The songs of my heart

  Textures and weaves Shapes and stiches, Colours and some magic, They gave it all to me one day. I was to make myself a dress I liked.   I made three.   For the first one, I chose the silver moonlight, Filtered through the perfect leaves of the jasmine tree, casting intricate patterns in sheer and lace of my whole tender flesh. For the accessories, I wore some cool breeze in my hair.   For the second, I chose the rain. There was a little chaos on the windowpane Some tiny droplets wandering about the misty planes. I picked that chaos and draped it Calf length. A minimum accessory look. A touch of mist on the lips is all it took.   For the third, I turned to you. A magical pick. This looks like a pattern of how you behold, Of how your eyes move about my body, But when I wear it, I find myself adorning the stars- Glitter and blush on the velvet of my skin. I’d like to finish the look with a rose ...

There is a pattern to how this argument goes – invariably always. So I thought of leaving this pattern here- just in case anyone wants to argue. Filter through this first. They’ll ask, “are you a feminist?” or say something like “that’s so ‘feministic’.” Here, the word feminist is pronounced with a certain tone of disgust. If you mean to ask if I advocate the rights of women, if I believe in equality of sexes, yes, I am a feminist. And I think you should be too. If you mean to ask me if I hate men and think women are superior to men, you must use a different word. Perhaps ‘chauvinist’ is a good option. Wrong use of the word feminism shows lack of homework. Also, remember that it is very irresponsible to spread wrong notions. So use your words carefully. Of course, no, I am not a chauvinist. Every time any injustice/atrocity/insults against women are called out on a mass scale, a counter argument of equal injustice/atrocity/insults on men are called out and the women taki...

Just sit there, Let it sink in. Deep. Like, you know how sometimes a smile, a gaze, a word, a touch, sets butterflies (or burns) around the whole outside of your skin, Or like how sometimes a sight, a smell, or a sound brings down a crashing flood of memories, Just sit there, Let it sink in.  Those butterflies, burns, floods, they like to seep in slowly, get under your skin, rush through your existance and touch your soul. They like to stir in a bit there, (sometimes even whirl) and create little ripples (or giant waves) But you sit there and watch those little brats sink a living heart into darkness (or bliss). In any case,  Just sit there  and let it sink in. Because when they are finally gone,  you will rise with a certain strength. Only, remember, next time around, with all that strength, Just sit there  and let it sink in!

Does this ever happen to you? Like, you are travelling in a crowded bus, and among the mess of pleasant and unpleasant scents in there, you smell a particular perfume. That scent unleashes a flood of emotions in you. Memories. Attachments. Entanglements? Perfume? That insignificant detail? Well, we seem to belong to the creed of people who have a knack of remembering such insignificant details. Time, my friend is an idea that can be killed by an insignificant detail. इस क़दर प्यार से ऐ जान-ए-जहां रक्खा है दिल के रुख़सार पे इस वक़्त तेरी याद ने हाथ This happens! This killer line is NOT an idea.  Memories can be so soothing on the  heartaches.  While leaving the Higher Secondary School midway, I almost broke down while saying goodbye to my favourite professor. He smiled and lovingly and playfully shook my head. I still use the memory of that touch... (not words, no!) to gather my spirit in low times.   एक जंगल है तेरी आँखों में मैं ...

सकाळ फुडें ऑफिसान वतना भायर पिश्या भशेन पावस रकता पळय,   तसो मोग तुजो . इतल्या लागी आसता मात भीजूक मेळना . चाळोवन दाखयता , हारश्यार नाचून वाट आडायता .  सगळ्यांक भिजयता. आनी हाव मात तशेच. Steering wheel कशें सोडू ? आनी हारसो सकयल करत जाल्यार , ऑफिसान कोण बसतलो ते ओले कपडे घेवन? आसू. राव तू भायर , म्हंटा. एक मात कळंना ... विंड स्क्रीनाचे वायपर पिड्यार जाल्यात , काय ....  तसोच तू. पिश्या पावसा भशेन . खंयच्यान तरी भितर सरतलोच. दोळ्यातली दुकां जावन, ना जाल्यार हारश्यावेल्लो दंव तरी जावन!

अहबाब भी ग़ैरोंकी अदा सीख गए है आते है मगर दिल को दुखाने नही आते  अहबाब = friends Friends! I have never been vocal about my love towards my friends. That I am generally not vocal about anything I do is another story, but nonetheless!  It is the greatest pleasure in life to have a true close friend. I consider myself lucky to have more than one of them. It is some euphoric kind of a feeling to love someone more than yourself and then get it back in turn. It is especially rewarding when people mistake your boyfriend to be your best friend and your best friend to be your boyfriend. It is also nice to have a friend who will rightfully share the negativity with you. Says something about the friendship goals. The say friends share and relieve your pain. Those who have true friends will know that this is not true. Bashir Badr has so very rightly pointed out in the above sher that pain is as much a part of friendship as anything else. And if you don't fe...

अंगावर काळ्या कभीन्न मखमलीची शाल पांघरुन रात्र धीम्या गतीने सरकत होती. बोचर् या थंडीची मजा घेत ती गेस्ट हाउसच्या मागे पायरीवर येवून बसली. आजूबाजूला तो चिमुकला गाव शांत झोपला होता. काळ्या मखमली रात्रीवर चंदेरी कुसर काढत चंद्र दूर ढगांच्या आड खेळत होता. दिवसभराचा प्रवास, स्वर्गीय निसर्गात सोबतीने मिळवलेले क्षण, सगळ्या आठवणींनी सुद्धा एक प्रकारची मंद धुंदी चढल्यासारखी झाली. पण याहून जास्त धुंदी चढवत होता तो जवळच वाहणार्या ओढ्याचा गाज. पाणी काही दिसत नव्हतं, पण त्या काळ्या शांततेत जीव ओतत आपल्याच धुंदीत तो खळाळत चालला होता. तिच धुंदी वाटून टाकत. समोर दिसणार्या हिमरांगा जणू  हिर् यांची बरसात झाल्यासारख्या चमचमत होत्या. त्या चंदेरी महालात अनोख्या मधुर तालावर तिचं मन उडत होतं. मागून हलकेच खांद्यांवर येवून विसावलेले दोन्ही हात तिने हळूच हातात घेतले. किंचीत भरू आलेले डोळे मिटून मागच्या मागे डोकं टाकत बिनधास्त ती त्याच्यावर विसावली. ओढ्याच्या गाजात अजून एक लय अलगद मिसळली. त्याच्या काळजाची धडधड. तशीच. बेधुंद.                       ...