No sigh ever escaped her breath,
no distress
no disappointment
Just acceptance.
Humming 'Hare Krishna, Hare rama' under her breath,
she weaved them like verses of Bhagawat Gita,
repeating, again and again.
Like the tick-tock of a clock that galloped away.
As time trickled through her fingers,
She knead that woolen wall hanging -
yellow, green and white.
She had questions but she never asked,
Even then, she never forget to look inside.

1. I don't know how to break ice,
too many years have gone by cutting them into shapes.
It has been a winter too long and I am tired tracing my way back.
For now the road is my home, 
the falling snow my voice
the breeze my compass of life.
If you need to find me ever,
look beneath the snow.
There will lie my tomb.

2. Last breath of memories, 
whistles past the pines,
like some old bogies,
snaking through a forest of time, 
mist like death spreads across our eyes, 
erasing everything we ever owned,
trees like skeletons sway at a distance,
only when the clouds find their home,
we too shall return to the womb.

3. Mornings move like feathers,
floating languidly in the infant rays
that escapes the cages of time.
Leaves blink, flowers smiles,
breeze sings ragas.
The sky oozes warmth,
caressing out of the slumber,
nights that took refuge in the forest.

4. I don't want to die
may be just walk into a night and disappear
or mingle in the mist in a wintry morning.
melt into a mirror
or just sink like a shadow in a flowing river.
The process of dying is scarier than dying itself.
yet like the night and day,
all of a sudden or with a little delay,
may be aging like the fading light
I too shall die some day.

Lovers left to leave

A stoic silence hangs between words,

like droplets of grievances, smudging the 

uttered syllables,

A muggy stare and a half-baked smile,

hinges half-halfheartedly to hide the wintry 

heart.

We stand still,

undeciphered

unvanquished

under the weight of time.

In the end,

only a slow deep breath

rescues us,

As another moment loses its meaning. 

Kabhi surkhiyo mein jiye,

Kabhi pardo mein roye,

Kuch aaise hi kahaani hai zindagi ki,

kabhi aalfazo ne bewafa samjha

toh kabhi rango ne saath jhor diya,

kuch aaise hi fereb tha waqt ka,

phir bhi guzri hai zindagi yuhi,

kabhi sopno ke khandore mein

toh kabhi dilaso ki veerano mein.

Ages will pass
for the stains to disappear
Because the smell of blood
is not easy to forget
Let's not hide
in meaningless quagmire of debates.
Tears don't heal scars,
nor do words exorcise the ghosts.
No help will come from the other side,
they are peaceful now.
Give up what you have,
abandon! abandon! abandon!
the cows, the pigs and the books.
Burn the scriptures,
before the opium turns to hemlock

The lose buckle belt knocks on my helmet,

dangling relentlessly across my head by the gushing wind.

It's a repetitive thud,

like drilling holes in the skull 

or hammering a nail on the coffins,

that squeal and squawk,

day and night.

Sometimes, I want to roll back to the past,

a cradle from which I spilled out,

one summer many years ago.

That home has turned into ashes, 

last autumn.

The red light stops the thud.

But escape is still a long walk,

An endless road spreads out in the horizon.

He tells me 'Time doesn't exist, only clock does'.
I look at his ageing face, 
his acne raising like volcanoes, 
hiding the rage that burns the core inside,
secreting mucus,
like all tears have been strangled to death.
All that remains is a face, bereft of life.
Sometimes, I look into those defeated eyes,
searching for the clock.

Kisike takiye k niche kitni kahani chupi hai,

pallu mein bhande huye,

baalo mein gajre ki tarha,

kisi k chasmoo ne kitne hi mausam dekhe honge,

pocket mein chupe huwa paise ki tarha kitno ne jawani lutawe honge, 

rumalo mein chupe aasuyone kiska dilka bhoj liye huwe,

kisike cigarate ki duwe ne kitne dilo ko jalaya hoga, 

phir kahi kisike haato ki pakwaano ne kitne riskte siche honge,

kisike kitaabo ne kitne chitthiya pohochae hongi,

ek botol sihayi ne kitnahi shabdo ko jora hoga,

dadima ke paan ki gillorine kitne kahaniye sajae hongi,

kisike jutohne kitnahi maanzile paayi hongi.

aur kisike kalam ne kisi shaayar ka saath nibhaya hoga,

Aur kisi shaayar ne har din, kisi aysi hi raat ka intezar kiya hoga.

A virgin forest was the heart, like new leaf hope grew on plants, dancing in the rain that washed the trees of life.

The windows of childhood never ran out breeze, the rivers never ran dry,  the sky spread as far as eyes, like a giant blue umbrella.

Thoughts like kite soared in open spaces. Days and nights passed like snails of the forest.A zillion breath of time, melted into the green box of dreams.

Now memory is a shadow floating in those barren lands, dust and ashes grows on the burnt branches that survived the fire, sometimes the eagles come looking for the trees, they tell tales of the forest to the stones.
Ghosts roam in the corridors that highways sold us, the bed of bones that crack under the weight of dreams reminds us of the dry leaves, the cacophony that drowns this graveyard strangled the lullabies of the night angles.

Yet  I go looking for that green box sometimes and return  with stones in hand.

They say life can grow under stones. I  Only wish if worms could fly.

They tell me, the earth is at boiling point and may puke its melting core on us

They tell me, the burden of humanity has broken earth's bones and may shake some weight from her shoulders,

They tell me, The burning pyre of existence is blinding the eyes of sun and someday we might inhale snow,

They tell me, the mounting shallow pride of men has filled up depth of oceans and someday we might not walk again but float.

I laugh out loud,
Smile in pretensions mirth.
I tell myself,
i know, i know.
And then dance.

Slithering flyovers and soaring sky-scrapers sum up Shanghai,
which wakes to the silhouette of a shiny future and sinks early
into a concrete dream.

People pour out of the rabbit holes which lie hidden from the naked eyes blinded by the sizzling razzmatazz of a showpiece city.

The Huangpu flows bifurcating the east from the west, a new high-riser grows on its shore, another brick towards the ever-shrinking sky.

The Gemini sun smirks and smiles, sometimes slipping into sudden silence. It rains and shines almost simultaneously, the wind chills the spine.

The Bund (Wai Tan) grows on you a little everyday, newly wed couples take pictures, travellers stroll as vendors sell ice-creams.

A plethora of colours splash on the streets of Nanjing road, shinning brightly in cosmopolitan hue. Oriental Pearl and Jin Mao shine through the night, only the clock tower keeps time.

The Old Jazz Band still plays at the Fairmont peace hotel, tugged way in a forgotten old charm where the six octogenarians keep their date with history.