Welcome to ‘The Pocket Diaries’ a global platform for every talent, a suburb for passions palpitating beneath the thick layers of necessities and indeed an initiative to unfold innumerable hidden talents forth you. 

A peculiar concept to bring your dreams to existence by providing you the very platform you always dreamt off. An opportunity to publish your works worldwide and indeed an
endeavour to provide you a ‘mysa’ in this contemporary incessant world.



Like the moon,
I emerged at night.
Nourished by the dark,
As flowers are by light.
For goodness,
I battled with all my might,
Yet against the Devil,
I lost the fight.




the scarlet of dusk embraces your sorrows as you fall deeper in love. the words escape her cherry flavoured lips, and stab your heart.

how could someone be such an ecstasy? 

she loves licking the fresh wounds on your neck. her nails trace the lines of your sins, you want to run away. you fail. 

“hold me tight”

she wages war on your thoughts as the sapphire on her neck reflects her power in the dark.

she laces her hands through your long, soft hair

and snaps your neck.

rage surges through her like fire from hell

and blood spills from places you kissed her, while she drags you to the closet door.

                                                         -she’s red.

Poetry, Quill, Write Ups

A Gospel //

// you can build the thickest,
strongest, tallest door but
grief will find its way in ;
you can have the perfect body
but sadness with find itself a spot ;
you can surround yourself with
all the fanciest things yet
your heart will yearn for love ;
you can pretend to be numb
but loneliness with demand to be felt ;
however ordinary or extraordinary
lives we may lead,
we are all plagued by our sorrows,
just hoping tomorrow brings less pain. //



What is the worth of your life?

Because, I can measure it, so less is its value, that I can trample it, but I must not, for your stench will continue to linger, your dirt will continue to blemish the floor, I have put in place with care.

You are worth nothing in this country of riches and prosperity, only a reminder of inequality, which I choose to ignore, for it is a ruse, to prevent progress, to stop the flourishing cities, from spreading their wings

And so, I ask myself when I look at the chapattis and a suitcase, strewn on a railway track in Aurangabad, as your dead bodies, send shivers down the spine of your family, but fail to rouse me, what was the worth of your life? For you were nothing but poor migrants, inconsequential to my life, my country

16 of you died, a million more await doles from the charitable, it doesn’t make any difference, for the country depends on the strong, not the weak, on the rich, not the destitute, on the minority, not the majority, doesn’t it?

Your life can never equal mine, this wall, this gap, this chasm, is here to stay.

Poetry, Quill


मैं मिलों दूर ही सही
वो कभी फासला नहीं करती
मैं कभी भूल भी जाऊं बात करना
वो कभी मलाल नहीं करती
मेरी याद में बहाती होगी आसूं बहुत
मगर दर्द को अपने बयान नहीं करती
मांगती रहती है जाने दूआएं कितनी
पूछूं जो कभी तो कहती है गिना नही करती
दे कर अपना सब कुछ मुझको
वो माँ ही तो है जो कभी हिसाब नहीं करती |



But in all probability, we all will survive, unlike the components of nature we damaged.


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In the blink of your eyes, it will vanish, the world you had built with so much love, the garbage you had strewn around with so much care will engulf you, till its hold starts to choke, just like that little bird on a barren island pecking on plastic, who suddenly found herself upside down with no life within.

The trails and tracks you left behind in the forest, blood flowing from the fresh carcass of the cheetah you shot, the sound of the bullet lulled the planet into a deafening silence.

In a moment, you find yourself locked up at home, unable to go out, unworthy of co-existence, this is your banishment and a moment of peace for the lives you wreaked throughout your existence.

Now, you realize that you wish to live, as you sit, tense, afraid and chaotic, probably like the baby elephant separated from his mother, waiting with raw fear, immobile, as its ivory tusks are taken out and it is left to die.

But in all probability, we all will survive, unlike the components of nature we damaged. And such is destiny that bad times will recede and good times will arrive, that we will once again forget this wipeout, embedded in the memories of only those who looked death in the eyes.


Freedom (or not?)

All this time

I’ve been told:

It will be okay,

If you keep writing

Within the lines.

You can fly high

But don’t cross the sky.

Someone will always 

Be better than you.

There will be days

When crying’ll be all

You’d wanna do.

You won’t have to suffer

If you stay in your limits.

It’s a tough choice

We all know:

Happiness or safety

The decision will show.

None of this makes sense

Never it will

Because you don’t get it 

The way I do.

For you are not me

And I’ve never been you.