Love

Is love infinite?

I believe it's not love if it's not infinite

It's true that love makes everything beautiful

Why do we then cage it?

I can write about love

where I feel

where I see.

Sometimes I sense the love

between a squirrel and a pigeon

in their fight for a little space.

I try to look for love in hatred sometimes

after suffocating myself in it's stench

when I search for the path to love.

I am in love with the darkness of night

same way I love the sunrays breaking the dawn

I feel thrilled by the colours of twilight

and its reflections on the muddy waters

imparting royalty to an ordinary moment.

I dig up love in innocent ramblings of a child

or in the curiosity of teenagers about life

I also feel love in jealousy.

But I can only be boundless in love with you

All thoughts lead me to your smile

Clichés in the love songs make sense to me now

I love that I see you when I close my eyes

I love discovering us by losing myself!

Love

What is love?

Everything is beautiful when we love

Beauty is ephemeral.

Do people with no sight know not 

what is beauty?

We lose our loved ones.

You cannot imagine your life 

without the granny, who is your personal storyteller.

The brother, who is your cheerleader.

The father, who is your best friend.

All the indispensable relations

from whom you've borrowed bits

to become who you are today.

Or, the youth that bestows your arrogance.

This list does not end.

Is everything beautiful

because it does not last?

Do we value what we love most,

Or, do we value something  

because we cannot hold on to it?

I cannot talk about loving you

without all other kinds of love

Because you taught me

that to love is to accept everyone

the way they are.

I am very miserly with love!

And, you have so much to give!

I would not have known true love

if not for you.

I am not saying you are 

one of a kind.

But your kind is rare.

And I am the luckiest

to have found you first.

A Day.

The sight of the happy birds
chirping to the music of winds,
somewhere far away
on a broken window frame
of an old abandoned home
narrating fables of love and trivialities,
to a forgotten universe
where a little portion of the sun
is just enough to dry your tears,
turns into a dream at night
in the same way day breaks,
in forever and repeated mundanity
that doesn't seem to bother you.
The woods whisper lullabies
that blends into your mood in the morn.
While the silhouettes of loneliness
are embraced by dark night,
and comforted by the stars' presence,
little did you think about
the grass that that missed the Lilly blooms.

My haikus.

Let songs and stories
take you to the place
where you'd like to go.

Aisi kya majburi hai?
Jo aap khush rehne se
mana kar rahe ho?

Home

What feels like home to you?
A particular taste, a scent,
or the untainted laughter
of some neighbourhood kids?

For me,
Home is a long chat
with an old friend,
cycling along a zigzag lane,
getting soaked in the spring rain.

When losing to your siblings
at a little game of 'kori'
was the biggest conceivable defeat.
when the rule that mattered
was to remain happy,
and stories by grandma
would lull you into the night.

Did you find your home yet?
Or are you still looking for it?
Among the sepia tinted photographs,
the marble collection that
you could never let go of.

Look inside of you,
shatter one at a time,
the axioms of  being adult.
Think like a child,
Maybe you'll find your home.

Too short?

If I can think properly about all the relative happenings on this mortal land at one go and come to a conclusion then I can focus my mind on working for something productive, otherwise my mind gets jammed by the haphazard thought buds. I find the relation between memories and time a strange thing. We want to be remembered or maybe even live forever, that is we want people who are close to us or whom we have met through the whole journey of life to miss our presence and think about the time we existed.

Sitting on the office desk with  a deadline and distracted by the powerful urge to scribble nugatory wordings.

Well, meaningful is to the mind, while unmeaning is to the soul.

Words feed the mind, while gestures feed the soul.

An excerpt

It will be wrong to say that days have no significance. Actually it is not every day that you feel this way. But it is worth all the emotions that come along. I want to keep alive the memory of that day because no matter how the universe might play golf with my life, the smell of the colours of that day was a different kind of pleasant. The wind was just perfect to blend my entire heart, psyche and being with the upsurges of the sea creating a congruity with the phragmites dancing to the light river breeze.  The fluttering of the butterflies synced with notes of patterns created by their winged journey and my heartbeat. I can show you more if you really want to hear me out because I was mistaken in assuming that forgetfulness can conquer this enduring impression. I am not lost alone.