Poetry, Quill

You Deserve A Smile.

Till when will darkness seep away,
Into fibres of the cotton on your wrist,
As the light you loved goes so far away,
That you beg to glimpse through the mist,
Worry not, broken heart, look up and see,
Just see, it’s your turn to smile today,
Even though the pain hasn’t fully died,
Just know, it’s your turn to smile today,
You’re here with me, I see you now,
Feel the warmth of my embrace,
Forget the fires that burned you down,
And watch those little ones smile and sway,
The alleys that whispered those rotten sighs,
Behold, how brightly they shine today,
No matter what you’ve always been to me,
I love you, and you deserve to smile today.

Poetry, Quill

A Vintage Rustic Smell I Love

There used to be a candle on my table

Placed under an old, frail drawerIt carried souvenirs of the yore

And a vintage rustic smell I loved

It was kept the same way, unlit and unsoiled in perpetuum

But one day,I broke the rule,

And with a match the candle bloomed

It illumed the room and dismissed my gloom

I re-lived my dearest treasuries

That night, I re-lived my precious memories

By the next morning the candle had deliquesced

What left of it was its melted wax and its pleasant whiff

My room smelled the same as my candle did

A vintage rustic smell I loved

Which reminded me of memories beloved.

Brevity, Quill

Sleep

PART 3

As I sleep today, the images of a happier and younger you flash in my dream and involuntarily, I smile in my sleep.
I wake up to your face staring me right in the eyes, the look I have always dreaded; firmly set on your luring face.
I look away and your burning gaze remains unchanged.
I walk upto where you have been sitting, your gaze still unmoved, I try to shake you alive, but the deadness in your flesh says exactly what my ears don’t want to hear.
I still have to figure out what gave up first, your body or your heart?
I still see your body as it was when you first climbed that chair to when you sat there at your end.
I still hear your weak voice telling me that one day you’ll achieve eternal sleep.

Brevity, Quill

Sleep

PART 2

When you tell me enthusiastically that sleep consumed you into it’s restful embrace, I believe you.
When you tell me of the giant clown that ran after you in your dream, I laugh with you.
When you tell me you woke up gasping for water, I assure you it was just a dream.
And when your smile starts to fade away like the memories of a baby as he grows older, I start to worry again.
What if your dreams are getting influenced by the exact same reality you want to run away from?
What’s if sleep is not longer your safe place?
How am I supposed to protect you from yourself then?
To elude myself of my failure yet again, I tell you to sleep. .

Brevity, Quill

Sleep

PART 1

When the growing pains of your melancholic heart ring as loud as the holy bells, I tell you to sleep.
When your psychologist contacts me about how you relapsed again, I tell you to sleep.
When your beautiful mind does nothing but disintegrate, I tell you to sleep.
When your bloodshot eyes are blinded by red, I tell you to lay down and close those eyes that once saw the world not as what it was but what it could be.
I tell you to rest your tired mouth that no longer sings of brave women.
I tell you to sleep because it’s the only way you’d drown your sorrows, it’s the only way you’d dream of unimaginable happiness again.

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…



Poetry, Quill

We’ve Met Before…

I do believe we’ve met before…

In the middle of the street, I saw you walk,
We locked eyes for some time, then I drove away,
Your entire journey had brought you here,
To look at me as I held your gaze,
What tears you’ve cried, I’ll never know,
What made me smile, you’ll never see,
As night falls and our minds are flushed,
You cross my mind like a summer breeze,
We’ll never meet, in the lives we have left,
As we sit here thinking, in our lonely balconies,
In silence, we both gaze at the streets beneath,
Perils, of the same old broken heart,
In the same old city, we shall fall asleep,
Yet our worlds exist two lives apart,
Both alive, but never in our memories…

Poetry, Quill

A Seed of Love

A seed of love planted deep in the heart
Its roots steadily seizing the entire part.

The first leaf arose with a new beat
Short, soft and sweet.

The first bud arrived with the first titter
Introducing to a being, as sparkly as glitter.

And as the bud bloomed, so did the soul
Begetting a new whole.

I was born this way
I was born of love
And you,
Were too.


Poetry, Quill

The Perils of Forever

Its promise enchants us

And assuages our sore hearts

For a yearn to seek solace

Asked, to catch hold of this place

We flit, to seize it

And, to its eternalness we submit.

Even after,

Having known its legacy

We often neglect its tendency

To not exist.

And anew the inevitable never

Triumphs over the non existent forever