knaha chali gayi hain saali khushi

Searched everywhere. Everything around has turned into a mess. I can't find her. From the darkest corner of my room, through the loneliest niche in a crowded metro, to drug induced deliriums. I can't see her. Not now. Not for a long time to come. Random songs in full volume, unwanted notes on my harmonica, biting nails as well as the skin around them can only keep the space off my mind for moments. Cold mornings, office gimmick, and dozens of relationship fuck-ups later I have come to terms with the truth. The space left by khushi will be. She is not coming back.

words

The words are falling apart. Each letter stripped off the edge, pushed out, ripped apart, sawn off skillfully by some unseen butcher. Piles of broken words, rubbles of fallen letters all stacked to form one large heap of fire fuel. The entity lives, it waits calmly, to light up, to unleash the un-expressions trapped in the word corpses in a flash of hellfire. Come, lets start, hold hands, chant names of forgotten ancestors, dance naked around the unforgiving fire, move closer into the grasp of the flames, hair strands on fire like a thousand fireflies, make love like animals, smell of burnt words fooling around with mortal vapours. Our ashes shall enrich the ground around us. The virgin tree born out of the earth beneath our feet will utter our names to the wind. Someday that wind will teach a new born child to cry for her mother's milk. In her wails, our burnt, broken, unspoken words shall be reborn. I will find peace.

....

The universe is expanding. At any given time we are moving away from each other. Bastard space is born. Every morning, I wake up in a larger coffin. The winter sun grows dim. Every night, the walk back home grows longer. Colours melt away. Desperate reaches fall just short. Clutched hands give way. I look around sqeaky eyed for something to hold on to, something that will not move away from me. But the universe is expanding. We have to grow apart.

bandhobir sathe cutlet

cold delhi night, anjan crooning through a speaker, four souls bound across a game of 29. beer, memories and fogs across a promise of land, future and dilemmas. a choice of freedom or joy, either-or, never both. a tuck of the muffler , a tightening of hugs apart we are all but sculpted off the same rock, factory made seconds. promises ignored, promises sold, i grow old with a hunch of prophecies and false implications. pieces of soul scattered as sick friends, obviousness of parting ways and beer induced delirium speak of amputated extremities. i miss you durga. i wish you would spend your orgasms in hell!