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People write diaries. Their diaries describe their personality. I write on my blog. It describes me way too well. :D
My writing takes me places my mind never wanted to go
Everyone writes. From the ink of their thoughts, by the pen of their mind on the page of their face. Everyone writes.I love to write. It is a passion; a compulsion; something that gives me an avenue to express myself. I write when I am happy; when I am sad or when an issue touches my heart. I find inspiration to write in every aspect of life.
This blog is dedicated to anything and everything that fills my thoughts and occupies cranial space

Sunday, January 26, 2014

When ignorance is bliss

When ignorance is bliss,
‘Tis folly to be wise.
When rationality is rare,
‘Tis sinful to raise one’s voice.

Where tolerance is extinct,
‘Tis a futile try to reason.
Where masses are blind,
‘Tis fruitless to have a vision.
When darkness is sovereign,
‘Tis useless to follow the light.
When apathy prevails,
‘Tis arduous to end the plight.

Where murderers are hailed,
‘Tis effete to long for peace.
Where barbarians reign,
‘Tis illusive to live with ease.

When bullets speak,
‘Tis difficult to hold a pen.
When terrorism rules,
‘Tis rare to hear a good omen.

Wednesday, January 22, 2014

Han Ab Main Bada Ho Gaya Hu

Is shahar ki bhaag daud me aa to gea hu par aage kya krna hai kuch pta nhi hai
Khud kamane to lga hu par in paiso ka krna kya hai kuch pta nhi hai
Khush to boht hu yhaan aa ke par phir bhi kabhi kabhi raat ko bistar par akele lete ghar ki yaad to aa hi jati hai
Hostel ka takia mulayam to hai but maa ke godh wala sukh nhi hai
Yahaan aakar aatam nirbhar ban to gea hu par phir bhi har kadam pe pita g ka saath hona yaad aata hai
Mandir gurudware to bahut hai par dadi ke aashirwaad ki baat hi kuch aur hai
Dost to bahut hai jo jaan tk dede par wo bachpan ke dost kuch aur hai
Khaane ko bahut kuch hai but maa ke hath ke khane ki baat kuch aur hi hai
Ghar se chala tha to ek tarfa ticket krwai thi wapsi ki ticket ka kuch pta hi nhi hai
Paiso ki daud me paise to aa gaye hai par wo chothi khushian khaan reh gayi hai kuch pta nhi chla
Aj bhi kisi dost ko ghar jate dekhta hu to sochta hu ke ticket ghar ki mai bhi krwa lu
Ghar jaane wali relgaadi me main bhi beth jau par is shahar ki chaka chaund me agle hi pal wo khyaal bhi dur jati hui relgaadi ke saath khatam ho jata hai
Meri performance se mera boss to khush hai par gharwaale sochte hai ki mai unse dur ho gea hu,
Kyunki Shayad mai bda ho gea hu
Ab aise lgta hai ki
Wo din kuch aur the
Tab main bacha tha
Ab din wo nhi hai
Han Ab mai bda ho gea hu

Wednesday, January 08, 2014

Love is.....

Love is want. Love is need.
Love is impossibly imperfect.
Love always pays the bills on time but forgets your anniversary. It gets you frozen yogurt on the way home but leaves it in the car. It refuses to change the baby’s diaper but spends hours rocking the baby to sleep. It doesn’t write you poems or give romantic speeches but when you’re sad, it suddenly says that one right thing. It rarely thinks to buy you flowers but always thinks to plug your phone into the charger at night.
Love always wants to talk to you whole night but at the same time make sure that you sleep on time in night. It wakes up early in the morning to make you awake for your work. It saves money as much as it can to buy you gifts. Love is thinking of you and crying in the middle of a romantic movie because it is missing you. Love is saying 'Hate You' repeatedely after a fight and then suddenly saying love youuuuu.......
Love tries.
Love is forgiving. Love lets you get away with a lot. It grants forgiveness before you ask, but oftentimes makes you say sorry anyways, because it’s good for you to be humble. Love knows it will hurt you too. Love fails, time and again, but believes every next minute is a new chance to get it right.

Love is forgetful. It forgets old words and old wounds. And even when it remembers, it also remembers to stay kind. Love has the worst fight of your life with you and then, right after, shares a cold coffee and splits a plate of chaat. It will leave the last gol guppa for you.
Love understands your weaknesses. It doesn’t mock that you are scared of driving on highways or you get cranky if you’re hungry. It knows you have to drink your tea really, really hot. It will expect you will complain about your burnt tongue later. Love will be quiet when you don’t feel like talking. It will laugh uproariously at your lame jokes during a party to save you from embarrassment. Love is loyal.
Love is your cheerleader. It believes in you. It goes along with your crazy ideas of writing a book, becoming a chef, launching an art business and tries its best to help you achieve your visions. It will edit poorly written first chapters, eat inedible crème brûlée and gasp amazedly at your blobs of paint on canvas. It doesn’t hold it against you when you fail. It encourages you. But because, you need it sometimes, it will tell you to stop when you are being insufferable and cut short your pity party.
Love changes perceptions of beauty. Love is fond of love handles and stretch marks. Love strokes your grey hair and remarks how distinguished it makes you look. Love teaches you to find the ordinary, extraordinary.
Love is not a substitute for reality nor does it ask you to live in a more fantastic version of it because love lives real life. And in real life, love knows, there are good days and bad days. And a whole slew of so-so ones. Love gets through all of them, sometimes with style and pizzazz, other times with angst and bitterness. But it gets through.
Love flips your idea of humanity upside down. You think you know people and then you see what they will do for love’s sake, how far they will stretch the limits of themselves to care for the one they love and it makes you swallow, hard. Love will make you witness divinity.
Love is fluid. It changes with time in its expression and manifestation. It will be a spark, a raging fire, of flutters in your gut one day. Years later, it will be a steady burning ember, a sense of stability as solid as a rock and all flutters can usually be attributed to indigestion. Love will bring you Hajmola before you ask.
Love doesn’t always make you happy. But it makes you better. Happy too, but also unhappy. Because love knows that its central function in your life is to help you grow. Growth hurts.  Every day, love changes you to become a version of yourself you didn’t know existed. Expanded. Stretched somehow.
Love doesn’t ‘break’ your heart. It splits it open, so that more of what you need can enter.
Love is a choice. You make that choice every single day, every single minute.
Love is sacrifice, compromise, tolerance and a whole bunch of other scary words. It wants to leave you sometimes but it always remains. It wants to kill you sometimes but then imagines the subsequent loneliness. It turns away from you only to turn back again. It buries itself into the very core of you, so you don’t know where it begins or ends.
Love is a paradox. It is awkward and graceful. It is forced and natural, kind of terrible and absolutely hilarious. It is restful. It is wild. It is hurtful and healing. It is gentle and tough. It is confusion and clarity. It strengthens you and makes you vulnerable. It ties you down and helps you fly. It is as rare as a pearl and as common as breath.
Love is fierce. It is very often decidedly mundane, mind numbingly ordinary and easy to overlook, but still, if you know how to look at it, it’s really quite astonishing.
Love is beautiful, it is necessary, and if you allow it, instinctual, but it is never what you think it will be.
It is always much, much more.


Monday, January 06, 2014

The Paradox

I am baffled, oh people! I am perplexed,
I am strong one minute and weak the next,

I adore my milieu; furtively my hinterland do I detest,
I am at peace with myself, only to be hit by unrest,

Perseverance drives me; fatigue compels me to withdraw,
I seek perfection, though my eyes only see flaw,

I long for affection; I have just hate to offer,
I desire harmony; except with no one can I concur,

I yearn for the joy of life; but I want death to set me free,
I wish to face all odds; yet there is a strong urge to flee,

I thirst for my jovial side; still the bitterness does not leave,
My heart wants to trust again; nevertheless it fears deceit,

What this dilemma is, oh people, for sure I cannot say,
Conflicting emotions now define me; they are here to stay,

What is this irony? Why am I withheld by this stumbling block?
Can someone tell me? How do I get rid of this paradox?