My First Time

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50 Words Story

The dead silence in the room started to fade away with darkness’s long moans. His whispering sounds stirred with my racing heartbeats. His slow steps ordered the moonlight to enter through the cracked window and cleave our shadows. My first time with my ghost unfolded the meaning of beautiful melancholy.

– Kritika Vashist

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Musings

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“आधे तुम
और आधे हम
चलो कोई एक काम पुरा करे”

“Aadhe tum
Aur aadhe hum
Chalo koi ek kaam pura kare”

English translation: (By Himanshu Bhatnagar)

“Unfinished halves are we sundered
Let us together be completely rendered”

I Wish You Had Bought The Train Ticket

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Sometimes I wish
that you hadn’t had to buy the plane tickets
to go back to the city
that will make you run throughout the day
and will give you some peace only at night
that still might not be enough for you.

I wish you had bought the train ticket,
because that way you would have got more time
to recall each moment that you lived while you were here,
how you disentangled all your worries
without even speaking about them;
how that night you didn’t have to hold a pillow to sleep;
how you didn’t have to put an alarm to go to work;
how each hour you spent seemed to scamper;
and how when we sat under the sky late evening,
you could just brought few pieces of your stories,
(maybe you could have completed those in the train,
and I am sure that with your poetic soul,
you would have inked the pages you haven’t spoken to for long)
I wish you had bought the train ticket,
because while unfolding the letters
I had written to you few hours before you had to leave,
you would have known that
I picked those pieces of your stories,
to save them up for the time
when nobody would be in a hurry
to reach the airport, or anywhere.

I wish you had bought the train ticket,
because when you look through the window
while the trees and clouds pass each second,
you realize that the sun is still there
moving with you;
and while you leave everything behind,
you carry poetry and songs
written only in your head
about how the distance could never make you love someone less,
and a few questions about yourself –
questions whose answers lie in not knowing.

Now that you have boarded the plane
to fly back to the city that awaits you, but never misses you;
soon you will find yourself as
another lonely soul among the crowd;
however, the waves at night
would definitely listen to you;
and while the wet sand
offer some comfort to you,
I wish you find the answer to
how we always try to save time,
but end up having so little,
that it just slips with the thought of having some more,
and then maybe
book the plane tickets to return before winter arrives.

– Kritika Vashist

Inside You

Tonight, let the moon stay quiet
And I, let it not cast its shadow
Over my thoughts and questions.

(Turn around,
Look at yourself.)

In the silence of the room
Filled with my solitude
Let I, hear the voices
That comes from my mind
Let I, pay attention to
The calling of my heart 
And look at my hands,
That searched for answers outside
And close my eyes,
That saw only outwards
Because you find answers only
Where the questions come from.

The answers lie within me
Where the questions arise
Because it’s always inside you
Who you are,
Want you want,
And how it will be.

In the end,
It all will be quiet
It all will be fine.

– Kritika Vashist

Ambit Of Love

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He waits for her at the ambit of love.

She enters in anticipation.

He latches the door.

She opens herself up.

He kisses hopes.

She keeps aside the uncertainties.

He clutches his fingers into hers.

She slips into him effortlessly.

He brushes his teeth habitually like every night.

She drinks a glass of water before sleep.

He snores lightly deep in his slumber.

She opens her mouth while sleeping.

He makes exotic coffee.

She prefers hot tea.

He roves around house bare-chested singing.

She throws her wet towel on the bed.

He walks with her along the shoreline.

She sits beside him on the moist beach sand.

He dances with another woman in the bar.

She gulps down another glass squeezing her eyes.

He struggles to explain.

She lets the silence speak.

He turns on the fairy lights entangled in wine bottles.

She listens to their silhouettes’ muted conversation.

He writes about her without writing at all.

She starts her poems with him.

He moves with a gradual momentum.

She runs carelessly.

He doesn’t take the trouble to catch up.

She waits hopelessly for him beyond the ambit of love.

-Kritika Vashist