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

Write Ups

Happy Birthday. Umm..?

Yet again, continuing the tradition of our last wish*, this time we’ll be wishing/ acknowledging/accrediting I don’t even know if a word for it exists or not but the man, who.. (excuse me for my inconsistency or grammar… emotions are overpowering) so, the man who probably is the sole reason for why THE POCKET DIARIES exists.

The most selfless man one could ever come across, the limitless, the actual definition of ‘self-made’, the sheer manifestation of nonpareil and indeed the perfect example of ‘A notorious elder brother’.

Trust me, once you meet Nitesh Gaba, your life would never be the same.

A lot of people told me what I can be, a lot of people tell people what they can be, but you, you made me what I am, you make people what they can be. You made this family, you made this community, I might be the face of this worldwide linkage, but you are the soul of THE POCKET DIARIES.

Happy Birthday, Fufu… And yeah trust me, I was dying to wish you since 12:00… But, I thought why to wish first as an individual, when you can wish on behalf of an entire family.

P.S. There is so so so so much more to write but trust me, you are exactly what makes one speechless. I don’t have enough words to… I don’t know… I love you. I just… You are the best.

Poetry, Quill

तुम, चाँद और चंद राज़

सरकते हुए टूटी खिड़की के बाजू से 
तुझे लोरी गुनगुनाते हुए सुनने 
चाँदनी आ पहुँची

अंदर झुकी तो देखा 
तू आँखें मूँद गोद में लिए 
बचपन का सर सहला रही थी

गाल तेरे कुछ नम थे 
और खयालों में तेरे मिट्टी

राज़ सारे जान 
भाग पड़ा इस ओर यह चाँद 
पर बोल पड़े इससे पहले कुछ
सत-रंगी हो गया आसमान

ख़ैर झट्ट से तुमने भी छिपा लिया बचपन 
ओढ़ कर ज़रूरतों का दुपट्टा

नज़रें पलटकर देखा तो रोज़गार की रेल चल गयी
मिलेंगे आज रात फिर बोलकर चांदनी ढल गयी

Poetry, Quill


रौंगते कुचलते चले इन पत्तों को
किसी पर सपने पढ़ा
तो किसी पर लिखा था यादें
किसी ने सुना सिसकियों को
तो किसी ने छुई सीपियाँ

चलते हुए तरक्की की धुप में
जाने कहाँ से ‘क्यों’ का ख्याल आया
फुर्सत में बैठ, जज़्बे की छाँव में
खुदसे बात करें, फिर दिल में मलाल आया

मुस्कुराते हुए बैठे ज़मीन पर
तो देखा यहां भी पूरी दुनिया बसी थी
साला, तब जाने
लोग तो हर जगह ही उतने है
यह तो ख़ुशी है जिसकी कमी थी

Poetry, Quill

बैठ गया हूँ फिर…

बैठ गया हूँ फिर अपनी छोटी सी यह डायरी लेकर,
कानों में आवाज़ तेरी,
चेहरे पर मुस्कुराहट है,
एक हाथ में कलम और दूजे में तेरा हाथ है.

ख़ैर पता तो था घंटे भर की बात है सारी
आखिर कानों में आवाज़ है अब भी तेरी
चेहरे पर भी मुस्कुराहट है
एक हाथ में कलम पर दूजे में अब
सिर्फ तेरा एहसास है.



With all your love and support, ‘THE POCKET DIARIES’ is going miles and miles…

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Search for our channel, The Pocket Diaries.

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When Motivation met Humor