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हर मौसम में हम जिया करते है! मुहब्बत के जाम दिन में भी पिया करते है ! आग को लगा कर गले , बारिश की तमन्ना किया करते है ! शाम को खुशबू जिस्म की , साँसों में लिया करते है ! रौशनी को अँधेरे में छुपा के , धीरे - धीरे चांदनी किया करते है ! नज़रो से बातें करके ,  चुपचाप जिया करते है। शायद ... हर मौसम में हम युही मुहब्बत किया करते है ! Listen to the poem on SoundCloud

After chasing my cousins on a sultry summer day, I fell into my grandmother’s lap. She stroked her fingers into my hair and it felt heavenly. She unclipped my hair and I rested my little head close to her bosom. As she blew air on my scalp and with the sweat beads evaporating, summer turned into spring. ‘You have beautiful hair,’ she said and started braiding my hair. Too tired to argue, I let her make two braids turning one side after another. ‘Go see in the mirror, how pretty you look’ and I darted into my parents’ bedroom and loved what I saw. June 21st, 1991   I love playing with Shilpa. I think we can be good friends. We talked about writing letters to each other and she said we will be pen friends. I hope we go to Pinjore on Saturday and eat cassata. Grandma made two chottis on me  and I like it. I think I will buy ribbons matching with my school uniform. I’ll tell Mamma to buy ribbon when she will go to market. ********************* Restlessly,...

I danced with the wind, not cared for a dime, Lived under your shadow, when the sun shined. Like a princess every day, I ordered this and that, Sang my stupid tales, again and again, you gave me a smile and a pat. The day search for the ‘prince’ ended; you gave me right away, Not thinking twice dad, that I’ll miss you every day. You gave your piece of heart and we both are happy for sure, Melting in someone’s life, I don’t have time to ask for more. Have I ever told you; your teachings are not going in vain, I conquer all my problems, but, I miss you when I’m in pain. Who am I, dad? I asked myself hundred times, Just a random girl, who has the best dad of all times! *I am not a good daughter but my dad is definitely the best.

Those little buds rejoice, Carving the heart in pink. Bountiful, gorgeous, vibrant, The colors of spring.

I stubbed my cigarette, Naked I walk. On a broken trail, In the noise of a monologue. Truth is a product, I bought 'it' on discount. Applauding myself in soliloquy, On the bargain so profound. 25% thrashed, for the world so corrupt, 15% more for shredding peer's trust. 10% lost in commercialization wave, 15% goes to how we behave. 2% is the surcharge, For making life unbelievingly large. Go, add your reasons for heavier rebate, No one cares about truth, of late. Wait! I found what's bothering me inside, Killing me for buying the stale lot. Wiser men stayed away, What I grabbed, no one ever bought. *Read the footnote here

Every week I read many stories on rapes, female infanticide, and domestic violence. We vent out our anger and emotions so heavily that we almost present women as a weaker being. Why don’t we write more about the strength of women and glorify her? How about narrating the stories of those who in spite of all the difficulties, earn, do all household chores, raise their families and do all that with a smile . Let’s celebrate women in the ordinary walks of life! Before I celebrate Mother Teresa for soothing many souls and Indra Nooyi for heading a corporate giant, I celebrate my Mother. I bet most of us do that, placing our ‘Moms’ on a pedestal and applauding her. But my Mother is special. She was born with one hand. It’s very strange that I didn’t realize it for 21 years. I still remember when I was admitted and the nurse told her to hold my arm tightly but she couldn’t hold it tight enough (she was on the wrong side of the bed). The nurse asked her to try it with the other ha...

I could be wrong, As I’ve always been. Treading the less traveled path, I've some unanswered questions within. Some black and white memories Some wounded old dreams. Feels like, Dragging this body for centuries. Tired of getting up after every crumple, I laugh with my eyes bleeding, Can I get some rest, some rest on your shoulder? I could be alone, As I’ve always been. *This poem was published in Rousing Cadence . **Please click on the image for better resolution.