She began to crawl and she began to cruise
and she learned to utter ‘yes’ and ‘no’,
But no one remembers just when that baby girl
actually began to tiptoe. Continue reading “Tiptoe”
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Sometimes, I write about how much I don’t want to write. Sometimes, I am unable to write because I have just finished a beautiful book. Sometimes, it’s just the good old writer’s block. Confused?
This poem is the byproduct of anger against the burning of over 30 schools in the Kashmir valley amidst civil unrest. It is disturbing to see how low humanity can stoop and what horrors it can bring forth.
This poem is a translation of a poem I wrote long back. The original title was बीता हुआ जीवन and it is the voice of a person who is about to die and is evaluating his life in his final moments.
A poem dedicated to all poets who observe the poetry around them and put it forth for the world.
This poem is about the increasing violence in the name of religion by people who probably do not understand the concept of religion in itself.
This Loneliness in the crowd,
this clumsiness out of sophistication,
this wickedness disguised in sweet words,
and my poor happiness struggling for attention.
Poetry can be loosely defined as language in its most distilled and powerful form. It can be in any of the 6500 languages of the world, and is a really powerful form of expression.
यह कविता एक मरते हुए व्यक्ति के आखिरी विचार हैं, जब वो ये चिन्तन कर रहा है कि उसने जीवन में आख़िर क्या खोया और क्या पाया ।
