Your F**king life

Questions, frankly, never stop popping – they’re as big or small as you make them in your head.
Joys or sorrows don’t come by as often, but it’s still upto us how big or small they become, and how much we make them mean.
Doubts, just like hurt or pain, feel like those omnipresent entities who stay at the background all the time, and rush to the surface at the slightest opening or invitation. No matter what we do, they’ll keep coming every now and then like unwelcome guests, but we can decide to be as rude as we like and kick them out of our homes sooner than later. They’d return soon enough, either way, but at least they won’t build cobwebs in the guest rooms.
Point is, no matter what we do, life keeps happening. Shit happens. Good things happen now and then. Ditto for ugly. Still, to a large extent it is upto us what we make of all this traffic. What we impart meaning to, what we absorb and store, what we hold on to, and what we allow to manipulate us.
Life happens all the time, we can’t stop it, sure. But I think that’s what is meant by saying “It is f**king your own life. Live it your way!”

That thing you trample on, my friend, laid at your doors, that thing – is my heart.

Words you told yourself but probably shouldn’t have

Let’s go ahead and do it
Let’s get our ass shit-kicked by love again.

Question

If the answer isn’t yes, it is no, right?

बेमोल

आँखों में पढ़ लोगे, ये सोच के बैठे थे

आँखें धोखा दे गयी, पलक झपकाए
आंसू भी कोई काम न आये
तुम्हे दिल का सच दिखला न पाए
शब्द सैंकड़ों थे निकाले
इस दिल से तुम्हारे लिए
बे-मोल ही निकले
शब्द सैंकड़ों थे निकाले
इस दिल से तुम्हारे लिए
बेमोल ही निकले मगर -
तुम्हे खुद को हम समझा न पाए|

Complaint

I have an eternal complaint. The only time you seem to have to speak to me are when you’re driving, alone, and have nothing else to do. That’s the only time you call me. No other time you feel like talking to me, like ever. I call, and most of the time you’re not interested in talking. So pretty much next to nothing conversations on weekends, holidays etc etc. And on days when you’ve been working or hanging out after work late in the night, there’s no time again. Times when you’re out with friends, God forbid I should call or message. You dont talk and just get mad at me for interrupting and I feel guilty. I message, and you reply some times, ignore the rest of the times. 

I think, ever since I have known you, I have been waiting for the time when you’d want to talk to me, when you’d want nothing more than just being with me and listening to me and speaking to me. When it’d be okay to call when I want because nothing delights you more than taking my call and everything else can wait. 

I do that, don’t I? I cheer up just at hearing your voice, and I say that much. Not that you ever call because you just want to talk.

I guess you do that to your other friends, and that’s really the only reason I’m jealous some times of your other friends. Maybe you dont even do that to them, I don’t know, but sometimes there’s evidence. 

That’s not really important to me, you know. Thing is, I really really am a person of words. Words I say, words I hear, words I want you to listen to, words I wish you said. And there’s just so much of a gap there. There’s that which I have always wanted to hear from you and never have. There’s that which warms my heart when you say it, but you kinda say it once a year or less, not often enough. There’s that which I say with a bit of my soul, and it falls on deaf ears. There’s that which I write, and I hope you read and understand, but never resonates in you. And there’s that which I write for you and present to you, but mostly dont even get an acknowledgement. Maybe I am overreacting with the “nevers”, maybe I am just amplifying what I am feeling now to forever, but you get the picture don’t you? Words are what I hang by, words are what I crave for, words are what I’m eternally waiting for.

Because words are all I have.

I kinda feel I will wait all my life and that day will never come.

But I cant give up. Waiting feels awful, but still better than giving up. There’s hope.

Playing games

Often I wonder
If I didn’t adore the moon so much
Didn’t gasp in admiration at its incredible beauty
And stare and recite odes mesmerised
Would it then shine brighter for me then
Would it give me a fuller view
Would it try to win my devotion
Would it care?

I would be less anguished, for sure
Wouldn’t writhe in pain on amaavas nights
But I don’t know if I would still enjoy
the charm, the magic, bliss of beauty
If I would still know this exaltation, of being shone and showered upon
I don’t know if it would be worth it.

Playing?

Are you with me

Or against me?

Are you even in the game?

Sent on my BlackBerry® from Vodafone

मर्ज़ ऐसा हमारा बे-इलाज ना होता

जान जाते अगर इश्क तुम से भला क्यों है|

Ink

Aasaan nahi tha khud apne dil ko todna
Aur har zarre se tumhara ansh nichodna
Fir sametna har tukde ko, lahoo ko
Dhona, sukhana, fir se jodna
Ek naya sa dil banaya hai magar
Dhadakna is ko sikhaayein kaise
Ye khaali dil fir se bharwayein kaise
Tumhare naam ki syaahi mitayein kaise
Jannat-e-khwab humein na mila to kya
Aansoo-on se bheega aanchal hi sahi
Mohabbat mein sab kuch lutane wale
Hum pehle bhi na the aakhiri bhi nahi