Sunday, April 28, 2013


That night you asked me
to sing to you.
And I knew that if I did
the wind would carry my notes 
without feeling the burden 
of a tuneless voice.
And I knew that if I could
just coax the sound out
you'd like the song I'd sing.
But yet, try as I might I couldn't.
The songs and the tunes and
the notes and the lyric would
just not come to me.
It didn't seem difficult and
my incessant no sounded
ridiculous even to me.
But something held my voice
in a vice like grip and I kept
choking from inside out.
There was no explanation.
And every wasted moment and
weak excuse seemed to only
anger my waiting audience.
I eventually did sing I think.
I don't remember now.
But even if I did, it didn't matter.
Because you were already disappointed.
What I do remember is that
through my window the moon 
was full and wire-meshed
and the night purple.
And I remember thinking that
more than the big failures
it's the little disappoints you cause
that eventually fill you up
and leave you empty. 

Sunday, April 14, 2013


अधूरी सी उस रात में 
कोयला यूँ जल रहा था 
मानो सूरज का एक टुकड़ा
जमीं पर पिघल रहा था 
पता नहीं क्यूँ उस रात में 
खामोशी यूँ बस गयी थी 
मानो समझ के गले पर
उम्मीदों की डोर कस गयी थी 
अब इस सन्नाटे में
कुछ कहा न जाएगा  
कल बीता था जैसे, 
वैसे आज भी बीत जाएगा 
और जैसे जैसे कोयले की
रौशनी होगी मद्धम 
वैसे वैसे ये कारवां उठ कर 
कहीं और मुड़ जाएगा 

Wednesday, April 10, 2013


मोहोल्लों के मैदानों में
हम खेला तो करते थे।

आँगन के झूले पर हम
झूला भी करते थे।

पर खेलों में हमारे
शायद एक खामोश सा
खालीपन था।

बड़ा होने की जल्दी में
शायद हमारा वो
बचपन था।

अब उस बात को
कई साल हैं हो चुके।

यादों के भवर भी तो
अब जा कर ही हैं रुके।

शुक्र है, मुझे नहीं पता
अब हम रेहेते हैं कहाँ।

था हमारा वो अधुरा सा मकां जहाँ,
किसी और का घर अब है वहाँ।

Tuesday, April 09, 2013


They sat
in the old bar.
Cold bottles, 
with sodden labels 
quietly peeling away
like the daylight outside, 
sat waiting
in front of them.
They smiled and cheered.
The glass clinked,
the bulb blinked 
as the night slinked
upon them . 
They ate the peanuts.
Their hands reaching
out for them with just 
the right rhythm.
Just like their
conversation where
words never collided.
It came from familiarity.
This old leather bar booth
cold bottle salted peanut
new stories old jokes 
reruns of matches comfort.
They always met like this
when they did.
In the old bar.
Cold bottles 
with sodden labels, 
like turgid busy days, 
waiting in front of them.
They drank from them
something mellow,
something quiet.
That let him tell the other 
all that he kept bottled inside.
And let the other pour
tolerant happiness over his
insufferable company.