#achyut

[achyutpriya]

हाथ सराबोर हो गए मेरे आंसू पोछते,

आप पलकों का लिहाज़ करते हैं?

[achyutpriya]

I saw him again today

By again I mean after 2.5 years,

777 days to be precise.

[achyutpriya]

I love half the things I love just because of the way I love them.

[chitrapatangh]

it will fovever pain me to see how misinterpreted women are in romance. I hate it when people generalize things based on gender and all, but how can I not defend women in love when all romance songs are written and sung by men? all the poems by men yearning for women? every play, book, piece of media is made by men and women are called "selfish" "goldiggers" and "bewafa" when it comes to love. Have you heard of Maa Sita? Or Maa Radha? Or any avatar of Mata Lakshmi for that matter? Have you heard of Mata Parvati doing tapasya for thousands of years? Mata Sati burning herself from hearing her husbands insults? Mata Saraswati literally being declared wed the moment she was born and still doing her Patni Dharm? Women can obsess in love, yearn, crave, cry, write, create art, think of their beloved every passing moment and it will never be enough... because there are a 1000 types of men, and then just a *woman*. We are an archetype, a side character, a prize to be won, we are half the population yet so aliented and unknown, we have a "charitra" and can only ever be defined by men either as whore or virgin mary. perhaps I'm an exception but I'm tired of hearing "Men in love this" "Men in love that" okay but have you ever seen a woman in love?

[achyutpriya]

khwabon mein nahi, naa hi yaadon mein;

kabhi kismat mein bhi dikhte the tum.

har ghadi, har jagah, har taraf dikhte the tum.

[achyutpriya]

जनकसुता जग जननि जानकी।

अतिसय प्रिय करुनानिधान की ॥

ताके जुग पद कमल मनावउँ।

जासु कृपाँ निरमल मति पावउँ॥

अतिसय प्रिय?

प्रिय, अति प्रिय, अतिसय प्रिय।

Yes.

Dear was Sita, but dearer were his people.

And perhaps, Sita too, wished to be born as an Ayodhyawasi instead of his wife in one of these kalpas.

But I'm Sita, I will never be the shopkeepers, or the passer-bys on the street, or his family, or his friends, or his teachers, or the drivers in his city;

that get to see him everyday, and not have a second thought.

[achyutpriya]

तुम्हारे साथ ये मौसम फ़रिश्तों जैसा है,

तुम्हारे बाद ये मौसम बड़ा सताएगा।

- बशीर बद्र

[achyutpriya]

13-03-25

For the first time since he left, I remembered his face exactly.

Square jaw peppered with stubble, thick eyebrows so sharp you could swear they were drawn with a ruler, wheatish skin like the warmth of dusk, thin lips with a fine mustache above, and his eyes...

Oh, Rama. His eyes.

Black, not onyx black, not the black of soot, or the black of ink-

Like the Saryu on a new moon had been captured in a cup, except there was no Ayodhya on the banks, waiting for it's shores to be kissed.

That black.

He was unreadable, unreadable in the way he looked down while walking, his posture stooping from his height, a contradiction to his overly-confident stance of a puffed out chest and shoulders squared, yet with an air of non-chalance, of ease, of a power he wasn't aware of yet.

He was unreadable in the way he flung his tie over his shoulder before washing his face, unreadable in the way he proceeded to wipe it, or the way he always sat on the back of a bicycle he was too tall for, his feet in the air as he rode in those alleys and streets, always taking the longer route home.

He was unreadable in the way his gaze so often met mine, in the way it sometimes stayed even after I looked away, then looked back, then looked away, then looked back again and-

He was unreadable in the way he was so quietly relentless.