Picture this.

Picture a boy strangled to his own imaginative paradox. Picture someone with disfigured, repulsive and patchy thoughts in a straight body, having the perfect bad bushy hair. An all time undisputed champ of “Please judge me for my shabby appearance and dusty soul” competition.

See also : Comfortable but ugly chappals.

See also : A total colour blunder in the name of what goes on with what.

Picture a pretentious wannabe fuckpiece roaming in the posh areas of South Delhi. Picture his longing eyes wandering for enoughness tirelessly, only to be shamed by call of retrieval. Picture a boy who never knew the ways of men despite reaching the age where he could be called one.

A boy liked by none,not even by himself had slept for 12 hours straight so now you can judge him for being happy. He is funny. As in looks funny and talks funny. Eh,must not be depressed. Because that’s what people in depression avoid doing. He doesn’t like holding pointy objects though. He doesn’t like going to higher places or walking alone on the bridge. He is afraid to do all these things,so he mustn’t be depressed.

Sadness? Oh,he definitely got bored of that too. Yes,people can get bored of sadness without being happy. It’s called lifelessness. Let’s not call this depression because it’s a big word. Because there are always some Gurus and “goodquote” people on Instagram who advise people to cutoff from such kind. Because if a generous person hears about it,he might advise the boy to do the same and wouldn’t that be something considering the fact that the only negative person he knows is himself?

So he is not a pro lifer but he mustn’t be depressed because he is scared by the idea of ending a human life.

So picture a boy never been loved by anyone. He is just tolerated and controlled by people around him because they are nice humans. They sympathize with him and yet they never adored him or loved him. More like they are holding down the frustration because he is pitiable. Because he could use some kindness. Because he mustn’t feel that he is all alone and shouldn’t consider them ‘not so nice’ people afterall.

Picture this miserable human who can’t even fall in love because he isn’t allowed to. Because he is held by idea that only achievers, vibe givers, optimists and lookers deserve love. Picture his empty hands when he finally fell in love but couldn’t offer anything. So he might just shut himself and lock himself in the room of worthlessness while the key of hope is destroyed.

But nah,he mustn’t be depressed because it is a big word.

Picture his parched soul waiting to be watered by self worth in a drought prone land of desires. Now picture his agony giving in to apathy. Picture this poor boy who doesn’t even know what he wants. Picture this purposeless maggot who-now-doesn’t care what he wants.

Picture the transition of a deluded innocent kid to a boy who was eluded from every single thing that can be called ‘normal’.

What do you see?

What do the pictures look like?

If you play it as motion picture, would it become a cult classic?

Let’s not call it art because it lacks visionary pain or maybe because depression is a big word and there’s yet to be discovered a land where compassion grows.

Advertisements

/सिर्फ मर जाना ही मरना नहीं होता/

ख्वाबों के बक्से को ताला मार

जब आँखें मूंद कोई सोता है

तब वह थोड़ा मरता है

खीज में जी कर ख़ुद को भुलाकर

जब ख़ुदी में छिप कोई खोता है

तब वह थोड़ा मरता है

आईने में एक चहकता बच्चा देख

जब उम्र के बीज कोई बोता है

तब वह थोड़ा मरता है

टहनी से गिरा एक पुष्प लाचार सा

जब मुसाफ़िर की बाट कोई जोहता है

तब वह थोड़ा मरता है

मर्दों की बसाई इस दुनिया में

जब कोने में बिखर कोई रोता है

तब वह थोड़ा मरता है

नैतिक दबाव में परछाईं भी भूल

जब अस्तित्व का भार कोई ढोता है

तब वह थोड़ा मरता है

दिल से दिल के शातिर व्यापार में

जब इंसा से पुतला कोई होता है

तब वह थोड़ा मरता है

//Drafts//

In the most still moments

The unignited fires

Rise amidst the blues

The tranquil night

With all its grey might

Longs for serendipity

And I,who desire,

Stand on the boulevard

Of untrodden desires

Of the incomplete drafts

Only to bury them

Seal them

And later, transcreate them

Step by step

With deluded dusty stanzas

Wrapped in crawling desires

In a different, incomplete draft

Call it Sadness

What follows next is sadness. Please go away if you are in dire need of positivity or if you like to entertain anything but reality.

If you are looking for your daily dose of prose/poetry with quintessential usage of metaphor,this is where you stop. Abort. What follows next is an allegory. The mere catalogue of unabridged facts is exactly what will follow.

I am sad. I am anxious and I am sad. Not sad as in self-demeaning,self loathing sort of sad. Sad as in jealously sad. As in ‘hopeless envious’ sad. The anti-sadist sad sad.

My feed is full of people celebrating this thing called life; posting happy snaps,posting their beautiful smiling faces. To me,it is satisfying to see and that’s sad because I could never really relate to them. Could never imagine same thing happening to me,like me smiling and moulding as per the peers and that’s sad. My offerings include humour, lyrics and music score. And that’s sad because art and humour is derived from reality.

I see people celebrating love. People irrevocably in love;spreading love vibes. I am sad because I don’t catch their vibes. I am sad at the fact that my ability to feel and acknowledge love in accordance with the popular norm has diminished completely.

Sadly,I don’t even want to be wanted. Call it nihilism.Call it sadness.

The poets of my era are warriors. They fight,they write,they fight again. Consider a vast desert with no seeming end.They are the travellers hoping for the plains and an oasis is their temporary refuge. The poets of my era don’t write,they bleed. They paint their scars with brushes which work via pressure mechanism fueled by nothing but courage.

I read them and that makes me sad. It makes me sad because I hear a call for help amidst all hopelessness. Sadly,they are being congratulated for decorating their misery. Makes me sad that I can’t see what other fellow poets see when they find depth.All I could see or hear was a person sending out a call. The picture they are drawing isn’t beautiful,it is tragic. I feel sad as I am no more a rebel or maybe I was never a poet to begin with.Call me basic. Call this sadness.

I go out and I see people worshipping their human form,looking all flee. Sadly, I am sitting in these chappals while I wait for the metro to arrive at Malviya Nagar.They say meet new people daily,it helps in evolving as a mature human who has absorbed wide range of perceptions. Doesn’t help if you are not willing to look presentable or more importantly ‘talk’ presentable. I am sad because I never really mastered the art of talking the talk. It’s like I am the open book with detailed and honest explanation and the person who leaves is the top notch book reviewer. Some parted ways with negative reviews and some dozed off;leaving the pages unread..unturned.

End realisation: some people shouldn’t even try commuting and you my friend are one of those. Sadly,it came more natural to me than I expected. Look who’s the ultimate pro at deleting his social existence now?

Maybe I am just sad because I can see sadness lurking inside everyone who have forcefully supressed it under their armour of pretentious confidence.How is ignorance curing sadness is beyond me. When did sadness became a thing to boycott as to induce positivity? Isn’t it amusing how they feel sad over a fictional character death in a TV series while they refuse to acknowledge the grave situation other people(live people turning into corpses) are in?

Talk about this courageous Netflix generation!

I am sad at the fact that I might become this nihilist prick who knows nothing but apathy. I fear the process has found its catalyst in the worthlessness in me. The questions have dried up,the thoughts have evaporated and then there is this comforting calm that holds me and eradicates every ounce of zeal while I stay motionless,emotionless.

Yeah,let me just ignore human existence. Worth it.

The death of muse.

I am tired of the repetitive cliché write-ups being glorified by next gen writers. I am tired of their never settling enthusiasm which fuels the underserved hype.

I am tired of all wannabe intellectuals who have categorized poetry in accordance with their agenda. As if activism is the only means to obtain the ‘oomph’ factor or to get the maximum cheers on what has been written/spoken.

I am tired of everyone in the literature fraternity who has continuously compromised with the structure and flow,just because ‘it’ was ‘important’.

I am tired of reading poetry that glorifies depression as if it were some muse. As if anxiety is something we,the messed up youth with complex mental issues, love to entertain.

I am tired of people depreciating humour because it lacks ‘depth’ and coherent appeal.

I am tired of people who measure the brilliance of a written piece by numbers mechanism. I am tired of the likes in triple figures and the staggering amount of shares on your ‘touching’ posts.

I am tired of not relating to your art,people. Your aesthetics had nothing to do with your punctured description.

I am tired of your rants in the name of prose writing. I am tired of your sass,class and unfathomable rebellion.

Basically,I am tired of myself.

Control is an illusion

I will tell you all about it.Everything.

The basic analogy is related to the formulation of a dream. You don’t remember the starting point;there is none. You’re always in the middle of every dream you’re dreaming. The build up is heavily dependent on the context of scenarios you propagate daily. The voices in my head are real people;atleast to me.The characters resting in my notes folder are real people.

I will tell you how we meet.

I know it because I wrote it

Humans; too many of them to bear with. With a little fidget enters anxiety. And with the crippling anxiety surmounting as the time passes by,you develop traits..some of them you never wished for. Things aren’t easy if you’re in the constant state of paranoia; trust never comes easy to you. But you have to live. You have to let go of that routine you’re holding on to ,every night. You have to find a way to crack the routine which involves swallowing pills at unfathomable rates. Like,I said,you develop traits;out of extreme exasperation. A call for help is made. Too bad,the receiver is you. It isn’t a gift, it’s the never ending disease whose sole purpose is to entertain the existence of this human form.

I will tell you how I meet them.

I know them because I wrote them.

I lack substance, volume and visibility which a naked eye can percieve. Me ,him and all of them are clever enough to sync. Clever enough to pour in the substance this world craves. Clever enough to morph our squares into cube and thus have the irreversible volume.

I will tell you all about it. Everything.

You are in Malviya Nagar metro Station. You see faces you have never seen in your life but somehow you get this uneasy feeling of Déjà vu. It takes 3 minutes for a truly messed up but highly functional brain to join the dots and do a background research. So I switch off. I wake up at Hauz Khas. All set with my version of story; adulterated one. I was always good with imagination. I don’t like that overly extroverted guy who is going to approach me soon and ask me about my opinion on DUSU election. I had already assumed him as a glib brainwasher.

This is how I meet him.

I know him because I wrote him.

With little imagination you can escape reality.

With enough imagination you can control time and space.

So I switch off.

I log back in at Green Park and I see a bunch of wannabe edgelords going berserk. The alpha class in the world of betas and thetas. The bully mongers. The loud unsophisticated crew of generic maggots trying their best to gather attention. The not so artsy classy guys. You see them and you see everything you want to be. This can very well be their escape. Afterall,masculinity lost its virtue way back when the great wars were over. We are the generation of mental patients fighting our own wars and this metro route is their war zone for time being.

This is how I meet them.

I know them because I wrote them.

So I smile.

So I switch off.

Everything is so yellow in the metro. The lights, the pale faces of people,the screens they are tapping their fingers on.. Everything.

So I switch off.

Doors opened on the left this time. Central Secretariot,it is. An urge awakes too. An urge to get rid of monotonicity. So you go out and you walk. And you walk..and you just walk till you’re in the visibility range of Amar Jawan Jyoti. You walk back. All of this to get tired and finally sleep. You breathe a sigh of relief as your eyes are shutting slowly. Things are still yellow but tolerable.

So you switch off; involuntarily this time.

This is how I meet myself.

You wake up at Malviya Nagar.

Error 404 : Déjà vu.

वह जिसे कविता कहते हैं

कहने को तो वह बहुत कुछ है

कहने को तो सब कुछ

कहा तो ये भी जाता है

कि उसकी कोई परिभाषा नहीं है

वह किसी भाषा के पिंजरे में कैद नहीं

हवा में घुलती हुई

वह आज़ाद घूमती है

हर देश,हर प्रान्त में

हर उस सांस में

जिसे गोरे-काले की पहचान नहीं

वह हर लिपि में खूबसूरत है

नदी सी बहती है

बांध रहित ख़यालों में

जिसे बस स्याही चाहिए

शब्दों द्वारा भू से रवि पहुंचने को

अफ़ीम कहो या नशा

प्रसाद कहो या वात्सल्य

वह किसी सूक्ष्म रूप में नहीं

वह प्रेम है उस मीरा का

जिसे चाकरी में ही सुख मिला

वह रहीम को दास बनाती है

और ख़ुसरो को अमीर

वह अदब है उस शायर की

जिसके शेर ही उसका परिचय हैं

वह गरजना है उस विद्रोही की

जिसके शब्द-शब्द जनक्रांति के स्तम्भ हैं

उसका मोल किसी तराज़ू का मोहताज नहीं

वह बने शान महफ़िल की

या शांत रहे रूठी सी

वह कला से है

किसी कलाकार से नहीं

समय का उस पर बस नहीं

वह हर दौर से है

यानी किसी दौर की नहीं

थाह उसकी उम्र से नहीं मापी जाती

समझ उसकी सिर्फ अनुभूति से है

कहाँ रंगमंच पे ढूंढते फिरते हो

खोजो उसे ख़ामोश गलियारों में

वो शोर है उस आह में छिपा

जिसे तलब है आज़ाद कलम की

इसे तुम जकड़ नहीं पाओगे

किसी मीटर या बहर में

वह कण-कण में है

वह कण-कण से है

कहने को तो वह बहुत कुछ है

कहने को तो सब कुछ

Chaos and Internet.

Political Ideology is just like an actor you worship blindly.Just like that same ignorant prick you have worshipped all your life, who has successfully screwed you to the point where your nonsensical brain can’t identify with reason and contemplation.

You’re just not willing to see the bad side of it. You are hell bent on defending its preposterous existence at any cost while you transform into a delusional troll. You are armed with nostaligia and few good things it offers. You spend nights feeding bullshit to people, thus proving loyalty to it. You consider yourself as a valuable member of its virtual dynasty so you contribute enough for the fandom which is much needed for its perpetual growth.

You preach it in the first place because 4 out of 5 people around you did the same. Peer goddamn pressure had you and your will to look beyond for the answers is dead now.

Now,it is unwilling to change or adapt to change with time. But you have come way too far to let it go. You will still pay for its worthlessness and while you’re at it,you encourage people to do the same. You have become a consummate guardian who has mastered the art of derailing the issue. The debatelord in the virtual arena,the living encyclopedia..you have all the titles.

Look around you for once.

It’s not beautiful.

This world of ours is tearing apart and there is no more unity in diversity. The simple human ability of listening is getting obsolute. Billions are controlled by hundreds who rule over the chaos they create. And you,my friend, have contributed to it as much as any one else. Chaos doesn’t work like they portray it. There is no single prime contributer, everyone is. Isn’t the everyday tension sickening? Who are you smashing or defending exactly? And how do you differentiate between loyalty and righteousness? Of what use are your principles,if they made you both the prime offender and the victim in the end?

Nothing is absolute,nothing is perfectly white or black. The world isn’t divided into two major categories,it is the set of many things and each entity contributes to the balance. The concept of good/bad doesn’t work according to your rulebook of ideology,which has time and again brainwashed you.

Creating something out of nothing is exactly what chaos sounds like.Listen to it, listen to the voices and if you reach profound depths…one of them might as well be yours.

The mind palace is all yours!

बोलो क्या मांगते हो? 

ये लो भाला,ये लो कृपाण

साथ में ये लो कट्टा भी

मारो और खूब मारो

तब तक मारना जब तक वीरता का प्रमाण न मिले

और वीर रस पर कसीदा न पढ़ा जाये

मचाओ हुड़दंग और खूब मचाओ

तब तक मचाओ जब तक सड़कें बंद न हों,

स्कूलों के गेट पर ताले न लगें

हुड़दंग मचेगा तभी तो राजनीति गिरेगी!

बोलो क्या मांगते हो ?



ये लो कैमरा,ये लो माइक

साथ में रख लो चेले भी

एक चेला सवाल पूछेगा

दूसरा चेला जवाब देगा

उधर गद्दी वाले मुस्करायेंगे

चिल्लाओ और खूब चिल्लाओ

तब तक चिल्लाना जब तक सुनने वाला कोई न हो

बहस करो और खूब करो

तब तक करना जब तक अभिनय दम न तोड़े

बहस होगी तभी तो मामला आगे बढ़ेगा!

बोलो क्या मांगते  हो ?



ये लो मोमबत्ती,ये लो पोस्टर

साथ में ये लो झंडा भी

भीड़ बढ़ाओ और खूब बढ़ाओ

तब तक बढ़ाना जब तक साहबज़ादे आर्डर न दें

नारे लगाओ और खूब लगाओ

तब तक लगाना जब तक वर्दी वाले गोले न छोड़ें

भीड़ कुटेगी तभी तो असली आंदोलन शुरू होगा!

बोलो क्या मांगते हो ? 



ये लो ट्विटर,ये लो फेसबुक

साथ में ये लो व्हाट्सएप्प भी

आक्रोश दिखाओ और खूब दिखाओ

तब तक दिखाना जब तक ट्रेंड खत्म न हो

लिखो कटाक्ष और गढ़ो भाषण

तब तक लिखना जब तक क्लेश न हो,

या कीबोर्ड पर आपदा न आन पड़े!

अरे डालो लांछन, मारो ठप्पा

जब तक मुद्दा कुछ और रूप न लेले

खोलो इतिहास और गिनाओ दंगे

मारो तथ्य,बचाओ विचारधारा

और हां, ट्रोल करना मत भूलना!

बोलो क्या मांगते हो ? 



बस दो चेलों की जेल? 

वो जो छूट जाएंगे? 

जिन्हें छूटने पर फूलों से सजा पथ मिलेगा? 

एक फ़ाइल जो कभी भी बंद हो जाएगी? 

जिसे बस एक टी•वी कार्यक्रम के में सिमटा दिया जाएगा? 

अरे सुनते हो!

चुनाव आने वाला है! 

बोलो क्या मांगते हो? 

His screams


His screams

Amplifying the magnitude of chaos

Dwells into sorrows

Bewildering the vocal masters

All thunderstruck,all numb


His screams

Devouring his lungs

Sends shivers to a billion spines

Causing catastrophic desire

Quenching the parched souls


His screams

Weaving roars of uprising

Chides the wall of resurgence

Spanning umatched rhythms

Instigating rush in nerves


His screams

Looping in the hinged minds

Reverberates in the shattered hearts

Transcending limited emotions,

Discovering the  buried flames


His screams

Cultivating teenage playlist

Immortalises the “Chaz” legend

Amidst all legends

Unresting in the memoirs,written in chords.



Roar in paradise,legend!