Backbencher

Break me open like a forgotten promise, let my soul spill. I will gather my pieces and hand them back to you, asking for nothing but your gaze to fall on me.

कभी कभी तो दिल करता है चलती रेल से कूद पड़ूं फिर कहता हूं पागल अब तो थोड़ा रस्ता बाकी है

na milya mai khalqat nu na mai yaad khuda nu kita na padhi mai namaz na mai jaam sharab da pita khushi na gham koi kol na aya na hasya na roya aj da din vi aenvey langeya

Perhaps I am ensnared in the elegance of what we once shared, entangled in the delicate threads of time, where your presence haunts like an echo, fingers brushing the invisible, where once there was warmth. The world parades its distractions, offering glimpses of new beginnings, yet I am too enthralled by the remnants of you, the subtle gravity of your absence holding me in place. It’s not a refusal to move forward, but a reverence for the ineffable connection that endures, so vast, so consuming, to surrender to the passing allure of another.

Resilience isn't born from a single ache, but from the endless return, the cycle of hurt that molds you, reshapes you in its silent, steady grip. Pain becomes the pulse of your days, its rhythm too familiar to escape, and after a while, you no longer resist, you no longer fight its hold. It weaves into your being, each breath marked by its weight, until you can't tell where it ends and where you begin. Survival, it seems, isn't found in the absence of suffering, but in its persistence— in the way it teaches you to live through every jagged edge, until the scars are not battles lost, but the map that leads you forward.

I am bound to be eternally romantic, not in the sweetness of petals falling softly, but in the fire that scorches everything in its path. Romance is not the soft glow of a quiet dusk, it is the storm, the furious clash of waves against the cliffs of my soul, wild and relentless, driven by a hunger that consumes all reason. I wear passion like a second skin, its heat pulsing beneath every thought, every breath— yet it leaves me hollow, as I reach for the impossible, for an idealism that crumbles in my hands, its beauty fleeting, forever out of grasp. I chase it, knowing it can never be caught, and in that pursuit, I find the despair of love, not in its absence, but in its promise— the dream that haunts, the desire that torments, a love too wild, too fierce, to ever be tamed.

ख़ुद को इतना भी मत बचाया कर बारिशें हों तो भीग जाया कर काम ले कुछ हसीन होंठों से बातों बातों में मुस्कुराया कर दर्द हीरा है दर्द मोती है दर्द आँखों से मत बहाया कर चाँद ला कर कोई नहीं देगा अपने चेहरे से जगमगाया कर धूप मायूस लौट जाती है छत पे कपड़े सुखाने आया कर घर से बाहर निकल हवाओं में ज़ुल्फ़ से ख़ुशबुएँ उड़ाया कर कोई तस्वीर कोई अफ़साना कुछ न कुछ रोज़ ही बनाया कर कौन कहता है दिल मिलाने को कम से कम हाथ तो मिलाया कर

i know every bit of her, "he gloated. a few pages into her secret diary and he realised all he knew was the tip of the iceberg.

siine men jalan ankhon men tufan sa kyuun hai is shahr men har shakhs pareshan sa kyuun hai dil hai to dhadakne ka bahana koi Dhunde patthar ki tarah be-his o be-jan sa kyuun hai tanhai ki ye kaun si manzil hai rafiqo ta-hadd-e-nazar ek bayaban sa kyuuñ hai ham ne to koi baat nikali nahin gham ki vo zud-pasheman pasheman sa kyuun hai kya koi nai baat nazar aati hai ham men aina hamen dekh ke hairan sa kyuun hai

Pet ke keede Ye tatv is duniya mein kayee naam se jaana jaata hai Jaise khujli… Aur kirmi… Maheen hai… kirmi… Kitanu… Dikhta nahin hai… God ki tarah… Par hota hai jaroor… Aa jaata hai Kyon aata hai? No one knows Aur kise padi hai? Andar kya hai?

Sightless in this crafted world, they drift, eyes wide but empty. Opinions bend and break, reshaped to match the voice of the crowd, never their own. They shuffle in step, not knowing where the road leads or if it matters at all. Good and bad blur into the same shade, lines erased in the name of fitting in. Deeds go unnoticed, unmeasured, as long as the mirror reflects approval. Fame, that fleeting flame, consumes their thoughts, each moment a grasping, a hunger for eyes that watch but don’t see. Faith, the quiet call of love, the soft whisper turned away, discarded for what cannot be bought or sold. Puppets, strings pulled by invisible hands, they dance the dance they were given, unaware of the script, forgetting who they were before the world told them who to be.

मुँह ज़बानी ना जताता के मोहब्बत क्या है! मैं तुझे करके दिखाता के मोहब्बत क्या है। कैसे सीने से लगाऊँ, के किसी और कि हो ॥ मेरे होते तो बताता के मोहब्बत क्या है, और खूब समझाता तुझे तेरी मिसालें देके। काश तू पूछने तो आता कि मोहब्बत क्या है?

ये इब्तिदा है कोई इख़्तिताम थोड़ी है है शाम-ए-वस्ल बिछड़ने की शाम थोड़ी है अभी तो आए हो जाने की बात करते हो मोहब्बतों से बड़ा कोई काम थोड़ी है सभी को जाना है दुनिया को छोड़ कर इक दिन किसी बशर को भी हासिल दवाम थोड़ी है जहाँ में नफ़रतें बाँटो किसी का क़त्ल करो तुम्हारे वास्ते कुछ भी हराम थोड़ी है तिरी नज़र का ही साक़ी हूँ बस मैं दीवाना मिरी नज़र में सुराही-ओ-जाम थोड़ी है वफ़ा किसी को मयस्सर ही कब हुई है यहाँ जो हुक्मराँ है वो रावन है राम थोड़ी है बहुत से लोगों ने हम पर सितम किए हैं 'मलिक' हमारे लब पे किसी का भी नाम थोड़ी है

Her coffee was getting cold as she was waiting for him to miss her, while his cigarettes we're running one after another to forget her.

He lives in his own world, where the clouds are shaped like dreams, and the streets are paved with laughter, a bit of madness in his eyes, a sparkle of something wild and free. He’s a little dumb, in the sweetest way, forgetting the small things, but remembering to ask how my day was with the same excitement, as if my troubles were treasures, as if my words mattered more than his own. He talks of running away, of a farm nestled in the mountains, where time slows down, and the noise fades. He dreams of a simple life, where mornings are quiet and soft and chaos can’t reach us. And yet, here he is, in the rush of this world, making my day a little less sad, just by being himself— crazy, fun, a bit broken, but always there, with compliments like sunshine in the midst of my rain. He’s got problems, sure, but they seem smaller when he smiles, when he talks of living in places we’ve never seen, where the sky is wider and everything feels possible.

i hope to arrive at my death late, in love, and a little drunk.

I loved you like Icarus, with wings of wax and feathers, rising toward the brilliance I could not bear to turn away from. I climbed higher, chasing a sun that never dimmed for me, ignoring the warmth turning searing against my skin. In that moment, I felt weightless, as if I could defy the very laws that held the earth beneath me. But love, like the sun, has its limits— and the sky, no longer kind, began to whisper its warnings. Yet I flew on, trusting in the fragile wings I made from hope, until they melted under the truth I had refused to see. I fell, not in anger or regret, but in the quiet surrender of one who knows their place in the world. I loved you, and in that love, I burned. Not broken, but changed, as one who has touched the sun and returned to tell the story.

स्वप्न सलोना अति अलौकिक चंद्र सो बदन तुम्हारा प्रिय मृगनैनी तुम अनंत अनुपा चित्त चाहे आत्म आलिंगन प्रिय कैश जनू सरसो की बाली मोहे भ्रमित कर जाती है अधर तिहारे अत्यंत निराले ये नेत्र कुछ कहना चाहती है द्वार खोलो इन आंखों का ये मन चाहे आरक्षण प्रिय स्वप्न सलोना अति अलौकिक चंद्र सो बदन तुम्हारा प्रिय

मैं लौटने के इरादे से जा रहा हूँ मगर सफ़र सफ़र है मिरा इंतिज़ार मत करना

शहर की रात और मैं नाशाद ओ नाकारा फिरूँ जगमगाती जागती सड़कों पे आवारा फिरूँ ग़ैर की बस्ती है कब तक दर-ब-दर मारा फिरूँ ऐ ग़म-ए-दिल क्या करूँ ऐ वहशत-ए-दिल क्या करूँ झिलमिलाते क़ुमक़ुमों की राह में ज़ंजीर सी रात के हाथों में दिन की मोहनी तस्वीर सी मेरे सीने पर मगर रखी हुई शमशीर सी ऐ ग़म-ए-दिल क्या करूँ ऐ वहशत-ए-दिल क्या करूँ ये रुपहली छाँव ये आकाश पर तारों का जाल जैसे सूफ़ी का तसव्वुर जैसे आशिक़ का ख़याल आह लेकिन कौन जाने कौन समझे जी का हाल ऐ ग़म-ए-दिल क्या करूँ ऐ वहशत-ए-दिल क्या करूँ फिर वो टूटा इक सितारा फिर वो छूटी फुल-जड़ी जाने किस की गोद में आई ये मोती की लड़ी हूक सी सीने में उठ्ठी चोट सी दिल पर पड़ी ऐ ग़म-ए-दिल क्या करूँ ऐ वहशत-ए-दिल क्या करूँ