Silver Spoon

Do they not see that the spoon only looks silver but it’s actually wooden?

Do they not see that the golden spoon in her mouth is laced with slow poison, only she can taste?

Do they miss the cut on the side of the lip of the woman sitting in the fancy car that she tries to hide, unsuccessfully? Have her fancy clothes managed to hide away all her bruises?

Do the drenched silk sheets soak all her tears?

Do the terrors of lonely, unloved days, violence, abuse nor forced penetrations reflect in the vacant eyes of women covered in fineries?

Does the night not leave traces on our faces…do the glittering diamonds make our pain invisible?

What’s the point?

What’s the point of being unpredictable… if one is going to turn into a foregone conclusion?

What’s the point of being rebellious …if one doesn’t rebel against one’s genetic makeup?

What’s the point of the polarity …if one won’t enjoy the roller coaster it keeps one on?

What’s the point in living …if the senses needed to be dulled?

What’s the point of fighting the whole world, when one can’t confront one’s shadow?

What’s the point of being flirtatious, if one’s demons aren’t caught by the horns and made to tango? Look them in the eye, blow them a kiss and slip like you always do!

Did I Go Mad…

Did I Go Mad- Elise Cowen

A couple of days ago, a friend rang to find out if everything was alright. ‘You’ve not been ranting on your blog, when you’re quiet I worry about what is going on in your head, much more!’ she sounded concerned. Sometimes, I forget this is not one of my random notebooks lying around the house with all kinds of arbitrary information jotted in it but a blog that some, albeit a few people read.

What is going on in my head? Melancholy has come to embrace me, like it does…twice a year by the clock, a couple of weeks are harder but nothing to fret over, one bounces back like one invariably does. All kinds of inanimate objects ( that seem more real than most actual people do) surround one. The advantages of being a bibliophile with a terrible memory, I sometimes find poems and prose from a decade ago, that have vanished from my memory. My lack of recollection is no ways implies that the words aren’t par excellence, I invariably forget most of what I did and read, even a day before (The main purpose of maintaining this blog, is to help me remember).

How could I forget this brilliant, Jewish, suicidal woman who slept all day and used black slang? If you know me, you would know why I would like her.

Check her out. This is the last poem she ever wrote-

No love

No compassion

No intelligence

No beauty

No humility

Twenty seven years is enough.

Mother- too late- years of meanness- I’m sorry.

Daddy- What happened?

Allen-I’m sorry

Peter-Holy Rose Youth

Betty-Such womanly bravery

Keith- Thank you

Joyce- So girl beautiful

Howard-Baby take care

Leo- Open the windows and Shalom

Carol-Let it happen

Let me out now please-

Please let me in.

Tu Mauj He!

For someone who doesn’t follow any religion, oddly enough, one tends to find oneself in the vicinities of believers. I’m fascinated by the varied paths that lead to God, exactly the way I am with men (kissi aanken achi he, kissi ki awaaz achi he) but ask me to live with one and I will flee, in the opposite direction. I do enjoy the show, let me admit that. People frantically prostrating in front of a book, kissing a door frame, idol worshipping, beating oneself up in the name of God, all of it is quite lovely to watch and capture. Javed Akhtar, once declared during an interview that if you didn’t give a child a religious upbringing, he /she would be much more logical and feel no need to follow anything, or anyone. I have my doubts about the logical, but with the rest, I concur.

The Qawaals at Qutub Sahab’s Dargah, find my what my brother called ‘nastik’ ways, odd. Ever so often, someone will ask, ‘Andar’ and I sheepishly smile. ‘Apne mein to hum jaate nahin, janaab aap walle mein kyaa kare jaake?’ I want to ask. But people are usually appalled by real talk. So, I buy the flowers, spread them in front of of a door, sprinkle some ittar around that area, light the agarbatis, not at all for a God or for a wish to be granted but for all those who will end up kneeling there, hoping the Sufi, a friend of Allah, will help convey their message to him. There’s undeniably a beautiful energy at these places, that activates a part of you, which is normally dormant and I love the music, all of it, whether it’s the arti, a qawali, a hymn or a kirtan. So, even if you are an atheist, an agnostic or just simply rebellious, like me, it’s a good idea, to visit places of worship just for the vibrations.

The God one believes in, can’t be found in these places, of course. Mine is a limitless one not restricted to a place, not even restricted by good and bad. He can be felt in the wind and seen in the sky. Each time I weep, in the middle of the night, he answers my prayers. He’s in my ego, my ‘chaud’ ( my father calls it), my belief that I will get through it, however tough it is, by myself, against all odds, against the entire world and its mother if it has to be. I’ve felt him in the most beautiful and the most devastating places at some of my most ecstatic and torturous moments. But mostly, I find him in the words of teachers and poets. Every time, I despair, a teacher or a poem appear from somewhere, that propel me forward. Today, the one above did the trick.


‘ Gar kiya naaseh ne hum ko qaid, achha yoon sahi

Ye junnon-e ishq ke andaaz chhut jaaweinge kya?

Hazrat-e naaseh gar aavein, deeda-o-dil, farsh-e-raah

Koi hum ko yeh toh samjha do, ke samjhaaveinge kya?’

The rumours around one, remain as potent as they’ve always been. Sizzling! Any chances of them dying down soon? Not a chance in hell! Not even in death, I’ve learnt from my Amma’s life. But like I said to someone yesterday, it’s a small price to pay for getting away with all that this world, allows only men to get away with! A part of me, does get hurt, which turns it into Hulk. But it seems better sense, is slowly starting to dawn on me, too slowly, though.

I said to myself the other day, when I started to slip, into the darkest corners of my mind-If you have done something and people talk about it, you shouldn’t feel bad because you have done it and if you haven’t done something then that too shouldn’t matter because you didn’t do it in the first place! Does that make sense or does it sound like the end is the beginning is the end? Rantings of a twisted mind?

Coming back from Kashmir, where apparently I’ve tucked a couple of lovers away ( I so wish) is always hard. Leaves one confused and achey, constantly longing for the part of me, I leave behind: hidden by the side of a lake. The softer one tussles with the bitchier one, as soon one reaches Delhi. The ditching of the nocturnal drives and walks too, makes the fight more ferocious and one more aggressive and more melancholic, completely insufferable basically, more than one usually is.

Anyhow, I sit in the basement, staring at book, I can’t seem to comprehend at all, due to my thoughts penduluming from one thing to the other. Bidis and my brother’s photograph smiling at me, from the wall, keep me company. ‘What’s going to happen to you? What are you going to do?’ the question everyone keeps asking me, plays on my mind. The mind draws a complete blank. Not that anyone knows the answers to those questions but in my case I guess, it’s my unsettled state that perturbs people. Once in while, I do wonder, myself.

It’s worrying the Father, one can see. The news that one of the prospects he wanted me to end up with ( till my mom’s death, at least) is going to tie the knot, got me an earful. ‘ What will you do if I fall ill? Who will be by your side? You’re absolutely unwilling to commit to anyone!’ He went on and on, last night, as I sat in front of him, laughing like a jackass. Suddenly, something dawned on him, he realised the fat lady hasn’t sung yet and all this remains a moot point till then. Stubbornness runs in the blood and a promise made to oneself at twenty five, one will keep, however many other boys come and go. He enquired about that and then dropped the topic, in totality. Of course, he sat glaring at me today, yelling for no rhyme or reason. Worry manifests in anger, many a times.

Kyaa hoga, Khudda jaane, but if I made it in one piece, last year, when I couldn’t get through a day, I’m sure, I’ll be able to get through, somehow. If not, we all have to die of something, loneliness seems better compared to a passionless life. I may not know, where I’m going, but I know what I want. A life full of passion and adventure, a small house away from the hustle bustle of a city, full of books, animals and babies.

The Fine Lads of Delhi

Delhi and its fine lads

With their turbans and twisted beards

Openly drinking lovers’ blood

while secretly sipping wine.

Wilful and full of airs

they pay no heed to anyone.

So close to the heart, they rob

your soul and tuck it safely away.

When they are out for a stroll

rosebushes bloom in the street.

When the breeze strikes them from behind,

See how the turbans topple from their heads.

When they walk, the lovers follow,

Blood gushing from their eyes.

Their heads puffed up with beauty’s pride,

Their admirer’s hearts are gone with the wind.

These cheeky, simple Indian lads have made

Muslims into worshipers of the sun.

Those fair Hindu boys

Have led me to drunken ruin.

Trapped in the coils of their curly locks

Khusrau is a dog on a leash.

Poem by Amir Khusrau translated by Sunil Sharma

Iss Qadar Toot Ke Chaho Mujhe Pagal Kar Do- Wasi Shah- Wasi Shah.

Iss Qadar Toot Ke Chaho Mujhe Pagal Kar Do- Wasi Shah.

Apne Ehsas Se Chu Kar Mujhe Sandal Kardo

Mein Sadiyo Se Adhura Hu Mukamal Kar Do.

Na Tumhe Hosh Rahe Aur Na Mujhe Hosh Rahe

Iss Qadar Tut Ke Chaho Mujhe Pagal Kardo.

Tum Hatheli Ko Mere Pyaar Ki Mehndi Se Rango.

Apni Aankhon Mein Mere Naam Ka Kajal Kar Do.

Dhoop Hi Dhoop Hoon Main Tootke Barso Mujh Par.

Is Qadar Barso Meri Rooh Mein Jalthal Kar Do.

Apne Ehsas Se Chu Kar Mujhe Sandal Kardo

Mein Sadiyo Se Adhura Hu Mukamal Kar Do.

Chasers of the Light

Chasers of the light

All the poems, are from the book- Chasers of The Light, penned by Tyler Knott Gregson, who is a professional photographer and poet. He lives in Montana, where he runs a photography company with his partner – Sarah Linden.


Hum aurate he to hamesha galat hoti he. Humare kapdo se hi to admi akarshit hote he. Woh 6 maheene ki ladki aur 80 saal ki aurat ke libaaz ne hi aakarshit kiya hoga? Phir chahe woh Delhi ki bus mein bethi, 23 varsh ki Jyoti ho, Kanpur ke kheto mein payi hue Laxmi, ya phir Hathras ki woh ghas katti hue mahila, jiska shareer, zabaan, yahaan tak shav ko bhi nahin choda, darindo ne. Uski bezubani ab uski zabaan banegi. Chahe hum Dalit ho, ya, Brahmin, Musalmaan, Sikh ya ho Christian hum ek hi sharm ki maala mein bandhi jaati he ungli sirf hum par udti he aur sari galti to hamesha, humari hoti he.

Peda hote hi humme dafnaa dete he. Magar har Diwali apne gharo mein diya jala lete he, Lakshmi ko bulane ke liye. Saraswati, ko bhi puj te he, lekin humme shiksha dene se ghabraate he. Padh, likh kar , kahi aazad khyaal ki na ban jaye. Hum pavitr rahe, Gauri bane, prem ka vyahvaar rakhe, tabh bhi nashe se dhudh pati se mar khaye, magar galti to sirf humari hoti he.

Kuch aurate badtameez hoti he. Agar to 19 saal ki umar mein kissi aadmi se bandh jaye, to tabahi woh achi kehlati he. Hum apne ma, baap ko chord kissi ka ghar basaye, uske mata, pita Ki seva Kare, bache pale rasoi mein din bitaye aur muh ko hamesha bandh rakhe. Jab wahi shaks gulchare urai to woh ek mard hota he. Humme sikhaya jata he, woh mard ka huk hota he. To na maike ke ghar par, aur na pati, par hummara hak hota he! Humme se jo manti he ko jo mard ka haq, wohi hummara, woh dayaan kehlati he. Puri Zindagi- baap, pati, bête, kissi bhi mard ki jaydaat hum ban jati, magar varis nahin, lekin galati hamesha hum aurato ki hi hoti he.

Magar Galat to hum he! Jab humne apni betiyoon ko unke hako ke liye ladna nahin sikaya. Jab unhe mardo aur apne halato se samjhota karte he, yeh samjhaya. Kyuun ke humne unhe Kali Ka rup ban kar nahin dikhaya. Isliye, Galat to hum he.

– Saadiya Kochar 2020


Aaj humne sunah mohabbat shaheed hoti he. To humme khyaal aaaya ke khwaisheen, chahahate aur hasrate shaheed hoti he, yeh kambakht dil, mohabbat ko kaise shaheed hone deta he.

Mohabbat to kuch tare banke, asman mein tim timati he. Kuch aziz jo jald hi raakh ban gaye, unki yaad dilati he. Kabhi hum unko dekh, kabhi woh humme dekhte hue, muskurati he. Tasveere, ghar ki chaukhat, aur har ek kaune mein bas jati he. Halak mein ek cheekh ban kar tham jati he. Mohabbat kaise shaheed ho jaati he?

Mohabbat to kabhi chand ban jati he. Eid ka chand. Unn ratoon ki yaad dilati he, jab koi madhoshi mein, darwaaze pe dastak deta tha. Ankaheen batoon aur hum dono ke haathon mein woh chup jati he. Mohabbat kaise shaheed ho jati he?

Mohabbat to zare zare mein buni jati he. Ghar ke saman mein payee jati he. Har ek kamre mein, unke hathoon se banayee, kuch tutti hue lakad ki cheezon mein payee jati he. Jab mathe pe haat rakhe to, unn thapado ki yaad dilati he. Humesha, Palash Sen ki awaaz, mein payee jaati he. ‘ Kesse bhulegi mera naam?’ cheekhte hue, pucch jati he. Mohabbat kaise shaheed ho jati he?

Mohabbat to aankhon mein aur duaoon mein payee jati he. Dal ke kinare, kuch paani se mile aansuon me chamakti he, ya shamshan ghat mein kissi ki bahoon mein ashk bahate hue dikhti he. Mohabbat to jism pe sihahee se, aur dil mein tanhai se, gadd jati he. Mohabbat to inn sabh mein bat jati he. Mohabbat kaise shaheed ho jati he?