Loneliness the doorway through which we come to what we most desire. In the bodily pain of aloneness is the first step to understanding how far we are from a real friendship, from a proper work or a long sought love. Loneliness can be a prison, a place from which we look out at a world we cannot inhabit; loneliness can be a bodily ache and a penance, but loneliness fully inhabited also becomes the voice that asks and calls for that great, unknown someone or something else we want to call our own.

Loneliness is the very state that births the courage to continue calling, and when fully lived can undergo its own beautiful reversal, becoming, through its beckoning invitation to feel an absence more fully, the far horizon that answers back.

Loneliness is not an abstract, it is the body constellating, attempting to become proximate, calling to join with other bodies, through physical touch, through conversation or the mediation of the intellect and the imagination.

Loneliness invites us to pay real attention to voices other than our own; inhabiting our aloneness allows us to find the healing power in the other. The shortest line in the briefest e-mail can heal, embolden, welcome home and enliven the most isolated identity. Human beings are made to belong.

Loneliness is the single malt taste our very nature, the very essentiality that makes conscious belonging possible. The doorway is closer than we think. I feel terribly alone; therefore I belong.


-David Whyte-

Blowing in the wind


How many roads must a man walk down
Before you call him a man?
How many seas must a white dove sail
Before she sleeps in the sand?
Yes, and how many times must the cannon balls fly
Before they’re forever banned?
The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind
The answer is blowin’ in the wind

Yes, and how many years can a mountain exist
Before it’s washed to the sea?
Yes, and how many years can some people exist
Before they’re allowed to be free?
Yes, and how many times can a man turn his head
And pretend that he just doesn’t see?
The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind
The answer is blowin’ in the wind

Yes, and how many times must a man look up
Before he can see the sky?
Yes, and how many ears must one man have
Before he can hear people cry?
Yes, and how many deaths will it take ’till he knows
That too many people have died?
The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind
The answer is blowin’ in the wind.


bleeding words


we are poets


of the abandoned words


in shining armer

riding a dying horse


in a room full of spiders


that work an entire life

to be butterflies for a day.


in a place where dreaming

is considered fog

in front of a speeding car.

we are writers

bleeding words

on pages that are always empty.


until our blood becomes ink

and our fingers become pen.


until the simple act

of moving a pen

becomes breathing.

-Andrea Gibson-

Love blossoms


When I aquired the knowledge of love,
I dreaded the mosque.

I fled to my Lords dwelling,
Where a thousand sounds reverberate.

When love revealed its mystery to me,
The parroted words vanishes.
Inside and out, I was cleansed.
I saw my Beloved wherever I looked.

Heer and Ranjha are already one.
But Heer, deluded, still searches the woods.
Here Ranjha is with her,
And she does not even know it.

I am tired to read the Vedas and the Koran!
Obeisance has only abraded my forehead.
God was not in Mecca, nor any holy place.
But whoever finds Him …. becomes brightly illuminated.

Burn the prayer rug, break the clay pot,
Divest yourself of rosary, bowl and staff.

Bulleh says, I would have remained silent,
It is love … that compels me to speak forcefully.
The blossoming of love … is strange and wonderful.


-Bulleh Shah-

A Dog has died


My dog has died.
I buried him in the garden
next to a rusted old machine.

Some day I’ll join him right there,
but now he’s gone with his shaggy coat,
his bad manners and his cold nose,
and I, the materialist, who never believed
in any promised heaven in the sky
for any human being,
I believe in a heaven I’ll never enter.
Yes, I believe in a heaven for all dogdom
where my dog waits for my arrival
waving his fan-like tail in friendship.

Ai, I’ll not speak of sadness here on earth,
of having lost a companion
who was never servile.
His friendship for me, like that of a porcupine
withholding its authority,
was the friendship of a star, aloof,
with no more intimacy than was called for,
with no exaggerations:
he never climbed all over my clothes
filling me full of his hair or his mange,
he never rubbed up against my knee
like other dogs obsessed with sex.

No, my dog used to gaze at me,
paying me the attention I need,
the attention required
to make a vain person like me understand
that, being a dog, he was wasting time,
but, with those eyes so much purer than mine,
he’d keep on gazing at me
with a look that reserved for me alone
all his sweet and shaggy life,
always near me, never troubling me,
and asking nothing.

Ai, how many times have I envied his tail
as we walked together on the shores of the sea
in the lonely winter of Isla Negra
where the wintering birds filled the sky
and my hairy dog was jumping about
full of the voltage of the sea’s movement:
my wandering dog, sniffing away
with his golden tail held high,
face to face with the ocean’s spray.

Joyful, joyful, joyful,
as only dogs know how to be happy
with only the autonomy
of their shameless spirit.

There are no good-byes for my dog who has died,
and we don’t now and never did lie to each other.

So now he’s gone and I buried him,
and that’s all there is to it.

-Pablo Neruda-

Number does not exist


This number does not exist.
Wherever I go whichever number I dial
At the other end a strange voice says
This number does not exist yeh number maujood nahin hai
Not too long ago at the number I used to reach people
Who said: of course we recognise you
There is space for you in this universe

But now this number does not exist it is some old number.
At these old addresses very few people are left
Where at the sound of footsteps doors would be opened
Now one has to ring the bell and wait in apprehension
And finally when one appears
It is possible he might have changed
Or he might say I am not the one you used to talk to
This is not the number where we would hear out your grief

Wherever I go numbers maps faces seem to be changed
Old diaries are strewn in gutters
Their names slow-fading in the water
Now other numbers are available more than ever with and without wires
But a different kind of conversation on them
Only business only transactions buy-and-sell voices like strangers
Whenever I go I desperately dial a number
And ask for the voice that used to say
The door is open you can stay here
Come along for a while just for the sake of it any time in this universe.


-Mangalesh Dabral-

The Most Beautiful Suicide


They say there’s a story behind every photograph. Here are some of world’s most famous photographs and astonishing stories behind them.  

There are unexpected tales behind some of the most recognizable photographs in history—some tragic, some uplifting, but all incredible. Here are some of the iconic photographs of all time and the real stories behind them.

Evelyn McHale committed suicide by jumping off from the 86th floor of the Empire State Building on May 1, 1947. She landed on top of a United Nations limousine that was parked right in front of the building. Her legs were perfectly crossed when lay on top of the car.

A photography student Robert Wiles was passing by and captured this image a few minutes after she died. The Most Beautiful Suicide was printed 11 days later in LIFE magazine, gaining instant fame. Hale was only 23 years old when she committed suicide.

In her suicide note, she wrote My fiancé asked me to marry him in June. I don’t think I would make a good wife for anybody. He is much better off without me.

The Kiss


Whenever I kiss these beautiful eyes
A hundred candles begin to glow in the dark

Not only flowers, or buds, or the moon, or stars
At her feet even the rival bows.

The statues of Ajanta begin to dance
Caves long silent burst into song

Gardens long neglected begin to bloom
Rain clouds start gathering on a thirst earth

For a moment this world renounces crime
For a moment even stones begin to smile.


     Kaifi Azmi-



Punjab Legends of Love


Punjab has always combated invaders. Therefore the truth of life became a reality like blood in one’s veins. All this inculcated in the lovers of Punjab not only an appreciation and periscopic sense of beauty but also the courage to gift life.

The action became two dimensional: while on one hand mortal love gained the stature of worship of God; on the other hand, it lent courage to defy religious constraints. The beautiful truth is that for centuries the saga of the folk lovers which immortalizes the memory of Heer, Sohni, Sahiban, Sassi, and others has been handed down from generation to generation.

 Their memories are still alive as they had died for love and not because their lovers had died for them at the alter of love. They rebelled against the conventional norms of society. These women who loved did not treasure their body or soul: they sacrificed everything for love.

The roots of this philosophy are embedded in the poetry of Waris Shah who believed that the world existed on love. He says:

be thankful to God

For making love the root of the world

First he himself loved

Then he made the prophets

His beloved ones

It is this belief which endowed the woman of Punjab with a romantic soul and filled it with the conviction of truth and gave her the courage to speak. Therefore we do not come across any love story which portrays a woman pining to death or quietly nursing her love within her bosom. In all the love tales the women are volatile and have dynamic characters.

The famous love legends include:


Waris Shah’s composition, the love story of Heer Ranjha takes a pre-eminent place, in what may be called the ‘qissa’ literature of Punjab. It is the story of the youngman and a youngwomen.


Sassi was another romantic soul, the daughter of King Adamkhan of Bhambour. At her birth the astrologers predicted that she was a curse for the royal family’s prestige. The king ordered that the child be put in a wooden chest with a ‘taweez’ tied on her neck and thrown into the river Chenab.


Sohni was the daughter of a potter named Tula, who lived in Punjab near the banks of the Chenab River. As soon as the Surahis (water pitchers) and mugs came off the wheels, she would draw floral designs on them and transform them into masterpieces of art.


Mirza–Sahiban, a love-lore is a treasure of Punjabi literature. It is a romantic tragedy. Sahiban was another love-lorn soul. Shayer Pillo raves about her beauty and says,” As Sahiban stepped out with a lungi tied around her waist, the nine angels died on seeing her beauty and God started counting his last breath.

death the Leveler


The glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armor against Fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings:
   Sceptre and Crown
   Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill:
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still:
   Early or late
   They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuriong breath
When they, pale captives, creep to death.
The garlands wither on your brow;
Then boast no more your mighty deeds!
Upon Death’s purple altar now
See where the victor-victim bleeds.
   Your heads must come
   To the cold tomb:
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet and blossom in their dust.

–James Shirley–



Where is this deliverance to be found?
Our master himself has joyfully taken upon him the bonds of creation
he is bound with us all for ever.
Come out of thy meditations and leave aside thy flowers and incense!
What harm is there if thy clothes become tattered and stained?
Meet him and stand by him in toil and in sweat of thy brow.

+Rabindranath Tagore+

The Building


There is no worker,
but in the building,
the worker’s face is drenched in sweat.
The worker’s face is drenched in sweat,
So, the walls of the building
are damp.
The worker’s body has wounds
festering in various places,
so, the walls of the building
are now full of cracks.
Termites gnaw at the foundations.
The worker is now old,
his bald pate clearly shows,
inside the rooms, the paint is peeling off the walls.
The worker has become quite old,
the building is aging too.
One day, the owner brings the engineer along
to take stock of the building.
The engineer looks around, asking—
‘Where, where, where is the worker?
Call the worker!
The building is shaking badly.’
The engineer screams.
The engineer is unaware
or perhaps he knows
that the building shakes
because three hundred miles away
on an unsteady charpoy,
in the village, the worker,
is coughing.


-Uday Prakash-

Fat Neeti wasn’t Ugly

bindi bottoms

I was fat and I did not like it. By the age of 8, I had been called almost all the names that overweight people have to bear – Moti, Bhains, Hathini and so on. I hated those names. While I did have a great support system in my very loving parents who did not care about my body type, my perception of my size and looks created a downward spiral which sucked me in.

I don’t know why but my confidence did take a hit because of being fat. Being known and perceived as beautiful mattered. I would have given anything to even a stranger if they called me ‘beautiful’; that would have been the greatest expression of love. I truly believed that no one loved me. I wasn’t beautiful. I wasn’t intelligent. I was just a misfit in the world. I couldn’t stand those who even as much as noticed or hinted about my weight.

Then, while still a child, I decided to change – quietly, ensuring no one knew. I controlled my diet, played basketball and cycled.

Today, I am independent, love my work, and..READ >>Neeti Sudha’s Story

Only For Me

 kabhi-kabhi Movie

Sometimes this thought enters my heart
That you were created only for me
Before now you lived somewhere among the stars
You were called to earth only for me

Sometimes this thought enters my heart
That this body and these eyes belong to me
These dark shadows of your hair are for me alone
These lips and these arms belong to me

Sometimes this thought enters my heart
As if wedding music is being played in the streets

It is our wedding night, I am lifting your veil
You shyly blush as I wrap you in my arms

Sometimes this thought enters my heart
That you will love me forever like this
That you will always lift this loving gaze to me

I know you are still a stranger, however
Sometimes this thought enters my heart.



I will be waiting


I will be waiting here
For the grey sky to cry
For your suspicions to die
For you to really try

…I will be waiting here
For the white snow to melt
For the roses to be smelt
For you to feel what I felt

I will be waiting here
For the moments to pass
For the memories to last
For you to break that glass

I will be waiting here
For the ships to sail on the sea
For the clock to strike three
For you to believe in me

I will be waiting here
For your silence to break
For your soul to shake
For your love to wake