The Peace I Choose.


If you were to hear,

If you were to listen,

Only if you’d excuse yourself and give an ear;

To the birds chirping you’d hear them cry,

 about the sky,

They’ll tell you how they choke as they fly

how you ruined their home making yours.

How the clear blue sky is dusty black,

How the wars have ruined everybody.


We’ll build houses and villas,

We’ll go countries and cities,

To find an escape.


Escape from the monotony of life and the purposelessness of it all.

Will you bury the money with you when you’re gone?

Will your platinum card or vip treatment open the gates of heaven for you?


Let’s dream about a day,

A clear morning, the sun shines bright,

You wake up and pick up the morning newspaper.

You read about the beautiful girls that have been welcomed on earth,

and the ministers going to people and talking.

No guns, no fighting, no votes, no elections, no marketing.

Just talking.

Sweet words of love and a breeze of flowers swish past you,

 as you sit in the open yard of your house.

House, the one you can call home.


Your daughter walks to school, fearless.

They teach her to nurture and make life, a fruitful one.

Men in the society are just men, not monsters of molestation.

The grass is actually green, and not artificially planted.



In such a world,

Mother earth, rejoices and blesses.

There are no floods, no tsunamis.

Rain, not acidic.

Just rain, pure and fresh straight from heaven,

And It doesn’t drop down on streets,

But on the ground, on earth. ‘Bhoomi’

Where it belongs, where it nurtures and brings new life.


The day the cycle of life, comes back

The day we all are one.

The day there is no money, no currency, no exchanges

That day will be “peace”,

Quiet. Tranquillity. Stillness.



That very day mankind will learn humanity.





Our Greatest Fear —Marianne Williamson

Our Greatest Fear —Marianne Williamson

it is our light not our darkness that most frightens us

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.
Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.

It is our light not our darkness that most frightens us.

We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous,
talented and fabulous?

Actually, who are you not to be?

You are a child of God.

Your playing small does not serve the world.

There’s nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other

people won’t feel insecure around you.

We were born to make manifest the glory of
God that is within us.

It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone.

And as we let our own light shine,
we unconsciously give other people
permission to do the same.

As we are liberated from our own fear,
Our presence automatically liberates others.

—Marianne Williamson

Your sounds, in her anklets.



The one for who she has longed,

To whom her soul belongs, where are you?

Her kajal complete the eyes,

You’re the kajal to her eyes,

Go get her now.

Somewhere the complexity of the henna,

Your name is embedded deep within.

Go find her now,

She longs for you.

Where are you?

You told her In those casual meetings,

You’d never leave her.

Go get her now.

She awaits you,

The earings that you once gave her, shine in her ears.

She’ll never tell anyone that.

The secrets , the smiles.

She’ll never tell anyone,

But you.

That innocent face, is now the bride.

One who’s hair’s adorned with flowers,

Who’s lips shine with colour and gloss,

The jewels studded in every part of her,

She now wears bangles and not bracelets,

The anklets still echo,

The smile still dimples,

Her heart still races,

There’s still a house to make a home,

It’s just not yours.

Where did you go? 

P.s- Inspired by the song – Ye Kabira 🙂


We’re all stories In The End.


Am I your first page?

Am I reaching out to you?

Are you reading me? Will you turn the page?

Will you hold me close to you?

Will you cradle me in your lap?


Will you leave me?

Read me like I’m not yours?

Will you ?

Will you leave the world to be with me?

Do the words inscribed on me,

Bring you closer to me?

Will you read me?

Will you gasp your breathe to turn to the next chapter?

Will you continue?

I’m reaching out to you.

My pages are torn,

Mistreated by the others,

I’m pale, yellow.

Some say,

That’s what attracts the ‘writers’

Are you one of those?

Will you pick me up?

From the library of all others,

Will my story be yours?

Will you treasure me?

I promise to be there,


I promise to sit in your shelf,

Creep into your mind,

To turn back to me,

When you’re alone.

I’ll teach you, silently.

You love me, silently.

After all,

We’re all stories in the end.

Can I be your last page?

The girl with Purple Wings

ImageBreezing through her wings and petite figure, the wind greeted her, playing naughtily with her hair. The thin lips twitched into a smile. Her face, a rather beautiful one that complimented her purple wings perfectly. She smiled with a true sense of delight and euphoria. Beware! For she might simply be putting up a face that took your breath away, only for you later realize that it was, to mask all the pain.

She masked in front of many, but not to the breeze. He and his friends were her true companions, some even lovers. Even god had failed to mesmerise her the way they did. So many men longed for her touch, to see her face or to simply hear her sweet voice. The trees, flowers, mountains, rain, ocean were nothing but obliged and honoured. In the midst of the race, she would know she’s winning and she would escape, for a while to run. Run, to her friends…

The trees would protect her against the tortures of the mortal world. The flowers would give her the essence of the life she dreamed, the scent of truth and beauty. She would walk hand in hand with the wind, looking at the mountains which reminded her of the things she had to achieve. The rain, oh the rain! Not her friend only, but the best lover she could have. She had adored him ever since she was a young girl, when she was delighted and when she was heartbroken, he was there. He healed her, loved her, adored her and kissed her. Above all, he whispered to her. He whispered things she wanted to hear, about the intimacies of life and of the world. He made her believe the world was hers to be, and she was the strongest she could get.

She was a child, innocent, crazy.

The world was mean, stupid. It forced her to do things she did not want. She wanted to run, it told her to stop. It told her this, she said that. A rebel.

She a beauty, the world the beast.

There she stood at the end of the cliff, smiling, ready. She had waited all this time for this moment, for this moment when she would be the one to define greatness. Her greatness.

Today she would fly!

Never a fan of balance, yet she chased it. In her cocoon, the lord had asked her, with what tinct she would like to fly. Without delay she had answered that she wanted a perfect balance of passion and sincerity.

The rather wise god, took the colour red and blue churned them in his godly pot of magical things where he created the colour purple.

Just for her.

She stood, and spread her wings with pride. Purple.

The colour of royalty, mystery, wisdom and magic. The colour that would define her life from the next step onwards.

She was scared, a little terrified. The cocoon had been cosy, easy. The place where she dreamed, and dreamed a lot. Now it was time to spread out the wings and make them come true.

The metamorphosis is usually from the cocoon to the butterfly but this butterfly was tad bit special…

She took off into the air. The nature applauded for her.

A few years of being the beautiful butterfly, she dreamt to be a woman, not just any woman. An angelic woman.

 One with grace and mystery painted all over her.

There she is now, walking among us.

With hair as that woven by a silk worm, grace granted by the angels, dreams and hopes and now again with another dream.

What is it this time?

It’s a mystery, like she is.


Beautiful, the word every mouth would utter when she would stroll through the streets of the ugly city. How would it be if the world was blessed with someone just as her?


It shall be, because the next beauty is in the making, sitting in her cocoon, a little cosy place within her mother’s womb. With dreams and hopes, she too asks the lord for the colour of her wings.

What magic will come this time? Which dream will she come with?

Like her mother, that too shall be a mystery

The talks of your beastly pain.

Drag, walk, jog, and sprint.

If the sun is hot, even if the dirt is a lot.

Even if the boils in your feet hurt too much, walk.


Feel the pain, the pain talks.


Go back in time, not too long ago.

You too were all alone!

There was the pillow then, there is the pillow now. 

Absorbing your tears and healing your broken heart,

Then and now.

Is she? There?

Will you promise?

Will you love me?

Those moments are forgotten,

camouflaged into time.

Now take me, to some place real.


Sugar coated sword of love,

 A package of sweetness.

Promises abound and dreams infinite;

Ah, the crazy dreams.

The hand won’t hold you anymore,

No shoulder will comfort your miseries.

It’s you, just you! You, your music, your work and yes, YOUR REALITY.

How it seems all so easy and how every song seems perfect.

In the end, it’s you, just you!

What will you remember?

Will you remember me?

Will you remember the things I said you?

Will you remember that I loved you?

Not now, then.

The sugar will be long gone,

Your pain won’t let you go

It will tell you! Shout at you!

“I’m right, she’s wrong!”

The dreams would then seem too immature,

The gifts given a complete waste.

All the kisses, only just another taste.


Where’s your love now?

Where are you now?

“This wasn’t us”

“You’ve changed”

“Things have changed”

The conversations will happen,

And they’ll continue.

Months and months.

Till you learn to give up,

On the same love you thought was “Forever”.

Where is your ‘forever’ now?


And then, you’ll think of all the things you left,

Incomplete and unaccomplished


The times you fought, the harsh words,

the inconsideration and her ego.

 How could you go so low?

Cry, cry for her now.

“Look for another person,

Someone better,

Someone real”

The friends would exclaim.

They must have been right.

I must have been wrong about her.

“Love is blind” they had told me.

‘She was never worth my time ‘

Images of her, form in your mind,

What happened to calling her beautiful?

What happened to the time you said you’ll stand by?

What about the promises and the castles in the air?

The pain will tell you that the once most beautiful face was just a mask.

That she was unreal and all this time she was ‘faking’

And suddenly, all the truths will be filled with doubt into and become lies.

Your pain will tell you what an ugly mess you got into and that all this time the only person who was your true friend was your cigarette


“You’re a man!” “Be a man!”

Wipe away the tears; they are for her to shed.

Pick up a cigarette, don’t be so low,

Girls like her will come and go.


A Parallel World Of Rape- Part 1

imagesIndia is growing, from a developing country to something.

The ministers and politicians say it’s towards a developed country, like the States perhaps? What has the States got that we don’t?

 Is showing the country’s progress on sheet of paper our only aim?

Is the rise in GDP all we can ever think about?


‘Every drop in the ocean counts.’ Today I shall prove how. It all starts from a single entity, from one drop. One Indian.

That’s all it takes to mess up an entire nation. Yes, I am criticising. From the time an Indian is born in today’s date all he/she ever looks around to find is struggle . Struggle my friend, Is great. It makes you a better person, teaches you to stand on your own feet. But wait, what are we learning from the struggle?

We’re learning how to cheat, we’re learning that numbers and figures on a piece of paper is more important than our values, dignity and purpose. From childhood, all a child sees is wrecked houses, unorganized system, bad roads. The only feeling he grows up with is hunger instead of love.

Then he is put into a school. A school that runs on donations and the MP of the state. He shall be given free education , so to say. Hey! The country has to improve its literacy rate doesn’t it? So there he goes into school where the teachers are dominated by the principal , the principal by the chairman, the chairman by the management and the management? If you can guess, A Politician.

That’s how, one little child who’s mind is bubbling with creativity and imagination,  The hands that are capable of creating wonders and reaching the sky beyond the rules made by the selfish mortals called ‘Adults’ are suppressed. His hands are tied and his mouth incapable of expressing opinion. Oh, did I mention we have the ‘Right to Speech?’

So this little child learns his math ( Whatever is prescribed by the board and whatever the teachers are asked to complete within a given time period).

He also has to learn political science, geography and history of the country, he ‘learns’ , he tries.  His fertile imagination allows him to think of what the badly printed text has to read…”Non violence, lush green fields, democracy…”

He’s lost.

Why? Because every time he looks out of books he sees murders, guns , trash everywhere and corruption.

So this little child looks back into his books imagines the India he reads about.

That is his version of a fairy tale. A good dream, one he’s never had.

Then of course comes, ‘Language’. His mother tongue, great poets, writers print their stories. He reads but doesn’t understand. The teacher shouts at him, the exams are approaching! He’s scared, and so he leaves the text book as a whole turns to a guide and the ‘questions at the back’ .

“Learn the marked ones, she said they are important!” He learns them, goes to the examination hall.  Realizing his friend was right, jots down all that he had learnt and there,  a perfect score!

His mother is happy, his father gifts him a pen his grandfather had once owned, in the ‘British days’. The society calls him ‘Intelligent’, he’s achieved what he had to.

Twelfth pass, ninety percent. Bravo!

The little boy who now sits deep somewhere in his soul is still eager, he wonders, imagines, thinks, analyses and wants.

The ‘intelligent boy’ took over the ‘little boy’.

He learnt his ‘political science’ so now he sits in air conditioned office taking bribes.

He learnt his language well and so he is  now the speaker in the parliament and abuses anyone who raises a voice against him.

He’s great, he’s successful!

But is that him?

Because the little boy still sits, wondering, hoping, scared because his powers had been subdued and abused.

That, is rape.

P.s – This is just one kind.

An Abstract Fallacy.


© Neon Photography – Jigyasa Malhotra

It’s small, this world of ours; petite,

And so we shall meet.

I have a little heart but many thoughts and so I must be free.
I could hate you but why must I?
You are armoured , I’m chained

Addictions barely go forgone.

The path lies, a lot to travel..

But I’m tired, such a cliché.

Wound up in wires of my own selfish thoughts,
Let go!

Absurd are conversations and promises

Thoughtless is thy mind.

Wound up with stories of its own,
The soul wonders in thou search.

For little can lustful corners,
Mocking eyes,
Painful tears and good food give.

The air is too less if you can’t breathe.
Alcohol too little, if you can’t see.
The punishments of your mistakes too many,
For fate is to destiny
And pain is to love.

The struggle shall go on,
and so will we,

Eating, breathing, sleeping, holding hands and kissing,

with other lovers,

if not each others.

But this world is of god,

and it is small, petite.

And so, we shall meet.