It’s Ok

Have you ever felt alien in your own home,
a cuckoo in the nest of crows
Exotic and struggling among the native crop
Do you feel a kinship with a stranger
Feels they think more alike
Think you found a fellow chalk
After being with face powder for so long

Let me tell you
For once and all
That you are absolutely right
To ignore instincts
Is to shut your eyes
When you have perfect sight
You are perfectly right
It’s ok to give space to yourself
It’s ok, if you have yourself prioritised.


My Dogra land is
Land of Saints, land of men brave
They are respite of cold water
In scorching summer days hotter

Punch Rajouri, Jammu, Samba, Basoli, Kangda
If it rain, the yield of crops is plethora
If it’s amiss, even then they dance on bangra
Never are pessimistic Dogra
This land of Dogra, is land of abundant flora

Dogras have World famous Basoli art unique
There is no Hindu in India
Who hasn’t once visited Vaishno mata
Each festival is colour, ritual, enthusiasm and feasts
Especially Rahre, Sakolare, Dhamdeh, Lohri, Janamashtmi , Guru-Parvas, Charismas or if it is Eid.
If you ever visit our land pure
Do try our local cuisine
Mitha Madra , Shree Pulao, Auria, Ambal, Succhiya, Sakaran, Cchile and Ghyur.
Do listen Kaarak and Bhaakh,
One is a classical Raag
And no instrument is used in Bhaakh.
Dogra culture, time has proven
Is Inclusive in nature
and stands for and by patriotism, amity and mankind.
Our heritage is
patience, sacrifice, secularity and unity
Dogriyat is the essence of the culture Dogri.


Pain of thousand deaths
When endured, a miracle happens
A new life takes breath
Shrill cries in air clang
My baby years encountered the miracle
My baby brother born a little bean
Moment was pivotal
A niche was created, a need gaped in me
My being yearned ardently for a baby
My thousand dolls witnessed
Thousand lullabies that I crammed
A hiss of water on a draught land
My envy of thousand mothers
Their babies in their embrace
My atavistic instinct dismissed as mere cavil
A thousand benison for my imagined progeny
Limned in every detail
The source of opprobrium
My sedulous will bewitched
Dismissed as logorrhea
But obverse is not acceptable
Repose for now but not long
But nagging presage has me in twist and spiral entangled
My privy musings dark and dank
My manna my behoove


Same old story repeated again
That my dadi told my mother
My mother narrated it to me
And amused me to no bound

Same old meal prepared again
My mother’s taste in it abound
She learned it from grandmother
And grandmother from her mother surely

Same old me got married
Like all girls in each generation did
Like They will still do
A soothing monotony
A secure reiteration
same old stories and patterns repeated
Are not always soothing
Are not always securing
And Me alone
Trying to break the pattern
Let me break this reiteration
Stop it to break it ultimately

For Stories of horror are repeated too
Patterns are sometimes traumatic too
I heard of tales happening to my sisters
Let it stop with me. Let commence this break with you.

Onion history

On the scally peels of Onion
Twisted history has been ploughing
Sustaining the cultivable and the less perishable.
The peels- with- in peels offering
mere Eggshells- the roof. For the yoke
Has already nuriished the onion patch.
The opinionated Whiskey skin, in
Regular squeamish with smoke has lost legitimacy.
The travelling scales has fractals abode
Which constantly
tries to reach tranquility in loop
But, more often than not, gravitates to greedy spikes and ends in recursion- perhaps, every time.

Stages of desperations

Rebellion is cut off at birth
Gradually turned into the creeper entwined around
The tree for sustanance
Labelled parasitic
The lice sucking blood
Leech sticking to soul
Are some other accolades
Tellingly a thousand tales of desperations

Short of breath,on the verge of death
The fish cannot survive without
Water that in my veins
Burns My heart and in its capillaries
Red Tide of despondency inundated
Dark skies of my being
In preternatural silence
Ancillaries the Nomothetic wanton desperations and
Melange ofDisappointments insipid are Imbibed in Blood that is festering on melancholic taste, unsavory
Chocking, clinging onto demeanor
Floating on the malice inside
Multiplying every tiny moment
The reaction is exothermic
Heating the concoction
Agitating entity of spiritus mundi
At the Bethlehem

One that exists within

When despair fogs my brain,
When defeat slays my courage,
I turn into a pungent onion,
And always rise again and again.
When the outer layer is stripped off,
There is always one that exists within,
ready to tear your eyes
With an inveterate Amazonian spirit.

When the hope deserts me on the beach of life,
When the death plays hide and seek,
I turn into Matryoshka doll
And always sneak again and again,
When outer one is destroyed and deformed,
There is always one that exists within,
Ready to bedazzle your eyes
With the rainbow heus of the spirit.

When all my troubles simultaneously assail,
When they depress me to my core,
I turn into  Goddess Durga
And always face them again and again,
With sapt -matrika my own being.
When one is unable to defeat a demon,
There is always one that exists within,
Ready to fight till I win
With a stubborn and tenacious spirit.

When I find myself really stuck,
When the change is impossible to realise,
I turn myself into a Chinese box,
And redefine myself again and again,
When one is brutally destroyed by time,
There is one that exists within,
Similar, ready to ride the chaos
With a malleable yet unbreakable spirit.

No Need

Something is running away
Far off and to desolate
Seeking unattainable and elusive
Leaving the conscious bereft and astray

‘A bird flying’ is alone
River falling in a cave close
Disappearing from the eyes
Leaving disheveled to the wise
It’s just a foot away
It just out of plain sight
There is no need to sway
No need to be perturbed yet
No need to take a flight
No need to stop the crusade
Since it is still light
Since it is still day

Nobody knows

Nobody knows
How a perfectly sane human
Has thoughts of suicide
No reason
How a perfectly shining kitchen sink
Has tons of grease
A perfectly healthy fruit
Has worms eating away insides
The centre.
It’s almost baffling
To understand depression
The abstract and transcendental
Like the ever elusive God
And the inner peace we sought
Air cannot be touched
only felt
That is prove enough
That it exists
The breaths we take
Without realising
That we are in a competition
With society and our psyche
For the survival.

In isolating E- interactions
Some win and other loose
This constant, never ending fight
Ubiquitously baffle the survived
Of their own strength
Of their own incredible strength.