Pens and Pages

It’s difficult to cope up with new words being added on to our dictionaries as we grow up – some we use, some we do not, some we understand, some we ignore. It was in 2009, when I started my B.E., that a new word was added to my vocabulary – “Maal”. To reach the bus-stop, that was only around 500m away from the College building, you need to walk past the boys’ hostels lined up on the way adjacent to the building. And if you’re alone (provided, you’re a girl) or with a bunch of other girls, your ears are sure to echo with the chants of the word “maal” coming from those hostels. It was scary on the first few days, so scary that you feel like running to the bus stop as fast as you can. After a few days it became more embarrassing than scary – you feel like you’re being noticed, you feel conscious about yourself, you wonder if your clothes are revealing your contours, you cover yourself well with your dupatta and walk on. Eventually, we started taking a “Tempo” (sort

Writers don't move on. They make love with solitude, They take sorrow in their arms. They run their fingers down grief's spine. They touch words gently And force themselves on a river of tears. They let masochism win; so when they bleed, It's Utopia for them. Writers don't move on. They stumble on memories. They recall something that was eons ago. They embrace regrets And make love with retrospection. And when they do, They make memories their concubine, And then they sleep on past's lap, Because they're writers And writers don't move on...

You're a poem, And one day, I will write you too; I'll bleed you out On the blank pages of my past, I'll read them aloud Till forever they last. But you're a poem, And you'll not last long, And one day, I'll end you too; You'll move on To another poet; I'll remember you Like the abandoned lines Of a forgotten verse. And may be then we shall meet, On the other side of those pages, On the other side of the blue ink, On the other side of someday.

From the last two days I've seen no night, No darkness, no dusk, no rains, no blight. My orchard's flowers seem to shine bright. Birds chirp around and butterflies alight. Grandmother's woven the sweater, at last, of Brother's embroidered shirt's size. From the last two days I can hardly count The days of happiness I've lived in disguise. Summer ain't so hot nor have I seen Winter's chill. From the last two days, life doesn't seem so hard. No, don't bring me the stars from the sky, I'm planting sunshine in my backyard.

Like the vastness of an ocean; As strong as a woman can be, As weak as the sign of first love; Like two lovers meet for the first time, Like death separating a couple, divine; As difficult as life can turn out to be, Like the mystery the Universe's end holds; Like the little girl who wants a balloon, Like Cindrella's prince in the ballroom; Like a mother giving birth to her first child, Like a baby holding your fingers tight; As leaves change yet the root does not, Like the same old house on the same old plot; Like happiness, yet,like a profound sigh, My love thrives as I say I'm thine.