Emerald

I strolled my way into the bustling Pragati Maidan book fair. It was a bright morning with hordes of young and enthusiastic faces around, walking into various tents of their choice. The dusty ground was swamped with colorful pamphlets and sky with paper festoons. I walked over and under, almost purposelessly, in search of nothing. I loved walking around anything that had books. I loved their smell. Their touch. And here, with books, there were people and festivities of books that I could never embrace in a local bookstore. Amid these flurry of thoughts, I stumbled upon a mid sized yellow paper book, with a emerald colored cover. An extremely modest cover, yet very attractive, something that I couldn't lay my hands away from. I flipped to the first page and began to read. It started with a little verse on spring, metaphorical though; on how the falling leaves of life is not an everlasting autumn. What may seem as a dry spell, is never a drought. The barks may seem to be aged with sorrowful summer but hope does get rekindled. The leaves sprout and springs life back on earth. Just when I was getting submerged in the depth of words, a girl in emerald skirt walked across me. She was tall and composed. Her hair waved as she looked through the pile of books. As she removed her hair and tucked them behind her ears, her long perfectly cut earrings held  a few strands as if they were flirting with them. Her white tunic top, worked well with sprawling emerald skirt. She wasn't like anyone that I had seen around for a long time. Collected, deep, involved and very comfortable in the madness around. She picked up a couple of books and went out of the shed. I followed. She walked towards the other stalls, briskly, admiring the energy around. Just like the earlier tent, she flipped a few books here, almost same and walked out. It wasn't that I was stalking her. I have never done that. Here I was getting pulled by her calmness into her. She was introducing herself to me, unknowingly and I was getting interested in that. As she moved out of another tent, she walked into the sprawling green gardens towards the local tea vendor. With ease, she bought one and sat down, elegantly arranging her stuff around and spreading her skirt. She then pulled out a book from her abstractly textured cotton bag and started reading while sipping her tea. Pulling up my breath, I walked up to her to talk. As I walked closer to her, she revealed a lot more about her to me. Her eyes were tired. Her fingers were slender. She had a bit of grey. I sat next to her and looked at her closely. With every second I was moving closer to her. Then she started talking to me. She told me of her tumultuous childhood. I was taken aback. It felt as if I had that childhood. It felt that I lost those friends which she had, it felt it was my house that got mowed down not hers. I could feel those butterfly dreams of hers that never found wings and got clenched every time she found little hope of swinging them in air. As i could feel her journey, she went on to talk about her adulthood. Growing up to be this beautiful girl with imperfections that made her real. We looked into each other's eyes and she smiled. There was a world between us. She had moved out of her pangs. She was free. I went to her small house, her abode, pretty, decorated, yet simple just like her. It was her day. She still had sleepless nights. Zillion stories between her and stars. They were my stories too. I was her for that moment. As the nights flipped over and days became years, I realized she had grown old now. Her eyes more tired and wrinkled. There was no family around. Her journey had left her weak but content. The barks had sprouted leaves. It was dark. Delhi had folded into its evening. The hordes were sprinting back to their metros. I was sitting distant alone at the green gardens. The last page of emerald covered book had a blank sheet. I carried her on my back and left for my place. 

बादल

पर्वतों की विशाल धारा से, 

निकला क़ाफ़िला बादलों का,

दुनिया और दुनियादारी से ऊपर,

एक मौज में अपने ही सफ़र का,

धूप से खेल, हवा से मेल,

जैसे जीवन की कठिनाइयों को समेट,

रुकना नहीं, बहना यहीं 

तो मेने भी पूछ लिया यूँही

अरे सुनो जाना कहाँ है 

यूँ उड़ते बेपरवाह 

ज़माना देख रहा है तुम्हें 

क्या जवाब दोगे लापरवाह 

बादलों ने देखा मुझे अचरज से 

जैसे पूछ लिया मेने कुछ बेढंग से 

वो उड़ते रहे और मेरी और मुस्कुरा के कहा 

उड़ना ही मेरी मर्ज़ मेरी दवा

उड़ना ही तो मुझे है आता 

जब तक हवा से मेरा नाता 

ना थमूँगा चाहे हो कोई पर्वतमाला 

जो ताप सूर्य का बरपा

तो किसी नीरे किसान के लिए 

या

किसी मासूम की काग़ज़ी नाव के लिए 

स्वयं को त्याग दूँगा 

किसी कल्याण के लिए 

मेरी काया का क्या घमंड 

फिर लूँगा में जन्म 

फिर पकड़ूँगा पवन का आँचल 

फिर बह चलूँगा नील गगन 

गीत

शब्दों से शब्द मिले,

और मिले खनकते तारों से,

तो बन पड़े गीत निराले,

गीतों से गीत मिले,

तो अविरल चल पड़ी गीतमाला,

बन पड़ी सफ़र की धारा,

एक पैर पे नाचा बंजारा,

भुला तृष्णा जो फ़क़ीरे ने खनका एक तारा,

गीतों से द्वेष मिटे, गाँव मिले,

जब गूँज पड़े क्या मंदिर मस्जिद गुरुद्वारा,

गीतों में रिश्तों की कुंजी,

नन्हें, गीतों से जाने माँ की परिभाषा,

दम भर के गीतों का ताल मिलाके,

टूकड़ि करती ना वहम ज़रासा,

गीतों से पंख पाती अभिलाषा,

क़दमों को मिलता उद्देश्य नया सा,

उत्सव गीत से, उल्लास गीत से,

गीतों के परिणय से अभिव्यक्त होती जीवन की गाथा 

सच तो है

है अपने चेहरे में सिमट के जा रही ज़िंदगी 

लकीरें कुछ तो बता रही कहानी अनकहीं

आँखों में नमी लिए घूम रहे हैं आवारा 

चेहरे पे सब बयान और चेहरा छुपा रहे

इस महफ़िल से उस महफ़िल घूम रहे उमीदज़दा 

शोर में दिल का सुकून ढूँढता रहे नादान

देखा है ज़िंदगी को करवटें बदलते पल में 

नज़र को तरसते थे जिनकी, नज़रें चुरा रहे उनसे

क़सीदे पढ़ते थे अपनी ख़ुदगर्ज़ी की 

अब भीक माँग रहे वक़्त से यादों की

क्या क्या समेटोगे यहाँ बिखरा पड़ा बहुत कुछ

आप अपने वादों के रहे ना, ना किसी की यादों के

incomplete stories

Characters find a name,
in the bodies of fantasy and live,
the real, is a script in making,
situations occur and characters behave,
confront, exude, discharge,
and so happen other stories,
similar or dissimilar, 
with names and places,
the stories of that world and this,
their characters concur,
relationships spring,
and emotions emanate,
glee to gloom, and more,
travelling between worlds,
some call it life, some fortune,
all in travesty, 
nothing finds an end,
all stories remain the same,
incomplete,
all characters incomplete.

Dark

The nights shall remain,

In warm cuddles of heart,

For those you met and lost,

Is all a journey at last

Lamps behold the truth, 

in sublime dark, 

time treads slow, 

Unfurls postcards of past, 

Tinkering glasses,

A large ensemble,

None but one and that is my feast,

I come collected; I leave apart

Meadows

The old house had many stories. The meadows at the back, stretched over an almost never ending land were my biggest nightmare. A lot of people found it pretty. The golden sunrise kissed it orange and moon sprinkled silver. To me it was a mysterious grave, above the land with bears moving inside and all I could see was some moving stems. The wind made it worse. My childhood had left a scar on my tender heart that could not heal this mystery. Rachelle turned around and asked "will you take me there?" Pointing her finger towards the old tree, through the dense meadows, about a mile and a half from the terrace of the old house, where we were standing now under inquisitive stars. My nightmare was about to come true. "Yeah, tomorrow" I said in a very unconvincing tone. "No, now!" She stumbled me off my ground.

I never said no to her. We made our way through dense meadows, treading carefully on a slim mud path. "Dad never allowed us to come here" I told her. "Your dad was a good man" she looked behind, smiling at me with her curly locks covering half of her face. "What makes you say so?" With this, a very trivial piece of information. "Meadows are dense, scary and like a maze. Just like the big bad world outside. You may keep walking but you never know where. Then you lose your path and succumb yourself to the life of meadows. He knew that it will kill your innocence so he held you. We are a lot about our childhood James." The moonlight showed in her moist eyes. We kept walking. She led the journey. 

A bit of my fear had left me already. I was feeling released. "It's still quite far and the night has just begun. You surely want to go today?" My concerned heart couldn't stop asking her this stupid question. When you love someone more than your life you always end up asking such stupid, overtly caring questions, like you own their life. But then that's how it is. She chuckled and turned back " give me your hand" she held my hand, turned around and kept moving ahead, backwards "now that we have set out for this journey there is no stopping. We will halt only near the old tree. I want to sit there and relax. At peace. We can sleep there tonight." Her feet pumped in the air like a little girl going for her birthday party. "Okay. Yeah it's quite peaceful there. Absolutely silent. My grandma use to..." She turned back and interrupted "silence is not peace. It was silent at the terrace but not peaceful. It's silent here but I don't find peace here. Back at home it's really silent. It is so silent there that I am always living with an internal noise. There are millions of Rachelles living inside me that talk to eachother. I crave for a moment of peace but I fail. I fail miserably. That is why I came here, to you. You will find me peace I knew. Will you, James?" 

I never said no to her.

We were more than halfway done. The meadows had grew taller than us. We were almost walking to a black hole. All I could see was her moving ahead of me, fearlessly, in her lovely floral skirt and white tunic top that I had gifted to her many years back. "You look lovely in this dress, always" I just said it. I think tonight was the night to say it. Say everything. 

"Thank you. How can I not? After all you spent all your savings during college for this lovely dress. I adored it then and so do now" as she held a side of her skirt with her slender fingers, making a lovely pose. "Well you would have bought so many new ones now. You're pretty rich and all that. Rich people can afford designer stuff. This ones just a cheap fabric." I always felt smaller than her. Say I never matched her. In the way she looked, spoke, carried herself and her fat bank accounts. " I could have worn the most expensive dress of mine today. I would have still looked great. Would I have looked happy in it? May be not. Dresses don't buy you happiness. Just like cars or tickets to greatest ever broadway. We find our happiness in emotions. You bought this dress out of emotions for me. James when I see this dress in my wardrobe a whole set of life stories unravel in front of me. I hold this dress in my arms, on my lap, with very soft hands and sit for hours with our memories" she kept moving ahead walking backwards, with her hands on her heart. We were now closer to our destination. Very far from our destiny. "We are almost there, I guess" my fear had eloped on the way. I was feeling lighter. Like a bird. A large lump had drained out of me. I was happy. "Thank you James. Like always you have given me what I held inside my heart. I don't know how you get to know me." She clutched my fist with such firmness that I could sense the warmth inside her heart, her whirlwind of emotions inside her. She was gasping with happiness inside. And it was transmitting to me. We had become one at this point. I picked up a bunch of lovely white flowers from the dark and mystique maze of meadows. "Rachelle you love these flowers. Don't you?" I knew she does. Yet I checked with her to know what she says "what do you think James?" Every time she said something like this with her tilted face jeweled with a childlike smile, I knew it is that ultimate moment of joy for her. "Take these, for you, with love, James" we laughed out loud. My voice echoed. It was when she left town I ran after her bus, breathless with white flowers in my hand, hoping that if she will see me, with them she might stop. Stop for a while and stop forever. The bus never stopped and I couldn't give her, that bunch of white flowers that she loved. "Give it to me when we reach the old tree" her excited voice and sprinting legs were reaching faster than time could. 

We made it to the tree. It had a large platform around. The meadows were smiling at us. I had beaten the big, bad world to reach here. Like always I needed Rachelle to do something like this. For the time she wasn't around I lived a timid, surrendered life. She was sitting next to me. And it was the best feeling in the whole world. She looked around and asked me where I was. I said with you. And then looked in her eyes and asked her something that I couldn't have asked her at the terrace "Rachelle, why we never met?" I just felt time had stopped here. I could never tell her my love. That doesn't mean she didn't know. But this love never found its abode. "What would you call as meeting? That we would have exchanged rings and lived under one roof. You drove me to market and I bought groceries. And we may have made kids. And the we would have grown old together. We may have never been able to do that. But we did meet. I met you with your love with those lovely things that you did for me. That you could understand me like nobody else did. That I found my happiness with you. So did you. We met every time you felt life, I felt it. Story books have a definite ending. Mostly perfect ones. Love is imperfect James. So are its stories. We don't write them. We live them. So they happen. Every time we loved it well, we met. We met as we walked through the meadows. You lived in me when I was away. I did in you. We will continue to." She said it. Her eyes looked right through me. Her hand on mine. I had an extremely hazy view of hers now. I could have loved her more. May be I can now. 

The first rays of sun struck the gorgeous white flowers in my hand. My eyes were still moist. I looked around. Rachelle was gone. I left her favorite flowers at the tree. She had answered what I could never answer to myself. I had crossed the meadows that I dreaded to cross by myself.

संतुष्टि

बेख़बर कुछ बातों से रहे तो बेहतर सही जाने कितनी क़समों के बोझ तले दब रहा दिल युहीं होना है जो होना है क्यों इंतज़ार में हो आधे युहीं

ख़ुशी तो ये ज़िंदगी में मिले जो ख़ुब मिले चहरे मोहरे सब खुले क्या खोया पाया खेल अनूठा जम के खेला चाहा, ना मिला तो ना सही हस दिये चल दिये
ज़िन्दगी यही तो यही सही

झूठ

शाम से कहदो ना और क़दम बढ़ाए रात का ख़ौफ़ है बस ठहर जाए झूठ बड़े सफ़ेद कहे हमने दिन सारा रात इतनी काली कि सब निखर के आए

Surreal

The nights unjust 

The thoughts unruly 

The leftovers and bygones

The choicest and trivial 

Nothing is absolute

In a world unforgiving

Does it matter who died first

When the words died first

promises tore into pieces

The old newspapers
The stale stories

A we that was

The noise that seldom gets heard

A caravan that doesn't move

Life's a chimera

Drown in what seems like a sea

real or surreal

Give it all

The fancy churidaars, undermined intellect of Indian mass, The star in Nawazuddin Siddiqi and actor in making Salman Khan : Bajrangi Bhaijaan

A country often defined between three economic class, also has an interesting definition between three khans. I saw Bajrangi Bhaijaan amid a flurry of excited Salman Class. Families with over enthusiastic little Salmans, the college breakers, the new Mrs. Sharmas and Mrs. Guptas, The uncles who mention his cases in the same breath as his films, the converts and the Bhai-natics. Post ‘Wanted’ there is a certain anticipation of his brand of content and to his credit he has been able to hold that part. As much is the anticipation of his entry in his movies to which again he hasn’t disappointed the class. A kick on the door with aviators on is a thrill ablaze with whistles and roars. Bajrangi Bhaijan was no different. Such is the anticipation that a bunch of well-educated teenagers in the row before me actually planned their antics for his entry. As he thumped the gulal and flexed his muscles, they squeaked in as many ways as possible. This is the inside story. What happens outside is more interesting. It is just not the movie but the whole event that pulls the excitement. Hence, comes out the churidaars. The fancy, swirling churidaars find festivity in cinema and I am strictly talking about smaller towns here. It is the mindset that is cute. It is the joy that is innocent. The churidaars are the importance to cinema. It is the boost a filmmaker dies for. That is why a filmmaker also needs to return the favor with good cinema. Where India is right now in this space is quite interesting. This is probably the most vibrant phase of indian cinema. It is nuanced like never before. We have 100 crore-weak scripted-dance numbered-action packed-one linerd-cinema co-existing with smartly written, well-acted, deeply thought yet entertaining cinema. We have a bunch of new filmmakers testing many waters with big makers pumping into a lot of mega scale projects. The big budget ones find plenty of lovers while thinking ones find their audience as well. The only problem is the 100crore ones under stimulating the intellect of audience. Bajrangi unfolds with easiness and builds on vagueness. Even if you discount fictional liberty, it does play enough with you-are-not-smart-enough-to-get-this logic. An audience that gives Masaan a thumbs up in the same week deserves a bit of more scripting with Bhaijaan. You can still make a sweet and simple movie that makes the same amount of money but with a little more respect to junta. The simple fact that we recognize talent. The proof is Nawazuddin Siddiqi. A country that has made superstars only on the ground of looks, even Nawazuddin would know how far he is from that metric. Yet when he makes his entry in a movie that has Salman, the crowd erupts with claps and whistles (again). Now that is natural as he wasn’t anticipated. He is a star now. The film takes a fresh pump of air the moment he enters and for the remaining part of the movie both Nawaz and Salman carry the film together. That in a way is a win for Salman as well. Bajrangi Bhaijaan thankfully doesn’t have a series of typical one liners, signature steps, not even a slo-mo romantic number despite a decently sung Tu Chahiye by Aatif. A lack of these has made Salman work harder for this film and the actor in him finds a way. This is probably his one of the better acted movies. I have never seen him emote as naturally as he did in this. The actor is unrolling its skin over the superstar and it is a good beginning,

what makes us

*wrote this for my 8 year old nephew*

A boat that sails 

Through the ups and downs

Of great sea

Has no power but 

The way it is made

To never drown in difficulties

We are a boat to sail

In this large sea called world 

And we do because

Parents make us so

A mud remains a mud

Until a potter mend its way

To create lovely statues

Of gods that people pray

We are born as mud

Until parents make us 

Beautiful structures

That the world looks at

Parents are the stem below the lovely flower

That takes the pain of holding us upright

For the world that only sees

The beauty of a flower

The wrinkles

The old wood table and the earthen pot,
Trembling fingers who have seen it all,
Find a world of their own,
Every morning, winters or fall,
Newspapers change but stories,
The world is a pattern in making,

The tea, the garden, the wall of glories

When love is memories,
And promises letters,
The wrinkles find their way,
To soak all that mattered.

Face off

The noise from a distant glory

Bulls have notched some victory 

The wind is upbeat

The cries roar

That's success in the most raw

Scenes downhill have a different script 

Clouds of doubts have greyed the sky

Broken shoulders have little to cope 

Belief is betrayed, heart has bled 

Failure has a face that nobody takes

तु

थक गए पंछी 

उड़ घर को चले 

साँझ निराली 

रात में घुलने लगे 

दिन का वेग 

अब ठहरता बने 

तु भी नीरा

किस द्वेष में जले

प्रीत में खोया पाया

ये रीत पुरानी यूँही चले

कल था कल होगा 

समय कभी न विपरीत चले 

Night

The night until the orange skies

A truth better than blistering light

The day's a bouquet of lies

Pretense is the omnipresent might

As the tuxedos unbutton 

Unravels the skin, the scars and soul divine

Night lets us survive

Real smiles, damp eyes or a couplet of loved lives

Silence is not peace

As one may find in brooding nights...

dreams

a little religion that I practice 
of intoxicated dreams in my paradise
written with blotted ink
on aged papers of a yellow paperback
to tread on a chanced life
the glorious childhood
the effervescent teenage
all that has begun has an end
only a chased dream has no length

The little songs of life

The little songs of life
I sing in my playground

it is a beautiful world
with magic happening all around

tiny caterpillar whom i called joe
just turned into butterfly
now it hops from one flower to another
stealing bit of love from each

cute puppies of mamma julie
come running to me at the sight of mine
they don't know me or my name
yet love me like i am their best friend

i run up to the grass hill for my stupid cartwheel
but i topple upside down
the kind bed catches me everytime
until i get it right

there is a bench of wood in the park
for old people to catch a breath
the bench remains the same but people
how beautiful is the religion of love

i play until it gets really dark
but never get scared as its my park
when the lights are dim
the moon shows my path

as i lay happy on my bed
i think of them all at night
to comeback tomorrow and play again
sing the same little songs of life

आँगन

बस दो कमरों का घर और एक संसार भर का आँगन,

कमरों में बातें बिगड़ती तो खुली बाहों से समेट लेता आँगन
काले मटमैले पत्थरों से सबकी ठोकर लेता,
कभी न करता अपने रूप पर आग्रह आँगन
हर सावन को हस के लेता,
हर मौसम में परिवार को सींचता आँगन

नन्हे के क़दमों पे खनकता
किलकारियों में गूँज लगाके
दीवारों को घर कर देता आँगन
साल में साल जोड़ता
घुटनो से साइकिल तक सब कुछ देखता आँगन
नौ महीने का गर्भ माँ का होता तो
जीवन भर का गर्भ होता आँगन

बातों से बातों को यादें करता
माँ जो पालक तोड़ती
या पापड़ बेलती
जाने खुद से क्या क्या कहती
माँ के जाने कितने राज़ जानता आँगन
पर कभी ना किसी से कहता आँगन

सूखी लाल मिर्च की धौस झेलता आँगन
गीली उड़द की रखवाली करता आँगन
जाने कैसे कैसे परिंदे इसकी हथेलियों पे खेलते
पर कभी दानो पे भेद ना करता आँगन

बाबूजी की दोपहर बाटता
बड़ी दीदी की राह देखता
कभी क्रिकेट का मैदान बनता
तो कभी महिला संगीत का मंच बनता आँगन
रूप बदल के हर किरदार में जचता आँगन
गागर में सागर बन जाता आँगन

आते जो त्यौहार
तो गर्व से सीना खोल खुशियां उड़ेल देता आँगन
और जो लगती लगन की लड़ियाँ
तो एक बुज़ुर्ग सा सबको साथ ले के चलता ये आँगन

फिर जब परिंदे उड़ जाते
अपने अपने जीवन में मसरूफ हो जाते
तो सूना पड़ जाता आँगन
रात को जब कमरे सो जाते
तो दूधिया रौशनी में जागता आँगन

Shepherd boy

Old tunes n stories

Played with his heart 

underneath the slept skies

The sea rolled to kiss him a smile

Swamped him with an old July

the shepherd boy

Gazed the magnificent sky

Your stars never leave you

Look at mine

She

In her estranged wings

Through winters of life

She swung her flight

To destiny far and wide

Left at her terms

To the world that doesn't belong

Songs that made her bright

A life beamed with sunshine

Feet that flew 

Eyes of morning dew

She strung her words

To the music they deserve

Belief is a great friend

It were those moments that let her find

The brim of light

In the eclipsed sky

Here I am and I shall

To the skin I best adorn 

कहानी

क़दमों की लिखावट 

सागर के सिरहाने

कहने चले एक शाम की कहानी

बनती जैसे क़दम मिलते जाते

ना शुरू ना अंत

बस बीच का कुछ

लहरें मिटाती

क़दम बनाते

रोज़ाना

साँझ डूब जाती है हर रात युहीं
कुछ भी बदलता नहीं मंज़र यहाँ
रात का एक रंग और ढंग रोज़ाना
लिहाफ में कल को सिमट के सो जाना

Songs of my heart

Strings of guitar

Sings well with my heart
You you you
Stupid little jar of my plans
With two names on glass
So many dawns
So many songs

---

Swung into my arms

A world of qualms

Nothing but a chimera 

Quashed jar of hearts

Yet stupid live the belief

To be killed and born again

रात के माझी

हर रात का एक माझी
जीवन डोर को थामे
न सरिका हर रोज़ एक सा
लहरों में लिपटता मन का तिनका
ख्यालों में उलझी ख्वाहिशों की नावें
बड़ी अड़चन, छोटी अड़चन
सब आके ठहरती रात के सिरहाने
कभी मन ही माझी
कभी दर्द बने माझी
कभी उम्मीद डोर को थामे
कभी सवालों में मिलता माझी
भवर बने या जवार बने
तेरा अपना तेरा ना रहे
तो सकुचा सा तू खुद ही माझी
फिर वो पूर्णिमा की रातें
खुशियों से दमकती रातें
मन ही मन मुस्कुराके
साहिलों से टकराती
लहरों से खेलती रातें
उन रातों का भी एक माझी
मस्त अपनी ही चाल में मगन
डोर को मांझा बनाये
हवाओं से खेलता माझी
फिर वो प्रेम की गोते खाती रातें
कभी तू उसका माझी
कभी वो तेरा माझी
आँखों में उतरते सागर
नरम उँगलियों से छूके
रोम रोम से निकलती गागर
कभी अतीत से लड़ती रातें
उन रातों का खामोश माझी
ना तस्वीरों से मिलता
ना तस्वीरों को छोड़ता
पगला सा माझी

एक रात से दूजी रात
रातों से गुजरता ये जीवन
जीवन को पिरोती

जाने कितनी रातें

जाने कितने माझी

बह रहा हे तो बह जाने दो

बह रहा हे तो बह जाने दो ये रगो में कौन्धता रक्त ज्वार बनके उकलता हे तो उद्देश्य बन जाने दो सवालों को मत झानो इन्हें मशाल बन जाने दो

दर्द अगर स्वर बने तो कविता बनने दो सपनों को अगर गती मिले तो अभियान बनने दो अविरल जो धारा मिले ओर कश्ती विचारों की बहती हे तो बह जाने दो

चाहा हे अगर तो भय कैसा उठाओ कुंची और रंग डालो हर कोइ यहाँ झिझक रहा हे ये प्रकृति अब बदल डालो

बह रहा हे तो बह जाने दो

music morphed into moments...

music that I found in the nights,

a room of shadows and little lights
embracing skin, wearing the touch
music morphed into moments...
for life