Wohi waali Sadak !

"Itne me Tera bas ek Khyaal jo aa gaya..Laga jaise..

Peeche se ek Ajnabee ne Dost keh kar Pukara ho ...."

 

Woh Sadak(1) !  

 

Ruki nahi mai…Chaar kadam aur chaali

Ek saans rok ke phir..bas chalti rahi..

Din zarur dhal gaya tha

Par who sadak to Jawan thi ..

Raat ka fasana Andhere ne chupaya tha

Usi pehlu pe lekin chupe the jawan dil ke armaan bhi..

Tere khyaal ne to.. ae dost !

Yaad zarur dilayi thi.

Us sannatte ko sunte sunte ab to..

Maine, agle lamhe me hi, teri awaaz ki aas lagai thi.

Sapno ka to chod hi do..Hakeeqat me raste band nazar aye..

Pichle mod pe mudna jo bhool gayi thi ....

 

the One you were..

Bas kal ki hi baat hai...usne mujhse kaha...

 

"There was a time..I talked to myself…now, I just speak to myself..and smile to myself..Sometimes it is this instant glumness that comes to me out of nowhere..it is at this moment when I realize I went infamous.."

Jis tarah aaj hai..Yun badnaam kabhi na thi zindagi..

 

Letter Baaawx !

Dearest Mr. Connection,

Of late I find myself finding excuses to not to write to you but at the end of the day, I have somewhere landed up here. This is because for me, thoughts have been not about mere connections. I have tied threads to things of this world, or rather people, I must mention. If there is any kind of trust that I can relate myself to, it is in the fact that the threads are strong.

Besides, there is a new trouble. The threads have got knots. So I hereby request you to help yourself and stop bothering me of complications.

Thank you,

Me.

Dear Miss. You,

Of late, I have deciphered that the threads are too tangled up and complicated already. In such cases, there is one single solution which can unknot me, I suggest you to write to me more often !

Thank you,

Connection. (that particular one)

Me: Does that help ?:O

Cottage: The one in Woods

It was a new place for her. The new town furnished with green air and humbleness in abundance. She wiped her past in her pinafore and worked as a maid in that cottage. Through the little window in her workplace, she made it possible to perceive a portion of people’s life whenever someone passed by.

There was a bridge on the way to the cottage. The one she never got slightest of opportunity to cross. A brook flowed under this very bridge, the quaintness of which was so appealing the passengers were compelled not to cross the bridge without pausing for the moment. This very moment the brook helped her see the very image of their being. 

An old man passes by the bridge every day. He sees sunshine when he leans to penetrate through the depths of flowing water. He was a widower with no children left to take care of. He sees sunshine because that is the way he feels walking back home after spending a long day at orphanage with children keenly listening and applauding his stories. 

A young boy passes by the bridge every day. The brook, as soon as she sees him, gears up. The boy then throws a pebble down the bridge in a way nuclear bombs are bombarded in world wars. In the most artistic way possible, fine and concentric ripples are formed. The brook gets an equally artistic smile on the face of the boy.

A sister from the Baptist church passes by the bridge every day. She bends down to see the face of brook which hustles in a way psalms are chanted.

These people had somewhere occupied a place in that girl’s daily life. Besides, the girl waited for someone else. The person seemed to exist not in the proximity of her conscience. A person to who even the brook did not answer.

Even he passed by the bridge every day. To him, perhaps, the brook spoke of nihility. Neither did the water whine nor did it grizzle, but simply flowed.

All she did was waited near the window each day for him to come, each day for him to come and the brook to answer to his questions or rather her questions.

P.S.: There are numerous facets of life. One fine day, try out living without experiencing a particular one.

SP - 1

Writing after such long time is like opening an old diary...you cannot help but read your previous posts and think of those times when you had written them. Then some additional time to realise that it was actually you who has written that stuff. 

An old diary which has the name of a song that reminds of a few beautiful hours at a place or of a particular person. Then there are things about a sms that are sent to concerned people when you had the first Vadapav of your life. Possibly a bucket list which is edited numerous times with ticks and crosses all around. A few one-liners, some half written poems and stories. Sketches and highlights...the first time a heart is made on a page, the times when you see the blurred ink on a page coz of teardrops. The entries in which happiness is shared because no other was there to share when you were really happy. The pages that speak of being obnoxious and uptight with some others filled when you feel a little more lively are all put together and preserved. 

There comes a time when you actually start personifying your diary..maybe give her a name and use pronouns for The Diary. She becomes the person you talk to when you are simply uninterested to talk to any damn person on earth. She is the one who wont complain if you selfishly speak only about yourself. You abuse her badly, she still lends an ear. 

Would a friend in the entire universe do this for you ? 

The only times when you need a friend are those when you need a reply...