एक आख़री नगमा (With English translation)

“एक आख़री नगमा”

हो तो गयी थी वो सभी बातें जो कहनी थी
पर शायद कोई एक बात रह गयी अधूरी है।
उस शाम तेरी आँखों में पढ़ा तो सब था
पर शायद एक आख़री मुलाकात ज़रूरी हैं।

चाहकर भी ना रोक सकु ना थाम सकु तेरा हाथ
ना जाने कैसी यह तकदीर की मज़बूरी हैं।
तू रहता तो है मेरी इन धरकनो में
ना जाने कैसी फिर यह तुझसे दूरी हैं।

जो कहानी खुद लिखी हो खुदा ने
फिर क्यों वो कहानी नहीं पूरी हैं ?
मोहोब्बत होते हुए भी साथ रहने की
फिर क्यों दी नहीं उसने मंजूरी हैं ?

हाथों की इन लकीरों के आगे कौन करता जी हजूरी हैं
पर तक़दीर हो, यह ज़ालिम दुनिया हो, हो कोई खुदा
मेरी मेहकेंगी साँसे जिसमे तेरे इश्क़ की कस्तूरी हैं।

– कृतिका वशिस्ठ

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 “Ek Aakhari Nagma” 

Ho toh gayi thi who sabhi baatein jo kehni thi
par shayad koi ek baat reh gayi adhuri hai.
Us sham teri aankhon mei padha toh sab tha
par shayad ek aakhari mulakaat zaruri hai.

Cahkar bhi na rok saku na thaam saku tera hath
na jane kaisi yeh takdeer ki mazboori hai.
Tu rehta toh hai meri in dharkano mei
na jane kaisi fir yeh tumse doori hai.

Jo kahani hud likhi ho khuda ne
fir kyu wo kahani nahi puri hai?
Mohobbat hote hue bhi sath rehne ki
fir kyu di nahi usne manjoori hai?

Haathon ke in lakeron kea age kon karta jee-hazoori hai
par takdeer ho, ya zalim duniya, ya ho koi khuda
meri mehenkenge saanse jisme tere ishq ki kastrui hai.

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English Translation: (This is difficult to do for me, but I have tried my best to translate it. Pardon me for any error.)

“The last song/ melody”

We talked about everything we were supposed to
I guess, still one conversation is left incomplete.
That evening, I had read everything in your eyes
I guess; one last meeting is still needful.

Even if I want, I can neither stop you, nor hold your hand
I don’t know what kind of helplessness is my fate caught in
Even though you live in my heart beats
I don’t know why there is this distance between us.

The story that God has written himself
How that story is not complete?
Even when love is present why he has
not approved us to live together?

Nobody dares to not agree with what destiny has written
But, be it my fate, be it this cruel word, be it any God
The aroma of my breath will only have scent of your love.

-Kritika Vashist

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Dear Mom

I had a sheet and a pen
to write down everything
that my heart and soul
wanted to convey
but, my hands couldn’t
ink the sheet and my mind
couldn’t put them in words.

I know how it felt
when with all love
you pulled my cheeks
and kissed them
one normal morning
which, however
with your adoration look
turned into a special one.
Later that day, I realized
how stupid was I
to call any day a normal day;
for everyday of my life
I have you beside me,
and that was special
and shall remain
forever and beyond.

Perhaps, I wanted to tell you
how much I love you
in words, in poems.
But you know?
I couldn’t really convey it.

The blank sheet then looked
at me in disappointment.
Perhaps, it didn’t want
itself to remain expressionless.

I picked up my pencil
started to draw lines, curves
whatever that my hands could
and my heart would draw.

I remember how your eyes
glittered in happiness
how your eyes could shine
even when they were moist
after my love to you was conveyed.
It was then I realized that
sometimes a picture speaks
more than words.
I know that I would never have
enough words to tell you
how much you mean to me
or to say that my life without you
would be worthless and suffocating.
However, I hope that the colors that
filled the sheet could tell you
a bit about my love and respect
I have for you, dear Mom.

– Kritika Vashist

PS. This is the painting that I gifted her.

Nothing of Me

There is nothing of my own,
none of my poems,
or an unsung song.

There is nothing more whole,
nothing more infinite
than my ever devoted soul.

Musing floating in the space,
scattered words trying to trace,
in the little universe inside me,
the one that believes,
despite what crafted world says,
nothing, but love reveals;
whatever I am,
whatever I was.

There is nothing this nature hasn’t shown;
There is nothing of me I haven’t known.

From the winds,
speaking for my feisty sail,
an unheard, unknown tale.

From the moonlight,
veiling my unfrequented face,
leaving an imperceptible trace.

From the infinity of sky,
embracing my love’s agelessness,
raining my love’s melancholiness.

Nothing but,
the poems I write,
nothing of which is mine;
a rumination of that mystical love,
residing in me.

Day after day,
I realize,
nothing of me is possible to think,
nothing of me is possible to ink.

In gaze and stillness,
I realize,
nothing of me was ever adulterated,
it was nothing,
but a liberation unstated.

There is nothing of me I haven’t known.
The poems I write
The songs I sing
In the wind that blows
When the night falls.
Everything,
from the tiny universe within.

However,
This world knows nothing of me;
The warmth of my love,
the bitterness of my love.

This world knows nothing of me;
Of what I am,
of what I could be.

– Kritika Vashist

(Lately, I have been feeling as if few abstruse thoughts and philosophies of life, which, I think and write are not what I decided to, but a force within takes my hands and places them on the keyboard and makes them to draw the words I wanted to keep to myself somewhere beneath the soul, where nothing of me and no one can reach.)

Who says love is beautiful? (2)

Poets write poems, singers sing, dancers dance, painters paint, to express their grief, disappointment, sadness and regrets, and they then pass it on to the world. World reads it and appreciate.
She appreciated them, too. She was kind to share their sadness by being its reader and an admirer.
He loved her unconditionally. He loved her in her anger. He loved her in her weirdness. He danced, he sang and he wrote in pain to her about his melancholy, but the beloved refused to acknowledge. She wasn’t kind enough to share his sadness by being a listener.
Now he cries inside, but still narrates her as a kind soul in all his poems, paintings and unsung songs.

Who says love is beautiful?

-Kritika Vashist