A humming word

Inspired by this article Move on?  How can I? Where can I? On my way to work, on some mornings, I just stand  on the pavement  where I  watched the death of my wife I held tightly in my arms And my baby whose Gurgling voices I still hear On some mornings in my empty balcony    

  Why does a pyre Burn our heart and reduce it to ashes?   There are tears in Mother’s eyes But my heart is wet   Why does sharing a grief than a loaf of bread Make our bond nourished?   Why does loss give us the unasked?            

Cof.fee (noun): something that makes you go from "having a terrible day.." to "good morning, honey". Cof.fee is an instant fix for many moods and especially for writers, cof.fee is a perfect companion. Sipping a cup of coffee and writing a sentence or two is refreshing and you never know how time passes. Especially in a space like Qaveh Khaneh, a coffee house within the premises of Akshara Books, an independent book store that completed twenty five years. They serve cold brews, hot coffee and host literature and well meaning events too. 

Your death left us in a state of camatose But slowly.. We awaken.. We gasp.. Your soft tone nudges us. We pray.. Your songs are on our lips now We close our eyes And your face replaces the moon   Nanamma Your death taught us the value of life   Like the coat of fresh paint, Our house still smells of you, Nanamma   Your anklets and its cham-cham Your waist band and the silk saree   Your sighs and your deep breaths Reverberate in the seating area, now   The plastic Neelkamal that you sat on is empty, often No one sits on it, anymore. Rather, we dare not to..  

your lips must have shivered your hands may have quivered Did they? When  your poem enveloped  like a rolled paper  was read out loud /This a humble question to the poem, Stationery by Agha Shahid Ali/

  Only for you That I shall listen to the version the society Of not being able to fulfill My responsibility But This shall not be my fate I shall rise again, albeit late   Not to prove or show But by my actions, they’d know That everybody has a right to soar high or breathe, respite from their flight   if this society is friction for a basic human right then we shall fly against their wind, like a kite  

The night opens up wounds  sewn tightly during the day  that stitch of the heart  loosens with a sentence  and at times, a rhythm who knew that these stitches  were sewn with a needle  that you touched  perhaps, they betray me hence