Sweaty Seasons

Embellishment of labor, I am

flaunted to the peers,

at opportunity's every call,

ever so royally

A symbol of sun's ravishing, I am

which starts with a kiss, and then gets fierce,

so that she pants, while she fans

with her garment's fall,

ever so coyly...

I may not be like the dews in the dusk

which, on each petal and leaf shall stand,

but also not, am I the summer's leftover muck

for I am that molten gem that glistens

that stays concealed, but only revealed

by trickling down when gathered all locks

sparing not a single strand.

of the stage beyond minor apprehensions,

we have now passed, I indicate

when from the clouds of fear and anxiety

I precipitate...

down his straight looking cliff

also between her narrow deep crevice

I travel sending a ticklish chill

which to its source is not akin

couldn't add to the troubles, only If

as well providing an adhesive service

that proven reliable, discarded until

of making the fabrics cling like their second skin...

I also am the herald,

that they are now healing

the emerging cool beads

bringing that relief's feeling,

that doused is now the fire within

which made of them a living hearth

washing away a part of them

cleansing them before their desire luxurious bath...

Often accused is the sun 

for this inconvenience

assuming us to be his  conception

their hubris from their ignorance,

grants them this lenience

towards their thirst, after which we arrive

towards their odor, after which they arrive

towards their very being, with whom we survive 

of whom we are,  just shards of reflection.....

Kaagaz se Mehfil Tak

 Mann mein bhatakte inn khayalon ne

Kuch Khaamosh chipe sawaalon ne

Kagaaz ke aise na jaane kitne pannon mein,

ghar kar liya tha...

Par ab haalaat badal gaye lekar aisi karvat

wo har ek panna jo tha unka ghar,

wahi ek din ban gaya unka marghat,

hum bejhijhak pannon mein unhe bharte gaye

ki inn pannon se hi unhone apna mann bhar liya tha..

duniya dekhne ki, duniya mein dikhaai dene ki

jagne lagi unke mann mein yeh khwahish

toh lekar ek duje ka sahara

karne lage banavti duniya (social media) mein beinteha numaaish

siyaahi ki jagah tasveeron se

prachar karne ka vichar tha

par yeh woh jagah thi jahaan sirf

chahat aur chaahnevaalon ki len den ka vyapaar tha

par ab bhi kayam irada hai inka, nikalneka is marghat se

umeed se daav lagaya hai, kalakaaron ke is jamghat pe

meri awaaz ko saaz bana ab sunte hain

apne saans ki har ek aahat

jo goonj banke aati hai,

jab bajti taaliyon ki gadgadahat

Ab khamoshi tanhaai aur gumnaami 

se jab bhi paani hogi kuch der ki raahat

tab shaamil honge is mehfil mein

nazm se saje yeh khayaal

puri karne sunne aur sunaai dene ki apni yeh chaahat.

A Hand to Hand talk...

 A caress on the knuckles, 

which was a plea to heal,

 slowly affirming a grip, giving

my fatigued being, a cushioning feel

to convey of the battles fought with the world each day,

that to others may seldom be known,

but return when I shall, louder than my bruises, this hold shall say

"you've done well, and fret not, you're not alone".

An innocent polite tug from the grip,

a persuasion to follow her lead, to take a stroll

into the orchards, towards that moment of the sunset,

when the sea's golden carpet feels the fade, of 

the last of its day's sheen, then can she command,

with, a pulling demand, that while our arms cuddle,

shall she on my shoulder, her head lean..

With some courage my fingers whisper to hers,

what my lips couldn't to her ears, veiled by

those dark strands, hence letting my fingers

softly make its case, to take refuge between hers,

where once entered they wish to feel enclosed,

in that desire they pray to hers for salvation.

allowed they were,

 enclosed they were,

for their sincere cajoling, 

rewarded they were,

and while those dark stranded veils were lifted

when i blew a soft warm breeze,

our fingers indulged in a banter, of parting to unite,

only to feel the heat of what had begun,

with an intention to just tease...

to survive and to indulge in this storm of passion

our fingers answered the calls to enclose,

vowing not to abandon in that exciting embrace

letting that wall be the witness of their brazen confession, for,

it felt every thud and drag, as they reveled in their flows

yet when doused was desire's each ember,

they flirtingly parted to unite ,

to recall relive and that moment remember.

and later when in a peaceful slumber they were,

my thumb to enquire, slid, to the ridge of her wrist,

and found its peace, in listening, to the echo

of the drumming beats within me,

declaring this blissful reality, in which we now exist.

Innocent Arousing Knots

 While he ties the knots innocuously,

ensuring no mark shall any lace leave,

each breath of mine, I hold suspiciously

to coyly suppress my bosom's perceivable heave

Sliding my tresses to the front

while I visualize his awestruck face

only to feel his thumbs blunt

And the warmth that bellowed,

from his inner furnace

that heat met its compensation

with the perspiring beads cold

yet he did tie the knots with near precision

as he spared a margin of my waist's fold.

The Teasing Travel across the countryside

From a deep narrow valley,

concealed within her peaks

began a journey, that left

a moist slippery trace

a journey deliberately lengthened;

partly by the smooth path, and

partly by the traveler's pace

the journey went on leisurely

till it suddenly dipped in a crater, which

only seemed to suck it in calmly

yet also made it bite a grip, of

the surface above desperately

while it did enjoy its stay there

it also strayed to the parallel paths that swayed

but then began a quiver,

and sparked by this teasing stay 

the whole countryside of unsatiable pleasure

coerced it farther yet closer with her tremors

and feigning reluctance it resumed to relish

the steep destination across the trimmed meadow

into the dark condensed cave,

feeling its pulpy narrow walls

fathoming its dark ensnaring depth

only to get drenched, and yet,

the countryside felt a drought

and her tremors reached deep within

to let him know it's high time

the teasing better make way for the tilling

lest the dams of shame break early

preponing the time of arrival, of

the impending flood.....

Curves and Swells

 Looking at her eyes with deep concentration,

to admire, to converse as is the set convention,

But I say let your eyes slip, for once let them slide,

And know you shall at that trip, what had lifted hers with pride,

It is but those perky swells, made prominent by that appealing curve

And as my vision there dwells, slandered I shall be for my nerve

but before the keepers of this tradition erstwhile, shower on me their prejudiced hailstones

the curve I speak of, comes from her smile, the swells that I relish are of her cheekbones.

Emergence From Void

 Words, lines, ideas, 

luring me from afar,

I follow their path, only to be abandoned

as they scatter, fade away, erasing their trace.

Alas, what could have been a sonnet, a tale that

was sung for eons to reverberate,

now just seems a teasing smoke, exhaled 

by my cold deluding despair,

reminding me of that fog of nicotine 

from her ruthless seducing, crimson coated buds.

And now reprimanded by my frowny grin

for I was lost in this void, before this deluding pursuit

and after chasing this mirage, I only seem to sink

lower in this abyss,

fretfully now my shelter,

hopefully for a brief time period, though

thankfully was I enveloped by this,

for this pursuit of applause fatigued me

of their inattentive formal claps,

also their desires which had echoed, only

come from my screaming lust.

These tidal waves of cacophony,

had only washed me away,

From what I deeply wanted to be, only to be banished

to this dark, desolate desert of deafening silence.

tis possible I was to remain here, till

I rest rejuvenate and realize,

Devious and clueless, is this course of destiny,

for even here, I'm not me

and beyond this dimension what lays, may

not be for me...

and yet I resolve to resurrect, 

breaking this caging casket

still I choose to tread ,with words

inserted like thread, 

in a needle of rhythm,

crawling across this fabric of mind,

this canvas of my voice,

emerging as this protrusion,

for them to see, what I show

in this tapestry, perhaps as they see, seek too

I will, who I am, may be some of this

or of it all.

Brewing in a Cafe.....

Amidst the reverberating recollection of stories,

around the fleeting whispers of gossip,

Of those who indulge in the above,

as they do too

with sips of their hot brew in devotion..

Find me you shall, seated and secluded....

As I to my shame, without their permission...

Make them the ingredients of my mind's decoction...

Couples that seek shelter, away from eyes that pry...

And then are the ones that brazenly revel...

never in your dreams, you assume they cry..

both falling prey to my vision voyeuristic..

as I steal a little of their sugar,

as required alone, lest become too optimistic

Seated I am perfectly in the middle...

two worlds of different flavors I straddle....

for one is where people are lost in moments..

In the other however, exists a desire and urge 

to let..in the metaverse their moments be seen..

grind them and blend them with your prejudice and perspective

and voila, prepared, is your social caffeine...

The strands that betray their buns and braids...

the drops hanging from her lobes, 

those curve concealing robes...

found in one of her wardrobes, after not sure how many raids..

coercing my eyes to become my resolution's traitor..

letting me drop in my desire's crater...

hence let this farce be poured as milk ,in my mind's boil...

where the sugar and caffeine already duel, 

acting as their perfect foil..

This brew that began when the sun was past its rise..

Is now proudly prepared for its final consumption...

while that sun drowns beyond the indictive horizon..

Across the pane too those leaves, oft seen by my eyes..

Seldom noticed by my ephemeral muses that have come and gone

Now stand masked by my lone, observant reflection..

Stripped

 My Mind that wove like a loom,

Using the yarns of perspective and prejudice;

Fabrics meant to protect and reflect me,

dismantles itself to begin a long required revolt,

against its delusion of being an apathetic apparatus

to break my illusion against the fabrics meant to reflect me

for they in reality from my truth do deflect me.

For these garments are but the products;

of crops grown from the seeds of hate,

which later formed its roots in my once broken heart,

sheared from the skins of regrets and guilts of past.

grazing on the pastures of my present, rendering it barren.

The realized mind now breaks this trance, piercing fabrics

of these shrouds under which lays my soul.

for the mind wishes to inspire this soul that's perspired,

to have now, just this desire;

to come out of the tatters,

and not cling on to the obsolete,

to find that spark within so illuminating

which would blinden the initial stares of stigma

to let my scars be bejeweled with the strings of pride

to be scented with hope which will cleanse,

the long stayed stinking sweat of despair

to attract the sights of amors and empaths alike

resplendent of warmth which will pervade

the blinding fog of indifference

to see the one devoid of illusion, denial and pretense

that is me, Naked, Disrobed, Stripped

Husn ka Zikr...

Uske husn ka zikr jab bhi mere zehen ne Kiya hai..

Dil se yahi ilteja nikli hai ki dil bhar ke uska deedaar karun..

Iss ke Alava na usko lekar aur koi tamanna ki zindagi mein..

Aur Na hi usse paane ki justajoo mein raha,  na uski tishnagi mein..

Bebaaki se toh mann hi dekhta raha hai.. 

Yeh gustaakhi mere nazron ki nahi..

Ki sharam se jhuk jaate hain sajde ki Tarah.. 

Kyon ki Yeh darr hai unhe Har baar sataata raha..

Ki uske paak husn ka daaman kabhi..

Daagdaar na ho.. meri napaak khwahishon se...

उसके हुस्न का जिक्र जब भी मेरे जहन ने किया है

दिल से यही इलतजा निकली है कि दिल भर के उसका दीदार करूं 

इसके अलावा न उसको लेकर और कोई तमन्ना की जिन्दगी में 

और न ही उसे पाने की जुस्तजू में रहा, न उसकी तिश्नगी में

बेबाकी से तो मन ही देखता रहा है

ये गुस्तखी मेरे नज़रो की नहीं 

कि शरम से झुक जाते हैं सज्दे की तरह

क्यूं कि ये डर है उन्हे हर बार सताता रहा 

कि उसके पाक हुस्न का दामन कभी,

दागदार न हो, मेरी नापाक ख्वाहिशों से।

  

The Miser /rich heart...ये मुफ़लिस/रईस दिल

Yeh dil ke maamle bhi kitne ajeeb hain..

Karne ko toh yeh ishq ki daulat ko khairaat mein luta de apni raeesi mein

Par agar kaamil ishq ka muavza na mile...

Toh chahe kitni hi beshumaar mohabbat se bhari ho iski tijori..

Yeh insaan ki ragon mein dauda hi deta hai..

Muflisi ke khayal...

ये दिल के मामले भी कितने अजीब हैं। 

करने को तो ये इश्क की दौलत को खैरात में लुटा दे अपनी रईसी में ,

पर अगर कामिल इश्क का मुआवजा ना मिले ,

तो चाहे कितनी ही बेशुमार मुहब्बत से भरी हो इसकी तिजोरी,

ये इन्सान के रगो में दौडा देता है ,

मुफ़लिसी के ख्याल।

The matters of the heart are but peculiar..

For it will, in its rich abundance,

Donate the wealth of love,

Yet if not compensated with requital of love.. 

No matter how filled it's coffer is with love...

It pumps in the veins of the human mind..

The Thoughts of impoverishment...

Sagar Kinare/सागर किनारे

Mere mann ko saahil bana.. 

Usse choom kar chali jaane waali

Yeh khayaalon ki lehrein kya jaane...

Ki uss veeraane ki pyaas..

Ab Na bujhegi chaand aur suraj se chamakne waali yadon se..

Aur Na mitegi namkeen zaayka dene waale bematlab ke Shor se..

Usse toh Talab hai nazmon ke unn motiyon ki ..

Jinhe piroh kar kalam ke dhaage se, saja dun main..

Uss geeli mitti se bana Mera aashiyaan..

Sagar Kinare....

मेरे मन को साहिल बना, 

उसे चूम कर चली जाने वाली,

ये ख्यालों की लहरें क्या जाने

कि उस वीराने की प्यास,

अब न बुझेगी चांद और सूरज से चमकने वाली यादों से

और न मिटेगी नमकीन जायका देने वाले बेमतलब के शोर से,

उसे तो तलब है नज़्मों के उन मोतियों की

जिन्हे पिरोकर कलम को धागे से, सजा दूं मैं 

उस गीली मिट्टी से बना, मेरा आशियाँ,

सागर किनारे।

Zabaanon ka Tarjuma

किसी की ज़बान का तर्जुमा किसी के नज़रिए का इस कदर मोहताज बन गया है, 

कि मुकम्मल नज़ारा अब तरस गया है, 

किसी के दीदार को । 

Kisi ki Zabaan ka tarjuma, kisi ke nazariye ka iss qadar mohtaaj ban Gaya hai,

Ki Mukammal nazaara ab taras gaya hai,

Kisi ke deedaar ko.

The interpretation of one's words, 

Is but dependent on another's perspective 

To the extent that the complete big picture,

Now yearns for an audience..

A Plea to my Destiny...

Fighting the wicked insatiable temptations...
While also setting thresholds for their indulgence...
Thus Making do with those deep dark desires..
As my destiny teases me with its absence...
Letting the shrewd lust overcome me to feel the ephemeral ecstasy
Only to pity myself as a victim of time's obstinance..
Yet my arms reaching out to the other end of horizon..
And my eyes yearn for a spark in darkness
Of my destiny that evades me...demanding growth and patience...
I ask for it to lend a grip, a glimpse of its existence...
For grown I have to grow with you..evolved I have as I waited..
Play your role to the divine plan of my life..
Bestow on me your munificence

The Red Mud Bottle

 Emerging from the pool blessed by that almighty,

their blood washed away, yet pain imprinted eternally;

The remnants, the droplets though failing to douse,

the vengeful fire ignited out of shock and disgust

at the level to which, the lust to dominate has stooped.

I drag myself to that field again, to keep that fire alive. 

Limbs pulling me sensing the numbness of my mind, 

walking past those shells, can feel them like thorns. 

"I see death" at its glory, grief drowned in its revelry. 

A thud to my knees, to find air in my silent sobs. 

only to be disturbed by the sound of dragging, 

as I see small hands collecting that field's mud. 

The one to collect was boy too young;

Only at the edge of a bridge, that leads to adult hood. 

The mud collected was soaked with Red; 

The red of many a man, possibly many a woman's vermilion

Many vermilions dissolved in many reds. 

In the mixture were some droplets of innocent crimsons. 

This red mud stuffed inside a bottle, by that boy. 

His innocent eyes, which to me felt a pitcher of an odd hope,

walking towards me, for a fleeting moment (I) felt haunted. 

Only for him to cup my chin, and wipe my tears. 

That red mud in his fingers, that caressed my tired skin

Felt like a balm to the invisible scars of the fire in me. 

The blinding rage was replaced by grit and resolve.

That resolve had flames too, that wildfire now contained. 

that Red mud bottle didn't muffle their voices,

imploring the fire within us to spark this red mud as a cannon 

that will blow up the fort of this tyrannous empire.

His palm on my chest, like a plea to save this fire, 

to make it a torch, to guide many more of us. 

My empty eyes now filled, a sensation of a soul, 

that resurrected my very being or did it ?

for the innocent me who romanced life, 

now lays lost to be devoured by the crows along with others.

And the one underneath this flesh and skin. 

is determined to drag tyranny to its impending doom, 

as he flirts with his destined martyrdom. 

From the Mind to the Soul

They say the soul is like a nomad,

taking shelters in a body after another

as it travels in the realm of death

the mind though overstays it's welcome in the past

while the present and the future await, 

in the journey at the realm of time

for the realms are parallel yet also entwined 

the soul flows ahead, lagging is the mind..

entrapped in the bog of memories,

addicted to the comfort of the time that fades,

rebuking the new as an intruder with fear and disdain,

naïve yet obstinate this mind, never learnt from the soul

the soul that's compassionate yearns the mind to see

that every phase and moment there is was and will be

is a body in itself to grow, nurture and die,

the essence of being alive is to leave when it dies

like a tree shedding leaves at the onset of the fall

or like a snake shedding skin when it is indeed time

leave behind the painful past, the embalming nostalgia,

set foot towards the new avenues that await within you..

let the mind experience the wits and whims to nourish 

as the soul seeks to satiate the curiosities of its own..

making way towards other people and phases as I reach out..

for moving on and ahead is what this life is....

from the present body to another body

from that past to this present to there the future

from the Mind to the Soul.....

If there is a tomorrow for us....

Amidst this period of chaos,

where every event causes a fuss,

one can't help but ponder, wonder and contemplate

if there is a tomorrow for us..

If indeed a crimson is set to arise

from the present plague's overbearing cloud,

then pray its rays do shine so aurous,

protecting us from this wrath, like the lord's shroud.

Let us come to that tomorrow,

where x's and y's of a chromosome,

Equally unite to take a shelter 

under humanity's concrete dome

Even if a another day exists

end is as possible as it was today

abandon this rat race to finally live,

keeping sorrow and fears at bay.

Uncertain is this world and its ways,

I have come to realize thus,

that no one but time does really know,

if indeed there is a tomorrow for us..

When with my loved one today,

I have constantly wondered

if there is a tomorrow for us

but by not keeping this thought at bay

an Idea to which I never surrendered

it always created a catastrophic fuss

Now that we are amidst this chaos

where world's fate seems at stake

this seemingly lasting thought of tomorrow 

in which my mind delves

keeps me in assumption, imagination and expectations' slumber

from which no one now seems to wake.

The Ephemeral Bonds' Plight...

Ambiguous are the fortunes of those,

who share an ephemeral bond,

carrying feelings in depths of oceans,

yet the span of a shallow pond...

this bond is but an escape from reality,

which judges such bonds to be an innocent fantasy

it is their yearning to flee from the clutches of this world,

only to devour their paradise's self providing ecstasy.

The conventions limited by their wits and comforts

ask them to give this "bond" an approve worthy name

not all bonds need names they wonder , as this is not of this world too

then why the need of labels to seek society's false fame...

Reality is but a cruel foe,

possessing the arsenals of time to intervene

reminding them of the predicament of today

of tomorrow's consequences and paths unseen...

the time part ways, eventually arrives,

how does it happen, I wonder,

for even if a fantasy, it's beautiful and tempting

too keen let in the present, making the present ponder..

the changes in them that we perceive 

after returning to reality's abode..

different paths from their desires they receive,

like a river towards an ocean their lives have now flowed..

Ambiguous are the fortunes of those,

who share an ephemeral bond,

carrying feelings in depths of oceans,

yet the span of a shallow pond...

The Portals within my Headphones

Plugging in my headphones, to go back in time

when Lucky Ali's mellifluous voice 

gave the ultimate feeling of wanderlust

when Shaan reminded how life is a path

where we all stroll in our solidarity

when KK with his colors of nostalgia

reminded us of matured friendships and naive romances

the vikings of Bombay were exquisite in pouring

old wines in new bottles, yet inebriating us

the feeling that came with the ballads of that band

coinciding with what they called themselves, Euphoria

when neighbors too were adept in pulling the "Strings"

that thrill of looking at the stars of today, in songs of past

making us realize the elusive illusion in the speed of time 

the meanings of those soulful verses and ghazals heard then

have rendered us wise in this turmoil we call modern times

ethereal is this world of nostalgia, it may be eternal too

as long as my ears and memories keep exchanging

these symphonies now coated with the golden adoration

not just the pathway to the vintage times they are

portals too, reminding me the evolving life which this is....

The Sabbatical of an Artist

The decline of a hobby, so passionate

to a duty, so monotonous is heralded

when the artist basks in to glory of mediocrity.

The unsatiated mind feels the fall steeper,

when thoughts embellished on paper 

transgress from enlightenment to mere illumination.

Like a deer running in the wilderness, his mind

as the predatory fear of oblivion chased it

not letting it graze on the pastures of its own creation.

Hence fame, hoarded like a treasure abundant

yet impoverished of sanity to stay in its embrace for long

as the ghosts of envy and illusioned pressure of peers leered on him.

The artist's art is known to flood the mind with dopamine

but when it precipitates into unwanted endorphins

is when the artist fled to the tranquil solidarity.

There the artist discovered the artist sans his art

for creation has pathways beyond comprehension

and this art was nothing but a lane among millions

To discover that his art was a mere speck of what he was

to rejuvenate the mind of all the prejudice and exhaustion

imperative was this sabbatical, to not abdicate,

his yearning to create, for he is and will be, an artist.