(A friend complained as I was not going to attend her marriage so following shayari came out during conversation.)

Majboor hun halaat se varna kya tha mere dost
Tere liye toh jaan bhi dete mere dost.
Tu hai ik tukda iss chote se dil ka mere dost
Hai naginaa tu pyar ka aye mere dost.

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(A friend asked for another shair after i had finished telling her one above. So said the following four lines)

Meri dukaan mein samaan bahut kam hai
Iss dimaag ke khet ki upajh bahut kam hai
kabhi kabhi hee nikalte hai nagine aise koi
varna kuch likhen iski hasiyat zara kam hai

Idea

(Written the poem in two different versions)

Version 1.
------------------------------------------------
Ideas wander aimlessly in the garden of my mind
Jumping from one far corner to another
Talking, blaberring, running, walking, playing
These uselessly meaningful yet aimless ideas of mine.

Ideas of life, ideas of death,
Ideas of pain, ideas of happiness,
Thoughts of the impossible,
Memories of the bygones,
Feelings of the unfelt,
Fears of the unknown.

An idea for an idea,
They make me cringe,
They make me stare
Sometimes force me to hide
Sometimes force me to bare.

They hold secrets to my salvation
They mock silently at my desperation
Sometimes I try and crush them,
And they do retreat;
But in this victory of mine I feel defeated
And in this defeat germinates another idea.
Ah!! my agony, my peace, my ideas.

*****************************************************


Version 2
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From the deepest recesses of my heart
where day and night meet,
where seasons intermingle,
where rivers fly and sky flows,
where the world is not what it seems;
does an idea germinate.

Kept under the carpet of a silent conscious
where rainbow of my dreams takes shape,
where seeds of impossible are nourished,
where flowers of my garden bloom,
where life walks her first steps;
does an idea grow.

Through the garden of my consciousness
where fragerance of my memories flow,
where energy of my thoughts run,
where eyes of my world see through,
where castles of dreams get finally built;
does an idea find shape.

Through the fingers of that slight of hand
where conscious no more leads but is led,
where confusion silently finds peace,
where desperation looses all strength,
where salvation of the soul is final;
does an idea find identity.