Posted in Letters on lease, love, Thoughts, Uncategorized, writing, poetry, prose, inadequacy,

Police station

Dear it-doesn’t-even-matter-who,

I want to see you. I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to hold your hand or talk or discuss things. I don’t want to ask or tell or plan or decide. I don’t want to hug you or kiss you. Hell, I don’t want to touch you. I just want to see you.

All I want is you somewhere around me. Not in front of me, not at all next to me. Just somewhere in my sight. Let there be people. They are anyway pointless. I don’t want total exclusive you. I don’t want you to know that I want to see you or you are being seen.

I just want you to carry on with whatever you can conjure- work, conversations(not with me), time pass, whatever, with one, ten or a crowd, but in that moment I just want to be around and be able to see you.  Not stare. Not gaze. Not at all check you out. Not follow. Just that if I move my eyes around, even if it takes some effort, I just want to be able to see you.

Everyone here, every now and then, looks like you. Where are you though? I won’t hold you or run to you . Somewhere amidst people (yeah the same pointless people), I’ll just see you and come back home.

You don’t know where the police station is, right?

Posted in Letters on lease, Seasons, Thoughts, Uncategorized, writing, poetry, prose, inadequacy,


Sometimes, life happens in installments. There’s a storm and then silence and then lovely rains and then gorgeous sunshine and then nerve freezing winters and then hail and then shivers and then swift breeze and then spring and then flowers and then heat and then irritation and then love maybe? But sometimes, it all happens together. You are sweating in chilly winters and it’s raining, there’s a hailstorm and the inside of your being is frozen but your exterior is sunburnt. It happens. Way too often to some people and for the first time to others.

Do you know where can I find a calendar?

Posted in City, Mumbai, Crowd,, Letters on lease, love, poetry, Thoughts, Uncategorized, writing, poetry, prose, inadequacy,


Tum jaante ho,

Is waqt, is sheher ki roshni aur bheed me,

kho jaana,

kitna aasaan hai?

Aur wo bhi mere liye?


Mai kho hi rahi hu,

Har raat, har baar,

Har baat, har yaad.

Shaayad khud ko bhi.


Is kho jaane ke darr me,

Is ajnabipane me,

Mera pata banoge tum?


Source: Pixabay


Featured picture credits: Puneet Panwar

Posted in love, poetry, Thoughts, Uncategorized, writing, poetry, prose, inadequacy,, Young girls

Wo ladki… (February special)

Meri kahaanio me ek ladki rehti hai,

Haalaki zyaada kahaniaan nahi hain mere paas

Par jitni bhi hain, unme wo ladki zaroor rehti hai.

Jalti hu mai us se, thoda sa. Bahut saara.

Har wo cheez jo mujhe khud me chahiye, wo usme hai.

Usko maafi maangna aata hai, usko dil jeetna aata hai.

Usko pyaar karna aata hai.

Aur mujhe to aap jaante hi hain.

Source: Dumbo’s diary

Sabse buri baat pata hai kya hai?

Usko baate karna aata hai.

Kameeni har dafa sahi waqt par sahi shabd bolti hai,

Aur meri tarah gaaliaan bhi nahi deti.

Har baar shabd hote hain uske paas.

Aur mai? Mere paas sirf tark rehte hain. Kadwe, teekhe.

Ladti wo bhi hai, sehti wo bhi nahi,

par ada hai usme.

Aur mujhe to aap jaante hi hain.

Source: Maxpixel

Kheli mere saath hi, badi mere saath hi hui

Par pata nahi kaise wo itni bahaadur nikli

Ki apni galtio ko maan ke aaraam se theek kar leti hai

Aur mai zid se, sharm se aur fir glaani se hi nahi ubhar paati.

Sahi samay par khaati hai, mui exercise bhi karti hai.

Kilasti hu mai ye dekh ke ki usko apna bhi

Aur apno ka bhi

Khayal rakhna aata hai.

Uske pyaar me girna sabke liye itna aasaan hai.

Aur mujhe to aap jaante hi hain.


Ye jo ladki ha na

Ye ajeeb hi hai.

Jab rehna meri kahaanio me hi hai,

To meri dost hi bann jaati.

Par waha ye chook jaati hai

Laakh achha dil kyu na ho iska,

Ye bhi meri tarah, meri dost nahi bann sakti.

Aap kya kehte hain? Itna daag to chalta hai na?

Khair mujhe to aap aante hi hain.




Posted in Letters on lease, poetry, Thoughts, Uncategorized, writing, poetry, prose, inadequacy,

I don’t write anymore

I don’t write anymore because I no more relate to writing. I no more believe that writing helps. Why I began writing in first place or why I started this blog that has got orphaned.. I can only dare myself to give an answer.. Do I have any answers? I don’t write anymore because I don’t like to hear that “But for a science student, you are really good at writing”. That hurts my diaries and scribbles and random two-liners. As if the pages of the diaries scream out to me and to them- “ What has Science got to do with us?”. I don’t write because I don’t know which realm do I belong to. The categories tag in my blog stays almost constant- #love #thoughts #modernlove #poetry #uncategorizedl. While here near my window I have thoughts to write about science careers, lives in labs, fashion, city fests, festivals, bad health, state of helplessness and what not, the thoughts never find the way to written words and now they have begun to take revenge. So I don’t write anymore because I don’t want to start again on the same old brag of the heart as that poet mentioned.


I don’t write poetry anymore. Because I see it happening all around me. Everyday, every moment. I see poetry unfold in infinitesimally small unit of time. Could I ever pen it down? Could I ever do justice to the storms getting born in my circumference? Could I ever write about circles without knowing the center or the radius? What exactly do poets write? And this is my doubt after apparently being witness to some of the most beautiful poetic gatherings and slams. So I don’t write anymore because I don’t know circles and geometry was never my favorite. Poetry is geometry? Oh dear Lord!


Due to reasons that never had I ever imagined would exist in my journey, I get to be on “bed-rest” more often that I would like to be. And on both my sides are book-shelves. I am sure I have read all those books at least once. They are Biology, Maths, Metaphysics, Chemistry, Statistics, Magical Realism, Romance, books for competitive exams, Sanskrit. There’s Hindi version of Devdas right there on the top. And staring at them, I see them all in one light of a stupid question- “ How could these people sum up what they wanted in one book? These books that we honor so much, do they really give us all that the writer had to offer?”


Continue reading “I don’t write anymore”