After a long time…

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I remember the times when writing a poem, a paragraph was not that a big deal for me. I could do it easily, smoothly without any hesitation. And then one day, I realized I couldn’t write anymore. I don’t know the reason though. Nothing really happened. I was just short of words, I had no vision in my mind, I had nothing to write. That enthusiasm was missing. The urge to open up Word document was still there. But my fingers couldn’t move across the keyboard. And I had to suppress my desire to write. I had a few reasons in mind later. Maybe I wasn’t or hadn’t read enough books so that I could write more. I regretted that second itself. I thought I had wasted my entire childhood not reading good books by amazing authors. I loved reading too. I had stopped that also. I loved listening to music. I had stopped that too. I loved singing. And my voice was becoming unpleasant, I thought. It’s like I was completely surrounded by negative vibes. People encouraged me to write because they loved me. They loved reading my stuff. And still that didn’t work.

So, that’s how it’s been around more than a year that I have written something I am proud of. And it really hurts thinking the same.

Today, I decided or let me put it this way; I gathered courage to open my laptop and the folder “Poems” in it. Yes, I have a folder with a few works of mine. And I started typing in this document. It feels good to go on typing and typing.

Well, this courage didn’t just pop up out of the blue. One of my friends, Preeti, a gorgeous girl with the purest soul, she sent me a picture on WhatsApp. To my surprise, it was a sketch. A sketch of me. I was not expecting any such thing. She had been sketching my portrait since two days as an early birthday present. I was speechless seeing that. I couldn’t thank her enough. She’s a wonderful artist without a doubt. My God! what I remembered next took me minute or two to recover.

Last year,2015, we had a kind of deal, Preeti and me. I asked her to start sketching and painting and I would start writing. Well, she didn’t really enjoy engineering. She wanted to do fashion designing but ended up with wires and sockets in her hand, yes, electronics and communication was her branch. I wanted to see a beautiful paint brush and stencil in her hand. But as they say, whatever happens, happens for a reason and I am a firm believer of that. She was happy but due to hectic schedules of college it wasn’t possible for her to take out time for her passion, painting. So that was the deal about. I had stopped writing and she had stopped painting. We were on the same boat. So we decided to take the boat further, with our respective passions. She started painting and sketching whenever she found time. But I had really lost confidence. I couldn’t write. And I broke the deal. She followed. Almost every day I was reminded of this deal. I wish it were some kind of an “Unbreakable Vow”. But again, to do something, it comes from within oneself, you know. These deals and vows are just the head starts, I guess.

So, this is what came flushing in my mind. That deal of ours. I saw the picture, my sketch, and Preeti asked me whether I had started writing or not. I confessed to her that I was way far behind writing anything. She encouraged me again to start off with what I love doing. So here it is. A page with a few words for my best friend who believes in me and loves me so much and keeps on inspiring me with her paintings. This one’s especially for you!

I love you , Preeti!

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“Let me be… her soul screams silently.” 

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“A son is a son till he finds a wife..

But a daughter is a daughter, her entire life..”


“Congratulations! You’re blessed with a baby boy!”

So, if the new born is a girl, is it a curse?

Is it not a gush of happiness and joy,

To father a girl, to want her and to nurse?


“My son will become a doctor when he grows up!”

And what about the education of his daughter?

Is she just meant to brew coffee and later, wash the set of cup?

This is where her future will halter?


“One pleasant dawn, a girl is born.

She is caressed by her mother.

She is being looked at and she is being adorned.

A stern voice is heard somewhere, saying,” Next year she should have a brother.””


Are daughters such “unwanted weeds” of the society,

that sons, equivalent to the “green grass” have to be born?

Is she not a creation of The Almighty?

Is it not painful to simply, at her, scorn?


One day a passer-by throws acid on her face.

The other day someone rapes her.

Is it a who-will-win-the-ego race?

Don’t they understand, it’s not the body, but the soul that they stir!


“Just because she didn’t want to speak to him!

Just because she was wearing a knee length dress!”

Why not:”Just because he was a dimwit!

Just because he was in some inexpressible stress!?”


Now, the question- Who’s the one proving to be a disgrace,

To the society and the family?

Still remains that illogical craze,

that preference of having a son to a daughter.


The nights are sleepless for a mother, when her child is sick..

Did someone ever notice even “she” is a daughter to someone?

The entire day is spent cooking her husband’s favourite cuisine..

Did someone ever notice even “she” is a daughter to someone?


Why can’t this world be a better place for these innocent souls?

Is it because of the clothes they wear or the way they look?

Or should there be a “How to behave atleast human” named book?


“I’m walking in the middle of the road,

At half past midnight.

I don’t need a gun or a sword.

Everything seems to be alright.”

A dream, which, if comes true,

It’ll bring a reformation, new.

When, in equal proportions are fire and water,

That day she’ll say, “I am proud to be a daughter.”


Because it takes courage..

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Sitting by the window pane, she saw the sun set..

A teardrop from her eyes, landed on the contour of her nose..

Leaving her crimson cheeks, all red..

A diary in front of her, with those dried petals of rose..

She, then, went towards her child, caressed him..

And laid by his side to watch him sleep..

The room was filled with darkness; just a light, dim..

Engaged herself in some thought, deep..

The sound of the bullets being fired..

The army uniform with those batches of honor..

All of this, suddenly made her feel sick and tired..

She started moving from corner to corner..

Those seven promises..

Of living together till eternity..

Their first kiss..

Bringing a feeling of tranquility..

She came back to the present..

Again, lost in that world of darkness..

Yes, she missed him, his fragrance..

Nothing much more less..

Thinking about her beloved husband..

Who hadn’t even seen the innocence in the face of their child..

Who couldn’t be there at the time of need to hold her hand..

Because he was an army man..

 She knew well that his love for the country was more than anything else..

She knew well that he was a soldier, tough and strong..

“He’ll be home soon, very soon.”, her instinct tells..

She had waited for him since six months; too long..

It takes courage, definitely, to join the defense..

But it takes equal courage to be the bride of one..

To let the goodbyes be as normal, and hence..

The waiting part is the most difficult, understood by  none..

At times, emotions rule the mind..

And everything else seems meaningless..

Love is what makes us blind..

Just optimistic assumptions and guess..

The very next moment, her child woke up..

And all her attention turned towards him..

Singing to him the lullaby, she showed him those laurels, the medal and the cup..

And with pride in her eyes said, “One day you too, will be like him.”

The Man With The Scar

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As soon as I entered to watch the riders in “The well of death”,

With lots of courage they ignited the engines of their bikes and a car.

I was taken aback at the sight of it all, I held my breath.

After the 29th second, as a rider passed by me, I noticed, over the left eyebrow he had those lines of scar.

It kept me wondering throughout the show,

Whether those unfortunate drawings will ever fade.

Round and round and round and one more.

I kept asking my uncle, “How much are they paid?”

I didn’t get an answer to that.

We were both mesmerized by the thin layer of air,

Between us and the scarry man’s hat.

I was still worried whether he had someone to take care

Of, back at home.

That day, later in the night, I was in a deep thought,

“What made him choose this profession?

Was it for the money he earned

Or was it for his bike-riding passion?”

I desperately wanted to know his story, all of it,

But slept with a question mark inside my head.

A candle, a candle of hope, I lit,

Few things are better left unsaid.