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  जैसे-जैसे जाड़े नज़दीक आने लगते हैं, वैसे-वैसे कुछ उदासियाँ गहरी नींद से उठकर हमारे बग़ल में आकर चुपचाप बैठने लगती हैं। उनका उद्देश्य हमें और उदास करना बिल्कुल भी नहीं होता। वे तो बस किसी बीते दौर में अपने होने का एहसास दिलाने आती हैं, और याद दिलाती हैं कि उदासियों से कहीं बड़ा है जीवन, और उनसे भी बड़े हैं हम। वे ठंडी हवा की साँय-साँय में गर्मजोशी से हमारे साथ होती हैं — हमारी दूर तक पसरी हुई चुप्पी में हमें पुचकारती हुई। हमारे अतीत का चिट्ठा खोलकर यूँ बैठती हैं, मानो कोई यायावर बरसों बाद अपने घर लौटकर अपने कमरे का दरवाज़ा खोल रहा हो। हमारे बिलखने से पहले ही वे हमें धकेल देती हैं उन जगहों पर, जहाँ लगभग तय था कि हम जूझ नहीं पाएँगे — लेकिन हम जूझे, और क्या ख़ूब जूझे। अपनी चुप्पी तब अखरने लगती है, जब हाल-फिलहाल की उदासियाँ हमें अपना केंद्र मानकर, हमारी ही चुप्पी के साथ हमारे चारों ओर मंडराने लगें। ऐसा लगता है जैसे उन्हें पास खींचकर अपने साथ बिठा लिया जाए और दुनिया-जहान की बातें की जाएँ — ताकि हम दोनों एक-दूसरे की चुप्पी के शांत लेकिन गहरे वारों से बच सकें। हर उदासी, अपने उद्गम ...

  I promise to disappear—not just from your world for a while, but completely, forever from the one we shared. It hurts to know my presence has no value. I'm walking away in a direction that feels utterly without purpose, but surely I won't remain this aimless and motionless without you. And if, someday, you search for me in the places where we laughed, cried, dreamed, and fell apart—you won’t find a trace of me.  Don’t take it as revenge. It’s not. It’s simply my quiet acceptance of the betrayal I was ignoring—and a step towards the peace I never thought to seek while drowning in chaos. All my love for you is still there, but I am no longer there for you.  ~A

  The more I try to engage myself with other things, your absence rings at the doorbell. But truthfully, I only ever wait for you to knock. It is madness to wait for you, even as my sanity reminds me you may never come. Dear, I miss you... I cling to our memories while wearing a life jacket—tattered and stitched with longing. I convince myself I won’t sink. It’s strange, isn’t it? To find yourself in the middle of the sea, unable to swim, with only the horizon stretching endlessly. No rescue. No sign of hope. Only waiting. But I’m not afraid of drowning. What truly terrifies me is that the icebergs of our memories might melt. Then life would become lifeless. There would be no corpse of memory to sit beside—just water: colourless, odourless, tasteless. How ugly the sea becomes when all your life you admired its beauty from the shore. The same waves no longer feel like water. They taste like poison—not one that kills, but one that lets you know what it means to be dead. ~A

  आँखों ने पिता के चेहरे से ज़्यादा उनके पांव की तस्वीर क़ैद की है।  कत्थई रंग की एक जोड़ी चप्पल, जिसकी उम्र पिता की उम्र के बराबर ही रही होगी, उसे सीढ़ी पर रखे हुए देखने में पिता के पांव की छाप साफ़ नज़र आती है। पिता झुक कर चलने लगे हैं, लेकिन सारी उम्र रीढ़ का महत्व बताते आए हैं। सीधे नहीं बैठने पर टोकते हैं और सीधे रास्ते पर चलने के लिए दाएं-बाएं चलते हुए बताते हैं। पहले फटकार देते थे। फिर भी हम ऊट-पटांग काम करने से पीछे नहीं हटते थे। पिता का रोकना-टोकना, जीवन जीने के आड़े आता रहा। हम भाई-बहनों ने अपने जीवन की फ़िल्म का खलनायक, पिता को अपनी छोटी-सी बैठकी में सार्वजनिक तरीके से घोषित कर दिया। हम सब ने संकल्प लिया कि करेंगे तो अपने मन का। पिता का ज़माना गुज़र गया, यह नया ज़माना है — हम जैसों का, जो हमारे सामने खड़ा है। पिता का अनुशासन तब तक ही है जब तक हम सब घर में हैं। घर से निकलते ही, हम पतंग बन जाएंगे। घर छूटा, पढ़ने निकले — पतंग तो क्या, कटी पतंग बन गए। फिर समझ आया, पतंग को आसमान में उड़ते रहने के लिए अनुभवी हाथों में उसकी डोर होनी चाहिए। जिस पिता को हम खलनायक मान बैठे थे...

दिल्ली से लौटने पर कितनी ही बार  पाँवों  को इस दृढ़ता के साथ झटका कि अब कहीं जाकर दिल्ली की गति  पाँवों    से निकलकर धूल में ओझल हो जाएगी। लेकिन दिल्ली की गति न तो  पाँवों  का दामन छोड़ रही है, न ही विचारों की उथल-पुथल को बख़्श रही है। महज़ बीस दिनों का ही रिश्ता रहा दिल्ली से, लेकिन यह मुट्ठी भर दिन घर पर बिताए गए दो वर्षों पर भारी पड़ रहे हैं। बड़े शहरों की एक अपनी पकड़ होती है। आप जितनी दूर जाते हैं, उस शहर की पकड़ का अंदाज़ा उतना ही अधिक होता है। बड़ा शहर आपकी चाल-ढाल को तब ही पनपने देता है, जब उसके कंक्रीट के जंगल की हवा और आपके सपनों की साँस लेने की इच्छा के बीच कोई समन्वय बनता है। इन शहरों की अपनी एक गति होती है, और पाँव अनायास ही उस गति में रंग जाते हैं। "समय कितना हो रहा है?" — यह जानने के लिए आपको अपनी कलाई पर बंधी घड़ी देखने की आवश्यकता नहीं होती। किसी भी चेहरे को देखकर समय का अंदाज़ा लगाया जा सकता है। मेट्रो में चढ़ते-उतरते हुए, छोटी जगहों की ख़ुशबू का भी आना-जाना लगा रहता है। किसी स्टेशन पर कोई सपना चढ़ता है और किसी पर दिनभर की थकान उ...

  Dear, you are among my lovely regrets—a regret that is both heart-wrenching and heartwarming. Parting from you is the most painful experience, yet knowing you is the most beautiful. I still cherish you and your love for me. I hold no grudge against fate. Sometimes, life can be treacherous. Initially, we try to accept it, but over time, we adapt to its free flow. I always believe that what we had was irreplaceable and exceptional. Beyond love, there was the reassurance of having someone there for those days when either of us felt lost or confused, simply sitting together without any questions. Now, when we don't have each other's backs, I still feel grateful for having been there at some point. Some moments linger, and I live the rest of my life replaying them in my mind, feeling blessed by how life pours blessings. I don't know what we could have been or why fate couldn't have been kinder to us. This is how it is—somewhere miles away from each other on this planet, we...

कितनी सारी पुकारें होती हैं, जो अनसुनी रह जाती हैं। बार-बार अपनी ही आवाज़ टकराकर हम तक लौटती है, और उसकी तीव्रता व क्रूरता और बढ़ जाती है। भीतर बहुत कुछ दफ़्न रह जाता है, और कई आँसू तो गिरने से पहले ही सूख जाते हैं। कितने ही सफ़र ऐसे होते हैं, जो गंतव्य तक पहुँचने से पहले ही पगडंडियों पर चलते-चलते दम तोड़ देते हैं। इतना कुछ हो जाता है, फिर भी हम आह तक नहीं भर पाते। हम लंबी और गहरी साँस लेकर फिर से शुरू करते हैं — कभी शुरू से, और ज़्यादातर अंत से। हमारे हिस्से में "काश" और "शायद" से शुरू होने वाले वाक्यों की संख्या बहुत अधिक होती है। अजीबो-ग़रीब एहसासों की धूल चेहरे पर पड़ने से पहले ही चेहरा धोना पड़ता है। इस खांचे में ढलने में थोड़ा बहुत हाथ समाज का, और बहुत बड़ा हाथ हमारा अपना रहा है। आगे-आगे बढ़ते हुए, पीछे की ज़मीन खाई में तब्दील होती जाती है। हमने घड़ी को कलाई में बाँधा, लेकिन असल में हम वक़्त से बंध गए — और इसे हमने कभी बंधन माना ही नहीं। आसमान की ओर देखते-देखते, हमारी जड़ें किसी बड़े तूफ़ान के बिना ही उखड़ गईं। हम विस्थापित रह गए — न शहर के हो पाए, न गाँव के। ...

Dear! The way you used to ask me, “How long are you going to remember me?” And my very answer was, “I remember things shortly.” Were my eyes not sufficient to reflect that forever? I believe words are often perfidious. Some things should always remain unsaid because they leave the possibility of infinite answers, rather than misunderstandings. We, as human beings, are perpetually tempted to fill the silence with words. We speak to avoid regret later and vice versa. There are 26 letters in the English language, alongside the fact that a human has five sense organs that reveal characteristics of things. Let me answer your question: "I will remember you as long as I remember myself." To be very honest, I keep remembering myself, and so do you. Forgetting is a virtue we often practice in pursuit of salvation. Yet we remain unkind to ourselves. We continue committing the sin of remembering — as if to stir the broken parts within us — and still, we manage to stand, smiling and grat...

  Every time I sat down to write a letter to myself, I ended up tearing the paper apart. I found it emotionally naked and mentally grieving. I never wanted to express the burdens I carry, even to myself. Though a sentence cannot go on with commas, there comes a time when it should be brought to an end with a full stop. I have always been honest with the people I shared moments with, but I acted with myself even in the most vulnerable states. I always walked away from the moment of breakdown. I don’t know what I was trying to show. To the best of my ability, I was there for people, listening to them without questioning. Yet, for myself, I always hurried to reach somewhere, though knowing that someday I would no longer make this excuse. While looking in the mirror, I only saw a fuzzy reflection. I am angry at myself for never pushing towards a pristine start. Why did I glare at myself with a futile look? What if I had not pushed myself into an abyss? There was always a minuscule hope...

  A moment that draws me towards you in thought is the very instant I find familiarity with myself. Dear, you were the home I entered by leaving behind all the people I once tried to mimic. I was myself with you. Now, all I have left is the house. I no longer find myself. I sleep to forget that I reside here, or I wish for a dream in which we are together for eternity, living in the house we turned into a home. But all goes in vain. No matter how hard I try to embrace the present, I still end up smelling like the past. Your hands are imprinted on mine. The day you chose to sleep forever, I lost my sleep, Dear. Dreams now seem like nightmares. I want to search for you, but everything in this house tells me you are not hidden. What should I do? How do I live in this eternal void? We were supposed to be alive and prove ourselves to eternity. You betrayed me, my Dear. Come back so I can ask you why. I want to trust you again. You couldn’t have just gone. Where should I look now? The do...

  Dear, the love I have for you will not vanish anytime soon. I have realised it is just like the memories of home; as I displace from one place to another, the urge to relive those memories is increasing exponentially, as does my love for you. I can neither touch home nor you. Both have come into my life, just gone, leaving a lifelong soulful imprint on me.  You could have been the chapter of my life that I would be living all the time, but unfortunately, I am just writing it with a heavy heart. It has been ages, though my eyes still hold your clear picture. If time had been less cruel, I could have told you how much I loved you. I wish I had not looked for the right time. There are still so many things I have to tell you, but let me say this: I will always be in love with you, even when you are not here to know. ~A

Yesterday, I was thinking about something, and all of a sudden, you came to mind. It was a moment to cherish, but instead, it reflected nothing. We have come a long way; once, you were always in my thoughts, and now... Isn't it strange to perceive? At least, it is for me. I never thought your presence in my thoughts would ever perish. You would become a visitor. You were home to me. I sometimes wonder why someone would visit a homeless person. When one passes through that strange time period, every action seems strange. There is no explanation that could justify it except for time itself. In the end, every supposition proved correct; we ended up becoming strangers who can only visit the remnants of homes.     ~A

  I have nothing to share with you, as nothing has happened to me except life— all at once. Everything seems unreal, happening in real time. Even the pauses have nothing to convey. This time, my dear, the feelings are falling short. I am struggling to be real. I have stopped considering you and me as we. But I have not forgotten to pray for you and wish for you to be determined, unlike me. I am standing before a blank page, neither finding the ink nor the ideas to fill it. Does this happen to everyone?  Where can I look without losing sight? What can I say without hiding the essence? How can I stand without falling, and when should I shed everything without losing anything? These questions are pushing me somewhere, but not towards you. Life is happening, and I have yet to find what to do.  ~A

  The town toils under the scorching sun, and my dear, I still miss your warmth. I miss you just like I miss going to Amma's place. Life directs my ways, and I am just another nomad. Losing is part of moving forward and discovering a new self, but I have never truly adapted to this idea. The loss is always present, mocking and hurting. Dear, can I ever get over your loss? I know the answer, but I want you to encourage my illusion. You might wonder why I write these letters to you. I don't know—maybe because it's the only way I can feel less of the loss. " Let it go " sounds practical, though... Despite how firmly I lie to the world that I am good, I am actually broken, just like everyone who lies by saying they are completely fine. I guess there is neither lie nor truth in the world of feelings. Only exaggeration exists there. Like the way I say, I miss you and I am good. These letters are immune to exaggeration. I am just being myself without any filter.  I am ak...

  लेखन मेरे लिए आज के दुखों का निवारण है। लिख पाना मेरे लिए सबसे बड़ा सुख रहा है। अपने आपको दर्ज़ कर पाना, अपने प्रति उदार होने जैसा है। लेखन एक तरह का संवाद है— संगीतमय। अपनी धुन में बहता हुआ, उतार-चढ़ाव झेलता हुआ— काल्पनिक और वास्तविक प्रकरणों का मिला-जुला परिणाम।  अपने पुराने लेखन की ओर लौटना अचंभित कर देता है। आज जो हूँ, उसके लिए बीते कल की मैं अपरिचित हूँ। 'मैं जैसी थी' और 'अभी जैसी हूँ'— ये अवस्थाएँ कालजयी नहीं होतीं। परिवर्तन है, इसीलिए शायद ‘है’ का कारण जानने के लिए अक्सर ‘था’ में लौटना पड़ता है। बीते हुए को जिया नहीं जा सकता, लेकिन बीते हुए की ओर लौटा जा सकता है। समय के साथ बीते कल से दूरी बढ़ने लगती है। मुझे इस बढ़ती दूरी से पहले घबराहट होती थी, लेकिन अब लगता है कि जब किसी एक बिंदु से दूरी बढ़ती है, तो किसी और बिंदु के क़रीब आना भी तय होता है। आख़िर, हर समय हमारा चलना किसी दो बिंदुओं के बीच ही होता है। जीवन के अलग-अलग दौर में इन बिंदुओं की शक्ल भी बदलती रहती है। हालाँकि हमें लगता यही है कि हमारे हिस्से केवल एक ही बिंदु है, और उसकी परिधि पर घूम-घूम कर ही सारा ज...

  If you could have delayed your departure just a little longer, I might have told you how grateful I was for your arrival. I wanted you to stay —  to break the norm that nothing lasts forever. I wanted to share every beautiful thing with you. Your departure still haunts me. How easily you left —  at the speed of light, and now you are light years away. The silence you left behind lingers. I live with it every day. Sometimes I want to give it a voice, to scream it out — but it feels useless now. I can’t stop my heart from aching. I can’t stop missing you. You keep coming to my mind like an urge to scream. We pray for departed souls to find peace in a world we cannot comprehend, while there is no peace for those of us left behind — those who faced the disappearance of someone they loved, without even blinking and fainting. Dear, I am running here and there to find peace. I guess! Acceptance eases everything, though it never ceases our emotions. Emotional reactions are natural. Somet...

अब मुझे चुप रहना अजीबो-ग़रीब लगने लगा है। सच कहूँ तो, यह अपनी अनुभव की गई भावनाओं के साथ धोखा करने जैसा है। हम अक्सर चुप रहने का यह कारण देकर खुद को सवालों की लंबी सुरंग में फँसने से बचा लेते हैं कि हमारे पास कहने के लिए शब्द नहीं हैं। लेकिन क्या सच में शब्दों का ब्रह्मांड इतना सीमित है? या फिर हम शब्दों की खोज में प्रयास करने से कतराते हैं? चुप्पी किसी सवाल का जवाब हो सकती है, लेकिन जब एक चुप्पी का जवाब दूसरी चुप्पी बनने लगे और फिर सैकड़ों चुप्पियाँ एक-दूसरे को धकेलती हुई हमारी ओर कुचलने के भाव से बढ़ें, तो क्या यह गहन शोध का विषय नहीं बन जाता? हम अनगिनत भाषाओं की हवा में साँस लेते हैं, लेकिन जब चुप्पी तोड़ने की बारी आती है, तो हम साँस रोक लेना अधिक उचित समझते हैं। दरअसल, हम चुप्पियों से भरे पुतले बन चुके हैं। हम स्पर्श करने में संकोच करते हैं, फिर भी जैसे-तैसे पहला क़दम बढ़ा लेते हैं, लेकिन जब बात चुप्पी के सिरों को खोलने की होती है, तो हम हज़ारों क़दम विपरीत दिशा में रखने में सहज होते हैं। शुरू में चुप्पियाँ आलाप के मानिंद लगती हैं, पर समय बीतने पर वो विलाप में परिवर्तित हो जाती...

  एक उम्र के बाद, हर नज़दीक आती हुई चीज़ों से डर लगना शुरू हो जाता है। हम तहक़ीक़ करने लगते हैं — उनके ठहराव का और अपनी गतिशीलता का। अगर इन दोनों का मिलन हुआ तो क्या सिर्फ़ नुक़्सान होगा या फिर थोड़ा-बहुत नफ़ा भी रहेगा। ज़रूरी नहीं कि बाल सफ़ेद होने पर और माथे पर लकीरें उभरने पर ही इंसान को, फूँक-फूँक कर क़दम रखने का शुऊ'र हासिल होता है। बाज़-औक़ात ज़िन्दगी उम्र के पैमाने से उठकर, हसीन तोहफ़े देती है। दिल सँवारने से ज़्यादा, दिल तोड़ती है। इंसान बचाये रखना चाहता है अपने टूटे हुए दिल को, और टूटने से। दिल का टूटना किसी ख़ास उम्र के मुक़द्दर में नहीं लिखा होता। एक दिल ही तो है जिसके टूटने पर आवाज़ नहीं होती, लेकिन शोर होता है और इंसान उसमें पनपता है और फिर कहीं जाके उसे अपने संगीत की लय मिलती है।     ज़िन्दगी की चाल में कभी-कभी लोग हाल-चाल पूछने के लिए रुकते है तो शुरू में समझ में नहीं आता कि अपने हाल को कैसे शब्दों में ढाला जाये और जब तक वाक्य बनता है तब तक लोग आगे बढ़ जाते हैं। लोगों की आवाजाही लगातार होती रहती है लेकिन कुछ लोग अलग होते हैं। वे रुक जाते है कुछ देर ही ...

एक दिन वे सब हमें छोड़कर चले जाएंगे जो हमें कभी नहीं छोड़ना चाहते हैं। तब हम अपने आप के साथ, दुनिया के किसी एक कोने में पड़े रहेंगे—लेकिन हम पड़े-पड़े सड़ेंगे नहीं और शायद खिलेंगे भी नहीं। छूट जाने को हम विश्वासघात नहीं, किसी विपदा की तरह देखेंगे। हम कुछ देर बाद उस कोने से उसी प्रेम के साथ उठेंगे जिसने हमें हर क्षण, जीवन की सुंदरता का अनुभव कराया और जीवन की क्रूरता को क्षणिक सिद्ध किया। कहाँ-कहाँ से हम छूटे और किस-किस को हमने छोड़ा, इससे बहुत आगे बढ़कर भी, प्रेम के प्रभाव में हम देखेंगे दूर तक कहीं पीछे। उन जगहों को हम दूर से देखकर, अपनी तय की हुई दूरी का अंदाज़ा लगाएंगे। और किसी भी दिशा से देखने पर न हम पीड़ित होंगे न दोषी और न ही वह क्षण। किसी से विदा लेते या किसी को विदा करते हुए हमारे आँसू हमारी अनुमति के बिना ही बहने लगते हैं। हम आँसू छुपाने के लिए दायें-बायें देखते हैं, लेकिन हम उस समय, उस व्यक्ति के सिवा किसी को नहीं देखना चाहते। हम दर्ज़ करना चाहते हैं—छूटना और छोड़ना। छोड़ना और छूट जाना संभवतः इस कृत्रिम दुनिया की सबसे बड़ी वास्तविकता है। हम नियमित रूप से छूटते हैं और दूसरों क...

  Let me go now. It is neither easy for me nor for the love I have cherished. You can hold my hand, but we can't ignore what destiny has planned for us. Let me suffer alone. I can't bear to see both of us suffering and bleeding without shedding a single tear. Now is the only time we will suffer less—for the first and last time, we should cry happily. Dear, let me remember it as a cold breeze that touched my soul, and let you forget it as a healed scar on your body. I know I was naive to promise that I would always be there for you, but one promise I will try to fulfil until I lose myself is to write to you. I will not let anything come between me and inking my love to you. So, if I cannot stand against hardships, I will let my inked words be the warrior. Let me go, my dear—so far that you can't see the changes in me. You will feel betrayed without any betrayal. Believe me, I was honest, and honestly, I can't imagine betraying you, even in my nightmares. Actually, Dostoe...

  Can I write you letters instead of giving you my heart? I can be insanely in love with you without being insane. Your love has given me the voice that was constantly forgetting its language. I can't stop writing to you about you. If words fall short, I would even love to effortlessly write a letter full of dots. You might wonder why I chose letters. Perhaps I have only one answer to this—why not letters? I have nothing to say to the rest of the world, but when it comes to communicating with you, I have an entire world filled with events and stories to share.  I will write to you until I forget you are far away—too far from my world. Letters help me to reach out to you. Coincidences in my life seem to happen, achieving now, a sense of normalcy. Dear, as I am writing this to you, Ahmad Faraz Sahab's Ghazal is playing in the voice of Mehdi Hassan Sahab.  ranjish hī sahī dil hī dukhāne ke liye aa aa phir se mujhe chhoḌ ke jaane ke liye aa When my body attains its final dest...

Dear, may I continue to remember you in every vibrant moment? I hope I am not asking too much. No, I shan't disturb you during your free time. As long as you permit me to be near you, I would love to see you. You have become the most beautiful image, one that I find increasingly enchanting each time. I long to keep capturing you through my imperfect eyes—my flawless dear. Capturing you for the days when I can't see you has become part of my routine. You are ingrained in my life like a soul. You are going miles away. May I have your dreams? If you would allow me, may I beseech God to bring you into my life once more? You stayed here, but it wasn't enough—neither for me nor for my little life. Longing for you is akin to living for something. That is something I never want to cease longing for. If you ever come my way, you will see the charm in my eyes, which was born from seeing you at first. Your glimpse has made me realise how beautiful one can be. Now, when I cannot touch ...

  I have never lied to you—I've just never stated the truth. I kept quiet when it came to expressing my love for you. Despite you questioning me multiple times how much I love you, I could never truly convey the depth of my feelings. Love is not a measurable entity; it is childish to ask and even answer such questions. Keeping it a mystery fosters a continual effort to understand its magnitude. There would be innumerable answers to how much. One might be— I loved you more than myself. But this is a lucid lie, as I never loved myself, so how could I? Being in love with you made me contemplate loving oneself as it is about being kind. I had always been harsher on myself than allowing the world. Love makes one the kindest. When you were here, I was kinder; now that you are gone, I think I am almost the kindest to the world, yet there comes a time to be kind to oneself. My dear, I loved you; that was the truth, but the fact is, I never knew just how much. No answer could justify my lo...

My dear, before the world shatters our dreams, let’s continue dreaming within the dream. In hundreds of nightmares, the dream of us being together would make me fearless, even though I am frightened by all worldly dreams. All the abstract things that look at me would affirmatively present me as a dreamer. The moon, the stars, and the nights push me to dream—dreams of beauty amidst the scattered ugliness. When you walked past me, it never felt like a dream. You slowly became a dream in my life, my dear—the dream I want to bring to reality. But this dream is shielded by all the uncertainties, jewelled with different nightmares. Keep visiting me in my dreams, as it won’t harm my waking life. There, we would meet and dream together. Sometimes, I see death in my dreams. Every time I find death standing near me, coldness is felt, and the life I’ve lived flashes in front of my eyes. Death is so kind, as it returns with the simple reminder: dream, my dear, as much as you can before I come ...

  मैं उस क्षण में प्राण छोड़ना चाहती हूँ, जिस क्षण घर लौटना दिनचर्या का हिस्सा होने के बजाय, एक सपना बन जाता है। वह क्षण आकर गुज़र गया, घर लौटना एक सपना हो गया; मैं प्राण नहीं छोड़ सकीं क्योंकि उस क्षण ने अपने घटित होने को अज्ञात रखा। मेरा जीवन बच गया, मैं बच गई और घर में देखे गए सपने सहानुभूति देने के लिए बगल में खड़े रह गए। घर लौटने का सपना इतना आम है कि हम सब भी मिलकर घर लौटना चाहें तो भी घर लौट नहीं सकते, घर खोज नहीं सकते और घर का दफ़्न इतिहास खोद नहीं सकते। सिसकते हुए, दौड़ते हुए, आँखें मूंदकर और आँखें खोलकर, हम अब किसी भी तरह से घर नहीं लौट सकते। एक झूठी मान्यता, जिसने सदियों से अपने आप को सच स्थापित कर लिया है| हम उस सच को आत्मसात करते हुए, आगे बढ़ गए कि एक उम्र के बाद घर छूट जाता है और बची हुई उम्र में हमें ख़ुद घर बनना पड़ता है। शायद हम घर कभी नहीं हो सकते, लेकिन मानचित्र पर छूट चुका घर बार-बार घर के छायाचित्र में उगता है, किसी सूरज की तरह। सूरज का उगना आशा का प्रतीक है, शायद घर लौटने का भी। घर की स्मृतियाँ ही हमें घर की निरंतर कमी महसूस कराती है।मकानों में घुसते हुए, थका-...

  A frame hangs on the wall opposite the table where I sit to breathe. For so long, it went unnoticed, merely a part of the decor—just another painting. After days of staring at it, I cannot determine whether I perceive it as an intriguing painting or a reflection of reality. It narrates a story of departure, or perhaps waiting. I imagine myself standing there. When someone close to me departed, my eyes didn’t blink until his figure completely vanished. My world, which had included him, contracted as he walked away. I remained there weeping, wishing, and waiting. So many calendars have changed since then, but it still feels like this very evening. The world witnessed the sunset with hope, and so did I, though hopeless. Departures haunt me, scratching at scars that have yet to heal. Still, the void chases me. Memories knock at the door at midnight. The frame remains static, while all dynamics push me toward the state of departure. Everything feels heartbreaking, drowning in a sea of...

  Writing to you in the past tense makes my present ache. I never wrote to you when you were here, as I never thought you would not be. No day ends without reminding me of you, leaving me thinking of writing to you. Dear, I want to express what my heart has held for a long time. I cannot even think of how long it has been. I want to write about feelings, about you and me, but not us now. I wish you could read the pauses. Nobody else can read the silences, but I believe you can. Read them, but don't reply from wherever you are. Just read... My eyes are still teary. I can see your reflection, you as you were. I do not wish to see the new you, as it might shatter the image I have captured of you. You belong everywhere except here. I am searching for my belongings, for everything that could stop my aching.    ~A

  Dear Beautiful, why are you not in my life? You symbolise every beautiful thing—every beautiful thing reminds me of you. Every tune that lingers in my mind, every frame that ages with time, every plant that I water, every stretch of sky, every opening sentence in my thoughts, and every sunrise and sunset. You are everywhere yet absent from my life. I am destined to crave you. I envision you all around me, yet I hesitate to picture you in my life; it is so dreamy that it would shatter all my dreams. I can't stop writing to you. You keep coming to my mind like nostalgia. I am not glorifying you because my mumbled words won't do justice to your true glorification. I am merely someone who loves beauty. How long will I be addicted to your beauty? I am envious of it. I struggle to appreciate such beauty. Think of me sometimes. Think of this dreamy one. Write to me occasionally. I would attempt to read as a child and keep it safe as a parent. You are too far away. At the very ...

  कौन से सिरे को पकड़कर, हर सिरे से छुटकारा पाया जा सकता है? कितना गिरकर, गिरने का भय ख़त्म हो जाता है? कितना प्रेम, प्रेम में बने रहने के लिए ज़रूरी होता है? कितनी लंबी सांस भीतर लेकर, सांस छोड़ने पर सांस का मोह छूट जाता है? कितनी दूर तक देखने पर, पीछे का दिखना धुंधला हो जाता है? कितना पढ़ने पर, अभी बहुत पढ़ना बाकी है, थोड़ा कम हो जाता है? कितने जीवन को छूकर गुजरने पर, अपना जीवन छुई-मुई के पौधे की तरह लगना बंद हो जाता है? कौन सा प्रश्न है, जिसका उत्तर मिलने पर और उत्तरों की अभिलाषा से आदमी विरक्त हो जाता है? कभी-कभी स्वयं को भी आश्चर्य होने लगता है कि कितने सारे सवालों से घिरी रहती हूँ या  ख़ुद को सवालों के घेरे में धकेलना, अपने लिए की गई साज़िश का एक हिस्सा है। सवालों की उलझनों के बाद भी अपना साम्य नहीं खोती हूँ। स्मृतियों में खोई-खोई जब थक जाती हूँ, तो चंद मिनटों की एक छोटी यात्रा, खुले आकाश के नीचे, खुली हवा में सांस लेने निकल जाती हूँ। एक छोटी सी यात्रा सही, सवालों की उथल-पुथल से कुछ देर के लिए निजात मिल जाती है। जितना कुछ बाहर है, उससे अनगिनत गुना ज़्यादा भीतर है। म...

  "You were destined for me. Perhaps as a punishment." ~Fyodor Dostoevsky  Each day, I encounter a new way to remember you while searching for a means to forget you. Everything reminds me of you. How long will I hold onto your memory, my dear? My body and soul continue to bow to our memories. I wish to forget you, yet they refuse to support this endeavour of mine. I believed it would be easy to forget someone as time slips away— I misjudged the time. I wish I could forget you— perhaps you wish the same for me.  I don’t know how much distance I must cover to truly escape you forever. You know, the idea of forgetting you causes me to suffer, yet I suffer even more while remembering you. Probably, there exists a middle ground yet to be discovered. All I seem to think about are extremes. When you were a stranger to me, everything felt strange, but when I became acquainted with you, I found everything familiar. I hope to forget you in order to forgive myself. It will not be e...

  You have addressed me many times as "A Free Soul." Every time, I was about to tell you that you don’t know how caged I was before attaining freedom and that each of us has a long journey of enduring distasteful imprisonment. We lived within it without question, unaware of the reasons behind it. Then, all of a sudden, one day, we realise we are caged. This realisation transports us to all the moments of ignorance. My dear, being free demands the courage to confront dilemmas and to shatter the shackles that have become akin to immortality. How often does the habitual self surface with a negotiation—but the realisation is so profound that it prompts questions about existence. My free soul never wishes for anything around me to feel caged. The freedom I possess should not dictate the freedom of others, nor should it mock the imprisoned souls of others. Once this free soul had unfurled its feathers in your world, my dear. You attempted to curtail it. You were envious of my f...

  I suppose in the end, the whole of life becomes an act of letting go, but what always hurts the most is not taking a moment to say goodbye. ~Irrfan I was so unlucky for love that it never gave me a chance to say goodbye to you. I often kneel before destiny—If it was written that I would be deprived of love, didn’t I deserve the chance to say goodbye? You used to say you were worthy of every happiness in the world. Yet, I could not even receive the happiness of a proper goodbye. Everyone wants to capture the end when people begin to blur—you, me, and every story. You could have stood against destiny. Even though I did not deserve an expected ending, at least I deserved a goodbye.  My dear, you might think that out of love, I would have died without you, but let me tell you, my love, no one dies because of the departure of loved ones. It is love that keeps them alive. See, I am sadly living and happily dying. What else can I say? There is nothing a person can say when they are...

  I loved sitting with you in silence. Yet, there were so many things I wanted to tell you. Now, I am left with unspoken words— sentiments I kept safe for tomorrow. But not a single tomorrow arrived. My dear, what do I do about those—spreading their roots, clenching my soul? More than missing you, I miss those moments when I could have been free from those unspoken thoughts. I was so wrong about the certainty of life. You were kind enough to introduce me to the uncertainty of existence. I can't do anything now except live with them. Occasionally, I find myself ensnared by those unspoken things as if falling into dreams. I know it has nothing to do with you—but at some point, it particularly did regarding those moments. It is so easy to accept the baggage of unspoken words rather than truly expect oneself to speak about them. Please, do not feel pity for me, my dear. I don't want you to feel anything for me. I am here for myself! People like me have a lot to say, yet we hold ba...