और फिर कुछ ऐसी हवा चली, कि परत दर परत उतरती गई, कुछ ऐसे बे-नक़ाब हुए अपने ही आइने में, कि जिसकी रिफ़ाक़त में हुए थे मसरूफ़,उसी से हिज्र में बेपनाह तस्कीन मिली।
तू ही बता कैसे करते जुस्तजू उस सिलसिले की जिसकी यारी में हमें रूहानियत न मिली? अश्क बहाते भी तो किसके तसव्वुर में ?  जब तेरी छुहन दिल की चौखट से ही लौट चली?

कुछ बे-हर्फ़ से हैं हम आज, कुछ शर्मिंदा भी, मोहब्बत का नाम ऐसे ज़ाया किया, उफ़ यह हमारी बे-फ़िक्री। तू तो बस दरिया में दूर तक फैला था एक सराब, जैसे रोज़ ,मौजूद-ओ-मयस्सर, कोई  मुलाकात।

बे-नक़ाब : unveiled  जुस्तजू: quest रिफ़ाक़त: companionship  मसरूफ़ : engrossed हिज्र : separation तस्कीन : comfort/सुकून/satisfaction  रूहानियत : soulful अश्क : tears तसव्वुर : imagination/ thought बे-हर्फ़ : speechless ज़ाया : waste  बे-फ़िक्री : casual attitude सराब : mirage/illusion  मौजूद-ओ-मयस्सर : easily available


Dehradun is nostalgia. Like an old hand-knit sweater of yesteryears unearthed suddenly from an old wooden shelf. Or stumbling upon a handmade birthday card with sweet nothings scribbled all over. Or your last day school shirt copiously inked in kept and unkept promises of your friends. A sliver of time etched in the indelible state of what used to be.
When the early April morning still wore a half-sleeve sweater and the month of June alternated between sunshine and a heavy downpour. When an impromptu ride to Mussoorie was the biggest adventure ever and a halt at the Maggi point was the most romantic destination in the world. When the guests insisted on being served tea and morning breakfast in mother’s dew laden, well-carpeted garden to enjoy the breath-taking view of Mussoorie. And when at night, the sky lit up with a hundred thousand lights of the houses in the hill and you could actually feel the stars at your arm’s reach.
Dehradun is nostalgia. Nostalgia of the smell of Sunrise rusk…


एकरातपलकझपकते मैंनेरातसेपूछा, जबमैंसोतीहूँ,तोतूक्यूँपहरादेतीहै?


दूर कहीं उन बिस्मिल रास्तों में,
बस यूँ ही चलते चले हम।
जहाँ ना वक़्त के सवाल थे,
ना कहीं सज्दा करने को जवाब थे।

यूँ तो ज़हन में कई बातें थीं,
पर उस मंज़र को तोड़ने की ज़ुर्रत ना थी,
फिर एक मौसम ख़ामोशियों ने दस्तक दी,
और ना जाने कितनी सूनी घड़ियाँ यूँ गुज़रती गयीं।

कुछ देर सवेर जब बदली छटी ,
एक नज़र इधर ,एक मुस्कुराहट उधर ,
और बस यूँ ही, फिर एक बार 
बिन मतलब बातों की लड़ियाँ सजती गयी,

एक अजीब से सुकून में, तेरे ही फ़ितूर में,
तुझे रूठ के मनाने में, अलग होके छटपटाने में,
अपने ही इस शोर में, कहीं खोए हुए उन सन्नाटों में,
हाँ , हाँ उन्ही बिस्मिल रास्तों में,
तेरे ही साथ से तो बने हमारे हौसले थे।

The Bridge

I have learnt that some definitions need to be redefined.  They may have to be done for many reasons, sometimes, because of you grow out of something, sometimes, because your life turns a new leaf , and sometimes, simply because a changed definition is vital for survival. A change of perspective. Like looking over the water while atop a bridge. The same water, the same bridge, and the same city. But the place you look at it from, your view changes. And that is what we need sometimes, a different spot over the bridge. I am standing in a new place over the bridge now, a place from where I can also see the place where I stood last. When I had a childlike faith and an unfettered urge to swim in the waters I knew I would drown in. That place was then, and this place is now. I would not say one is better than the other, because it is because of one that I am in another.

There is wind in my hair today as I sit by the shore, and the few layers that cover me still make me shiver a little. I’m…


ये जो झिलमिल चमकते तारे हैं,
कभी मद्धम, कभी तेज़ उजाले हैं,
दूर उस दुनिया से शायद ये भी टकाटक हमें देखते हैं,
कभी एक, कभी अनेक, कहीं हममें भी ये तारे खोजते हैं।
“To the people who look at the stars and wish"- Sarah J. Mass

Our Story

From the iron cage of my fragile illusions, Just like that, one day, I set you free, To let you soar out into your own being, without me,   And, disillusion every vein of our story …

An illusion like a feeling that shoots down the spine, When, out of the blue, plays a familiar song and fills the air, In between the ever expanding distance that we’ve become, When above the din of everyone’s chatter, it’s each other’s silence we hear…

An illusion of whispers that a dry riverbed of rustled leaves make, Which you choose to listen to, while escaping the chaos in your head, And, secretly wish that the wind that drifted you so far away from me, Could carry back those letters unwritten and those words unsaid…

An illusion, that the way I am is the way you are, And while I am thinking of you, you are thinking of me, We are reminded of the verse we read in that room together, When we thought if love is another name for the pull of the moon on the sea…

And so, from the iron cage of my fragile illusions, Just like…