Monday, May 1, 2017




In fourth grade, I came to know,
That Red-Fort is a monument and,
Tricolour is a symbol of democracy,
And next day, all my class fellow out caste me,
The answer I wrote in my notebook went wrong,
I just felt a slap on my face during national anthem for standing differently,
I visited this city more than seventy two times,
And my mother is now sixty eight,
New Delhi's roads's zebra crossings were painted all in,
My black desires and my white Desires,
In inheritance some times you get diabetes,
And sometimes pains of previous generation,
In other's opinions,
I must drink a few pegs of sanity,
A dog barks here and there,
But genocide was not a joke,
Ashamed I put a curtain on myself,
In next visit  I wish to fill in my migrated eyes the red color of fort,
And to taste those Sage and demon wishes in my breakfast,
And will like to bid adieu to my birthplace.


When everything is going to end,
I will not collect the remains,
Instead I will go to place of dreams,
Where once my father took me,
My friend told that my memories are like wonderland,
And Alice can be the name of a boy,
During fever i don't want to taste medicine,
And you know besides American dream,
Which has overshadowed the world,
In a corner lies my Indian dream,
Who knows that it was happened in real,
But I can still taste your saliva in my mouth,
And the warmth of that kiss, that made me ill for a long time,
Every time when a bird grows flight wings,
A new dream take birth,
And dreams are like reality,
They go with you where ever you go,
I met three classmates in a jungle,
But none of them asked me how am I,
How am I, is not the matter,
What I am going to be, transforming into,
China says that Indian Ocean is not India's ocean,
But same thing not applies to South China Sea,
Though politics is not my field,
But I know that my Indian dream is not just Indian,
It can be Ethiopian or Syrian,
It can be Vietnamese or Nigerian,
As human have same flesh and blood, and
There dreams are not written scripts in a particular language,
Nor these dreams follow the imaginary boundaries of ocean,
They don't stop when the walls of continents come in their way,
They just know to grow and fly,
To reach beyond the imagination,
To flourish, live and let live,
Dreams and reality, together make my life,
A life .


Homes are inhabited in houses,
And in homes, emotions flow,
The innocent giggles resonating in the courtyard,
Holding even the vastness of seas,
A quest for salvation at the window, buried under the weight of debt overlooking the skies,
On rest chair sitting calmly
Ageing  yawns and a drowsy desires,
A young winged vision
From the doorframe of skylight  Treading in the valleys of Kashmir,
Kissing the ice of Alaska,
Touching the algae in the depths of oceans
And measuring even the infertile craters of moon
Acknowledging facts,
Delicious airs from the kitchen,
Filling the life with warm flavors,
In homes when emotions flow,
Joys are multiplied and sorrows are divided,
But their is a corner,
For lonely sorrows and solitary  joys,
Bathroom covers quietly,
Behind its doors,
The bloom of face of a fledgling's first flush of love,
The dying anxious heart  eager to know the results of something that matters,
The cries of a broken heart,
Unmelodious songs of a hoarse Singer emanating from the heart,
The lust emerged in eyes looking at one's own naked body,
Humiliation and despair of guilts,
Bathroom contains
Silently all those untold secrets,
Sometimes as a bed of joys,
Sometimes a cemetery of sorrows,
Bathroom becomes at the same time,
The most beautiful corner of the home,
And also the ugliest part of home.


Animal are not just in the jungles,
Ready to  ambush
Behind a stone ,
Or hidden in the leaves,
Attacking on necks,
Finishing you all in one,
Plucking flesh,
Animals also live in the bodies of men,
Behind his attractive smile,
Under his honey coated tongue,
Under the mask of his charming face,
Animals in jungle,
When their hunger is fed,
As a part of the food web of nature,
Became contented
But hunger of beast living inside a human
Never fulfill,
Always insatiable,
Ready to pluck
Jungles are not just  out .....


That man is wrong,
Who tells to see things in the word of blinds,
Who speak revolutionary words, in the world of deafs,
Who want to teach the dumb lips to speak,
That man is wrong,
Who refuses to walk on old paths,
To stick to the decaying traditions,
And talks about new visions,
That man is wrong,
Who does not close eyes when sees atrocities,
Who struggles against chaos,
Who talks about social equality,
But now a days everything is going well,
Every one is a right person in this country,
Now we do not find any wrong man here.


HARDEEP SABHARWAL is from India, He completed his M.A from Punjabi University Patiala in English. His work has been published in various online and print Magazines, The Larcenist, Zaira journal, The Writers Drawer, Quail Bells,  Literary Yard, NY Literary Magazine, Jankriti International magazine, Hastakshar web magazine, Literature Online, PIN Quarterly Journal, Delhi Magazine, Alive and in few newspapers,  In 2014 he  won the Yoalfaaz best poetry competition for his poem "HIV Positive". In Dec. 2015 he won second place in Writers Drawer international poetry contest for his poem "The Refugee's Roots," His poems In Hindi has been selected by Poetry Society of India for the anthology Amaltash Me Satdal ( best poems of 2015),  In June 2016 he won third place for his story "The Swing" in The Writers Drawer short story contest 2016. Poems in Hindi has been selected for the new Anthology of poetry society of India Dhai Aakhar Prem ( Hindi) . he occasionally writes on his personal blog,  His work has been also included two times in the Anthology of stories and poem Circus of Indie Artist, US.

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