Reading my random notes, It's been 4 am in the morning. I just heard a bird chirping near my window. A little It is thundering outside, A more inside me.
Empty cold roads, with just the noise of a heavy four wheeler passing by in a sudden rush who wants nothing that can stop him. Which is exactly the opposite of his fast passing scooty, from which the eyes always searches for a reason to slow by. In the silent slow city, only his heartbeat could add a chaos after seeing her standing nearby.
Just while thinking, i opened my eyes and saw through the window Lighting and the moan of the cloud, The drop falls, one after another. The black sky slowly fading and turning into blues The birds stops chirping, or maybe they were no more loud enough. The playlist on shuffle suddenly sings for me, (With some soft piano notes) "CITY OF STARS, ARE YOU SHINING JUST FOR ME, CITY OF STARS, THERE'S SO MUCH I CAN'T SEE". For a while i couldn't stop my heart from smiling My silent lips followed the lyrics,
It's love, Yes all we're looking for is love from someone else, A rush, A glance, A touch, A dance. I smiled there and continued, To look in somebody's eyes, To light up the skies, To open the world and send them reeling, A voice that says, i'll be here and you'll be alright. I don't know if i know, Just where i will go, "Cause all that i need is this crazy feeling" A rat-tat-tat on my heart, Think i want it to say, City of stars... Are you shining just for me...
In the end i only knew, I always loved sunrises more then sunsets, And He was singing with me along in this.
My eyes suddenly fell asleep, And the song repeated itself.
At times when i sit blank and empty, i always search for different techniques and styles to communicate my ideas. In rare instance, via music or less complex words. Every person who writes something is either a confession or a try to understand about himself or things around him.
Experiences differ, ideas differ, words differ, rhymes differ all these things a variety in the paragraphs or poems we see. Sometimes it's too romantic or truthful or perfectly putted in words that every single word leaves a sensational touch inside us and sometimes the words brings lies and false hopes and drags us emotionally back and makes a person feel mentally uncomfortable and dead from within.
A writer carries an audacity to convince a person to pull him near to death and sometimes helps in filling a life even in the burnt ashes.
But imagine, Imagine a person, who is about to end his life falls out of words, his suicide note writes "i don't know what to write" or a sick man feels blank while dying and couldn't give his last message to his son and wife. Imagine a person who just finished writing a novel gets empty while giving it a "title".
Imagine all the poets and writers have absolutely nothing to write even after they saw a beautiful evening sun, or his beloved in a red silk dress, he don't have words to write a love song for her lover. Tea and coffee, sunrise and sunsets, Water and sand, sky and land, flowers and plants or being blind when they see people near bus stand. Imagine us not reading someone's eyes, imagine us not looking for a way of life. Watching the writer inside you dying slowly, A slow death of paralysed minds and hands. The world will end before it's end.
So, find beauty in things, this is what everyone's work should be. See someone's dance or paint. Or listen to a person's voice in rain. See your lover's folds and edges. See an animal and their sledges. Listen to the rain drops falling on a stell, Or a fold of a thread, or smoke rising from an ash tray. See the mere folding of a fabric, see the mating of clouds and thier showering. See the lights, see the rays, listen to the humming of a steel or shdes of Grey's.
Feel yourself lucky that your hands can still strike a canvas and will never left the canvas blank. Even after there's a painting that even you won't understand. The world's cold and you are warm. Draw/write and love the warmth that your pages and your hands together creates. Don't mind critics, don't forget art in little things, don't forget all your gloomier moments, don't let the things die,give them a life through your pens and drawings.
Write about anything, Maybe not in an intellectual/professional way but in a loved way. And never make the writer inside you feel, That you fell out of words while writing.
Because a writer is never, Never ever out of words.
In a rush, in the crowd, in the traffic full of lights In chaos, in silence, in all these empty nights, I have him in my closed eyes.
Making me fall in love with the stars and sky, Depths and heights. Discovering Movies, cinema, romance and drama, while wandering between the city lights.
He's as pure as dry woods, His voice strikes like soothing humming of the steel. His touch falls like the drop of water on dry sand. His smell calms me like of a newly opened novel. And I still don't know if these comparisons can draw him justice.
The thrill in feeling his love makes me explore the best words and lyrics from the whole world, To adorn him in a beautiful love song. Discovering and visiting all the beautiful places, To embroid an adventure with him along.
My crayons will paint him in the most beautiful portrait one day, Appealing a steady gaze of him, of what he looks like if he sees himself through my eyes and heart. For me, every beautiful thing in this world is a part of this art. Art of purity, Art in him.
Starts would still have a count, But the sonnets and love lullabies won't stop its count even after all the dead bodies collides.
On the day when world will be on the edge of destruction, All the sonnets and love songs will not be the part of that apocalypse, Not letting the lovers of the beautiful world die. Likewise, you'll live in my words forever. And that's how, we'll never have to say goodbye.
Because of him, I felt, i could write, What was "love".
I'm in my very early teens when a classmate walks up and looking at my black painted nails she says, "It's a bad women's trait." The elder brother she looks up to has told her that girls who wear black paint aren't virgins and so, my heart sinks. Not at the ridiculousness of it, not at the tragedy of my character being defined by a colour but at the possibility of people seeing me as "impure". I do not paint my nails black after that.
I'm 15 now about to choose the stream I'd like to study further when an elder tells me there's no point in dreaming what's beyond your reach. I clench my fists and immediately bite my tongue so it wouldn't talk back.
I'm 16 and my english teacher tells the class that she should not find the word "rape" in our answer scripts for it's too crude. So we write modesty outraged, instead.
I'm 17 and I discover my lip shade is too loud and the depth of my neckline decides whether or not I'm "asking for it". I've worn my lipstick like written apologies ever since.
I'm 18 when the person beside me slips his hand up my waist and I sit there holding my breath too stunned to react. I run towards my father to complain but the aunts hold me back. "Boys will be boys", they say "would you ruin the family relation over something like that?" So I clench my fist, bite my tongue and zip it up, once again.
Until I'm 19 and it repeats. Same audacity, same insolence with a different face. But I can't take it again so I turn to the world this time. I write poems to pour it all out. But along with the open arms come the raised eyebrows. "Not all men!" they scream. And I cower back not knowing when did I ever say all men.
I slowly turn back as I watch the world quarrel amongst itself. When did the narrative become all about who to blame and who not to blame? Where did my trauma get lost? Why do I have to explain and beg for audience's discretion? Is the audience that naive? Or does it prefer living in denial?
So I stop writing "those" kind of poems thinking I'll return when I have the right kind of poem.
I'm past 20 now and I still do not know what the right kind of poem looks like. I do not know how unafraid I've come to be or how far I'm yet to go but I do know that I do not bite my tongue anymore. I might not throw fists but never again would I clench them just to swallow the poison. I would not explain being a feminist with the disclaimer "I do not hate men" everytime, just so you approve. I would not beg for what's right.
My demands are not requests but they are willing to wait for you to understand that they're anything but unreasonable. For you to realise that there are millions like me and our defiance is not an act of aggression but a cry for consideration. And until that happens, I'll glide the lipstick on my lips like the pen I put my signature with. And I'll wear my nails black better than the distaste you wear on your face at the sight of it.
कलमकार है हम बोहोत ज़्यादा लिखते है. जो शायद ज़माने कों नहीं दिखा पाते उस बयां कों अलफ़ाजो क़े सहारे हालातो की असलियत अरमानो की क़लम से लिखते है. जीने की नई रीत और अधूरी रह गई है जो प्रीत जो सीखा गई हो शायद हमको यही है जीवन की रीत. यूं ही नहीं बनते अधूरे प्यार क़े किस्सों पर हज़ारो गीत. बीकता है गम गली मोहल्ले मुफ्त मैं जबकी उधार पड़ी है नींदे वफादार आशिको की जिम्मेदारीयों क़े बाज़ार मैं.
क्या कहे क़े क्या है हम.बस घुट रहा है दम. बस ज़िन्दगी हैरा है.ख्वाहिश भी परेशान है. जिस लफ्ज़ की कमी थी. वो मेरा आशना है. क़ुछ जख्म जो दिए है. एहसान जो किए है. जिन्हे मानते थे सब क़ुछ. वही अश्क़ो से गिरे है. नजरों से क्या गिले है.क्यों जिल्लतो से मिले है. क़ुछ फूल जो खिले है.पतझड़ मैं वो गिरे है.
तेरी रंजिशो क़े बन मैं ये ज़िन्दगी गुज़ारु एक उफ़ तलक ना होंगी जो खुदको मैं भूला दू. बस पास हो मेरे तू एक ये करम ख़ुदा हो. मुझे मांग कर दिला दे मेरे फुर्सतो का वाली. जीवन पड़ा है खाली लगता है जैसे गाली. मुझे माफिया तो बक्शे जो कर्म भी किए है. ज़िंदा तो हद से ज्यादा पर कितने हम जियें है. दारु नहीं है पीते पर है नशे मैं जीते. बस रूह की तलब है और दर्द क़े सहारे. मेरे गम मुझे डुबोदे इतना करम तो कर दें. मेरे सनम हो मेरे दिल और क़ुछ ना चाहे.
कीमत ही क्या है मेरी जो खुद कों बेच आए. करते नहीं है पीछा अब मेरे खुद क़े साए. क्या ये अदब ये जीवन सब लग रहे पराए. मैं खुद कों यूं जला दू. मैं खुदको क्या सजा दू. एक जुल्म है वफा ये. मैं तुझको और क्या दू. तुम थे मेरे सनम जो. अनजान क्यों हो बनते. बन जाओ मेरी ख्वाहिश. आजाओ मुज़हतलक तुम. कब तक मैं देखु राहें. ये दिल जो तुमको चाहे. भरता रहू मैं आहें. तरसी हुई निगाहें. तरसी हुई है बाहे. आजाओ थाम लो तुम. क्यों फिर रहे हो गुम-सुम. किस राह पर हो भटके.
मेरा जो एक सनम है. शायद मेरा भरम है. पछताए क्या करू मैं तो खुद पे हस रहा हूँ...
मेरा जो एक सनम है. शायद मेरा भरम है. पछताए क्या करू मैं तो खुद पे हस रहा हूँ...
I paint a sky with blue crayons but my tiny hand can't draw kites and gorgeous birds on the meadow of soaring sky. But those pregnant clouds beg in front of me to place them on my blue sky and I try to romanticize my crayons to tint some black clouds and they're about to give birth some metaphors with the nudges of rain drops.
I spray some red colors on the petals of a forgotten rose and it twirl its head with the melody of summer rain and breezes of my sweetheart's megalopolis. And near a faded facade, that rose blooms with a poetic smile on its lips and it opens out while crumpling some wild flowers with its amorous fragrance.
I want to decorate a poem with the colors of Van Gogh, with the history of Babylon and Cleopatra, with the melodies of Bukowski and with the hues of Sylvia Plath. But behind a blue veil of life, I sleep with the paintings and truths of death.
Let's paint together with some dark nights ; Let's decorate that night with silken stars ; Let's spray some happiness on those tiny hearts.
I painted a picture of your tears Instead of your smile Your scars Instead of your beautiful body I painted not you but who you are. I painted you in black and in red I painted you in pain and misery. I painted you in tainted glory Only to paint it with black over again.
I don't know who you are, I don't remember you anymore.
I remember differentiating between what's a house and a home. I remember defining house as a building where we live and a home as a place where we love and live for each other. I remember me being a house and I remember you making it a home.
I remember not remembering that I have a body which could carry so much love until you came like a peaceful evening wind and turned me into a storm. I remember my love for you, a love so natural, a love defining all the definitions of love, a love looking like all the poems ancient revolutionaries wrote about their lovers. I remember me turning into all those rebellious lovers. I remember me having courage sitting cross-legged inside my blood which feared no fate.
I remember me loving myself a little too for the way I love you. I remember me just being a normal body of rusted morals surviving on 2 panic attacks per month and then you giving me a soul.