Mere hamraaz, mere hamdam,

meri khamoshi ko awaaz na de,

main jo toot kar bhi sambhal gaya hoon,

mujhe phir se koi andaaz na de.

My confidant, my companion,

do not give a voice to my silence.

I have gathered myself with such difficulty;

do not undo me again with some tender gesture.

Main ne badi mushkil se seekha hai

ke dard ke saath bhi jeena kya hai,

har zakhm ko marham ki talab nahin,

har ashk ko peena bhi hota hai.

I have learnt, after great suffering,

what it means to live alongside pain.

Not every wound asks for a remedy,

not every tear needs to be swallowed.

Main ishq ke us maqam par hoon

jahan lautna mumkin nahin,

jahan yaad bhi ek azaab hai

aur bhool jaana mumkin nahin.

I have reached that place in love

from where there is no return,

where even remembrance is torment

and forgetting is no longer possible.

Tu mujhe zindagi ki dua na de,

meri jaan ko phir se hawa na de—

jo diya jal raha hai seene mein,

use apni mohabbat se bujha na de.

So do not pray for my life.

Do not breathe new air into my dying soul—

the little lamp still burning inside my chest,

do not extinguish it with your love.

Mere hamraaz, mere hamdam,

meri khamoshi ko awaaz na de.

My confidant, my companion,

do not give a voice to my silence.

Mere dil ki jo raakh bachi hai,

usi mein kuch roshni baqi hai,

yeh jo andhera mera apna hai,

isi mein meri bandagi baqi hai.

There is still some light

within the ashes of my heart;

there is still a little radiance

left within this darkness I call my own.

Tu chaaragar hai, magar yaad rakh,

har dard ka ilaaj dawa nahin,

kuch zakhm insan ko zinda rakhte hain,

har takleef sirf saza nahin.

You are a healer, perhaps,

but remember this:

not every pain is cured by medicine,

and not every suffering is a punishment.

Mujhe chhor de mere haal par,

mujhe apni rehmat ka bojh na de,

jo khud ko main ne sambhala hai

use apne sahare se tod na de.

Leave me to my own condition.

Do not burden me with your mercy.

What I have learnt to hold together myself,

do not break apart by offering me your support.

Teri meherbani bhi khaufnaak hai,

tera qurb bhi ek imtehaan hai,

kabhi kabhi ek qareeb aadmi

dooriyon se zyada nuqsaan hai.

Even your kindness frightens me.

Even your nearness is an examination.

Sometimes the person who stands closest to you

can wound you more deeply than distance ever could.

Main ne khud se sulah ki hai ab,

mujhe phir kisi jang mein na utaar,

main ne apne hi dil ko samjhaya hai,

mujhe phir se kisi ka intezaar na de.

I have made peace with myself now.

Do not summon me back into another war.

I have taught my heart to live without expectation;

do not make me wait for someone again.

Mere hamraaz, mere hamdam,

meri khamoshi ko awaaz na de.

My confidant, my companion,

do not give a voice to my silence.

Mera hausla kamzor nahin,

main aandhiyon se guzar sakta hoon,

main shehr-e-hijr mein tanha sahi,

magar apna raasta chun sakta hoon.

My courage is not weak.

I can walk through storms.

I may be alone in this city of exile,

but I can still choose my own road.

Mujhe gairon ki aag se darr nahin,

main ne sholon ko qareeb se dekha hai,

mujhe khauf hai un phoolon se

jin mein zehar ka rang chhupa ho.

I am not afraid of the fires of strangers.

I have seen flames from close enough to know them.

What frightens me are the flowers

that conceal their poison beneath their colour.

Mujhe khauf hai us khushboo se

jo saanson mein utar jaaye,

mujhe khauf hai us phool se

jo chhoo loon to ghar jala jaaye.

I fear the fragrance

that enters the lungs before you can resist it.

I fear the flower

that, once touched, can set an entire house ablaze.

Kyun ke dushman ka waar samajh aata hai,

dost ka lehja pehchanna mushkil hai,

talwaar se aadmi bach bhi jaaye,

magar apnon ki nazar se mushkil hai.

For the wound of an enemy is comprehensible;

the gaze of a friend is harder to decipher.

A man may survive a sword,

but surviving the wound of his own people is another matter.

Is liye mere hamdam,

agar mere liye kuch karna hai,

to mujhe azaad rehne de.

So, my companion,

if there is anything you wish to do for me,

then let me remain free.

Mere zakhm ko naam na de,

meri tanhaai ko gunaah na de,

mere guzre hue kal ko

aaj ka faisla na de.

Do not give my wounds a name.

Do not turn my solitude into a sin.

Do not allow my yesterday

to pass judgement upon my today.

Main jo hoon, mujhe rehne de.

Let me remain what I am.

Meri aankhon mein jo nami hai,

use kamzori samajh kar mita na de,

main ne in ashkon se raaste dekhe hain,

inhein khushk hone ki dua na de.

The dampness in my eyes

is not weakness; do not wipe it away.

I have seen roads through these tears;

do not pray that they should dry.

Meri raat ko raat rehne de,

har subah zaroori toh nahin,

kuch andhere bhi muqaddas hote hain,

har roshni zaroori toh nahin.

Let my night remain a night.

Not every night requires a morning.

Some darknesses are sacred too;

not every light is necessary.

Aur agar kabhi mehfil mein

jaam uthein, saaqi pukara jaaye,

agar koi mera naam le

aur mere liye jaam bhar aaye—

And if, one day, in some gathering,

the glasses are raised

and the cupbearer is summoned,

and someone remembers my name

and fills a glass for me—

toh mera haath dhoondhna mat.

do not look for my hand.

Kisi aur ko de dena.

Give it to someone else.

Kisi aur ko kehna

ke woh is jaam ko honton tak le jaaye,

kyun ke main ne ab seekh liya hai

ke har nasha mohabbat nahin hota,

aur har mehfil apni nahin hoti.

Tell someone else

to raise that glass to their lips,

for I have learnt by now

that not every intoxication is love,

and not every gathering belongs to us.

Main apni tanhaai ka saaqi hoon,

main apni raat ka paimana hoon,

jo kuch tha, woh pee chuka hoon—

ab jo baqi hai,

woh mera khud se waada hai.

I am the cupbearer of my own solitude.

I am the vessel of my own night.

Whatever there was, I have already drunk—

and what remains

is the promise I have made to myself.

Mere hamraaz, mere hamdam,

mujhe phir koi khwaab na de.

My confidant, my companion,

do not give me another dream.

Main ne khwaabon ke shehr mein

bohat ghar jalte dekhe hain.

I have seen too many houses burn

in the cities built from dreams.

Ab mujhe haqeeqat mein rehne de—

chahe woh kitni hi be-reham kyun na ho.

Let me live in reality now—

however merciless it may be.

Bas itna kar:

Just do this:

jab main chup hoon,

meri khamoshi ko samajh lena.

when I am silent,

understand my silence.

Jab main door hoon,

mujhe pukarna mat.

When I am distant,

do not call me back.

Aur agar kabhi meri aankhon mein

phir se mohabbat ki roshni dekh lo,

And if, one day,

you see the light of love

returning to my eyes,

toh Khuda ke liye—

then, for God’s sake—

us roshni ko apna samajhne ki

jaldbazi na kar.

do not be too quick

to believe that the light belongs to you.

Kuch chiragh

sirf is liye jalte hain

ke aadmi apna raasta dekh sake—

Some lamps burn

only so that a man

may see his own way home—

har chiragh

kisi ke ghar ka nahin hota.

not every lamp

was lit for someone else’s house.

Mary gave her dog a cuddle, settled herself aft the wheel, and set off. The passport office was scarcely four kilometres away—a distance any sensible city ought to surrender in ten minutes. Bengaluru, however, had long ago abandoned such notions of proportion. The roads were already thick with cars, scooters, buses and the occasional motorist ostensibly engaged in a private argument with every traffic signal. Forty-five minutes, possibly thirty if fortune exhibited an unexpected mercy, would be needed to cover a journey that measured little more than a few streets on a map.

There are, on the other hand, indignities that arrive dressed in the uniform of authority. They rarely introduce themselves as cruel. They bear an identification card, consult a register, adjust their spectacles, and invite you to sit down with the sobriety of a man about to perform a perfectly ordinary duty. It is only later that one discerns the uniform was not concealing authority at all, but solely giving bigotry a davenport, a stamp, and the qualification to make you abide. Mary encountered precisely such a specimen on a Tuesday morning.

She held an Indian passport, an Indian address, a British business, and a husband named Vishnu. BetweenLondon and Bengaluru, their lives divided themselves nearly neatly: six months beneath English skies, six beneath the harsher brilliance of Karnataka.

Her passport was expiring, and so she did what subjects are instructed to do. She completed the online application, supplied the requisite particulars, uploaded the requisitioned documents, paid the prescribed fee, and left the remainder to the gear of the government. A message showed up on her registered telephone a few days later. Her appointment had been confirmed. She breathed deeply – nought about this untold adventure. As prophesied, the passport office cured her of that illusion. 

The building was overflowing with applicants, clerks, security personnel, anxious parents, elderly couples, impatient husbands, bewildered foreigners and the peculiar human congestion created whenever government and red tape occupy the same square footage.

Mary waited as the names were being called. People disappeared through doors and emerged toting expressions ranging from relief to despair. 

Ultimately: 

“Mary.”

She rose. 

The room into which she was directed contained a writing table, a computer, various files and a man whose demeanour suggested that civilisation had personally disappointed him. 

He took her passport. Then he examined her face. Back to the photograph. Back to her. Again.

He nodded. “Your name?” 

She answered. 

“Address?” 

She answered that too. 

Then came the question. “Your husband?” 

Mary paused. “Vishnu.”

“Vishnu what?”

She gave his full name.

The officer titled back. “You are Christian?”

“Yes.”

“He is Brahmin?”

“Yes.”

There was a small silence. The sort of silence in which a civil servant decides whether he is about to enact his responsibility or indulge his inquisitiveness.

“Why did you marry a Brahmin?”

Mary scrutinised him. For one magnificent moment she considered informing him exactly where he might position his dubiety. Unfortunately, she also fathomed the geography of influence. Her passport was in his hands. Her future travel depended upon it. Her husband was in London. Her industry mandated movement ’tween two countries. He had a desk. She had a deadline. Therefore, she half-grinned. Not amiably. “Is there anything else required for the renewal?” 

The officer studied her with the satisfaction of a man who had discovered that the door could be locked from his side. “Yes.”

“What?”

“Proof of marriage.”

Mary frowned. “Our marriage certificate?”

“No.” He waved a hand. “Photograph.”

“What kind of photograph?”

“Both of you together.”

“We have photographs.”

“Date stamped.”

She stared. “Excuse me?”

“Date stamped photograph. Both standing together. Like the old photographs.” He gave a wicked mini beam. “The date must be…” He checked his calendar with exaggerated circumspection. “Next week.”

Mary comprehended. The request was absurd. More importantly, she realised something else. He knew it was absurd. That was why he had made it. There are people who unearth power and immediately begin searching for a place to press their thumb. This man had found hers. Mary gathered her binder. “Where should I submit it?” 

He sneered without thoughtfulness. “Bring it next time.”

Outside, the hall seemed unbearably bright. She walked through the crowd with her jaw clenched. Her blood was no longer merely warm. It was furious. She imagined posting his name on social media. She imagined describing the encounter. She imagined the photograph of his countenance beside the announcement: This is the man who thinks my marriage necessitates his approval. Then practicality alighted, as it generally does when indignation has exhausted itself. What proof did she possess? None. No recording. No written substantiation. No witness willing to enter the contraption of complaint. Only her recollection. And recollection, she knew, is a poor weapon against a guaranteed dossier. 

Vishnu was in London. She telephoned him. He gave an ear. For several seconds he uttered nothing.

“What am I supposed to do?” Mary coerced.

“I don’t know.”

Neither did she. That was the obscenity of it. They were married. They had built a life. They had conducted trade across continents. Yet some stranger behind a government department had managed, in less than ten minutes, to make their marriage feel as though it warranted certification from a man who had neither earned nor merited the right to judge it.

Eventually Vishnu gasped, “Send me one of our photographs on WhatsApp.” Mary did. He contacted a graphic designer he knew. The photograph was altered. The background was manipulated. A date stamp was inserted in the corner. The result struck one as sufficiently old-fashioned to satisfy a bureaucrat who apparently believed authenticity resided in pixels. When Mary gazed at it, she felt something colder than anger. Shame. Not because the photograph was false. Because the lie had become necessary. That was the true prurience. The state had solicited for evidence. The state had made fabrication the easiest route to compliance. Truth had become inconvenient. Appearance had become acceptance. 

She returned to the office on the assigned day. The same corridor. The same queues. The same fluorescent lights humming overhead like trapped insects. The same bureau. The same man. 

He took the photograph. Looked at it. Looked again. A smile surfaced. Not surprising. Recognition. “You know this is edited,” he remarked.

Mary said zilch.

He tapped the photograph with one finger. “Background changed.” 

There was defiant stillness in the air. 

“Date added,” he hissed.  

She betrayed no emotion; her visible vocabulary stayed an impenetrable ledger beyond his reach. He leaned backwards. “Approved,” he exclaimed. Then, to Mary’s astonishment, he stamped the forms. 

She gawked at him. “You knew?”

“Of course.”

“Then why—”

He raised a hand. The gesture was almost paternal. Almost.  “Listen to me!” 

Mary deliberated. 

“You should tell your family something.” 

Her stomach tightened. 

“Tell them not to encourage these things.”

“What things?”

“Christian girl marrying Hindu boy.”

There it was. The system stripped apart. No procedure. No symbol. No regulation. No passport. Only discrimination sitting abaft a government agency. The man pushed the sheets towards her. “You are lucky I am allowing this.” Mary glimpsed at the approval. Then at him. A passport was supposed to prove who she was. Instead, for one miserable morning, it had become a slip of endorsement granted by an unknown who alleged her marriage was a social offence. She took the papers. “Thank you,” she enunciated.

The words tasted foul. She turned towards the door. Rearward her came the final sentence. “And don’t let another Christian in your family marry like this.” Mary stopped. She did not turn around.

Outside, hundreds of people moved through the building carrying certificates, photographs, birth records, affidavits and the fragile belief that official institutions existed to serve them. Mary understood something that morning. A passport does not only establish identity. It represents permission to propel through the world without asking every petty gatekeeper whether you deserve to belong in it. And when that permission is put in the hands of a prejudiced fool, citizenship itself can be made to feel conditional.

She sauntered into the sunlight. The photograph remained inside the folder. A counterfeit image accepted by a man who knew it was counterfeit. Perhaps that was the most factual validation produced in the building that day.

The dullest chorus seldom lacks for volume.

It misunderstands resonance for reason,

and calls its own echo wisdom.

There is an archaic arithmetic to crowds:

every surrendered thought

multiplies another certainty.

Judgement is not accumulated there;

it is diluted,

till conviction floats

like froth upon indifferent ale.

Thus the phony prophet

rarely arrives alone.

He is escorted by ovation,

his deficiencies lacquered

with borrowed thunder.

Hullabaloo is the oldest tailor;

it can cut a king’s silhouette

for any passing fool.

The worthier soul

is often espied in the pause—

where scepticism keeps its lantern lit,

where conscience declines

the convenience of belonging.

Fact has unfailingly possessed

the unfortunate habit

of speaking below applause.

History, that parsimonious accountant,

sooner or later closes the register.

It does not total cheers.

It audits consequences.

There are seasons when the young

be bequeathed not prosperity,

but questions.

They discover that hereditary slogans

cannot mend an empty table,

nor can sanctified quarrels

repair a fractured republic.

Then comes the quieter revolution:

not of muskets,

but of memory returning.

The banners that once separated neighbour from neighbour

begin to fray,

for hunger has no denomination,

and unemployment kneels

in front of no altar.

The mastermind of perpetual division

always boobs fatigue for loyalty.

He forgets that generations

who inherit ashes instead of futures

eventually cease applauding the pyre.

They ask not who prayed where,

but who built nothing

while demanding endless devotion.

So mistrust the square

that erupts ahead of what it reflects.

An undiscriminating multitude

has never hardly celebrated error;

it has enthroned it,

then mistaken its own genuflection

for proof that greatness stood before them.

For the loudest acclaim

is scarcely the sound of discernment.

More commonly,

it is intelligence departing the room

in perfect unison,

extolling the wrong

until silence accedes the truth.

Some griefs arrive with sirens.

Others arrive secretly,

wearing the scent of your shirt,

settling beside me

while a vinyl record turns

with that familiar crackle—

each revolution another attempt

to bring you back.

I have learned that memory

has a sound.

It is the needle touching old music.

It is your laughter caught

between one verse and the next.

It is my name

only because it once belonged

inside your mouth.

And yours—

God.

Have I ever told you

how much I loved saying your name?

It felt less like speaking

and more like praying.

No one warned me

that love was a rose.

Everyone speaks of the bloom,

of crimson petals opening

like miracles in spring.

No one tells you

that sometimes

the thorns survive

long after the flower is gone.

I still wear your shirts.

Not because they fit,

but because they remember

the shape of your shoulders.

I still wear your necklace,

black against a black shirt,

as though mourning

could become a uniform.

Sometimes I hear a motorcycle

passing beneath my window,

and my hands instinctively reach

for a waist that no longer exists.

I am still holding onto you

as you ride through a city

that no longer has roads.

Only clouds.

You once told me

that dreams were worth believing.

I believed you.

And then I discovered

what becomes of broken dreams.

They do not disappear.

They wash ashore

on forgotten boulevards,

where lovers wander barefoot,

careful not to bleed

on the shattered glass

of futures they had already named.

If you have never stood

on such a boulevard,

you will not understand.

But one day—

when the universe chooses your house,

your heart,

your impossible hope—

you will.

You will learn

how heavy silence can become.

I still remember

the first time I saw you.

A video call.

Pixels.

A hesitant smile.

Two strangers

pretending not to recognise destiny.

You looked into my eyes,

and before either of us realised it,

my heart had crossed the screen.

No visa.

No permission.

Only surrender.

Then came our first kiss.

How extraordinary

that happiness

can hurt so much.

That night

I wanted the world to end—

not because I wished to die,

but because I could imagine

no tomorrow

higher than that single moment.

You taught me

that dreaming

wasn’t foolish.

When I stood

at the edge of myself,

ready to disappear,

you held my hand

with the quiet certainty

of someone who believed

I was worth saving.

Before you,

life felt like

an endless winter.

After you,

even London

could not feel cold enough

to frighten me.

Do you remember?

I told you

I was leaving.

Not to leave you—

never that—

but to become

someone worthy

of staying beside you.

“I need to get clean,”

I whispered.

“For me.

For us.”

Hope,

I have unearthed,

is the hardest promise

to keep.

Now the record

has stopped spinning.

The tattoo

will never be finished.

The feather

waits for a wind

that has forgotten its name.

The boulevard waits too.

Perhaps it always will.

Sometimes

the lights begin singing

without warning.

I hear them.

Every streetlamp

hums your favourite melody.

Yet I no longer dance.

How could I?

Every step

belongs to the one

who used to lead me.

I no longer sing

unless it is our song.

Even then,

my voice keeps looking

for yours.

Night after night,

I bargain with sleep.

Please,

let me dream of you.

Let me borrow you

for a few impossible hours.

Because morning

is the cruellest invention

the Maker ever made.

Morning insists

you are gone

all over again.

The light is off.

Your face.

My face.

An ocean

between them.

Tell me—

what could possibly exist

that is greater

than the miracle

of being loved by you?

Nothing.

Nothing at all.

People tell me

that time heals.

I think they mistake

scar tissue

for resurrection.

There are wounds

that simply become

part of the fibre

of the soul.

You are one of mine.

And perhaps

that is another name

for forever.

If somewhere

beyond this breathing world

you can still hear me,

know this—

I still love you.

Across oceans.

Across winters.

Across countries,

cemeteries,

and impossible distances.

Across every life

the universe has forgotten

to give us.

Until my bones become dust.

Until my name

is spoken

for the very last time.

Until even memory

falls asleep.

I will meet you

where the boulevard begins—

where abandoned dreams

grow into wildflowers,

where old vinyl records

play without ending,

where motorcycles

never run out of road,

where the lights

are forever singing,

and where, at last,

I shall hear you

say my name

one more time.

Postscript. 

This poem is dedicated to my dear Mikel Niso and his feature film, Boulevard (2026). The dedication is not born of obligation but of observation. It is an uncommon privilege to encounter someone so young who possesses not only evident talent but also the far less common virtues of humility, sincerity, and a heart untouched by vanity. Such qualities deserve acknowledgment. The poem, therefore, is my small tribute to both the artist and the young man behind the performance.