Monday, March 27, 2017

Living Art

The painting that I once had in my living room,
Was now broken into the tiniest colorful pieces
By the woman on the wheelchair who called herself
My ‘stepmother.’

The walls are like a sea,
Colorless and full of pale faces.

I wanted to visit my house again,
To be able to look at my broken painting.
The gift that was given by my father.

I wanted to re-live those thrilled moments,
Where all I saw was happy faces.
I wanted to be written in the book of memories,
Like every day was meaningful
Until I remembered the same painting.

Saturday, March 18, 2017


"Aansu bhi ajeeb hote hain
Jab behne ka waqt na ho
Tab dil ke kareeb hote hain
Zaahir hai ruk nahi paate tab woh lafz
Jo ashko me behke
mohabbat ki dastan kehte hain."

"Unhi palo me jee liye hum, jaha tum the (X 2)
Yunhi chal diye phir 
Jaha tumhare tanha dil ki arzoo ne 
nazranaa diya."

"Kehte the woh ye chupaya nahi karte
Dil ki baaton ka dard bhulaya nahi karte
Raatein to humne bhi badi kaati hai
Zehan pe lafzo ki churiyaan chalaya nahi karte."