Monday, May 11, 2015

"A House for Mr Biswas" connection

When I look back, I realize my invisible irregular longing for literature since school days, when I used to read stories by Tagore and R. K Narayan and keep thinking about them for a day or two. With time, the demands of my false ambitions and the need to conform to the world threw me light-years away from the realization that I could read for pleasure. Past that point, whatever I read was for gulping any new information down the throat, most of which would be of any use after my hairs would turn grey. I resumed reading, a major part to fill in my loneliness and a minor for pleasure. In the latest innings of reading, most of the stories and books I read ended with melancholy, sadness and despair. I don't remember, I ever read to be happy. I read to relish the combination of words that would weave a world closer to reality. I would pick up a few, as companions, to walk with me for a day or two. Then, like a heart-throb, I would drop them somewhere and they would be lost. 
            Somewhere two years back, I found a copy of "A House for Mr. Biswas" by V.S Naipaul at my uncle's place. Just few days back of that find, I was browsing internet when I got to read that this was Naipaul's masterpiece written in his early years. So, I clung to it. It started off as a slow black and white movie with the very first line describing the death of the lead character Mohun Biswas. But after few pages, I experienced the book as a window where reading a paragraph was like walking with Mr. Biswas. After reading it, I felt changed in a manner. Naipaul wrote everything that I hated about my background. Closely placed rooms, fights inside family, shame of poverty and most importantly the desire of possessing a house which one could lay my full claim upon. It felt as if the writer wrote on behalf of all those dissatisfied souls whose present affluence made them hate their past background and though I finished that thick book in three days, I remember falling asleep many times while holding it in hand as often it connected the book and my past world. 
          I keep reading parts of it again and again to laugh and touch the slender thread of desolation Naipaul places between series of laughter. It is a masterpiece. A rare masterpiece.

Sunday, March 22, 2015

वक़्त और जीवन के बीच संवाद

मैं ठहरता हूँ जब तुम हौंसलों से गले मिलते हो। तब धीमे चल स्मृतियों के पटल पर ला बिखेरता हूँ वो दृश्य जिनमें कोपलें बरगद हुईं और धूल बने पर्वत धरती चाँद बनी और तारे हुए सूरज। तुम्हारी खुशियों में मल्हार सा झूमता संग तुम्हारे नभ को भी चूमता अनुभव को त्याग कर फिर बहता यूँ कि जैसे कभी थमा ही नहीं। तुम्हारे दुःख में साँस मेरी भी छूटती लहूलुहान रेंगती, चिल्लाती, टूटती। फिर चुपके एक क्षण में, उम्मीद का अंकुर बोता यूँ जीता कि जैसे कभी मरा ही नहीं। जिंदा एहसास कर, बाँहों में कस मुझे तुम चलते जीवन से शून्य की ओर टहलते मेरे असंख्य जीवों से प्रेम पर तुम बिलखते यूँ कि सब जान तुम कुछ मानते ही नहीं। यूँ कि सब जान तुम कुछ मानते ही नहीं, कि फिर तुम धरती चीर आओगे कि जीवन-मृत्यु की चिंता त्याग प्रेम करोगे, यूँ कि जैसे फिर कभी बिछड़ोगे ही नहीं।

Monday, February 23, 2015

Whispers of love

I miss you,
when woven with fierce flames of love,
my memory turns alive,
to get lost soon in thoughts
like always, not to survive.

I miss you,
on a child's smile for no cause.
Like jasmine in your bright hair
born to die soon,
you come and disappear.

I miss you
like a cobra in sunny desert,
mad with the God and human,
and sure of finding solace
in shade of her lady’s bosom.

I miss you,
when darkness creeps into the room,
and speaks the language of your charms.
It waters the seed of the dream,
where I sleep naked in your arms.

I promise.
I promise to grasp you,
with all my might.
And wash away all my fears,
of you drifting from sight.
My heart will sing a hymn
on the union of eternal love.
For I know that passionate hearts
have often pulled Gods to earth.
Lord! I don’t seek you,
It’s she who is enough.

Oh, yes! I wouldn’t let you depart
this one more time.
This time, the fragrance would stay,
and my fate would not betray.