I have not winced nor cried aloud.  Did I suppress my voice Or surrendered its urgency to voice?  My grief is my own, I let it be or let it be gone?  * Who do

He likes water, he tells me.I will wait for him to reach my share of the shore, I tell myself. * वह इश्क़ ही क्या जो किसी और से मिलाये,इश्क़ वह जो खुद अक्स से

खुदगर्ज़ सी ज़िन्दगी, बेताब सी ज़िन्दगी,उनका साथ, उनकी बातेंज़िन्दगी को देखती एक अलग नज़र,खुद की तरफ खींचती हुई वह डोर…ज़िन्दगी की, बेताब सी।

Life lives in love’s ironies…The end of an epic love played on,Certain and fatal from its beginning . The start of an ordinary one lingered on,Uncertain and callous from the beginning of its end.

The clothes lied on top of each other,Mingled, mangled, maddened.Indeed…They refused to lieAbout the sins of the night.

The wooden canopy kept guardWhile he and I stole each other.The light dawned on our dark bodiesNaked and trembling, urging and taking.I felt the new body, its breath fresh off the foul smoke,Traced and digged

नीले बादलों सा ही था उनका खायाजो लब्ज़ स्याही ने लिखे नहीं,उनका भी रंग शायद नीला ही थावह लम्हे जो ख्याल तक भी पहुचें नहींउनका भी रंग नीला ही होगा…शायद!

1. The stretched orangeOn the horizon’s bed…The eager borderWhere strangers wait to wed. 2. The blue aboveBelow lies the greyNever has been the pungent redSo pregnant a bay.

The brush against the ceramic basin.  The bangle that clanged from her wrist.  That is the sound of me.  That is the sound of domesticity.  * It was birthed with me Only, the umbilical cord