The ten words


I knew I’d miss you. Not after few days, or few hours after you left, but the moment you did. I knew I’d miss you. And it isn’t even surprising to know that you never really left. You were always present, in all of me, even in my broken heart. Your presence isn’t just about being with you. Your presence is what the heart still feels. Your presence is spattered paint on the canvas. Your presence is the ink on the sheet. Your presence is the stars in the night sky. Your presence is the raindrops that fall on the face. Your presence is the skin you once embraced. The broken heart doesn’t seem to be broken at all and is a fact that you are present, here, now and forever. However, I miss you.

I can never explain why I love you. I don’t know why I love you. I mean, it is you! And I love you. I can explain why I like to be with you. I can explain why I would understand your anger. Or why I can’t live without you. And the answers to all these questions would be, ‘because I love you’. I don’t want to spend my time thinking about the reason. I don’t need and I’d never need a reason to love you. I just do.

I can learn the theory behind most complex scientific facts, or all the economies of this world. I can try to learn the periodic table by heart, or trivial details of all micro organisms, but I can never learn to un-love you. I can never learn to forget you, or anything that is related to you. I swear. I cannot!

I didn’t think of writing all this. I didn’t want to shed a tear. I wanted to be strong, strong enough to not let the moments and memories find their way through the bleeding pen. But I couldn’t stop myself. Maybe I could have, only if this evening I had not found out one of your chits that you once wrote to me. The chit that said: Sometimes both pizza and people are away from a call. The ten words were just enough to let me sink into the ocean of love and separation.

I am bounded by your words and I am bounded by my doctor’s words. But you, you are not bounded. And I know you’ll realize this soon. I know you’ll miss me, too.

– Kritika Vashist


You Suck!


I remember the day when your splenetic temper violated.
I remember how you said that you don’t care for me.
And when I had fallen sick,
I remember the way you looked at me and ensured that I was better.
And, I realized that you suck!
You suck!
You suck at showing that you don’t care for me.

You had the count of saying no for every movie that I wanted to watch with you.
You had known the fact that I was disappointed, every time.
And one day you called me to watch a movie,
because the movie was great and not that you thought about me.
I realized that you suck.
You suck!
You suck at showing that you don’t think about me.

You had lost a poem you wrote when you were away from the city.
You never admitted that you wrote it for me.
And one afternoon when I was asleep next to you.
I remember how you twine a wisp of my hair and recited the poem.
And, I realized that you suck.
You suck!
You suck at showing that you never write for me.

The conversation turned into a debate, debate into an argument, argument into a fight.
With a furious face, you jumped down my throat and you hung up on me.
And when it was my birthday,
You gifted me a piece of your poetry that said, “Stay with me in all seasons of love.”
And, I realized that you suck.
You suck!
You suck at showing that you don’t want me.

I don’t know if you know that you suck.
You suck when you say that I suck more than anyone.
You suck even when you try to look away.
You suck when you try to not kiss me.
You suck when you give excuses to hug me.
You suck at showing that you don’t love me.
However, you don’t suck the way you love me.
And I know,
Without YOU my life would SUCK.

-Kritika Vashist

क्यों दिल कर रहा तमाशा है?

आज रात फिर वही सन्नाटा है
ना तेरी आवाज़ है
ना तेरी मौजूदगी
तोह फिर क्यों दिल कर रहा तमाशा है?

कह गए थे तुम की ना अब कोई नाता है
ना प्यार बचा है
ना कोई उम्मीद
तोह फिर क्यों दिल कर रहा तमाशा है?

तुम्हारी जुबां पे ना नाम मेरा अब आता है
ना आँखें पुकारती है
ना पुछती हाल मेरा
तोह फिर क्यों दिल कर रहा तमाशा है?

– कृतिका वशिष्ठ