Tag Archives: friends

Be anyone to me

Be anyone to me
but a friend
but a friend I will
never mind
never mind whenever
you’re done
you’re done with me.

Be anyone to me I will have
no sorrow
no sorrow, no complaint
of ugly days
of ugly days without you
Be anyone
Be anyone to me but a friend.


Death of an evening

I will probably write a poem
to hang this evening till death.

No hope that it will survive
the harassment of time unkind.

Else,I kept this evening for you
but you have lost the reason to take it.

Wish those days did not change
and I had no reason to interpret

what you say and what you mean
and what you mean but never speak out.

Wish I did not buy that instrument
which only increases the distance.

I could then arrive to your door by walking
to give you no chance of saying any excuse.

But most of our wishes are not fulfilled
so I’ll not move and allow this evening to perish.


That day I was visiting my friend
with a broken leg in a hospital
who had his mobile phone on.

This instrument hardly allows
anyone else to come close
or talk to you.

The other day when I was at home
my other friend came
and found me busy with internet.

I felt the same at the hospital
what my other friend felt
during his visit to my home.

Later I found some shortage of time
to meet my friend at hospital but
talked to him over phone time to time.

Think my other friend also some day
shall stop visiting my home
and send me frequent emails.


There is a hospital somewhere.
She does not like to go there.
Scary thoughts fills her mind
even at the slightest possibility
of going back there.

But I insist her to overcome fear.
You would have done the same
if you felt it from her notes…
she was suffering from
multiple physical injuries.

I don’t think at all
we poets are good doctors
especially in the matter of
bones and muscles,
of respiratory troubles.

At the best, poets
may give you some suggestions
about heart
but that too
not about the same heart..

doctors are specializing
anything physical
go to a physician, a thumb rule.

and then you come back to us.
We will try our best
to dress up your wounds
with love and care
that your spirit is well restored.


Be careful,when you deal with me.
Things are not at all happening
the way they should, they would.
A converting machine is working
somewhere! A force pulling
everything in its stomach twirling.
As if,finding more meanings
except one it means is its only job.

I am afraid,really afraid
things will never be the same again.
I am afraid, you’ll soon
dislike this person who cannot say
yes to your yes
and no to no,anymore.
Friends,I am afraid,I’ll
lose you more who are already lost.

To my dearest coolie girl

Long long ago, long long ago
when British Raj had just took the command
of India from the British east India company
and Bahadur Shah Zafar,the last Mughal emperor,
and a Urdu poet,had already breathed his last
in exile in Rangoon, Burma
When the giant Indian Railway took its first breathe
from Bombay to Thane.
When Swami Vivekananda was born
but yet to break the barriers of ancient Indian mind
divided in castes and creeds
and yet to give a call for awakening
from the age old slumber of social discriminations

when Tagore was also born but yet to sing
his nationalist songs to bridge up the nation
and Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi
was just born to sacrifice his life fighting apartheid
and great Indian struggle for independence, till death

When Kazi Nazrul Islam, the Rebel poet
was very near to appear in our national horizon to write
“jatir name bajjati sab, jat jaliat khelcho joa
chole tur jat jabe jat, cheler hate nay tu moa”.
saying ” All these social bigotries in the name of race
is a foul play of the frauds gambling
Touching your body your chastity is lost!
chastity is not such a fragile thing”.

Ram, Lakhan and Rahim, Makhan and Madan
Ramprasad and Hariprasad, jainul and Kasem
from U.P and Bihar, from Rajasthan and Bengal
from Haryana, Himachal and Madras
thought it would be all better
to cross Kala Pani to reach a promised land unknown
where poverty won’t eat their souls anymore
and whips of hatred won’t cause pain.

They talked to each other and to their wives too
and some to their old mothers and young children
about a new land found, in their dreams
where there is no Raja, no Maharaja
no Zamindar or Nawabs ,no Badshah
no war, no mutiny,no starvation, no tears.

Sita, Savitri, Satyavati, Rukmini
Bali, Simran and Padmavati
Ayesha, Reshma and Rucksana
Suraj, Chandrabhanu, Chotelal
far and near who lived
of Ganga and Yamuna river dales
dreamt the same dream with their sons
fathers and husbands
of dreaming no more but touching a real dream
just crossing the sea, or a small ocean nearby.

Where is there any life that Kala Pani will take?
Death even waits here to come home when we starve.
they told themselves,over many sleepless nights.
There they promise you works and to pay it for!
where have your own land here to grow crops?
Maybe this is the wish of Ramji
that we voyage to new land unseen
to create our own Ram Raj.
“Allah ki dua sath hoo
tu naseeb accha hi hoga”
Rahim told to Rucksana,
“If blessings of Allah is with us
our luck will be too good.”

So, it was a day within a week
or sometime within a month that they cried
once more but not for their own
this time, rolling on the ground
and pouring their hearts out
they cried once and last
for their dearest motherland
before leaving her forever.

Tears also rolled down from Kamdhenu’s eyes
Ramprasad’s beloved cow, as he cried
for she cannot be taken to abroad.
Parvati and Meera cried
as they packed some treasures in a putuli
like soil from their forefather’s home
some water from the holy river Ganga in a bottle
some seeds of rice and wheat
which their forefather would grow
and some seeds of millets and pulses too besides
carefully packing some seedlings of aromatic herbs
and spices too, who knows
what may not be available there across the sea!

Crying they packed Ramayana and Mahabharata
and Quran the holy books in putuli
and images of lord Rama, Krishna and Mohammad
in their souls.
“Not too much, not too much,you just can not take
everything with you as you go” said someone.
“Hurry up, hurry up,’ the mukhia hastens to start
“the boats are all waiting in the ghat, hurry up.”
With the break of dawn, they start,in tearful eyes,
leaving behind,their hearts.

Reaching ghat they get into the vessels dumped
but somehow they accommodate to sit
keeping their putulis beside.
The more people from the nearby villages come
The more crowded the gathering becomes.
“Do not say no to anyone,we have no quarrel here.”say some,
” The more of us that reach Chinidad, the more strength we get
to struggle for life and to stand beside.”
Some people in a group sang bhajans
and some secretly cried
while some did nothing but observed with great surprise
from where did all the people come!
As the vessel slowly moved in time
a kind of silence suddenly comes.
Silently saying goodbye to their motherland
silently they prayed to their gods
for a safe journey in this new found coolie life.

O God, they had no idea where the sweet land Chinidad
or lere of Arawaks was
nor had any idea where the endless Kala Pani ends!
But from village after village and year after year
they came to board vessels, to take them there.
It’d take months to reach Trinidad
where they would reach at last
as indentured laborers, coolies,
to work in sugar-plantations
expecting to add some sugar
to their bitter experiences of life.
Year after year they went there but while going
no riches they took from their motherland
except some earth in their putulis
and an enchanting Ram dhun
engraved in their soul

“Raghupati Raghav Raja Ram
patit Pavan Sita Ram
Sita Ram, Sita Ram
Bhaja Pyare tu Sita Ram
Isvar Allah tero nam
Sab ko sanmati de bhagavan”


“Chief of the house of Raghu, Lord Rama
Uplifter of those who have fallen,
Sita and Rama, Sita and Rama
O beloved, praise Sita and Rama,
God and Allah are your names,
Bless everyone with this wisdom, Lord’

This is almost hundred years now
that the last boat has left our ghat.
Memory gets faded in such a long time
And more it happens when you yourself run
from place to places.
More it happens when you discover
yourself in a time when no one remembers.

O my dearest coolie girl from Trinidad,
you who ask me about Bali,a pretty girl
probably from Punjab and who was married to
a Gurkha boy Makhan,your grand father
I feel very sorry
having nothing to answer.

But, O my sweet girl from Trinidad
I feel so proud of your ancient Indian heart
and a forgotten soul Indian
which we now often find missing here or
find it not singing anymore in much unison.
Maybe your ancestors took it there
to send it back through you
for bringing our memory alive.

when we meet

Sorry to say……
sorry to say……..
sorry to say………..
Well, I’m not going to say anything.
It’s useless saying.
You are not one who listens.
I’m also not one who insists.

Maybe in life I’ve said
and you’ve listened
We both are resistant.
Not saying
not listening
may be a better platform
that we can share.

reminds me
of a railway station.
There we say
we listen
until the train comes.
until we rush
for our respective berths
manwise, sectionwise.
Hurridly saying goodbye
or forgetting.

The train remains
the same
we make new friends
because a journey this way
is better performed.

Then again
we get down
or forgetting to say
a goodbye
more or less both
meaning the same.

Thing is that we both
know this story.
One you who do not listen
one me who do not say

a journey to reality

I felt no pressure on my eyes
no heaviness on my chest
no nausea or heartache.
It was very easy this time
reducing them in hundred
to make my friend list look more real.

Then I felt the headache.
This time I made no mistake
took the balm and rubbed it well
on my forehead.
Slowly relieved
I went to sleep for hours.
That is what you should demand.
A sleep with no dream to disturb.