All the words strung together has fallen short,  so we might as well start stringing thoughts. 

Unsaid words cause as much harm as said ones for they gradually build up on the inside like a chamber of magma beneath a dormant volcano. Feeding the void with rage has become second nature to us as well.   Every touch we take recourse to is a testament to the expanding lack that conversation only augments.  The inadequacy that you are hell bent to fixate upon, isn’t just in me. It is in the very perception of each other as well as in the root of each other’s perception. A growing distance that has developed taking advantage of our wilful ignorance consequences in logic and counter logic that is forced out like lava destroying everything in its wake. 

Yet ensnared by moments, we lose focus that we didn’t want to have in the first place. 


In the tail end of March through

The beginning of September,

The sun smiled upon the valley

Of black bosomed Pir Panjal.

The cold was yet to mitigate but

Blossoms of cherry and apricot

Decked the beaming snow with

The promise of a fruitful October.

Souls found solace in the breathtaking 

Simplicity of the rugged recumbent fold

Relieved that their wet and sultry plains

Were not that far from the cup of heaven.

Little did they know that the illusion

Their heart fed upon without remorse

Was caught up in a pitifully short lived 

Moment that shattered without apology.

Suffocating in wrought iron chains

That had been inflicted without mercy to

Keep in place what did not want to be kept

Loyalties became a convoluted concept.

Flight not being a possible option

Fight evolved as the sole means of

Existence in the wronged land

Ensuing a raw revolt of survival.

Stone pelting was countered with

Pellets to restrain  the outburst of 

Anger downtown and silence forever 

Either the heartbeat or its freedom.

We know not and nor do they

What will become of what once was 

For none will surrender till the end 

But absurd has devoured the outcome.

the escape


In a moment stolen from time

Reality abandoned its harshness

Out of an unguarded impulse

To serve at the feet of insanity

Resulting in the utter confusion

Of logical realms that then failed

In their regular act of convergence

Which in turn forced the contenders

Into an unwilling search for methods

To understand this overpowering

Madness that undid common sense

But this arduous struggle was in vain

Because insanity being beyond logic

Decided to thwart every attempt of

Comprehension and demanded instead

To be unquestioningly embraced


doomed with destiny

There’s this strange aura about unfinished paintings. The aura of a miracle. Bathed in a sense of humility, they boast of the artist’s arduous devotion. You could look at an unfinished painting and dream for hours. Dream of all that it could become. Dream of the dawn that will break, the river yet to overflow, the storm that might wreck a havoc in the golden harvest and all the love that could blossom by the levee. But, this breathtaking world of possibilities must be completed one day. And… And all of a sudden I feel like an unfinished painting painting myself. Awaiting damnation. For like all paintings, I too will be completed one day.

my sisyphus 

Other days I write what I know. But today I am trying to write about what I want to know. And I want to know you. 
You were silent like a high king and I lacked the courage to speak out for I had nothing to say that might interest you. But, I noticed you. More than anybody else. Your edges weren’t as sharp as those of others. There was a blur. A blur that is become a more prominent blur even as I write this. You were here. Laughing. But you weren’t. At the back of your eyes you were searching. Probably looking for questions because you were fed up with answers. I felt I should not talk to you. For you talked through the outer shell which as I said before, was a blur. Also, I could not because I could see you were caught up between blurring and not blurring. I think it is why you were drawn to revolt. Revolt became your escape. You have thought of revolt dreamt of revolt and become one with revolt, haven’t you? But you are still getting blurrier. I am afraid that one day the blur will dissolve the coal fire that sizzles just beneath. I don’t want it for it will be your death to me. Because then you would have given up to what will be and that is death. You stop trying to fight the blur and that is death. The blur will win in the end for the blur is true and it is meaningless to fight but that is the only way for you and for me and for everyone else. The difference is that you know. Your fight is conscious and that is why it is revolt. And that is also why I can see your blur. And that is why I want you to fight most of all. And not blur. 
It all sounds like a rant in delirium but delirium is honest. Unlike sobriety. This is honest. And I wish you will read this and then you won’t blur longer than you thought you possibly can.

on her lover’s grave

I want to dream of city lights dozing at my feet. But it’s all dystopia after the darkness creeps in. Instead of merrymaking in cloud castles, naked chains abuse graveyards. The stone cold gale drives away the wishful softness of summer breeze while innocence is threatened by ephebophilic orgies. Once again afraid to face the absurdity of unforced reality, I seize insomnia.

the advent

Survival on borrowed dreams

Gradually became reminiscent

Of what could have been

A full fledged span of wings.

The possibility was murdered

By an abode of old nostalgia

Turned into unfeeling stone by

Being deaf to the call of the new

Reality becoming suffocated with

It’s own perverted play on paranoia

Eventually surrendered to the realm

Of entirely uncensored occurrences

At that moment of chaotic climax

Beyond the high old bookshelves

A secret tunnel was incarnated

To escape as far as imagination