Uss raat kamre mein roshni roz se kuch tez thi

Aas paas ki imaraton mein log shayad jage huye honge

Aadhi raat hone ko thi, bistar maano bhatti bann gaya tha

Taaze dhule huye kapdon ki khushboo se kamra mehek raha tha

Kapdon ki ladi se khidki ke bahar ka nazara chupa hua sa tha

Par ek roshandaan ne kamre ko jagmag kiya hua tha

Maine karwat li. Yakaayak meri nazar roshandaan ke bahar padi

Roshandaan aur uspe bane chhajje ki oat se khud ko bachta bachaata chaand kamre mein jhaank raha tha

Kamre ki chhat pe apni safaed chandni se athkheliyaan kar raha tha ki meri nazar ne usey pakad liya

Ghabraye se chaand ne aahista se poochha, “kya chahiye?”

Maine ussey kaha, “apni thodi si sharaarat mujhe udhaar dede, mera bachpan shayad kahin kho gaya hai.”

The Murakami Effect

In bed, lying awake, my mind wanders back to the small life I have lived, valuable but small, the struggles I have seen, the paths I have taken. I think about the person that came out of numerous decisions taken instinctively, impulsively and some with deep thought. I feel the writer carved out of various experiences that life offered me. 

The half fulfilled dreams in my half open eyes have only one wish~ Someday I hope I am able to write like Murakami. At least close.

I want to exist

I want to exist

as a figment

of your imagination.

Real only for you

and no one else.

I want to exist

as the ink

in your fountain pen.

Creating only for you

and no one else.

I want to exist

as the love

within your stubborn heart.

Felt only by you

and no one else.


There are news of people dying in their fifties. I for that matter always had instincts of having a short life. Short but meaningful. I think I will die around 50 as well, barely touching it. Today while working, a thought kept distracting me. I am only 17 years away from 50. I have written only one book so far, some poems too which I would also like to see shaping up in the form of a book. Whenever I’ll be taking my last breath, I want to be content with the body of work I leave behind. And at present it is nowhere near to what I want. Time is running so fast that I can hardly catch up with it. But I know I have to. I will have to. Because there is no other choice. There is no other way to live beyond life except in words.


You must be taken

by a hundred others

But it is I who own you

just as you own me

Like the cloud possesses

The rain it showers.

I may leave you 

For the earth to rejoice

And you may wander

Upon a brimming sea

But we will always

Return to one another

With the same oneness.


Every little thing reminds me of you.

Even as small as making a salad.

The tang of your juicy words

Like flesh of unripe tomatoes

Waiting to melt in my mouth.

The colours of these crunchy

bell peppers seem no match

To the hues your aura imparts

To everything that surrounds you.

The tears that you bring to my eyes

In longing, also of the ethereal joy

I experience when I am with you,

Can put these Onions to shame.

The girth of your love handle

is what my body craves, I hold

This erect cucumber in my fist

And put it aside. I’ll have it full.

There’s a lettuce between my palms

My mind seamlessly  takes me back

To how we peeled each other

Cover by cover, reaching all the way

To our bare souls, and became one.

I send you a photograph

Of the salad that I have prepared,

‘You used to have it in breakfast.’ I say.

You send me back a kiss, and reply

“In some life you’ll be my wife for real.”

My heart stops beating for a few seconds.

‘Amen’, it prays.