My Poems

रेत में लिखी पटकथा मरुभूमि की धूल में यह कहानी बहुत पहले लिख दी गई थी , उससे भी पहले जब पहली मिसाइल ने आकाश को चीरकर आग की लकीर खींची थी। हम संसार की पत्थर की सीढ़ियों पर बैठे थे , एक मौन दर्शक-समूह की तरह , होंठ दबाए , देखते रहे उन लोगों को जो आग की ओर बढ़ते चले जा रहे थे भारी कदमों से— मानो वे विजय की ओर जा रहे हों , जबकि रास्ता चुपचाप कब्र की ओर मुड़ रहा था। रेत पर लाल रेखाएँ खींची गईं , फिर उन्हें लाँघा गया , फिर दोबारा खींचा गया , और अंत में वे खून की लहर में मिट गईं। हर अंतिम चेतावनी एक युद्ध-ढोल की तरह गूँजती रही , हर कूटनीतिक सफलता एक मुखौटा बन गई जिसके पीछे क्रोध की आग छिपी थी। अभिमान उठा— साँप की तरह कुंडली मारता हुआ , और आकाश से गिरती बिजली-सी शक्ति एक तेज़ और साफ अंत का सपना देखती रही। पर त्रासदी का अंत कभी साफ नहीं होता। जो वार नायक को गिरा देता है , वही और आवाज़ों को मंच पर बुला लेता है। और हम—दर्शक— सबसे दुखद भूमिका में हैं। हम गिनते हैं मृतकों को , देखते हैं टूटते नगरों को , और समझते हैं देर से कि विजय की सुबह अक्सर शाम की चिता बन जाती है...

The Script in the Dust The script was written in the dust of the desert long before the first missile ignited the sky. We sat in the stone tiers of the world, a global chorus with our hands over our mouths, watching the actors march toward the fire with the heavy rhythm of men who believe they are walking toward glory when they are really walking toward the grave. We saw red lines drawn in the sand, crossed, drawn again, and finally washed away in blood. Every final warning was a drumbeat. Every diplomatic success was a mask hiding the fury that was coming. Then pride rose. The swelling chest of the axis, coiling like a serpent, dreaming of a chokehold, met by fury launched like a thunderbolt, dreaming of a clean end, a surgical strike. But tragedies never end cleanly. The strike that kills the lead actor only drives the understudies screaming to the front of the stage. And we, the chorus, are the most tragic of all. We comment, we watch, we record. We...

To Be and Not to Be To be or not to be, the question. To be and not to be, the answer. Between these two thoughts stands the restless human mind, weighing life with fear, measuring death with doubt, searching for certainty where none was meant to exist. Hamlet stands there still, thinking himself into silence, trapped between action and retreat, afraid of the world, afraid of what lies beyond it. He asks if it is nobler to suffer or to end the suffering. But the question itself binds him, for it assumes that being and non-being are enemies. Elsewhere, on another battlefield, a man stands trembling in the same way. Arjuna lowers his bow. His heart shakes. His mind collapses under duty and grief. And yet, beside him, a quieter voice rises. Not a command. Not a judgment. A remembrance. “The soul is never born, nor does it die. It has never been, and will never cease to be. Unborn, eternal, everlasting— it is not destroyed when the body falls.” And suddenly, death loses its terror. Not bec...

From the smallest particle to the farthest turning galaxy, the universe follows one quiet rule: nothing moves in a straight line forever. Everything turns, returns, renews. What we call progress only appears linear because we stand in one place. Step back, and the pattern reveals itself— a vast circle moving through matter, through life, through awareness itself. Science sees this without poetry. Energy is never destroyed. A flame does not disappear; it becomes heat, light, ash. A fallen tree does not end; it becomes soil, nourishment, new growth. Nothing is lost. Everything changes form. The stars speak this truth on a grand scale. Within their burning hearts, elements are forged. When their fire is spent, they collapse and scatter themselves across the dark. From that dust arise new stars, new worlds, new lives. The iron in our blood, the calcium in our bones, once lived inside ancient suns. On Earth the same rhythm breathes quietly. Water rises, falls, returns. Carbon moves from air...

  Blow, blow, thou winter wind of strife,  Thy gusts are not so fierce, so wild,  As feignèd friends who turn and rifle  Through hearts they vowed to guard, beguiled.  Yet true roots hold through winter's bite—  A spat, a silence, shadows brief—  Not feigning's mask that flees from light,  But honest mending, beyond belief.  Heigh-ho! The real ones rise anew,  From hiccups short, their tempests past;  While false ones fade like morning dew—  True friendship's forge, forever cast.  

  It was winter, golden sunlight spilling gently across the courtyard. Chairs were drawn close, walking sticks resting like tired companions, their shadows stretched over the ground like old memories. The elders sat together, lamenting today’s technology. One complained about Maggi, another about mobile phones and WhatsApp, someone spoke fearfully of artificial intelligence. And then the familiar line surfaced: “Good that we grew old before all this arrived.” Among them sat the wisest old man, joining the gathering for the first time. Quiet, attentive, a soft smile resting on his face. His smile unsettled the others. They asked him why. Unhurried, as if holding time in his palms, he said— Julius Maggi was born in 1867. The man who invented the mobile phone was born a century ago. WhatsApp’s creator belongs to our own generation. Those building AI today are our contemporaries. The things we curse, he said, are born of our own min...