.
Then close your eyes.
And you will hear them.
You will hear the creaking of old floor.
You will hear the curtain move.
The sound of burning fire.
But sometime all u hear is silence.
No word.
you can’t hear a thing.
But you can feel.
The cool wind in your hair.
The warmth of noon sun.
The chill of the cold water.
The sharpness of a rough edged stone.
With your closed eyes.
Have you ever tried to feel?
What all that is there.
To be felt.
Someone passing by.
That soft touch on your shoulder.
The whispers to sooth you.
The fingers that wiped your tears.
Have you ever felt that?
We all can feel that.
We all can hear silence.
But we don’t.
Because we don’t stop.
To listen what it speaks.
To feel what it is.
It is there always.
Wanting us to listen it up.
Wanting us to hear.
Of all it holds for us.
Of all it embraces tight.
So next time you are silent.
Try and feel it.
Try to hear the silent words.
The sounds.
The syllables.
The music.
That is silence….

The Station Crowd


metro (1)

Vishwavidyalaya or University Metro Station. Presumably the most sought out landmark to tell people about your whereabouts and the most common point for the students (be it school going teenagers to the college youth) to meet and plan out the day. It is very interesting to see how people pass the time, while waiting for the train. There are numerous ways to define and categorize the kind of people one comes across at the station while waiting for the train. I tried to define some:

1) Most of the “Clairvoyants” keep staring towards the tracks from where “The Great Delhi Metro Train” will appear. And it seems as they are hoping for it to burst out into the tracks out of thin air. Their concentration in doing so is so immense and so strong that not even their own cell phone ring can’t break that trance. Though they always fail to materialize the train on track, but they do increase the no. of missed calls on their cell phones

2) Some “Patience-Less Souls” keep strolling back and forth; believing that there doing so will make the time run faster. They are so desperate; if allowed, they themselves can start running on the track. They are easily spotted by the anxiety and the body language with frequent looks at their watches or the cell phones.

3) Then there are the “Deep Thinkers”. In their own world of oblivion. Thinking deeply and looking into the thin air. Mostly standing in such an awkward stance; that you will wonder, and praise the dynamic and flexible human psyche. Nothing more can be said about them as it is really fascinating to see them being in their own world that the outer world can’t make any other observations.

4) The “Talkers” are the ones which can be seen and found on every station. The source of the most sought out question – “Bhaiyya!! yeh train Kashmere Gate jaegi kya? (Brother!! Will this train go to Kashmere gate?)”. You answer their question and they will throw another at you to answers. And it continues until the train arrives.

5) Except the “Talkers”, you may or may not find the other special categories around you. But you will always be accompanied by the “Watchers”. They have a peculiar tendency to look at people; irrespective of the fact that the other person is looking back at them with surprise. They are provoked by any little noise made by anyone and are known to be efficient in the art of listening the talks between two individuals. They have high probability to be found near a fashionably correct individual aka “The Delhi University Girl”.

6) The most interesting and the most mysterious of them all. “The Delhi University Girl”. She will be engrossed in her text conversation while listening to her playlist. Erstwhile, making mental notes of the apparels and clothing of her fellow passengers on the station. Attracts every single being of the opposite sex but the coldness in her face leaves no space for them to even come near her. Shrouded in a self-created false mystery, she elude them as an enigma. The dream of all. So close; but yet so far. More precisely speaking – ‘way out of the league’.

7) At times there is that one “Newbie” who you can easily recognize. The desperate look of self-consciousness. That checking of the information panel every time the announcement about the coming station is made. Constantly moving eyes, trying to find something to concentrate to; without getting any eye contact with anyone. Shy, naive and with lot of insecurity. Yes that’s our own Mister or Miss “Newbie”.

8) Time and again you find that a political debate ensues among the fellow passengers. And among them is one individual who has the answer and counter question and aggressive approach to be deemed as the “Political Hound”. No matter where they will be . they can smell any political discussion and it becomes their liability to give direction to the said discussion. They have a nasty habit of proving everyone wrong and they don’t believe in a light discussion. They feel the politics. they live it.

9) Then there are “The First One(s)”. They want to be the first to set foot inside the pristine and virgin metro as she reach the platform. They don’t wait for people to de-board. They don’t wait if you are falling in their way. They have the ‘eye of the tiger’. fixated and focused on one and only one thing. The SEAT.

The list continues. With each and every station. With every new person joining the crowd which makes the spirit of Delhi. Which makes Delhi special. Adding that extra flavor to it. Its own flavor of ‘Curry’…with a different fragrance and a spicy taste.


Sub: To You.. From Me..


Dear You,

Life is unfair and at times it tests you to the limits. I am on the verge of falling as I write. Falling off to an endless abyss of unknown where you can’t reach me; where your voice can’t haunt me. I tried to reach out, I tried to change the uncertainties and tried to create some symmetry out of the chaos, which was You. But time and again, I failed, I faltered. yet the peace which once resided in me, has vanished without a trace. Silently.

Countless nights I lay awake. Staring at the ceiling, hoping to see you as my eyes search the darkness. Listening to the silence, to hear one note of sweet melody that once was your voice. but the emptiness of the night hung so heavy that my heart aches, It pounds with pain. With writhing, unbearable, unimaginable pain. I curse you, I adore you, I loathe you, I love you. Still.

You once were my pain, my joy, my friend, my life. It ended. It crumbled with the walls falling on me of what we called a home. The invisible sanctuary which held you and me strong and safe In rain and storm. The sanctuary we made unknowingly, innocently. From the feelings of the tender heart full souls, that once we were. Now its all gone. I search for it. When I travel, when I work, when I sleep. when I breathe. Everyday, every single moment. But I am lost. And the sanctuary has withered somewhere in the oblivion, with the sands of time, flowing endlessly.

Yet here I am. Washed up and weathered. I eat, I work, I sleep, and I repeat. living a lifeless life with all the things I can hoard to replace you. Yet the void remains. The only static and stagnant thing in my life. The Void. I tried filling it up. But every time the void gapes more and more. Swallowing every bit of the newness and attraction from all what I try to fill it with. And in the end I am left with the likeness of you which shadows the newness and forces it out. Away from me. By me.

You are nowhere but still you are here. Somewhere. Hiding behind that bench where we sat, someday back in the past. Walking behind me when I walk home. Cooking with me on Saturday nights. you just like to tease me as always. Hiding behind unknown faces and yet smiling at me. I know you are there. With your bright smile, waiting to touch me, waiting to hold my face. But you don’t. And I wait for you at every corner, at every turn. Ready to act surprised. But You show up no more. Now you just like to hide. And it hurts.

The day you died I died along with you. And now I am just a hollow of a man with nothingness filled up to the brim. The need to live has ceased to exist with you long gone. I want to end the suffering but I can’t. I promised you. I kissed you and promised you. so I live. Broken. But I live. Its difficult, and I am cold and alone. But I live. Because you made me promise.

I don’t long to be freed of this immense pain. And I don’t want this pain to wear off. This pain is the closest thing I have left of you. The shapeless, stinging, agonizing pain. And I will keep it close to my heart. Tucked away. Hidden. Forever.

From Me.

P.S. I still keep the coasters lined up on the rack like you did and I still keep your boots out when it rains. I still hate broccoli which you loved so much. And I still find it difficult to remember dates which you reminded me every time I forgot.


The First Few


The First Few...

Lamp Post and the Birds

Winter is very tender as well as cruel. Where certain species nurture and nourish in this season while other have a difficult time for them. Delhi has a very cold, and spine chilling weather when it comes to winters. mornings are all fog covered with poor visibility and with cold winds that blows off the color of your face and will make it numb. A lot of pigeons are there which reside nearby my house, as there is a lot of flora and fauna for them to exist. These two happens to be there, sitting on my window sill. Trying to keep themselves warm in the sunless morning of the past winters last year.

The First Few...

Glow of The Full Moon

Sun behind the cloud is something one can see every now and them. but a Moon behind the cottony clouds is one other thing. The full moon hidden behind the veils of the floating tufts of pure misty white. With night accentuating the silhouettes. making the seduction between the sky and the moon more dangerous than ever. Romantic undertones in nature are very difficult to miss out.

The First Few...

Empty Cells

The preciseness with which each cell is made, the perfection of some naturally learned art. Which is nothing but the ability to adapt itself; mores so, the art of living in the hostile world. It is a wasps nest, broken down after a strong wind knocked it off the wall. The creation of a being which is existing along with us but with a creative side with such perfection that no human can match.


The Silhouette

Usually birds act as carriers of life from one place to other. They carry seeds, they plant them and play their role in the circle of life. I knew this, but never had the idea that it can be possible for a bird to play the pivotal role in the blooming of a plant; not on ground but on a building 3 stories high.

Saw this plant on the terrace of the building next to mine. It was glistening in the winter sun in December. It amazing to observe and to think; how life can grow and nurture itself, when given a chance. It made me realize that it is the power or urge of life to exist; no matter what the conditions are, no matter what the adversities are. If a life is destined to exist and see the sun,it will happen.


Silvery Lining

The best moments during rain, when the sky is filled with clouds and all that is above is nothing but the dark sky with little hint of white here and there. And then there are rays of the sun that seep down from a small opening for a while, and at that time one can actually see the blessing from the sun coming down to the Earth as the white beam of transparent yet visible rays. Heavenly and apostolic.

The First Few...

The Broken Window

I accidentally cracked a window pane when I was trying to open on of the windows in my room. A little push and it gave way. I realized this is us looking at the world, through a glass. Glass so clear yet dividing us from what is real. If only it can be broken like this. If only the real world that is out there can be seen by us, and not through a transparent yet dividing glass wall. Won’t the colours become more vibrant?




The Beginning…

It’s been a while since I wrote something. Quiet a long time. The writers block took some years out of life before I managed to write something. It is so dramatic that you want to express and explode with the thoughts, rumbling and scheming through the catacombs of your mind. But, still you are stupefied with the inability to write down your own thoughts.
I wrote a small piece. A letter. A fictional letter to a beloved long lost and gone forever. It was a first in past years of the creative drought. The rush of creating something just from the sequential placement of simple combination of letters into something creative and scintillating  is magnificent. It gives you a sense of accomplishment. Makes you to move forward. Somehow calms you down to a level from where the chaos inside starts to pacify by itself. Every other person might be having a different thinking or feeling or interpretation, but the essence remains the same.
I liked writing long sentences. Them someone pointed that out. suggested that I try shortening the sentence. It would give a more crisp and defined look to the writing. More suggestions followed, ranging from changing the undertones to the way I write. Some even suggested focusing on the grammar. Some of them understood why I write like that. And some can never. Writing is not a planned work or a chore, which you have to do or which you have to plan. It is like an even flow of a river flooded by thought; churning and whirl-pooling as the flow proceeds silently, but with force. It comes to you naturally. you don’t think that, “today, I will write a passage”; or , “Today I will write about this situation everyone is talking about”. Its not. It is all, but a hungry pang to create something beautiful. Without a motive. Without objective.
The same people at times try and criticize art. They grade it. They try to pin a prize to it. more so, put a price to it. And its pathetic to see. Can you grade art? Can you put a price on art? can you compare two artists and their respective creations? No! you can’t. Art is not meant for being put down for a price or for being nominated for a prize. It is mean to be interpreted. Every artist creates something from the understanding gained so far within the individual self. Thus, each piece of art is different from the other, yet; beautiful. Similarly, every individual interprets art in his/her own individual self. Differently. One might see a smiling invitation with a hint of seduction in Mona Lisa. Others might see a compassionate and loving woman smiling with affection. There are no boundaries. there are no limits to where these interpretations end.
The more I write the more frothy becomes the rapids of mind with ideas and self-suggestions. It is fascinating to observe how well the human psyche respond to the stimuli which gives a sense of being able to create something from entities as simple as words. It is just a beginning to what one can think of as a journey. With no place to reach to, but to wander around endlessly. Savoring the plethora of choicest flavors of life with a hint of spice, which adds on to life.