Thursday, August 25, 2016

Why PC Scares Me

All this is a little scary, really. And that is because I believe in balance. I believe in binaries. I believe in the net being zero, always. I believe in good being neutralised by bad, smile with sorrows, and heaven with hell.

The fear stems from the fact that perhaps the Almighty has reserved hell for me post mortal departure, because what I am living in at present is, definitely, closest to what heaven would seem like.

Would you believe it, that exists a place on the planet, in the heart of our very own city, where -
- people listen more than they talk
- people are unafraid of expressing all good thoughts
- negative thoughts are as good as non-existent, not just on the surface, but deep down below
- books are shared and hoarded like the greatest treasure
- smiles are the currency to buy and invest in invaluable human emotions
- humility is indispensable, but so is show-off with a casual shrug
- you are allowed to be you, just you, but you have no option but to be the best version of yourself.

I am, of course, referring to PC, which as become more than a mere poetry sharing forum now. If it was just that, it wouldn't have come so far. It is a place where we all are nourishing thoughts, cradling words and bringing up such verses which attract our collective emotions, while being distinctly unique. It is a zone for us to connect not just with each other, but also with our common heritage - because acquiring knowledge is non-negotiable focus. It is a haven for kindred spirits to gain touch with themselves, while they go about shaking hands and hugging each other.

If there was ever a live example for you to understand how hugs heal, this is it.

Poets' Collective is going to be 2 years old soon, but I have already lived a lifetime ensconced within its secure embrace and caring warmth.

Last meet up was a revelation for me to understand and witness the scale we've achieved - in terms of numbers and goodwill. And I will go back where I began - it is scary. Sustaining scale, perhaps, is easy; but sustaining beliefs is not.

Couple of us, at this end, will always try and keep our hearts in the right place as we try and give solace to yours. If I was to talk as PC, I would thank you all, who come and spend time with us, love us, tickle us and then overwhelm us.

And then, as Adhiraj bhai says, #GadarKaayamRahe.

Tuesday, August 2, 2016



We make myths out of the unrealized.


Love untouched
Is love curled
Into a scared ball
Pushed against the wall
Of the darkest passages
Of your most familiar,
Personal dungeon.
Love untouched,
Is not love undone.


He crept with feline grace
Shimmering, into that glass filled
With the only true liquid love.
He reflected, contorted,
Changing forms.
Elegant now.
Grotesque later.
Caught in a glass.
Tightened in a bottle.
Corked in a vision.
Free in the world.
Invisible in the Universe.


Things fall apart
But the centre holds.
Silly centre.
Caught into its own
And twirls
And folds.


Love unrequited
Has its colours.
Break it through a sheet of liquid.
Sparkling clear?
Blurred, dear?
Buried, fear?


While walking through a desert
I conjured a water in my mind
I conjured mirage in my mind
An illusion of an illusion later
I conjured comfort in my mind
(Illusory, from the disillusioned)


Liquid love, is not life force.
Liquid love, is love, and liquid.
It is love, which is liquid.
Hence it flows,
Like fluids, it grows,
To take shapes of visions,
You were scared to profess.
Dreams are comfortable,
Or, are they, really?


Myths were created for truth.
Layered with dust of a millennia
Shrouded within tongues infinite
They gain magic, lose truth.
What is our truth, my dear?
Our love is magic, or a myth, mere?
Was our story made by us?
Or kindled under a curtained hush?


She talks for both, when he talks for none.


Love untouched,
Is not love undone.
Love unloved,
Is love left pure
A gentle cure
To heart’s busiest hum.
The din of dreams,
Conflicted streams.
Pain is but a figure of speech. 


Loving is so short.
Forgetting is so long.
And myths are eternal.

PS – Thanks for Yeats, Neruda and Bachchan.