I have known not a word which is said more than it is unsaid. What made me say this, remains unsaid too. Introduce yourself to some of the words I say in a next few lines and think of a place, when your heart ran cold before saying these and your throat too must have stopped.

‘I miss you.’

‘I love you’

‘It is paining’

‘Don’t leave’

‘I cannot see you cry.’

And some more-

‘I lied.’

‘I was waiting for you.’

‘I am angry/upset/worried.’

‘I saw you cry.’

‘I know you’re hurt.’

What you say instead gets more interesting. Interesting, because the words you utter to replace the words that actually stood at the tip of your tongue, convey the entirely opposite meaning of what you really wanted to say.

‘I don’t care.’

‘Don’t bother’

‘It is okay.’

‘Never mind’

‘I am fine.’

You try comforting your tears with napkins that grow pale as you blow your grief into them. Your tongue turns a villain to the people you love. Everything in front of you rusts. You wait for the knives to grow old and blunt. Blunt enough that you forget about them at all.

The ones who never knew about you, will never know. Because I have known not a word which is said more than it is unsaid.




‘No, I haven’t known you since ages. You’re not the uncle who is next of kin, or a man I’ve forgotten the face of. Then why did you wipe the packet of chips clean, the one that was dipped in dust?  No retailer does that. Who would bother a layer of dust over a packet lent to a child who does not remember the last time he touched soap and water?’

The packet shone brighter, it glared me in my eye. I myself did not know if I was happy, watching it clean itself in front of me. It raised the insecurities in me, I’d rather had it covered with dust. I’d rather love it the way it has always been.

I smiled at the young man, and walked away. My footsteps, leaving some dust over his floor. To which he surely must have smiled back.


A night at nine.

I’ll stop by your doorstep, every night at nine;

And tell you about my love, and that you were mine.

Let me drag you to walls, push your lips against mine;

And let me stop by your doorstep, every night at nine.

Tracing your body, walking to the bedroom;

returning back to dine.

I’ll let your comforts,

turn back on, every night at nine.

Let us forget the words, and let our bodies rhyme

to the rhythm of our hearts, at a night at nine.

We’ll stack our pictures;

in a row and in a line

falling for each other, every night at nine.

Be the grape that topples over me,

I promise I’ll be your wine,

Allow me at your doorstep, another night at nine?











Midnight dream. 

The clock is counting on you, and so is my heartbeat when I keep waiting for you to text in the middle of a beautiful night that needs to close it’s eyes. I have a lot more to do than think about how you would be staring at the screen and pushing your toes at the blanket that covers you.
But, I can’t stop.
I can’t stop thinking about your lips you must be tearing apart out of disgust or how much your belly might be hurting while all of your dreams are turning out to be a part of just another dream.
I swear I’ve seen it too.
The dream that saw you, saw me too.
The only difference, you called it a dream and I didn’t.



Losing my dream.

You ¬†pretend to know the most of me. But I’m pretty sure you don’t see the world, the way I see. I dream about things and places, where I could never be. And in one of those dreams, I saw things no one should ever see.

When places go dark, and closed lids bark and everything around you has stopped for a while. You hardly remember the things you’ve been around and people you’ve walked with, another mile. I wander around in my sleep, in the places hidden in my heart. Some would be as mysterious as the camouflaged colours in some art.

I shall be introducing you to one of such places, I lived in.

A room full of women. No, they did not chatter about their sons getting married to a girl they didn’t like or what they cooked for dinner last night, but kept silent. The hands of the wall clock were stuck in some deep melancholy the room was possessed by, the hour hand could hardly set itself free from the chains of rust it had got into. No one would move, but everybody could. There was no such thing that they had to ponder about and fill their hearts with the poisonous pots of depression. They laid their heads before two women who would smile brighter, reading aloud antagonism to the others.

They asked us to cut our veins and see how the color of blood looked like or hang ourselves to one of the chandeliers that hung inside the room. The woman sitting left to the one sitting in front of me ran to the balcony and jumped off the grill for she had been overpowered by the negativity the two women recited to the room.

I was the second one to catch hold of the suicidal web they’d wanted all of us to fall into. I injected a drug which one of them offered, thinking about the afterlife and how well would it be to be at peace with life, once I escape life. I could feel a rush that paralysed my wrists, I couldn’t move any of them. Blood could flow in both the directions and could clot wherever it wanted to stop. My arms fell weak and shoulders couldn’t bring them back to me. Every moment of what was happening, made me regret injecting the drug. I was dipped in a vast pool of thoughts, where rain fell on my cheeks harder than it usually does. The sun pressed it lips against me, burning half of my face. Snow would slip off my jersey although I couldn’t feel my chest a while later. My brain was stuck in the turmoil of my dreams that were left incomplete. I visualised a quill in my hand while I was sitting in an apple garden on an old wooden chair and was watching my horses run across the field which only I could see. My library had visitors who pleaded to talk to me about my published versions of dreams. But I could see of all this fading away to colours not known. Veins dropped, and all I could hear was the dream that I had lost after losing my life.

And then I lost my dream and came back to life, for not losing it.



For how long will rage befriend you? Have you never been surrounded by the arms of love? Have you never heard the melody of soft spoken verses from lips that turned pale as you grew up to who you are?

Have you never been a part of a late night conversations where your lover would sing you to sleep? Then why do you sting him back with sour abusive words to make better things bitter?

Yes, life has been unfair to you. But that is how it has always been.

You ungrateful creation, oh man! Can you not see people who cannot see? Can you not speak to people who cannot speak? Can’t you walk towards people who cannot walk? Then why can’t you love someone who cannot love you back?

A thorn never pricks the stem it grows on, neither does it wish to grow as beautiful as a rose; Because a rose shall grow above the stem, while the thorns shall grow along them.

A dagger can be a monk, in the hands of a monk; And soldier in the hands of a soldier. The world has always hid itself under a mask, for you to uncover what you’ve been dreaming about it and how it shouldn’t be.



Hold your heart as you scream, the loudest of your dreams;

And If you haven’t started dreaming yet, begin.

Look out for pebbles as you walk a journey down your memory lane,

and if you haven’t started walking yet, begin.

Begin, if your life has a purpose

Begin, if it doesn’t.

Begin till you start to end,

Begin till you find a perfect one.

And If you don’t wish to end, just begin.


At a distance- in the name of love.

“Call me up and tell me that you love me. Is it you or your microphone speaking to me? The words I hear are but words, building up castles of hope and dreams all painted in the name of love.”

The distance that endears friendship, isn’t the bond that covers itself with tissue papers and glue to profess itself as a strong one; but is the glacier running inside the veins turning cold each time it reminds itself of the times you’ve been together. It flows through your blood and through your pen, ending up forming a cluster of words in the name of love.

You try doing things you were not meant to do alone, you scratch yourself to see if he would come to heal, end up wrapping yourself in threads of compassion in the name of love.

You think of the people around him, and the late night texts he replies to and hold your heart to sleep in the name of love.

The stories that you tell him sting your nerves when he tells you one of a similar kind, pretending to open ears to only words that comfort you. You lay next to him in your dreams, and lie to him when he is next to you and hold your breath when you say it to him in the name of love.

The voice behind the phone call tries to reach out for you, when you look at the screen and let it ring. The sky turns darker and the city stands before you with all the windows shut, and you stare at them aimlessly with and empty heart in the name of love.

Time steals sand out of your castle and colour out of your dreams, the echoes of screaming voices are heard and unheard. The phone stops to ring and the sound of his throat fades away and you keep stacking the pebbles you secured in the name of love.


Black pencil.

The dawn breaks and smiles at the sun, not knowing which door to hit next. Where to dim out lights, and where to stay over. A black pencil is what I held when the sun would shine over my hand with its racy rays. I am a notebook of pages white and yellow, longing upon to be marked with some ink on one of those sheets. And what got its impression on me is a black pencil that litters out shades of grey on my skin. The more I try to resist it, the more it scribbles its love over me. All I am left with is a sketch of the lover on my chest, shaded with the black pencil I was gifted.

A man who couldn’t see.

While I was travelling to a place renowned for its alluring panorama, I met a man. His eyes could see through his heart. I was somehow intrigued to talk to him and ask about how life treated him.

“It has been a while since I have seen faces, drawn pictures or worn glasses. The voices around me seem to introduce themselves and fade away with hesitation as an offer. I am the one who served colours to the canvas and defined a day. All the colours painted themselves black, and darkened the world around me, holding hands with one of these days. The canvas lays creamy, for I am not sure how it looks like.

When I was introduced to this world of dreams, where I could see nothing but how people reacted to a disability, I would keep dreaming with my eyes wide open fearlessly. I often read out stories to my son, when my eyes allowed light, he reads them out to me now. I once told my wife, “I can even paint, with my eyes closed.” I am sure, she doesn’t want to recall it now. Frustrated with the circumstances , I decided to paint my canvas with all the colours I couldn’t see. My wife later told me I had painted the walls too, ironically with black colour.

This bothers me no more, I am a businessman now. I work so much that losing light doesn’t come across the artist in me.”

To which I gently asked him, “Sir, may I know what business are you into now?”

“I manufacture colours, for those who can see them.”