O Traveler


This poem is very close to the heart. It is pumped with a lot of emotion pertaining to different situations i was confronted with at the time i wrote it. This is also the first poem i recited publicly and that happened at the Cultural Festival at Jamia Millia Islamia, New Delhi in 2016, for which i bagged the first prize.

13 February 2016

O, listen, o traveler

Listen to the ballad

Listen to the song of melancholy

And the ode

D’you shut your ears upon the music?

Wouldn’t you go and peep

Whence the music comes?

O, listen, o traveler

For I have a lot to say,

I have more tales to tell

And more to hear;

Hear out the beautiful sights

That those emerald eyes beheld

O, listen, o traveler

Give me another day

Meet me at a different inn

Drinking a different gin

I inscribe our discourses

With a special ink;

Into my bosom i store it all.

Meet me, for another gin

A new discourse of a different place

Till dawn I shall be enlightened

With those gleaming emerald eyes.

Let me drown, o traveler

Let me, o, let me

Fill my bosom with the vastitude of those eyes

O traveler

But are you listening, o traveler?

Why do you face away?

Would you not stay for another gin?

Would you not intoxicate me

With those eyes so green?

Why do you not speak anymore?

We don’t belong to the same dimension,

Is what you believe?

Let us time travel.

Don’t leave my inn

The one I’ve constructed for you

Defying space and time.

My unkempt soul would yearn for you

O traveler

The door, if you’d exit it

Will become a black-hole

And engulf my cosmos

And shackle me to the pane,

Pulling me inside the black-hole

But not consuming me

And pulling me,

Not letting me back into the inn;

The outside world would be shut,

The door a black-hole

The seat that you’d leave

Would be a hole in my cosmos

Through and through.

Listen, o, traveler

If you just leave this inn–

Holes, black-holes,

Unstitchable, and incapable of being filled:

A vacuum in my world.

O, listen, o traveler

You’d snatch from the inn

More than I can give


Wrong Monastery

Everyone gets disoriented in life at one point or another. We look for guidance to overcome it and often what we look up to is not how we had imagined it to be or respond. Not only do fantasies betray us many times, a bubble is burst every now and then. At least where I belong, people turn a blind eye to heinous crimes, but that will be just too much to write right now, having to post after so long here.



Scorching sun and the burning land
Couldn’t deter me.
I set out searching for meaning
Determined to find my inner self
Do such things exist?
I entered the wrong monastery for solace
And I was the one
Coming from the evil world
Into a world of strange rituals
Of silent ways and discreet chambers.
My loud voice was seen as indolent,
Only my voice though!
The monastery’s walls were painted white.
Painted. Clean.
Anyone could become a monk
By putting on a clean gown?
To stop evil they just shut their eyes
So that they couldn’t see, meditate.
I haven’t been able to forgive myself,
I forgive others here, to keep the hope alive.
I am still finding meaning of life.

Mother Darkness

How do you cleanse your sins when you’re in the sight of the whole world? Who would ask for forgiveness in the light of the day? Would you confess? Would the soil cut its womb in the light of the day and in the sight of all? Would it rip its bosom to fill again the sap of life?

  When the light dies down

And night is awakened from its slumber

The darkness falls on the earth

Naked and pure.


The marriage of earth and darkness.

And in the womb of darkness

New light is born at dawn

Which bathes the land and waters

In the morrow

The wind that blows

Wipes earth of its sin

And the lavanders impregnate the wind

With a sweet fragrance

And is a messenger

Of the fertility of earth



Less fertile without darkness.

Wind that blows carries sin

And the stench of blood;

Who’d then cleanse the wind

So that once again would it

Wipe clean the sins of earth

And pour life yet another day?

Who else but the night

That snatches the evil

In hushed silence?

Home is cold

When some people leave, they take the warmth of their niche with themselves. And in this particular case, there is no empty space, but air has lost all compassion. It is thin and not welcoming. Home does not smell the same anymore.


Of late, my imagination had a block

Ever since that phone call

Things froze for a while

Like my mind,

That wouldn’t absorb the reality.

But after days

The acceptance did seem to seep in

And now the sky became thick slowly

And turned heavily azure

As if overburdened with emotion.

From the airplane the clouds looked like fields

Scattered here and there

Fields, on which people from heaven play

And the mountains beneath gleamed

Clad with fresh morning snow.

And then suddenly the sky turned grey

Just like it wanted to release all emotion

All at once, having borne too much, too long!

The grief was rekindled

Even before I felt the chill;

With a thud the plane touched the ground.

The ground was wet all over.

I wouldn’t have come home this winter.

But home was cold

And now the fire was snuffed out

In the fireplace.

I was coming home

Because home was all the more cold this winter

Strand that burnt the entire fibre

  When distress sets up on one, it does not affect just that individual. The effect encompasses the people associated with that person, whether or not the person wants to share the burden or not. It somehow has a toll on his kin and associates too.

A single strand attracts a spark

Much fatal

In a whack it is set on fire


Red as a filament 

Much in rage. 

It burns down the entire length of the strand.

But doesn’t burn just itself 

With itself it burns the whole clan

Of strands;

The entire length and the vast breadth,

The entire expanse now burns!

As light proceeds down a strand 

It spreads to each other stand,

Touching the strand.

Hence now, burns the entire fibre 

Like the forest fire 

That burnt down the entire jungle. 

Saving the day

IMG_0655_i advocate darkness to be pure, mother of light. When light ebbs, darkness takes control, and prepares the world for a new light. Take out darkness, and galaxies would disintegrate, vanish; it is darkness that holds them. Darkness, the long and short of what i say, is the container of anything that does or could exist.

When the light tires down
Quickly the sun too drops down;
Angels scatter in all directions
Oh the messenger of light
Has been killed yet another day.
I hear the nightingale scream:
Calling the darkness
To be a savior of the day.
The voice however reaches not
The depths of the universe
Where darkness lies
In its slumber, curled up.
The screeches of the nightingale
Jolts not the niche
In which darkness rests.
Blood paints the sky
In crimson
and tears paint the sky
In purple
Suddenly then
With unearthly energy
The nightingale squeaks,
That its voice reaches
The godforsaken cocoon
Which embraces darkness.
It is hence awakened
From its slumber.
As it opens its eyes
The nightingale closes its.
It’s feathers fall apart,
With a thump
It would land on your shoulder first
And whisper in your ear
‘I love you’
Before it hits the ground
And decimates into the soil
Humanity has taken a turn lately, Remember, you are born for a reason. Find that reason, live it. You’d be feeding your own soul that way. Don’t let anything bar you from accomplishing what nature expects of you.


IMG_6804Some regrets seldom leave your senses. They are bound to you. This poem might be read as a sequel to ‘i killed it’ series. Well when the talk begins again, the pain is anew realized and you introspect: you have endured, failed, felt the pain, endured again, and it goes on. Here, the loop is broken. Though overwhelming, this break is much needed, even if you think the endurance was the cure. No, there is much more to it.

stuck in a loop of pain and endurance
the bird lies on the floor
like an unattended kid
restless and irksome.
the sorrow lingers:
however long you move away
it lingers in the air,
so also in the shadow;
when it spreads its wings
it haunts it, brings it down again
like when the sky falls,
don’t try to gather the pieces
’cause when the sky falls
it breaks
disintegrates into a million pieces
only to leave you sorry
on each part
horrific, all the way, all around.
and for the burdens on my soul
i think of just one recourse
that it forgets the face!
the way it looks at me from the floor
it penetrates me through and through
i don’t know if my eyes are more pleading
or it eyes are more tired
all i know is the burden
that i will carry to my grave
i can’t fray the weight;
brings me down
like the bird falls down
from the failed flight.
i had let go
and freed
like you free a dove.
it was imperative:
with going, a lot was eroded
but now it lays again
on the floor
with blood all around
all over again
like it had never gone away
bleeding love,
sorrow and regret.

Previous Older Entries