Poetry, Quill


And I look at my mom – I see a distant image of what she could be
If it wasn’t to be what she should be
If it wasn’t for dad, or for me, or for my elder brother
Only if she had a chance of being herself first – than being a mother.
I sit with her and I look into her eyes, as she cries,
And glares back to her younger side, through me,
And hear it say, don’t worry mom, you raised two good men,
It’s all gonna be all right.

And suddenly at four in the night, the insulin level
shoots and he’s sweating in the cold night.
He grabs a snack from the side and munches on it
while me and mom look into his eyes – they still ain’t watery
Maybe too dry to cry. These nights are so lengthy and
the sun doesn’t shine for even he- who fed fifteen at a time.
Yeah, that’s it, it’s his fight with the time,
Dilapidated and weary, he still smiles down at us
and says don’t worry, I’ve got it, you’re all mine.

And as I glide, through the streets of area four,
I look at the corner three-story house
that looks like coroner, and condenses a cloud
of memories and rains it all out.
I see my brother bowling the eighty bucks red cherry
and I swivel my bat it hits the ball and the window cracks
and my neighbor screams- that’s out just before mom comes out
and we run for our lives and we laugh as we hide.
I reminiscent the launch, the tenth, and the ninth
who do friends change lovers, and love is out of life
I glance at my wrist- gotta run- it’s ten past the class time

And I wonder if he also smiles seeing all this too
as sits back seven thousand miles tryna fit in the shoes
of a man, these times demand of him to be.
In a life, he barely got time to breathe
out a sigh, let go of to laugh or to cry.
But I guess, no matter our different grounds
we both smile cause we’ve got the same blue sky.

And now, I got to keep my quill down
’cause though I don’t really get it
but the benzene ring’s freaking me out.

Quill, Write Ups

Happy Birthday Cheenku

I really don’t get it why do I just fail to write good letters for those who really matter, but yeah here it is.

Friend eh?

A lot of times when I tell people, “I don’t have friends”; they confuse me with some sad lonely knob head. And maybe they are correct in doing so, for what they lack is complete knowledge behind this trademark phrase of mine. Now, I won’t go on sharing the knowledge, but I’ll tell you of someone who somehow manages to break all the bars I’ve set comfortably, and sit as my only undisputed friend.

And honestly I don’t really get it, how does he do that. You see he isn’t one of those famous brats of the school, yet somehow everyone seems to know him. He hardly does anything that would make someone like him, yet somehow everyone loves him. He looks far from fit to play, yet somehow his pull shot is one hell of a thing to witness. He’s more like a paradox and that is why I thought he and me we both were alike.

Well somehow he proved me wrong in that assumption too. We’re far from similar. And as I try to write this too, I just cant explain what is it that makes him so special. Is it that he was there with me from the beginning? Is it that he has seen me laugh and cry and rise and fall? Is it the way he just repeats the motivational quotes, I once wrote on the board, when I feel low? Or is it the weird business ideas that we discuss that makes our bond so special? Is it the way he bought that book as a gift for me at the airport? Is it those tears that he quickly sucked in when he talked of me leaving? Is it… actually the list wont end… Is it, it all? Or is it the fact that I never bothered to try and figure his mind out because I’m too busy living the little moments I get with him?

Actually, it’s maybe the only thing that I don’t even wish to understand for, he and me… we’re like those legends we hear and see…

Jai and Viru, Saadiq and Raees, Kamli and Sanju, Circuit and Munna bhai, Raju and Rancho… or rather the sum of them all

Cheenku and Manan

Quill, Write Ups

And So I Conclude To You

There is a humongous possibility that you may criticize me, to the point of where we shall rather call it, crucify me for what I am about to utter. But I plead you to try and understand what I say before the rant is launched.

“I have seen all the works that are done under the sun. And, behold, all is vanity and vexation of spirit. I communed with mine own heart, saying: “Lo, I am come to great estate”. And I gave my heart to know wisdom, and to know madness and folly. I perceived that this also is vexation of spirit. For in such wisdom is much grief, and he that increases knowledge, increases sorrow.”

With contemplation, we non arguably agree, wisdom is but the prime virtue. And in accordance with Ecbert, such wisdom brings much grief. This brings in the fact that this is rather a loop of grief and wisdom. Where attaining wisdom gives rise to grief but wisdom itself, on the first hand, stems of grief. Creating the eternal loop with no bars on increase in knowledge or pain.

But what I bring to you is a different tale. Where grief is spoken as pain and wisdom, after all, is the sum of emotional and intelligence quotient of a man.

As to what it appears, pain is in a symbiotic relationship with both the intelligence and emotional quotient of a human being. A relation where more is the pain fed, more does the value of quotients rises. But, what makes this relation agathokakological is that pain feeds but only on the human spirit. And by eating the spirit gradually it strengthens the emotional and intelligence quotient of the very body the same spirit resides in. Hitherto creating a scenario where your spirit is consumed by the pain you carry which in turn increases your ability to reason as well as to understand your emotions more efficiently.

To link it to the more common examples in our world, we are well aware of the many stories of how the greatest of men who walked upon the surface of this planet, from inventors, to artists, to investors, to athletes had one thing in common in all their stories- ceaseless suffering. But unlike the eternal loop we talked of, this truth fits into our reality as well for there is a bar up to which a man can live.

This creates a limit upon both the wisdom and grief of a man. This limit is what we call spirit. The day we cease is the day when our spirit runs out, when pain runs out of food to consume. This day our ability to develop our quotients ceases. Our wisdom, our knowledge stands stagnant at a point, out of pain to consume to grow further. And hence, when the heart and mind get stagnant and the spirit runs out it is then that the body stops to function any longer.

And so I conclude to you, suffering is imperative for great intelligence and emotion as well.

Quill, Write Ups

Check List

Send in the check list

and let’s start to tick

the people who might get offended

even those you didn’t diss

while you pen these raps

sitting on the cliff

they’re in their in groups cussing you

you little prick

he makes us so sick

guess, his throat has to be slit

and flow his brains out with a brick

but the skull is so damn thick

put it in the micro, cook us an aspic

and pull his guts out with a stick

it’s what they say is his shtick

maybe that’ll end this shit

that’s the only option cause he says wouldn’t quit

the raps wont cease to spit

even when he’s ninety half dead with a drip

wont loose even a bit of grip

he’ll continue to make people flip

who the f*** requires bondages?

my words are enough to strip

Then these people boycott me

one of your verses dude, that strike us blue

The f*** am I even supposed to reply

cause bitch that wasn’t even meant for you

But yeah, I get it, you can’t undo the shit you spoke

can’t take back those endless jokes

from my accent to my being a broke

my mix of meth and coke

me lighting up that bloke

and how I killed her little hope

do me a favour, get me a f****** rope

that’s the only option after what I spoke

But guess, another controversy would be better

I’m just loving it holy smokes!!!

They sit across in the room and tell me I don’t listen to nobody

And how should I feel after hearing it from a person who meant life to me

I’ve just realized I can’t change the way the people think

And yes, it hurts just as much as your eyes getting pinched

As if it’s been a million minutes and you haven’t blinked

While your nose is still stuck in the door hinge

And your entire existence turns out to be sinned

But the worst of it still remains inexpressible

Cause what I say is a hundred percent cerebral

Because the major part in it was played by a b****

Who’s just an overrated Jesus, actually isn’t worth shit

The thigs are getting heavy now

and we don’t understand what to reply he dissed us so bad, let’s just drag in di

Cause you know then I wouldn’t intercede, just accept whatever she’ll speak

And while you drench all this humanity out of her, you call her biased, you freak

But that’s what your love is, bleak and weak, what did you do for her in all these years? Traduce-y

Then what the f*** makes you wonder wiping off your tears is her God damn duty

Then go downstairs and tell the world you’ll confront me face to face, call the police

Cause the entire episode is just a giant heist, I robbed you off your mental peace

Then warned how I’ll skin you all like a flock of geese

And mark my words, even when the anger’s gone the intensity wouldn’t decrease

Cause it was you the one who drew the line

And forced the world to choose the sides

Whether you like it or not you got to agree

Then you played your card

I’m just an innocent millennial, save me please

I’m a hundred percent clean

He’s the one whose always so keen

To blow off on us

And he would just start to cuss

He made it all a fuss

Then he would just vent out

And put it up on the website

Without even feeling the need to discuss

It just leaves us all in disgust

Tell us yourself isn’t boycotting a must?

And the next thing to do, yeah that’s right

Call my mom up and tell her about the shit I write

Jesus Christ, I’ll get slapped twice or thrice

Still wouldn’t give a damn, just continue to write

Stand right beside and give a bright smile

Confused? Yeah that’s fine

Cause I mail her a copy myself of everything I write

Is that alright, I don’t think so no

But at least I ain’t got nothing to hide

Cause now I know that I’m riding on right

And it doesn’t matter if no one’s standing beside

It’s the entire world versus me in this fight

But don’t you worry, they call me modern day Zeus

I’m f****** God like.

Poetry, Quill


Turn in the beat of headlights, play the chorus, I’ve got something to edit, something to pen, something to confess

I know I let you down
And though you say the days are happy
Why is the power off, and I’m fucked up?
And yeah, I know I’m not around
But don’t you place the blame on me
As you pour yourself another drink and

I guess we are who we are
Headlights shining in the dark night, I drive on
Maybe we took this too far

I went in headfirst
Never thinking about who what I said hurt, in what verse
You all probably got it the worst
The brunt of it, but as stubborn as we are
Did I take it too far?
To the stars and all them other songs
But regardless I don’t hate you ’cause yeah
You’re still beautiful to me, I remember all those hours
Though far be it for you to be calling, the episode was Vietnam
Desert Storm and all of us put together
Can form an atomic bomb equivalent to chemical warfare
And forever we can drag this on and on
But, agree to disagree
It was all true I said, you were Brutus, et tu Brute, Ceaser was me
You’re kicking me out? I never cheated on you at least listen to me (little prick just leave)
Wait a minute, before we gloat, anything to have each other’s goats
Why we always at each others throats? Especially when you and me we both realize, We’re in the same fucking boat, you’d think that it’d make us close (nope)
Further away that drove us, but together headlights shine, a car full of belongings
Still got a ways to go, back to the launch when your feelings glowed
And I was always the leader of the pack, so my shoulders carried the weight of the load
Then it got all changed at the fete when our feelings were told, and
That’s when I realized you were hurt and it wasn’t fixable or changeable
And to this day we remained estranged and I hate it though, but

I guess we are who we are
Headlights shining in the dark night I drive on
Maybe we took this too far

But I’m really sorry for ‘To The Stars’, at the time I was angry
Rightfully maybe so, never meant that far to take it though, ’cause
Now I know it’s not your fault, and I’m not making jokes
That flow no longer goes and I cringe every time I get to hear its good- I might blow
And I think of you being placed in this situation
you yourself created for me everywhere I go
And how I just wanted you to taste your own, but
Now the all angers taken over and your mental peace’s deteriorating slow
And I’m way too old to cry, that shit’s painful though
I forgive you, can’t expect the same though
All you did, all you said, you did your best protect ‘em both
You only cared, that cross you bare, few may be as heavy as yours
I don’t want to accept it but I’m getting it now oh what a tangled web we have, ’cause

Cause enough of it shut the beat down now, lets get back to Prodigy, turn to my beats

Now, it feels I got to stay a mile away from raps, just look at them distantly

Cause the moment I pen one regret overpowers instantly

Force shut down these demons in my head

It’s the 3 in the morning I’m laying in my bed

The lyrics wont stop and the beat never dies, 24/7 365 all the time I hit this vibe

I ask to myself is this life

Too strong to cry too tough to die

Cant just end it all with a weak sigh

The expectations and the admirations are so damn high

Feels I’m male mother mary heaven’s my home and my ground is sky

Still i decide to go the other way round

I put this craft, out in public

and start to get replies

one says you sure you wanna do this

other says stop disturbing people’s peace of mind

Im sorry love, i never meant this

But you got to open your eyes, dont be biased, dont turn blind

Its the same people who did this shit

yet they never agreed to it

But once I pen it down, they feel all so relatable, cause now I’m blamable

Its so fix-atable, I guess im not bearable

but think of that young kid once

who walked in Rumi’s fields

and talked about Hafiz’s dreams

yet all he does now is cribs and screams

while you talk of peace of mind

after leaving him alone- he’s a problem child

well I guess you got to sit down

and hear not mine, not his, but your sound

before you prounce on that problem child

you got to open your eyes, don’t be biased, don’t be blind

Yeah, I’m sorry and scared to even think of her attempting suicide

But I guess it gotta be tasted once, what’s that- potassium cyanide

Life is all about highs and lows, but sometime certain things make you blow

And I don’t get it how is everything finished, when you end with end

With a heavy dialogue and feed me shit

Am I not supposed to bounce back, even if it’s through these little soundtracks

Well in the end, I just agree, even I feel I need a therapist to see

A mad child, a problem child, no one wants to see

But yeah don’t give me your fake sympathy

Just rather stay a block away from me

You all got it, stripped me off my confidence

Mission accomplished, I am off with competence

I rest my quill, guess that’s what doesn’t make us alike

As long I’ve got it I feel god like  

But I just wanna be a normal child

Snubbed in his books, got no reason to cry

No Mozart, got no skills

No dissing and no lyrical kills

Poetry, Quill

To The Stars?

Hey, people, this is my first ever rap. Hope you all enjoy it.

All characters and events in this rap- even those based on real people- are entirely fictional. The following craft contains explicit language and description and due to its content should not be viewed by everyone.


Also, I strictly am against the use of explicit language, yet keeping in mind nature of the industry and the need of hyperbole I had to include 6 such words in this 1019 word long rap. So, I’ll still censor a 0.0059 part of the rap, for I dont wish to degrade anyone’s dignity, not even accidentally. Here we go



Yeah, go again. That’s good huh?


Pick up the pen and open the pad

That’s a good alternate than look so sad

Now go back try vent out the crap

And vomit all out call it a rap

Then see them go crazy and mad

You write so well you must be crack

Well maybe I’m just a jack

But what if maybe Prodigy’s back


Prodigy made me and entertained you too

Can’t be gone already didn’t forget him, did you?

The crazy one, the one they call rude

And shrewd and lewd and the one who’s booed

When he walks up on the stage, yet without an apology

Maybe that’s why you take a bow, and call him prodigy

But how can I be so sure of his revival

When I, myself sit here struggling for survival

In this dark, in this abyss, where there’s no music

And no humming, and the beats ain’t drumming

And the rhymes ain’t running, and the quill ain’t flowing

And the flow ain’t going, and the fire ain’t blowing

And the eyes ain’t glowing, and this shit ain’t selling

And the pain’s only swelling and I sit with my head, weighed down

And raps ain’t spitting when I open my mouth

Got to put my hand in my throat and

Grab some lyrics and pull them out

Just to be sure I’m not knocked out


Knocked out from this game of pain and shame and blame

Where friends and lovers are changing every second

But I don’t wanna play this I reckon

Aah, you don’t get a choice, I’d rather die

You forgot it again, Kings never die

But you can always grab a corner

Where you sit and cry

You sure about that? Sure I can cry?

Oh yes I am, of course you can

After all youre just another man

That’s the best thing I heard, heard in days

Cause trust me dawg, I too want the same

Well in that case, I’m so sorry mate, it’s too damn bad

Cause now it’s something you can’t have

Whoa what’s that? Why I ask

But meanwhile three already shattered their hearts of glass

I rush to the sound, grab the pieces try to put ‘em back

But in the process, I cut my hand

And as if I’m some random woman, they see me bleed

And throw me out of their clan.


I sit back smiling trying to comprehend

Where when why in the wrong I went

How did I come in this position to vent

Was it in the fete or the texts I sent

Got to sit back for a moment and reminiscent

Cause let me honest I’m out of gas


Got to end this mess, stop being an over understanding a**

Seems like the end is near, got to pull out my finger dear

And not the ring, thumb, index, or pinkie dude

The one you pull out when you’re about to shoot

How many times do I tell you dear, I really just don’t care

Whether you hate me, or love me, or like me player

Just tell me where’s my God damn snare

Cause from this fake love of yours we are all so sick

And this ain’t for you, but the other one who’s reading this

The one who acted like a prick

Who created this illusioned love story of ours

Where I bring her the moon and all the stars

Well that’s the problem with all you girls

Talk to you nice, you’re singing with the birds


Now coming back to you, you go to my family and you cry

And tell them why he and me, we both should die

After all we force you to choose, and you get all so confused

Well guess what beggars can’t be choosy, and hear this from a beggar too

A beggar turned King, King turned poet, a poet who sings

A singer who’s dead, the dead who grins

I guess now its just turning into a diss track


Look at it yourself, even your thought is enough to distract

We’re now changing all its course, and getting on the opposite track

I’m steering it, this rap is a ship

I’m both zenith and nadir b****

any you don’t deserve any of it

Just stay a f***ing mile away from me

You better watch your language there

You better save it and shut up b****

It’s already enough of it

Can’t take no more of your s***

It’s a humble message to you all

Stop your a***s from bouncing on the wall

Gonna grab your throats and choke you all

And there’s no jokes or fun here kids

A simple warning gonna tear you in bits

Cause even I’m afraid devil’s back

He’ll put you all up in a sack

Light a fire beneath, and hear you shout

And wouldn’t even piss on it to put you out


But I don’t think I’ll be able to do that too

Seems, after all, I’m not so screwed

So once again, I’ll got the other away round

Pick up a two-point stick

And hammer it down my esophagus, till I can’t shout

And a lovely little fountain of blood spurts out

In the background, a profound harmony plays and trumpets fade

Creating a perfect verisimilitude, as to die I fall down

Like a man who tied his throat, with a rope

But the Gods cut it down, I touch the ground

But get right back up, horns start to blow and drums beat again

Just like that, I’m psyched back up

Did I fail again, or is it success


This Rubik’s– beautiful tangled mess

I look in the mirror all perplexed

Can’t even cry, nothing to regret

Just slide open your cupboard

Pull a suit, and get back dressed

Show the world why you’re the best

Everybody knows it’s lonely at the top

But I can’t just sit back and sob

Fit your shoes, the moon wasn’t far

Too easy dawg, now let’s get to the stars

Now let’s get to the stars

Now let’s get to the stars  

Quill, Write Ups

But I Became The Change I Wished to See

You surely would have heard of this phrase before at least once if not often. And honestly irrespective of the resistance you showed towards its genuineness and credibility in the ‘modern world’ yet, just like me, just like us, you too accepted it.

And just like me, you too had nothing to answer back when your parents slammed this rhetoric straight into your face, “saari duniya shudaaran da theka tu lita hoya hai?”

Just like me, you too accepted it. But, I did become the change I wished to see in this world, and maybe so did you.

From targeting the most subtle forms that stemmed this plight of the modern woman to directly addressing them, I did it all.

“Teri maa ka”

“Teri behan ki”

Sounds like just another day at school, that is how firmly these slurs (now adjective cum fillers) have inculcated into our language and hence our lives. I eliminated them completely from my vocabulary for I realised nothing would change, surely not the nation until we, the intellectual millennials, keep on promoting raping our own sisters and mothers after every couple of words we speak, in every joke we crack, in every sentence we form. I realised that it wasn’t funny and surely not casual when even my best friend used this filler for me. And I stood my ground firmly irrespective of how many times I’ve been told that I am overreacting upon this ‘just friendly cussing.’ Yet the only thing I felt was a feeling of alienation whenever I stood among/in the groups, my friends, for I didn’t ‘behave’ as normal teen friends do, as I did. “You have changed” that is what I got, because I changed?

Do you feel the same? Have you changed yet?

I put forward stats of how there were only 280 rapes in 30 years when mutilation, stoning to death, or hanging were the three options to chose from when caught guilty of raping in medieval English midlands. How only 63 rapes, all martial, were recorded in 5 years in Viking Scandinavia when beheading was the only punishment.

And I don’t need to prove anything, for now when the punishment begins at 2 years along with the imposition of fine, the stats go to somewhere over 106 rapes per day in India.  

I also tried telling people the problems, I questioned, I studied this predicament, I wrote articles on men, women, and their duties. I fulfilled mine. I became the change I wished to see. Yet, my phone flashes Priyanka’s burned body. Why? Who shall answer me at this juncture? I changed myself for Gandhiji, for ‘mentors’, for ‘well-wishers,’ for those wise ones who told me that doing so would change the society too. Yet, my phone flashes Priyanka’s burned body.

Hey… Knock knock… I know you’re there. You told me to first be the change I wished to see. But I already did that… I don’t see no difference… Hey, I’m talking to you. Have you become the change you wished for? Did anything change?

Am I all by myself, are you still there? When will not me, not you, but we change?

Quill, Write Ups

Walking on Water

Allow me tell you all a little, simple, bed-time, teeny story, although I know I have been writing and delivering poorly these days, unlike I once did. Seems the Gods are angry at me, Odin has taken away from me the power of poetry for my inefficient use. But I can’t stop without even giving a fight maybe this would please Odin and you all, maybe this would revive me.

Let’s go by the traditional start.

Once upon a time, during the rule of King Eirik in the petty kingdom of Vestfold there was a beggar. The beggar -he was not a very tall man, thin as a stick, and always carried a frown upon his face despite the love in his pocket. Aah… but the world doesn’t peep into pockets it just picks pockets. (Look at the desperateness of the writer to engage his audience by throwing punches, look how bad he is failing at it) But this was never what made him distinct, there were already a lot of emaciated beggars and the world was pretty much the same with each of them. What made him different was his ambition, his insanity beyond limits yet all ethical and true, his weird arrogance and haughtiness not of some title but of being himself- what beggar calls himself King after all?

He used to speak often of his desire of being influential, powerful, and important and more than he spoke, he worked for it, grind for it. He lost a lot of friends on his way to power, he lost all those playing and drinking hours, he lost family hours, rock bottom became his home, but kept on moving until one day he challenged King Eirik to a duel and familiarized him with his fate. As per the law, the man who beats King becomes King and this case was no different.

Finally, all his efforts, his walk on this lonely road in pelting cold, it all seemed to end. It was now the time to rejoice and celebrate his victory, reminiscent and cheer skol to his ambition and passion that made him King today, that made a beggar King today. Well, but a man can’t change his soul, can he? A beggar stays a beggar and he seemed to forget that. Being King sounded the most beautiful thing ever, being King was a bit different.

Kings walk in grace but stand in pain. You must be an extremely good observer that stands behind a veil. And while you stand there you just listen, unseen and unhear, you just listen to all. Also, what you listen should be important to you but it also must not affect you too for you might (not might) you will hear people hate you just because they ain’t you.

Dying, as in going back to normal and dying in minds of people as if you never existed, it becomes a dream you dream day and night long. You don’t talk of your pain but once you do, still no one relates to it. And you just wonder to yourself while you reminiscence as to how did you even make it in the first place. You wonder, you rather wish you haven’t had left the farm in the first place.

You think, is this what you envisioned, is it really what you wanted?

Fame to the point of imprisonment. You feel like incredible hulk, your back is broken yet you walk. When they see you down, they say they’ll pray for you and you wonder to yourself why would someone who doesn’t even know you pray for you. No one never prayed a couple of years back, was I not the same man then?

And repeat to yourself, “Be careful what you wish for, you might get what you want. And once you get it, it might get back on you ten fold.”

“Kings never die.”

You turn yourself oblivious again and sing,

“I know some shits so hard to swallow
And I just can’t sit back and wallow
In my own sorrow, but I know one fact
I’ll be one tough act to follow
One tough act to follow, copy, one tough act to follow
Here today, gone tomorrow
But you have to walk a thousand miles

In my shoes, just to see
What it’d be like, to be me
I’ll be you, let’s trade shoes
Just to see what I’d be like to
Feel your pain, you feel mine
Go inside each other’s mind
Just to see what we find
Look at shit through each other’s eyes

But don’t let ’em say you ain’t beautiful oh
They can all get f*&^$% Just stay true to you.”

Quill, Write Ups

Happy Birthday to Us

Aah… So we’re here, to our own surprise too.

So, just the way each one of us dies in wait of our birthdays to arrive even when we are brutally exposed to the truth summoner- the calendar which says with utmost inhumanity and emotionless gestures in the gravest possible voice, “Still over three months to go, daft.” We were no exception either.

And poor, teary-eyed, us- are left with no other option but to stare at the slipping sand just as nonchalant and graceless as its motion.

While the weirdest part is even after realizing our actions, the moment the hour strikes, we all jounce as if we were oblivious all this time, and the moment had occurred spontaneously.

Now, since I’ve clarified that the fundamental was but the same, allow me to proceed.

Well, it doesn’t really seem like twelve months already. And if I were to reminiscent, The Pocket Diaries was just another idea scribbled down on a random page of a random notebook, claiming itself to be the greatest concept ever.

And to be very honest, even I felt that it was just another blog that I’d put up run for a month or two and abandon. As if it was destined to face the same fate that former members of ‘attempt to be the greatest poet ever’ faced (a bit too realistic ;P). The good part, being, I realized that this dream wasn’t to be achieved alone.

Having access to wisest company- Nitesh Gaba- the one who gave form to this random scribble of mine, it didn’t take us long to manifest our dream – adrenaline rush is quite a thing.

Me, the ‘randomest’ guy, texts another ‘random poet’ on Instagram if she wishes to collaborate. Actually no, Puja Vardhan, isn’t a random poet, she has a distinctness of her own. Getting back, we have a good chat, doubts are cleared, the webpage is ready, posts are up and exactly at 10:52 p.m. of 31st of October, my birthday, I spread the links out.

Honestly, there is nothing special in the day- 1st of November, I just thought it would be cool, to get to celebrate and party for two consecutive days.

Now, the weird thing happens. The webpage actually starts to get some good responses. Suddenly, AdSense approves the account, Analytics shows a count of over 5K webpage views in a mere span of 53 days. And me, a boy who was 15 a couple of days back, starts to feel super important. I start building a proper team, I start taking seminars in local schools, I am coaching over 150 kids roughly of the same age, whoa… a proper fairytale, rather a Viking dream. Efforts and results.

Well, since everything was going as if scripted by a Bollywood writer, it was certain that I create a bubble around me. A bubble in which stood the mighty master. The weirdest part was, no one could prick my bubble. The wisest arrows carrying the lesson of humility shot at me- I cut each of them with my swords of pride. Failed, yet victorious, experience glared at me in sympathy and disgust as well, let’s call it my conscience as if saying “Beta, non-med lete time bhi meri baat nahi maani thi na, khud sochle ab.”

Well, guess what, I lost. And certainly, I was the happiest when it happened. The bubble, the invincible bubble was never pricked. That victory was my loss. I grew tired of it, tired of not being myself. Humility started dawning, the sense was coming back, the wisdom rose back, and conscience, my split personality said, “Lautke buddhu gharko aae.”

The bubble was never pricked, it was dissolved in its own toxicity.

If you try to live too early, you don’t live too well.

I launched my book later, T.P.D crossed 10K views, its audience was now over 20 countries wide, and watching myself in the newspapers became normal for a couple of days. I was happy…

I was just happy.

An underrated, yet an invincible statement.

A year of The Pocket Diaries, made me realize, it was never me. I am just a messenger. I don’t own TPD, it is in fact well above the possession of any single person. And what else could I have wished for? For me, and for probably all of us, T.P.D means love. And well, how could anyone possess love… After all,

Possession is the opposite of love.

An artist is the happiest when his art surpasses his own self.

I was wrong all this time, it was never Manan Verma- founder of the Pocket Diaries, it was always the opposite, The Pocket Diaries helped me find me.

Now, well since it was such a good script, you can find me sitting on the last bench, smiling like a stupid, writing poetry in the structures of benzene, reading, and cracking jokes. Naah… of course I haven’t turned into a ‘Sant’ retired from all the worldly desires… of course not, the passion burns like never before, the ‘josh’ is on its high. Backed with experience, a catalog of mistakes, I am proud of, and a sense of relief by improving on each.

Cheers to this amazing journey, the team, Kriti, Puja, Artman, Armaan, Nandini, Ehshaan, Sanya, Tanishq, Shria and a lot lot more.

Having all of you, your talents represented and showcased, nothing makes an artist happier.

I love you all…

Quill, Uncategorized

“Upar di gur gur di annexe di bedhiyaan di moong di daal of di…”

Aa kuch Mantoiyat ladaein…
Aa kuch Mantoiyat sajaein…

“Upri di gur gur di annexe di be-dhiyan o mung di daal of di lalteen.”

“Upri di gur gur di annexe di be-dhiyana di mung di daal of di Pakistan gornament.”

“Upri di gur gur di annexe di be-dhiyana di mung di daal of di Toba Tek Singh gornament. .”

“Upri di gur gur di annexe di be-dhiyana di mung di daal of di laaltein.”

“Upri di gur gur di annexe di be-dhiyana di mung di daal of wahay Guru ji da Khalsa wahay Guru ji di fatah. Jo bolay so nahal sat sri akal!”

“Upri di gur gur di annexe di be-dhiyana mang di daal of di Toba Tek Singh and Pakistan!”

“Upri di gur gur di annexe di bedhiyana di moong di daal of di Pakistan and Hindustan of di durr phitey muhn”

Toba Tek Singh!!! Toba Tek Singh!!! Toba Tek Singh… Hindustan mein Toba Tek Singh… Pakistan mein Toba Tek Singh… Hindustan mein Pakistan… Pakistan mein Hindustan… Hindustan mein Hindustan… Pakistan mein Pakistan… Toba Tek Singh… Hindustan ya Pakistan?

Toba Tek Singh