Category Archives:

writing

Angreji-Hindi

Angreji us pita ki tarah hai jisne jeevan mein safalta ke gur sikhaye, angreji mastishk ka wo hissa jo hisaab rakhta hai hisaabon ka, Hindi wo maa hai jiske aanchal mein chup kar hi aansu niklate hain, Hindi mann ka wo tukda jo waqt gujarte dekhta hai aur chapta rehta hai geeli clay ki tarah… Angreji-Hindi ne mujhe paal-pos kar bada to kar diya par lagta hai apni identity ke liye koi aur hi bhasha dhoondhni padegi…

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A quote to die for

“Work as hard as you can, imagine immensities, don’t compromise, and don’t waste time. Start now. Not 20 years from now, not two weeks from now. Now.” -Debbie Millman

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am in the news!

delhidreams got featured in the Hindustan Times today, check page 11 of HT City.

delhidreams in HT
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what i am is what i wanted to be

when i was little, and at various times during this littlehood, i wanted to be an astronomer, a train driver, a pilot, a businessman, a matchbox collector, a professor and various other people that i eventually didn’t become. and maybe because i couldn’t be any of them, that i became a writer. as only in writing i found out that i could be anyone and everyone.

perhaps, it was fate that nudged me towards it. perhaps, it was my faith in myself that did it. (look at me talking like an accomplished literary personality, i’ve not even been published yet) what i do know for sure is that when you really ache for something you need, some sort of alchemy happens and you get it. really. it doesn’t look that obvious in the beginning, when the hurt is raw and the wound is sore, but wishes, genuine springing from the heart-well wishes do get fulfilled.

maybe, all of us are already what we’ve always (deep down our subconscious) wanted to be. maybe, we all are works in progress towards our eventual destiny. or maybe, all we need to change our fate is to have faith in our ability.

what do you think?

-adee @delhidreams

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home is where the hurt is

 

the root aches for the sky
and earth sought, by those who fly
the tears run away from the eye
and lovers part ways without a sigh

no one knows where home is anymore
where they come from, or where they arrive
neither anchored nor adrift
the globe rotates and clocks vaporize

the poet sits still while seeking around
an island wet, in a sea that’s dry
where all that he lost can still be found
where a beloved waits, and hopes reside

-adee

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pain is good.

pain is good
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the lost wilderness of the self

is there any genuinely ‘wild’ place left within my mind? can i embark on a breathtaking journey through the bogs and beaches of my existence and discover something undiscovered about me? OR have society and civilization ruined me for good? can i climb or walk or dive through dense layers of what i’ve been taught and sleep on the cliffs of un-reason risking to be blown away or to find my original self? OR do i’ve to agree that all that could have been found has been found and that there are no pure places where GPS and google and packaged forays into the conscious can’t reach? am i lost to myself? OR is there some hope, still…?

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if only

Only if He had allowed him to pack his bags and leave… allowed him to stuff cartons with the things he needed, the scrolls he had stored over the years, the posters he had pasted on his walls, the albums he had assembled, that hidden chest of coins, those certificates, the memories, the opportunity to say goodbye to those walls for one last time…instead, he was thrown away at a moment’s notice, not allowed to re-enter, to even look back, thrown away in a pandemonium of indecision and a frenzied chaos where he had to make do with whatever he had, with whoever he had…only if he had been given a chance, only if He had heard him once, realized his pain of being exiled from the place one calls home…if only

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karz

 

 

 

 

karz

 

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our love

our love
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