The Process of Poem#2

Every time your soul melts some more, a poem is born. It is up to you to either bring that melody to the world or suffocate it with thickness of daily routine. If you let poems wear melody and you begin relishing it, your soul becomes fluid and art comes to life. .

प्रेम करना सीखूंगा

बरगद,
तुमसे प्रेम करना सीखूंगा।
शाखाओं से कान लगा,
रूह में उतर कर जानूंगा,
कि टहनियों पर कुल्हाड़ियाँ चलने पर भी,
नयी टहनी तुमने कैसे अपार प्रेम से उगायीं?
बीतें सौ साल, किस तरह धरा संग बितायी?
प्रेममय हो कितने पंछियों को तुमने बसाया?
और जन्मते पत्तियों को मरते देख नहीं हारे?
बरगद, तुमसे प्रेम करना सीखूंगा!

कल आज और कल

बचपन की इक रात को,
उजली बिजली में,
जड़ से एक बरगद,
उखडता देखा|
सुबह अनगिनत टूटे पेड़ देखे,
नीचे,
जिन्हें बरगद ने बड़ा किया था,
खुद की निगरानी में,
उनके बदले धूप झेलकर,
आँधी साथ खेलकर।

मिट्टी की टूटी वो चाय दुकान देखी,
जहाँ बिस्कुट खाने की दादा से रोज जिद कर जीतता,
और कुल्हड़ में पहलेपहल गरम चाय पीना सीखता,
उसकी खपरैल छत को पैरों के पास देखा।

और सफ़ेद कपडे में,
गेंदे के हार से सजी,
पहली बार
एक लाश देखी।

लाश राजू के सोये दादा की थी,
जिनके पास पहली बार शतरंज देखा।

राजू अब चाय नहीं बेचता,
उसे शहर की एक बड़ी दुकान का मालिक बनते देखा।

बरगद जाने के बाद वहां वीराना न है,
उसी बारिश में एक आम की फेंकी गुठली से,
अंकुर बढ़ कर एक वृक्ष होता देखा,
जो गली के बच्चों को टिकोले देता नहीँ थकता।

इंसानों को थमते देखा,
चोट खा गिरते देखा,
दुःख पर रुकते, सुख पर हँसते देखा।

पर,
ज़िन्दगी को कभी इंतज़ार करते नहीं देखा,
चलते, गिरते और सँभलते देखा।
न आँखों में कोई गिला देखा,
न पैरों में इतिहास के जंजीर देखे
हर पल उसे बहते देखा
ऐसे,
जैसे कि,
आम्र वृक्ष युग के प्रारम्भ से यहीं है,
और राजू के दादा को किसी ने नहीँ देखा।

माई के नाम का ख़त

तुम्हारे एक ख़त का
इंतज़ार अब भी है।
तलाश ख़त्म कहाँ हुई मेरी।
साँस टूटने तक
दरवाजे पर
आस टिकी रहेगी।
नीली अन्तर्देसी में
नीले कलम से तुम्हारी लिखावट
मायूस हो ताकती है मुझे।
कहना चाह कर भी जो कह न पाते तुम
मैं पढ़ लेती
और चार आँसू टपका लेती।
पन्नों पर आंसुओं के धब्बों पर
अँगुली फिरा
दो पल सिसक लेती हूँ कभी
जब तुम्हारे बच्चे घर पर नहीं होते।
एक ख़त और लिखो,
कि आखिरी अन्तर्देशि आए
एक ज़माना हो गया।

The passing away of Nobel Laureate 'Vidia' Naipaul

This morning, I woke up with the news of death of the Indian-origin writer V S Naipaul. Sir ‘Vidia’ died at 85. Yet, he will be remembered through his creations and for his controversial views (e.g. Vinoba Bhave was a fool and whole life tried to copycat Gandhi without understanding him) and his ways(declining invitations and interviews for money; and findings wrongs with the world). He was awarded Nobel for his non-fiction writings, but his fiction writings are equally good. He considered "A House for Mr Biswas" as his master creation.
And It was the first novel I got immersed into.
Though set in Trinidad, the book depicted the conversations, mannerisms, personalities, social problems and situations in such manner that an Indian brought up in joint family would find close resemblance with. This book tenderly touched upon the joint family politics and the pleasure and confusion children come across as a result. It showed the husband- wife romance in backdrop of a noisy and varied joint family. But it was the loving relationship of a father and his children, and the experience of growing up in poverty but with love that bonded my heart to the novel. The book has no moral advice, no lessons, no explicit expressions,P is boring for first 60 pages, but if one can persist, the book rewards the reader with joy, by the end. This made me a fan of his writing and later I read 5 books written by him and one on him (by Paul Theroux). And yes, in none other than two novels, Naipaul was at his best. Truly, "A House..." is his masterpiece.

But becoming a fan of Naipaul and Naipaul’s writings are two different things. He shared a contradictory relation with the world- while his writing won him appreciation and prizes, his demeanour, attitude and staunch opinions created many haters for him. It is as easy to criticize Naipaul as for people to criticize their parents or governments.
Now, that Vidia has died, the world will be kinder to him (as it is to most people in their death) and his writings will be loved with him absent to be hated.
The writers’ brethren (friends and critics) would shower their messages on social media but somehow I feel they will find solace in a quote of Badauni on death of Muhammad Bin Tugalaq, “The king was freed from his people and they from their king”.
Well, that is their opinion, Sir Vidia. I wish you rest in peace.
Rest in Peace, great writer. RIP

बदलते मायने

जीना किसे कहते हैं?

सूरज का उदय,
अस्त होना.
सबेरे उठ कर चाय पीना. 
अरे! ये क्या हुआ?

अचानक से,
किसी जिन्दा शरीर को लाश बनते देखना और
इस घटना को
एक अल्पकालीन निद्रास्वपन होने की कल्पना करना
सत्य को भ्रम होने की आशा करना
और न बदलने पर हारना

घाट तक जाना
'उस शरीर' के बगैर लौटकर,
घर आना.
और पसरे सन्नाटे से दोस्ती करने की कोशिश करना.

रौशनी से भागे-भागे रहना,
पीले बल्ब को बूझा रात में,
खुली आँखों से,
स्मृतियों के भँवर में डूब जाना,
और
उस व्यक्ति को
लोगो द्वारा रात भर में ही
इंसान से देवता बनाते देखना.
सपने में उसे जीवित पा,
खिलखिलाना,
आजीवन निद्रा में रहकर
उसे किसी तरह रोक लेने की चेष्टा करना.
सूरज का उगना,
फिर खुली आँखो को मीचते हताश होना

जीवन का कोई मकसद न दिखने पर भी,
साँसों का कुहासे भरे भविष्य पर चलना,
बेधडकते हुए दिल से बेखबर,
ह्रदय का गति में रहना,
इस एहसास से रूबरू होना,
कि कितना कुछ भँवर ही है यहाँ?
ठीक स्मृतियों सा,
जैसे हमारे रिश्ते, जिम्मेदारियाँ,
जैसे इस ह्यूमन बॉडी को एक औरगैनिस्म से ज्यादा समझने वाली थीओरिस,
जैसे मन का अबोध अटूट विश्वास
कि 'वक़्त' केवल कविताओं और कहानियों में बीतता है,
पर हम तो निरंतर हैं.
जैसे ये कविता,
वो लिखने वाला,
मैं पढने वाला.

ये सत्य नहीं,
शायद भ्रम है.
सत्य तो है,
सन्नाटे में खड़ा यह अकड़ता बरगद,
जिसने अपनी छाँव में हजारों बच्चे को खेलने दिया,
और उनमे से सैकड़ों के मृत्यु का गवाह बना.
सत्य है, यह पहाड़,
जिसने असंख्य बरगदों, पीपल का जीवन, मरण देखा,
सत्य है ये धरा, जिसने पहाड़ों का उठाना, सिमटना देखा,
सत्य है?
सत्य है???
.????
.
सत्य है,
शायद यह परिवर्तन,
शायद जीवन चक्र भी उसका अंश हो,
इन फिलोसोफिकल गार्बेज से दिमाग का भारी होने पर सो जाना,

सूरज का उगना
धीरे धीरे अगल बगल की आवाज़ों के मन में आना,
कंठ में अटके बर्फ का आँखों से पिघलना
उसे दूसरों से छुपाना
और,
सन्नाटे में रो कर उसे चीर देना.
मन के अंगीठी में हर पत्थर का पिघलकर लावा बनना
और महसूसी हर भावना की भाप को.
सिसकियों से निकल जाने देना

फिर सूरज का डूबना
उगना,
अगले दिन सूरज का डूबना
उगना,
फिर से सूरज का डूबना
उगना,

चिड़िया की चहक में,
सूरज की लालिमा में,
कुछ नया ढूँढना,
चाय पीते अखबार पढ़ना,
खून वाली ख़बरों पर अटकती नज़रों को हंस कर सरका लेना
सिगरेट से धुआं उड़ा दूसरों को स्वास्थ्य के व्हाट्सप्प मैसेज भेजना
ज़िन्दगी छोटी है, इस बात को बेयक़ीनीयत से कहना,
गिरना, उठकर कपडा झाड़कर खड़े हो जाना,
फिर घडी की सूई पर आंख अटकाना,
हटाना,
काम पर जाना,
और शाम को घर लौटकर बीबी से सीनियर जादव जी की शिकायत करना
और जीन्यूज देख मोदीजी की बड़ाई करना,
फिर बच्चों में गलतियां खोज डांटना
और फिर जम्भाई लेते बिस्तर में सरक लेना,
'परिवर्तन' का विचार आने पर अचरज करना,
मुस्कुराना और सो जाना.
फिर सूरज का डूबना
उगना,
शायद जीना इसी का नाम है।

#जीनाइजइक्वल2भूलजाना

The degree is a ticket to the world but also a notice of exile

I sensing a tinge of pain for not being able to participate in convocation at TISS today.The convocation brought a formal closure to the long associated relationship with the fellowship. Contrary to my expectations of feeling relieved, there is a lingering sadness in the heart. Getting a degree is a ticket to the world, but it is also a notice of exile. The moments spent in company of fellowship friends (both batches), teachers, people of Rohtas and district administration Sasaram have enriched my life in countless ways. 

I am also thankful to all family members, relatives and friends who supported me in my endeavours and blessed me with luck to brave the opportunities this life has offered. 

Thank you all. Wish you all luck, hope and love. 

कुहरा

जब तुम्हारी इक मुस्कान के सैकड़ों मतलब होते थे,
तब गगन की काली कालीन,
सपनें बोने का खेत होती थी,
जहाँ खुदा हीरे झाड़ता था।
मेरी चाहत के अरमान सुन वो तारे शरमाते,
फिर टूटते और बेचिराग होते जाते।
सन्नाटे की पसरी चादर पर लेटकर,
मैं इकटक इंतज़ारता एक और तारे के टूटने का,
नींद की थपकी आने तक
एक अरमान और बोने का।

जब तुम्हारी इक हँसी के सैकड़ों मतलब होते थें
तब तुम्हारी आँखों में कहानियाँ चमकतीं थीं,
और मेरा मन पंछी कबीरा जुलाहा होता था।
यूँ मेहनतकश,
कि तुम्हारी इक अदा पर
एक घोंसला ही बुन डालता,
कभी पेड़ पर, कभी बर्फ़ पर,
कभी धुएँ से अर्श पर,
चहुँओर, आशियाँ ही आशियाँ।

अब,
जब वक़्त की लौ गाढ़ी हो चली है,
तो अक्स में हँसी की रेखा साफ़ दिखती है,
हँसी,
इक वक्र रेखा है केवल,
अब जो न बेधती है न बाँधती है।

वोह तो एहसास का कुहरा था,
जहाँ हँसी की खनखनाहट बजती थी,
जहाँ सपनों का झरना फूटता था,
जहाँ एक-एक पल इक सिनेमा था,
और एक मुस्कान इक कथा।
वो कुहरा ही है शायद,
जहाँ असीमित आशा के कोख में,
आज भी सपने दबे पड़े हैं,
जहाँ ज़माने बीतना चाहते हैं एक पल में,
जहाँ हज़ार रंगों के हरे रंग आँख देखता है,
और रातरानी हर हवा में घुली होती है।
जहाँ शांति सन्नाटे को बाँहों में कस कर समेटी होती है,
वह कुहरा है।
हाँ, कुहरा ही है।
हाँ, हाँ, कुहरा ही चाहिए।
दस ग्राम कुहरा, सिर्फ दस।

The Questions of the Heart (Part 1)

He is sipping tea from a red-brown earthen cup on his fingers when a familiar tune is coming to life from the road on the east. A film song is playing on a radio on a tall green bicycle. Invaded by fog, the city is all white, and the occasional glowing red backlights and blinking yellow lights inform a nearby vehicle. The tea stall seems an island inhabiting life and chatter. The silence in the morning is pierced only by the honking. The green bicycle crossed the tea shop. The tune had again been absorbed by the mist, but it played on in his mind. 

Yesterday was his thirty-second birthday, spent like a day before yesterday or like any day in past one year. Two years before, his phone used to sing the same tune when she would call. The tune played and his lips warmed with tea. Feeling she still belonged to him. Her bosom still a place for his head to hide. A sense of loss clutched his heart. Three teas in a row. He clasped the shawl and rose from the three legged bench, supported on arranged bricks in place of the absent fourth. He thought it was right for him to leave. You can’t go to a certain place without leaving somewhere. Like, he had to leave tea-stall to reach room. The tea-stall keeper entered the money to be paid in a long notebook which had lost its corners and a few pages of the end.

On the way back room, his eyes clung to a shop with its first name as hers. Over the one year, the shop had become a constant reminder of her in his life. Though the shopkeeper was ugly and detached-unlike her in every aspect of human behaviour- he bought grocery from there. How more of her he had inside. She had always been absent inside him. Now, she was approaching him in bits. 

The party was hosted in Columbus, an elite bar in Delhi. Everything about the bar- black big fluffy sofas, dim yellow light, red mat floor, small water fountains and neatly dressed waiters- was aesthetically grand. The song “Light my Fire” by “The Doors” was coming out of small pores on beautiful women on the carved wooden walls. At eight, when Mr. Hamilton, the white representative of the company, joined the party, Vijay blew away the candles on cake and everyone sang ‘Happy birthday to you’. He turned 27, today. He says he would not want to live beyond 50 when monotony would have taken over the joys of life. In that sense, he has already lived more than half of his life. At 27, he was to start discovering himself when Kurt Cobain, Morrison and other member of 27 Club had taken out the best in themselves and had even parted ways from the world. 

Disha, dressed in a black ankle-length velvet dress that reveals her golden arms and shoulders and half-cleavage, a symbol of brimming youth, came up smiling to him, hugged him and whispered ‘your room, tonight’. He is barely able to hide smiles. Everything in their faces smiled- eyebrows, eyes, cheeks, lips. She stayed with him for some moments then vanished among other her other friends. Everyone except Disha left early, to reach office next day on time. For a year, Vijay had been working in headquarters of the company, twelve miles away from the office where Disha works and where he and Disha first met and spent their five years falling in relationship. 

They drove to his apartment, parked the car. As they entered the room, he locked the door and kissed her. They undressed and slid into bed. The embrace had no intensity, only lukewarm folding of arms. In the moments near midnight, the lump of hidden loneliness choked his throat. 

What is he doing here? Streams of thoughts of becoming a guitarist had taken shape of a strong resolution; a resolve to chase the mirage of his own image as guitarist. The urge to run away turned strong, then stronger. He was earning in one month what his father earns in a year. In ten years with the current rate of his salary hike, he would out-earn his father’s lifetime earnings, with pension and provident fund deposits put together.

He had practiced guitar at his university, with dedication. There, for hours, he would be absorbed amid the tunes, often playing the same tunes. Closing his eyes and clicking a particular tune over and over. Feeling, as if touching the undulations of the tune. Often at nights, he would be on marijuana to numb the pain in his fingers, still playing, feeling, touching.

‘Music is my element. One day I will run away from this mad world to a secluded place.’ he said from his painful throat.

‘Sure. You must go.’ she had said, completely aware of his alcoholic haze.

‘I have to find my answers.’ he said to her.

‘Come here.’ She pulled him close to her and held her tightly, giggled. After a short pause, she said, ‘I am with you. You do what you want. I know, nothing can stop you.’

The belief for him in her voice calmed him and the lump melted away. But he didn’t resign from the job for two years. Every day, he thought about music and the money needed to survive later on. The weeks, by end of which he was to leave the job, extended into months and years.

On his 29^th birthday, he didn’t invite colleague-friends to any party. He coaxed his boss to give him a week’s leave to visit home. Instead of home, he left for Rishikesh, without telling anyone, without cell-phone, and stayed in a hotel. Out of touch of the gross world. Doing nothing, all time thinking, deciding.

He had enough money to survive for his life if he remains frugal, does he need more? No. What a waste of life it would be if he were not able to discover his talent. He had already lived more than half of the life he had decided to live. Not even a moment shall pass wasted. Money and things, he had had enough. He will tell truth to his parents. The world just doesn’t stop demanding, it goes on. One should play his cards.

On the tenth day, while checking out from the hotel, he was sure. When he returned to Delhi, he submitted resignation within a week. His friends were surprised, some very happy, a few inspired. Disha was angry, then sad. It seemed she would not see him from then, but she came to his apartment in the afternoon on the day of departure. Her anger and grief had lost the battle, and he didn’t withdraw the resignation. 

She couldn't see anything in the apartment, except taped brown cartons. He was lying in the bedroom on a green mattress. She sat on the mattress with her back against the wall and he put his head on her lap. 

“What are you thinking?” She passed her hand through his hair and began crushing a curl, slipping fingers over soft ends of his hair. His eyes remained fixed to a landscape painting he had been gifted last year. The rising sun or the sinking sun. Before she entered, he kept finding hints what the painter truly wanted to depict. Now, he gave up and stared at the round edge of the sun.

“Hmm.... What are you thinking?” she asked.

His stare, lost in the orange sun, seemed to be looking into a distant unknown land.

“You won’t continue here, Ai?” she said, “Will you?”

“I don’t know.”

“From all over India people come here and……… and……. you are going to village.” She paused for a moment, then said, “Go. I won’t say anything.”

“I have already spent half...actually more than half.. of my life. I need my answers.”

“You are trying hard to invite problems. Go on.”

“We can talk on phone. And I will visit you every month. It’s not like before that you had to wait for weeks and months for letters. Few months and then I will come back to Delhi.”

She put his head down on the bed and straightened her legs. She held her knees with her folded arms and hid her head inside.

 “Don’t cry, please. You know it is hard for me, too. ”, he said.

He embraced her and both cried. He began gripping her dearly as shivers would cross through her body. His tears came out, influenced by hers, flew calmly, dripping from his chin on her shoulder.

“I know you wouldn’t return.”

“Are you insane? I cannot live without you. Don’t you see how much I love you?” He looked into her eyes and reassured her. “I will call you twice every week. The small towns have PCOs there. And If I don’t, you can just come to my address. Just five hours by train.” He paused and hold her chin in his fingers. “Now, that’s okay. Okay?”

She lowered her gaze and pursed lips. She was inviting tears. He kissed her and began making love to her while she kept looking into his eyes and feeling the contours of his back. After the orgasm, she closed her eyes and felt his face and body, as if to draw him from the world in darkness. Pull him in her world and not let go. He was in her world now, and would remain so until she would loosen her grip. After an hour of sense of possession, she let him go.

“What you’d take? Well, there is only coffee.” he asked.

“Okay.”

They sipped coffee together while he checked his mobile phone. She kissed him before getting ready to leave, telling herself that distances don’t do apart truly loving hearts. She will bear these six months, then they will marry.

“When is your train?” she asked.

“I am taking bus. Midnight.”

They hugged each other, the final lingering hug, readying them for a long separation. "Don’t worry. I’ll phone you as I reach there." He pecked on her forehead, a detached peck, and turned the knob of the door. They came out and walked, talking irrelevant things, and reached bus-stand. As the bus entered the bus-stop, her eyes turned teary.

‘I will wait for you.’ She realized she said it more to herself than to him. She sat on the window seat and they kept looking at each other till the bus disappeared around the bend.

            continued....