Hind Poem: लिखना

अब  लिखना  विखना  बंध  हुआ ,

वो  सपने  दिखना  बंध  हुआ ,

कागज़ , कलम  से  जो  होती  थी ,

उन  चर्चाओं  का  अंत  हुआ ।

अब  लिखना  विखना  बंद  हुआ ।

वो  सोच  सोई  दूर  कमरे  में  जाकर ,

शब्द  ढूंढे  उसे  गांव भर  फिरकर ,

मिलके  जो  सेकते दोनों, यादों  की  रोटी ,

वो  रोटी  खाना  अब  दुर्लभ  हुआ ।

अब  लिखना  विखना  बंद  हुआ ।

अब  किसी  की  कमी  नहीं  खलती ,

वो  जो  था  दर्द , अब  नर्म  हुआ ।

किसी  चेहरे  को  देख , अब  हसीं  नहीं  खिलती ,

ख़ुशी  का  जो  भाव  था ,अब  कम हुआ ।

एहसास  जो  टहला  करता  था ,

गली , मुहल्लों  और  दुकानों  में ,

उसका  अब  चौबारों  से  निकलना  ख़त्म  हुआ ।

अब  लिखना  विखना  बंद  हुआ ।

ख़त्म  हुई  अब  जुस्तजू ,

ख़त्म  हुई  अब  बेचैनी ,

ख़त्म  हुई  वो  नोक  जोक  खुदसे ,

ख़त्म  हुई  वो  गलतफैमी ,

वो  असमंजस  में  फिरती  रूह  का ,

किस्से  कहानियों  से  अब  रिश्ता  ख़त्म  हुआ ।

अब  लिखना  विखना  बंद  हुआ ।

@ramta jogi 

In the loving memory !!

With time, we have not only distanced ourselves with other people but also with our memories, emotions and the feeling of love which we once carried in us.

Presenting a poem on the same In the loving memory

Hope you will like it !!

Let us share a moment of grief

Let us shed a drop of tear,

For love, memories, emotions,

For all that was once real !!

In loving memory of love,

Which defined us the way we are,

Made us a poetry with no words,

Raising us at par.

But the shine on the armor dried,

Rust took place, touch of sword lied,

Love !! stands now no ground,

Though still defined,

It doesn’t mean, It doesn’t sound.

Hollow !! Empty !! Deceiving !! emotions, it drive

In its loving memory, we strive

In loving memory of memories,

Which once existed in teary eyes,

In the boisterous laugh,

In the mischievous smile,

No longer do they feel the same,

No innocence of the time,

And even the thought sounds lame.

Hollow !! Empty !! Deceiving !! emotions, they drive

In its loving memory, they strive

In loving memory of emotions,

Which once did exist,

In the metaphors,

In the similes

In the memories, which once were realities,

No longer they beat,

No longer they rhyme,

Numb, dull, lost, they are,

Difficult to understand and realize,

Hollow !! Empty !! Deceiving !! emotions, they drive

In its loving memory, they strive

@ramta  jogi

Picture Courtesy: Ravi Upadhyay

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Short Story 8: Abeda Tailors

A woman finding happiness in a known world still treating her in unknown fashion.

Presenting short story 8: Abeda Tailors

Hope you will like it


She was clad in burkha, but her eyes showed dreams, desires and aspirations. Abeda Husan was covered in that single piece but the way of walking showed the confidence. She continued to walk down the market place where each shop was owned by a male, but she was more worried about the food, she had cooked for her mother-in-law, getting cold. The neighborhood eyes continued to watch her from both the sides as she made her way. Some well-wishers looked and smiled to her, inquired about her health, some perverts tried to have a glimpse of her body even in the fully clad attire from their side eyes. She smiled to all and moved. Finally, the first turn to the right she took and saw the small ten by ten shop with a board hanging “Abeda Tailors”.

She unwrapped her face, which was content at the sight of her shop. She opened the shutters and entered with four other men, her employees. The entire day passed in working on old orders and taking new ones. It was Diwali so the rush continued till late. Her team was instructed to work till late as the entire neighborhood was in an urgency regarding their orders. At 9 the shutters were down. She checked the phone and saw many messages and missed calls from her husband. She called him and informed him of the situation and made her way back to her home.

The mother-in-law was screaming in the background too and she understood that tonight as always will not be a good night. The door opened with her husband cursing her for the inappropriate timing of returning home giving the examples and teachings of community. She listened but focused on her way towards the kitchen as she knew that is what they have been waiting for. While cooking, she was subjected to the continuous taunts from her mother-in-law sitting in the hall. As soon as she cooked the food and gave it to them the banter discontinued.

Alas! She knew it will arise again the next evening. No one will ask her about her day, her struggles, her work or her happiness, what they will want is their satisfaction. The money she is earning is again spent in the same house only, but the aura and illusion of the society that the house is run by a man takes over her hard work. Her husband works but earns less than her and still gets love and appreciation from all.

It is 11:30 and she is thinking of waking at 6 the next morning to complete the daily chores and leave for work, when her husband suddenly tugs her in the arm. She understands what is about to transpire. She wants to signal her lack of interest but she knows a refusal at this moment will instigate his ego and create a scene again at late night. She gives in. With no emotions, love, feelings at that moment she surrenders her body to him. With her pain giving him pleasure, she accepts his arms.

It has been 20 minutes and undressed she is lying and he is on the other side sleeping in his own pleasure. She dresses, clears the tear drop from eyes and switches off her table light and sleeps.

Her surrounding, her husband, her mother-in-law or the society, none of it will matter tomorrow ,when she opens her shop.


Picture Courtesy: Ravi Upadhyay

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Short story 7: The smile that cried

The flames got trapped in the enclosure at the crematorium. The body that went into the oval platform came out as a pot of ashes back to Arth’s father. All mourned and everyone cried even after the rituals got over. His mother was still squalling. The ladies gathered around her were trying to control her but somehow she had lost her senses that day. Arth’s uncles, his friends all lost their control and were bursting with tears. Each crying one was trying to console the other and failing at it. It was 23 year old Arth Shrivastav who had lost his life. An accident took place the night before when a truck lost its control and hit the divider crossing to the wrong side, hitting a bike driven by Arth’s friend. Arth was on the back seat and to the harsh tragedy of life, the truck hit the back side of the bike, saving his friend and crushing both his legs. His head hit the ground hard which lead to his death on the spot. His family rushed to the hospital with a hope, which got crushed the very moment they saw him. No one slept that night. By next morning all close relatives reached for the funeral rites.

Now, they all are moving back to their own world. But Shrivastav family will no longer be able to live the same life again. Arth’s dad; Alok Shrivastav is standing outside the crematorium. He has remained silent since the night. He saw the body of his child and went to a stage of numbness. He performed all the rituals without speaking a single word or giving out any emotions. Everyone has left now; the relatives are urging him to return home. He is taking small steps, slowly moving towards the car. Millions of emotions are going on in his mind. He has lost his support, his successor, his dream, his pride, all in his son. He don’t know what he will do in that house, which was made home because of Arth. He is not able to realise for whom he worked hard and earned all his life, for whose better future he saved. He is not able to believe what has happened. In 24 hours he has actually lost his entire life. He feels like a living corpse. His power of thinking is destroyed. Somehow, Arth died taking both his parent’s souls. The car reaches back to their house and each step towards that place is making him think more. His wife’s tears are still not stopping. The door opened and as he moved inside, found a smiling photo of him playing with Arth, in the hall. Staring the picture, he breaks down. He realised he lost himself in Arth.

What the flames and ashes could not do, was done by Arth’s smile.

@ramta jogi

Picture courtesy: Ravi Upadhyay

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Short Story 6: The Unheard Voices

Somewhere in the midst of the chaos what is missed, are the voices which smoothly flow down through our way without disturbing us or making their presence felt. The beauty of the life is to live these unheard voices and feel that living. In this generation of ours, the feeling is what we crave for as that is the thing being missed from our lives. We are able to see, observe and understand what is shown to us and we conclude. We miss understanding the feeling of the unseen part, the unknown truth, and the unheard voices.

The walk in the metro is clustered by the fights and laughter but what is seen yet ignored are the eyes of the guy sobbing for his lost job, the girl crying on the last seat for the fight she had with her boyfriend. The bargaining with the roadside vendors is something we notice but fail to observe the happiness in their eyes when they earn. The glare of our parents is taken as a sign of their anger but what is missed are the tears in those eyes when we achieve something in life. The father who gifted his son a new bike on his birthday, got his sons’ happiness but what the son failed to see was the money that he had to borrow from his neighbor for the bike. The school boy rejected the geometry box which his mother brought for his studies and asked her to replace it with the one his friend was carrying. What he failed to understand was the mother was suffering from asthma walked 2 km to get a new geometry box for her son and saved 5 Rupees of rickshaw.

These voices are loud and more painful than the laughter and fights. But they affect adversely. They impact deeply. They make us realize that apart from the thoughtless discussions, meaningless laughter and the aimless vision which we are chasing and going out for are not the only ones that define the living, the actual one lies in the unheard voices which we should look for but eventually fail to appreciate.

@ramta jogi

Picture Courtesy: Ravi Upadhyay

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@ramta jogi

The Flow

You know what’s life?

It’s your long chats,

that draws my smile.


You know what’s a dream?

To witness you,

from within.


You know what’s grace?

You eyes conveying,

more than your face.


You know whats a living?

Seeing your soul on you,



You know what’s desire?

To read your happiness,

with your words of fire.


You know what’s fantasy?

It’s you!!!

The one whom I can always read

But cannot live.

@ramta jogi

Picture Courtesy: Ravi Upadhyay

Short Story 5 : The Old School Love

Some romance only words can define. In reality they cannot exist.

Presenting, the conversation of Adil, Aasna and their love.

Short story 5 from my “100 short stories” series,

“The Old School Love”

Hope you like it.

Image Credits: Ravi Upadhyay

Adil: “Maybe you are the reality to my illusion. You define my existence by confessing those words which I can only express on paper.

Aashna: Really!! Is it maybe or for sure?

Adil: For sure. “May be” was just a hesitation, sort of doubting my own truth.

Aashna: You need to do that.

Adil: I know. I also hope that you know, my emotions for you are not temporary.

Aashna: I know. And that is what scares me the most.

Adil: Scares? It should be something for you to be proud of. You are the one who is being treated with this pious emotion.

Aashna: Exactly!! I am the one you bestowed with this love and that’s what the reason of my fear. Emotions change, feelings vanish, grown-ups move on, time heals a man who loves.

Adil: If you are so sure that time heals everything, then why it still scares you?

Aashna: As I said, it heals a man who is in love, not a child. You are a lover of soul. You don’t act in love Adil, you react as your heart feels. Your love for me is no different than the laugh of a small child when you caress him taking in your arms. It is not necessary for the child to know you, but once he is comfortable in your arms, he trusts you as his own. He doesn’t doubt your intentions. That is your love. It is innocent, pious, true, pure and happy. It is unaffected of the worldly thoughts and explanations. And no one can even think of making that child cry. Neither can I.

Aashna: You define the old school of love, which has already been changed and adulterated by people.

Adil: So which love you believe in?

Aashna: I live in the society, where the schools have changed their syllabus. I belong to the new school of love. Here I wish to be loved by an old school romantic but altogether we fear of not hurting. him, if in case things don’t work out. And so we practically end up with the one whose emotions are not eternal and the one who accepts the thought that things change and we should move on with them …

Adil: Maybe then I am left with two options. Either not having you or be ready to get hurt if things spoil in a longer run.

I think, let me be happy by being with you, loving you and trying for you every day without any expectation of response. And you feel happy thinking that a guy loves you the old school way. Let the water of river flow the way it is going on and let its direction be decided once it meets the ocean.

That night, 8000 miles apart, both faces smiled seeing their phone screen.

@ramta jogi

Hindi Poem: Nayan

Ek nayan ke do tare,

Donno usko behadh pyaare,

Ruthe ek, to vo roye,

Dujhe ke dukh mein, dukhi hoye,

Dono taron ki apni bhasha,

Apni samaj, apni jigyasa,

Pagal, nathkat, nautanki donno,

Apne aasma mein chamakte rehte,

Chaand karta raat roshan,

Ye taare us roshni ko shobha dete.

Rehte pare vo ek duje se,

Methaas to unke sangam mein thi

Sundar the vo donno tare,

Chamak par unke man mein thi,

Pyaare hai vo mere tare,

Pyaara vo sansaar hai,

Raat ho jab in ke sang pyaari,

Subah ki kisko darkaar hai?

@ramta jogi