मायूस बगिया

कुछ रोज़ खुशिया बरसती थी शामो में
हम गरीबों के मेले में सांसें ढूंढ रहे थे
अजीब थी उस बगिये कि खुशबु 
जहां तितलियाँ आज़ाद थीं 
फूलों पर डगमगाने के लिए
पर मैं देखता हूँ उसी बगीचे साथ रहने वाले पड़ोसियों को
जिनको शायद मायूस फूलों कि नमी महसूस ही नहीं होती
सिर्फ समझ आता है उनको तो शोर और मतलब
बगैर खिलखिलाती खुशिओं के
उस मुरझाते हुए बगीचे में
क्या रोती हुई खामोशी मेहसूस नहीं होती?
क्या हमें समझ नहीं आता
कि हमने जिस खूबसूरती को सीचने के वादे किये थे
हम उसी को नोच बैठे?
एक शाम शायद सपनो में ही थी
जहां तितलियाँ खेलती थी
उस बगीचे में खुशबू थी
दुनिया सांस ढूंढती थी
सपना ही रहा होगा शायद,
क्योंकि जहां हम हैं
वहाँ खुशियाँ तो शोर में ही हैं
जहां कभी शोर में होती थी सिर्फ तकलीफें
और शिकायतें ||

RIP That Girl, who said she wanted to live, and Independent India.

That Girl

Sometimes, it just so happens that things are not in your hands. All you can do is, wait, watch, think and realize. May be in the larger scheme of things, as people love to call it when they can’t change their lives, it is for the greater good.  But sometimes, feelings are so true, those which couldn’t be suppressed, those, occurring only and exclusively when one’s ability to acquire is not challenged. Occasionally, it happens, that someone falls in love, and then falls out of it, and then again, with someone else. It goes on, and on, as it depends upon the fact that one can approach someone or not. Therefore it is possible that people may find someone, living opposite to their houses or in office or anywhere else, adorable when compared to make up laden, fancy dress ridden film stars.

And most of the times until some sort of cosmic interference steps in, and that is, usually, a decision colliding with another decision. A boy may stand up on his feet, collect courage, and talk to a girl. And that’s just the beginning, a lot of things follow, until the boy proposes and strangles the love story, there and then. Because always, all love stories end, where the guy says “I love you”, despite wondering how corny that sounds. And no, those love stories beginning with the boy and the girl attracted to each other, those which don’t end with the corny statement, but much later in fact, are not love stories, they are tragedies. If by chance, such a story ends happily then it isn’t a story, it is a properly planned marketing strategy executed successfully for financial benefits, to sell a book or a film.

So the matter of fact lies in the truth, that whatever is believed to be a love story is either a hoax, or a tragedy. But it isn’t a love story. And, exceptions are always there, everywhere. Had movies been a reflection of life, or dreams, that they are capable of, they’d have shown a story where boys and girls live in dreams more than reality. They work, they dream, they sleep dream, they talk they dream. Greatest moments of life dwell within fast foods corners, over pizzas, breads, fried chickens, mochas, burgers. At times, over those pizzas, when single girls make fun of single boys who in turn flirt with other single girls, if they come to know about it and considering Indian situation if there are at all, within a group, where the flirt in question is there on the table, but the girl in question isn’t and at all times, there is another boy on the table dreaming of someone else, that others don’t know of, and don’t care of. When the discussion is too spicy to end, the dreamer’s dream girl pops out of the dream and enters the fast food corner, with her own herd, the red-blue tackily colored, bizarrely designed eatery that is capable of generating not-to-be-taken-seriously mood, with glass walls, out of which dusky evenings, above the highways are slowly swallowed by nights, star filled, lamp lit.

The red-blue walls, with insanely circular, red-blue in color, office like but conveniently large, table, for eating is occupied by 7-8 hoodlums, comprising of both boys and girls, who have no other thing to discuss, or think, or dream. From a distance one would think there are 10 people, but actually on that table, there were 7. Throwing gags at each other. Boys with girls, slightly less familiar, become formal, alarmingly. They try to be funny, serious, diligent, enigmatic, magnificent etc. all at the same time. But there are few, who most of the times, think too much to bother, or dream too much to bother. And that is another skill of theirs to attract, attention, obviously. Most of the human lives are spent fighting for it, so no point in blaming that hard coded beauty of the human nature. That is the poetry of it, the art of it, of the nature.

Successively, that discussion is wished, that it doesn’t end. And one amongst them gets bored and starts dreaming. In Paulo Coelho’s Alchemist, ripped off, hilariously in an extraneously asinine Hindi film, it was said that “When you want something, the entire universe conspires in helping you to achieve it”. As that discussion continues to get mundane, and that evening deepens, into the glossy mysterious night, reality, steps aside, for the dreamy, partially accurate, partially abstract haze. That, from that door, transparent and outlined by red fabric thick pillars, where a grey colored car whose metal shines reflecting the lamp above it is parked, from behind it, a man leaning to the car could see inside, but he seemed lost in his own confounded diligence. His carefree smoke evidenced. The highway behind the highway was traffic free. Occasionally a motorcycle or a car or a lorry would cross one’s line of sight.

Orange was the color of the lamp post, not the one above the car, but the one established on the divider slicing the highway into two, across its length. Illuminating the portion of the highway, because its location wasn’t exactly opposite to the eatery, so from inside, it looked like a painting, beginning with a red colored pillar on the left, a transparent door, another pillar, a glass wall, outside the glass wall stood the car, and the man leaning to it, and smoking, very slowly, towards the right end of the wall, outside the part of the highway which was partially illuminated and partially dark, and the lamppost. That was maximum an eye could see, without turning the neck. The eye of the dreamer, which intended to see a girl, unknown, who stayed nearby, and the dreamer would see her, in that place, many times, and started dreaming that she would enter, and today, he would stand on his feet and say hi.

There is a sequence, the way he dreamt. She would come with 2-3 other girls, she would stop outside have a chat, analyze if there is a place inside, to sit. And she would resume discussion and she would move on, go straight. She wouldn’t come in. The whole pack would go straight.

She would come alone, analyze if there is a place to sit, she would think for some time, she would come in, and order what she would like to have, wait, get it packed, and take it away.

She would come, chatting with her friends, and without even thinking about coming inside, she would go straight.

She would come, with a big group of people, she would see that there is no place inside for such a large group of people and she would go back.

She would come inside; it doesn’t matter if she comes with a large number of people, and she would order something, have a blast and go back.

She would come inside, she would sit, and dreamer would wait for the right opportunity, gather courage to say Hi, and he would go to her, and say hi.

She would come inside, and he would see her come, eat and go and without doing anything.

She would come, with 2 other girls, without even thinking about coming inside, she opens the door, chatting with her friends, places her order and occupies a table right opposite to him. She notices, the boy is seeing, nervously, she looks away, she observes again, she sees the boy is still there, not one inch turned, she gets nervous, even further, and looks around, only to check back again, and the boy is looking away and his friends are taking pot shots at each other.

Usually, it so happens, that there is another truth, hidden somewhere. But when there exists a group of people there is someone who senses, what’s wrong. So inside a fast food corner, the boy, slowly, carefully, trying to find an opportunity, to catch a glimpse. The problem, lies in capability to acquire, the matter of fact that someone is close enough, and also, the fact, that the other person is good looking, at-least in the eyes of the beholder, also points out to an internal urge of having a good looking girl friend who can be a status symbol. Perhaps that is also the reason, people usually tend to move on when situations change, finding a better looking girl, for example.

But that, was not the point, right now. Right now, the loneliness of a youngster was playing a role. Especially, while dwelling in dreams, analyzing reality, most of the time he’d suppressed feelings. For that one moment of time, when dream took a shape, and undying will to observe in silence, that urge to talk to someone, and see without any hitch, for the rest of the life, in that moment lived feelings, that usurped, thoughtfulness, logic.

In that pack, of people that evening, one of his friends, observed shift in behavior, turned around to see, to be stunned to know, what stopped the boy from behaving normally. The boy was interrupted  as looked up to see his friend with his eyebrow raised, rather gleefully. Then started the problem. Reading expressions, of the two people in the pack, another one got curios, and she was a girl, she turned around to check what’s wrong, and that was it.

The dreamer guy was too shy to speak, and here he is, amidst people, who had no other topic to discuss other than each other’s counterparts, and the dreamer was immediately, the center of attention. Not that he’d mind, but then it was a nervous situation. Of all the confusion, one of them asked a question, apparently, not knowing anything.

“What’s up, why is everyone so silent?”

“That girl”, dreamer pointed, using drastically magnificent gestures, that people could cherish and laugh for another 5 minutes, without a hiccup.

“So what’s wrong? Go on and say hi!” few friends in a pack are dudes, they are too carefree, just to enjoy the scene. There is a category of these people. Those who say ‘go on and fight I’m there’. And many get fooled by that statement, primarily because he’s there would not make a lot of difference. Because he is not the one going to curb his fear and make a move, which usually is a disaster of epic proportions.

“I won’t”, dreamer had another dream going on with him, as he observed the girl was alone on her table rest of her friends were standing in front of the counter, trying to decide what they’d decide.

“This is the moment, either you go, and say Hi, or you sit here and glance till she leaves and you continue with your dreams forever.” Another one said.

“You know her name?” a girl from the pack asked,

“No”, another one replied, “he’s been doing this for quite some time now but he is too cold to make a move”.

The problem is, he had a similar experience already. He tried, to talk to a girl, rather unknown. Still he knew her name and phone number. He dialed, she picked up, he said “Hi, Actually, I’m, Actually, I’m, actually I’m Rohan, Actually, no I’m not Rohan, actually that’s not my real name, actually I wanted to talk to you, actually can we be friends? No actually, I mean”, “Do you have another word than the word ‘actually’ in your vocabulary?” With one single statement, she told him he is very bad with the talking part. That day, he swore, this would be his first and last time, when he’d flirt. Regardless, whatever he might feel, he’d keep his head down, and never be ashamed. Better coward than ashamed, he thought.

“What are you thinking? Go” One of them pulled him back to the reality.

“Go, she’s alone, go” “Go.” “Yes, be a man!” “Look at your face, don’t throw up already” “He’s red!” 

“He’s blushing Idiot” as everyone quietly yelled, blushing was the word that hit him. It infuriated him, disgusted him, he stood up, without a plan, walked into reality, that today he’d do the thing. He’d win the war and say hi, despite the fact he might have never talked to a girl unknown, well, other than one exception, though the last time, the girl wasn’t completely unknown, still.

So, he stood up, walked as a military general with assault rifles and guns on his shoulders, ready to destroy the enemy, the hitch of being someone who couldn’t talk. Like a cowboy from westerns on horses, he lifted his shoulders, put aside his chair, and walked as the girl observed the weirdly elegant masculinity approach.

With each step he took, the boy would change his appearances in his dreams. From a military general, to a cowboy, to a shirtless hero from Hindi Films, to a charming superstar who’d make women awestruck simply by stretching his arms, to an elegant magician who’d please the audiences by removing his hat and taking a bow, to accept success.

As he came close to the table he turned his gaze towards the girl’s eyes, he fixed his gaze as he walked and then he gradually looked down, pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, turned left from the girl’s table, walked straight, took a right turn, walked a few steps forward, and went out of the eatery.

And that was it. When he bowed in his dream, he looked down in reality, he was wearing brown colored nubucks, with blue jeans and a black T, he was no magician, but an ordinary boy full of nervousness, and sheer shamefulness. He walked away, pretending he is sending a message. He perhaps would never know the name of the girl, last time, he did because she was in college and there were mutual friends. Now, there was no chance, that girl would remain, that girl would continue to be that girl for the rest of his life.

But it wouldn’t make a lot of difference, will it? At times he felt, that in case he’d really talk to that girl, he dreamt may be he’d succeed in seeing through it, to the end of it, he dreamt that end was plane boring. Talking on phone for hours, going out eating, watching movies, if things get serious enough getting married and back to usual life all over again, the true poetry lied before the endings, and in that nervousness, he realized was true romance. One day may be he’d find someone, that he could gather courage and confidence to talk to, or maybe he’d just spend the rest of his life dreaming, thinking whether whatever he felt, was it true, or just another vague attempt at attention seeking?

अब भी

कुछ रोज़ एक नदी के किनारे 
चंद गुलाब छोड़ जाते थे सैलानी
सफर का पता नहीं रहता
इस उम्मीद में 
शायद अगर कहीं खो गए 

तो दूसरों को पता रहेगा
कि कोई आया था यहीं,
नदी किनारे परिंदे थे
कई सारे
वो याद रखते थे
खोई हुई दुनिया को याद दिलाते थे
कभी कभी राह भी दिखाते थे
नदी किनारे 

अभी भी गुलाब वहीँ हैं

पर आजकल फूलों को भी कौन परखता है
किसी चिड़िया के गाने को सुनने का वक्त कहाँ?
बहुत शोर है नदी से दूर,
अब शायद शोर की ही आदत पड़ गयी,
गाने वाले परिंदे सब उड़ गए,
कोई सुन ने वाला नहीं रहा
कुछ गुलाब अभी भी वहीँ हैं,
कुछ मुरझा गए,
कुछ नए खिल गए
बाकी नदी का क्या,
बहती थी, बहती है
अब भी ||

शब्द

एक कमरे के एक कोने के

ना जाने किस अँधेरे हिस्से में 

अधूरी रौशनी है मेरे पास

एक कागज़ है एक कलम है

ढेर सारी उम्मीदें हैं, सोच है 

और अनगिनत अल्फाज़ 

एक कविता कि सूरत नकाशने के लिए

पर क्या फाएदा

लिखने वाला भी मैं और पढ़ने वाला भी

चार अधूरी कहानियाँ है सुनाने को

चार, कहानी सुनने वाले नहीं 

एक रोज़ कहीं खो जाएंगे ये कागज़ 

कहीं भूल जाऊँगा अपनी स्याही 

किसी को उधार में मिल जाएगी ये कलम 

और मैं चल पडूंगा इसी सफर पे आगे कहीं 

ये दुनिया है बोलने वालों की 

दिखाने वालों की

सोचना पढ़ना समझना ढूँढना 

इतना वक्त किसके पास 

खुशियाँ भी हैं मुफ्त में

पर उस सच्चाई में 

वो दिखावा कहाँ 

संजीदगी को महफ़िल कहाँ 

और तसल्ली को ठिकाना कहाँ 

पर ये कागज़ रहने दो मेरे पास

मुझे नहीं दिखानी

अपनी बुनी हुई लफ़्ज़ों कि चादर

इन्हीं को ओढ़ के सो जाऊँगा रोज़

इसी कि तसल्ली है 

कुछ देर सोच सके 

कुछ देर महसूस कर सके 

कुछ देर समझ सके, और

केसर के डिब्बे में छिपा सके 

बचा सके, हमेशा के लिए

थोड़े से शब्द

थोड़ी सी इंसानियत ||

बारिश

रोज़ बरसता है यहाँ पे

आसमां सफेद हो जाता है 

माहौल नीला हो जाता है

मौसम खुश्क हो जाता है

नीचे सड़क पे 

नम हो जाती है ज़मीन 

सब शांत सा रहता है 

लोग घरों में चले जाते हैं 

सब खिड़की से बाहर देखते हैं 

टप टप टप टप टप टप

बरसता रहता है 

एक बार जब भी 

रुक भर गयी बरसात

फिर वही दौड़ शुरू

बेकार की बातें 

और फ़िज़ूल की बर्बादी 

काश बरसता रहता रोज़ कुछ देर के लिए 

कुछ देर घर बैठ जाते लोग

कुछ देर खिड़की से बाहर देखते लोग

कुछ देर ठण्ड महसूस करते

पर ऐसा होता थोड़ी है

बरसात भी मौसम है

आज बारिश है

तो कल या तो सर्दी होगी 

या गर्मी

या तो पेड़ों से पत्ते झड जाएंगे

नहीं तो रंग बिरंगी बसंत आएगी

पर अभी नीचे सड़क नम है

सब घर पे ही हैं

खिड़की पे खुश्की मासूम खुशियाँ मना रही है

टप टप टप टप टप टप

बाहर बारिश हो रही है ||

फिर मिलेंगे

चल फिर कभी कहीं और

फिर मिलेंगे किसी रोज़

बैठ कर मीठे नीम्बू शरबत में

शेहद घुलते

और ठंडी बर्फ पिघलते देखेंगे

ढेर सारी गप लगाएंगे

आज दो पल का दुःख बांटते हैं

फिर न जाने कब मौका मिले

आज तो कुछ मुसीबत से जूझते रहे

कुछ देर भागते रहे मुसीबत से दूर

कल शायद कुछ नया हो

क्या पता फिर कब मिलेंगे

दो पल की खुशियाँ बाटेंगे

चल फिर कभी कहीं और

फिर मिलेंगे किसी रोज़ ||

गुम

कुछ रोज़ मुस्कान थी कहीं
किसी चहरे पर रुकी हुई
हम खूबसूरती के मुलजिम थे
जो कभी हस ना सके
या रो ना सके
हम बेवकूफी के पहरेदार थे
जो खिलखिलाते रहे
ये सोच कर कि शायद वाकई में
सब कुछ तो है, जो होता है
पर ये हमारी ही नासमझी रही होगी
जो हम ना कभी कुछ देख पाए
बस यही मन में ठाने बैठे रहे
कि तकलीफ नहीं तो खुशी सही
पर कहाँ समझ आता है
कि कौन खुश कौन उदास
वक्त कि मजबूरी रही होगी
जो ना कभी हम समझ सके
क्या सही क्या गलत
जब समझने लायक हुए
तो वक्त निकल गया लगाम से
आज तो हम खुश हैं
पर अगर कल न होते इतने
तो शायद आज जादा होते ||

कल्पना

आगे पीछे
आपस में
या दूर कहीं
शीशे की ओर
कही, कोई परछाई
कोई तलाश अधूरी
कल का क्या
खो गया कही
सामने तस्वीर
घुल गयी कहीं
किसी धुंध भरी शाम में
कुछ नहीं दिखा
किसी अधूरे सपने में
कुछ नहीं सोचा
ये कर लेते
या वो कर लेते
या वो भी कर लेते
कुछ न कर पाते कभी
जिस धुंध में चल रहे थे
उसी में चलते रहेंगे
कभी तो राह ख़तम होगी
कभी तो नया मोड़ आएगा
या आएगा वही
पुराना , देखा हुआ रास्ता
चल पड़ेंगे फिर वहीँ
जहां से आये थे
बाकी सब तो
दो पल का ख्याल है
अभी एक है
कल एक और होगा
फिर एक और
सपनो में सांस लेते है
सच्चाई में सपने बुनते है
आखिर में
सच्चाई सपने धुंध
सबका रंग एक
बाकी सब तो
दो पल का ख्याल है
अभी एक है
कल एक और होगा
फिर एक और ||

अमनबाग़

 रौशनी के फूल थे

दूर कही किसी बगिया में

चारों तरफ नीली शाम में

नारंगी संतरे थे

जहां पतंग उडाती थी मासूमियत

कहते है कोई रह नहीं पाया वहाँ

एक दिन हर एक पतंग कहीं खो गयी

वो मासूमियत किसी और सच्चाई की तलाश में

कहते है आज भी कोई परिंदा वापस आता है

कभी कभी उसी बगिया में

खेलता है गुनगुनाता है

पर बहुत शान्ति है वहाँ

कहते है कोई रह नहीं पाया वहाँ ||

दूर कहीं....

आ चल भाग चलें

इस शोर से

कही दूर कही भी

जहां रोज सुबह

कुछ नया सोचने का मन करे

जहां हर दोपहर

किसी गहरी सच्चाई को ढूंढते

जहां पे

रंग महसूस होते

हरे जंगले के बीच तालाब होते

सफ़ेद बर्फ से ढके पहाड़ होते

जहां रोज शाम को

बारिश होती

जहां लोग होते

खुशियाँ होती

आ चल भाग चलें

कहीं दूर कहीं भी

जहां रोज शाम को बारिश होगी

खुशियाँ होंगी

वहीं कहीं किताबों की अलमारियों के बीच

या किसी चाय की दूकान पे

उसी किसी बरसती शाम में

कहानियां सुनाएंगे सबको ||

Somewhere In Between

Somewhere in between,

Filled with regret and angst,

I stand,

Thinking

The unending frustration

Of this aimless reality

Where I am

Unable to touch

The ends

The odds

The willingness

The curiosity

To move forward

To see through it

It is gone

Lost somewhere

Amidst expectations

And dreams

And will

And life overall

I feel

Tied and tired

And hopeless

Somewhere in between

I am struggling

To know the reason

And purpose

Of this life

Somewhere in between

I stand clueless

Angst ridden

Unwilling

And inhuman

Right? Not Always.......

On Indian roads, in the evening, when lampposts are turned on, the whole environment seems orange. After all there are only 3 colors one could render, if, in case someone would even think about it, and they were black, grey and orange. Orange would be an after effect because of the light from the lampposts.  An unknown man stood, with 2 other men, on the footpath. It was quite late in the evening, and that footpath ended near the traffic signal, which as always, turned red suddenly. Another man driving a sedan stopped at the signal, waiting for it to turn green.

He was going back to his place, and on his face he looked exhausted. That was all one could really figure out if someone could really see his face. He didn’t push his window shields of the door of his car up, they were pulled down, so he could see everything that was happening, around, not many other vehicles were there with him, on the signal, waiting for a green light. He looked around, on that pavement, 3 men were standing and talking, their activity made him curious. One of them, stood in between, not literally but as he saw it, 2 of them faced each other, the guy in between could see their cheeks, in a way he was standing, and his face was visible to the guy driving and the sedan guy could see the cheeks of the other two guys, but from the opposite ends.

The 2 guys facing each other were calm, too calm to be harmful. The guy on the right of the sedan guy pulled out a blade, one with broad width, sharp edges and shiny surface. He stuck its tip almost on the abdomen of the guy facing him, if he made a move, the knife would tear the muscle and make its way inside, damaging internal digestive organs and lead to possible hemorrhaging.

The sedan guy looked around. At a distance, behind his car stood a man on his motorcycle wearing a helmet and he didn’t shake his head or nod to check if something was wrong there. On his right there was an SUV parked. A red colored, SUV, huge in size. Possibly, there were travelers inside, one could listen music being played inside that car and a bunch of people having fun, what they were talking about, continued to be inaudible. Behind that SUV there was an auto-rickshaw, that guy was possible smoking, all he could see through the hind window of his car and the front window shield of the auto rickshaw, was a flaming bud, that moved out of his mouth and back, he too didn’t seem to be bothered about the activity that was going on at the pavement. He looked at the traffic signal timer, 43, 42, 41…. One second at a time, the number displayed there, above the signal automatically subtracted itself by one. He looked back at the 3 people at the footpath, the guy with blade, had hidden it, he kept one hand on the other guy’s shoulder, and was talking, telling him something, the listener listened calmly, the third guy rested on one of the cemented blocks along the footpath, he was looking down, not making a move, he seemed to be helpless.

The guy who was talking was trying to console him for something, the listener, following his gaze, he probably was seeing speaker’s 2^ndbutton on his shirt. The sedan guy checked the counter. It was still counting backwards, 23, 22, 21. Till now nothing had happened, on the pavement, loud enough to attract attention, but the faces of the three people, told something else, the speaker had a blade and he was too peaceful, too peaceful to be someone really moral. The sedan guy, wondered, he should call the police? Or perhaps he should wait and see, what happens. He didn’t know what these people were up to. This city was not under surveillance, at night time, if this place would be traffic free, bad things could be done, and people could leave without a trace. The timer was ticking, 13,12,11….. if he stays and sees what happens next, it could take time. What if I wait and nothing serious happens, or may be these people are talking and will leave after sometime? He thought, he could not avoid a possibility though. If he called the police, there were more possibilities, they might hold him, they might ask him a set of questions, if this was a possible crime, then he could be called in as a witness, and in case all this turns out to be nothing that serious, then unnecessarily he will face humiliation from the police, if this blade guy is a real criminal, the sedan guy could stop him now, but what if he becomes a trouble in the long run and a dozen of other possibilities, he looked at the timer……. 3,2,1 and the green bulb lit, he powered up his engine, geared his car moved past the signal, for once, he did check what those guys were doing, through his rear view mirror.

The guy visible in the middle of the two was now looking away, the guy who was speaking started unbuttoning the listener’s shirt as he was drawing his knife out, and the listener was looking beyond the speakers head, his gaze towards another traffic signal tower or may be beyond it, towards the sky.

The sedan guy left the clutch as he pressed the accelerator lever and set his vehicle in motion as he saw one guy unbuttoning another guy’s shirt with a knife in his hand until he took a right turn, round a circular construction. This circular construction was established to avoid traffic jams. As he went right, that pavement slowly transitioned into the round circular construction in the rear view mirror, housing greenery and statues of people, politicians mainly who contributed in building the city, in between a Mahatma Gandhi Statue was raised.

That one step!

One step backward
If I take
I feel
I will fall
One step forward
If I take
I feel
I will walk
In the wrong direction
So I stop
Stop to think
But the reality
Doesn’t allow me to move,
Who should I ask?
The right
Or
The wrong
My right
Is wrong
For those who expect
Right for them
Is wrong
For me
In this world
Of those dependent
Union of right and wrong
Is possibly the only right
But in this life
Why is it
That everything is fuzzy
Those, not as lucky as I am
Why are they so happy?
Is happiness not my destination?
This reality compels me
To wait,
For how long
I am not sure of
Every moment,
Bites
Impatience asks me
To take a step
But this fearsome
Reality
Compels me to think
One step backward
If I take
I feel
I will fall
One step forward
If I take
I feel
I will walk
In the wrong direction
So afraid I am
So tired I am
To take,
That one step
In my life.

Of Being a saint

Vishwas Naagar, was strolling inside a garden. It was a beautiful place, amidst Himalyas, in Himachal Pradesh. From a distance one had to walk on his feet to reach out to that place. It becomes cumbersome for 4 wheelers to reach there because of clumsy road with narrow width. Quite a scenery it was, white snow clad mountains lapped this botanical garden. At this point, where he was standing and studying the pattern, he observed symmetry.

They had constructed a maze, though not as confusing as one could be, but after every third wall built with boxwoods, there was a cube, that encapsulated flowers like rhododendrons and tulips and lilies, that color pattern repeated itself, though with a different set of flowers, exotic ones at times, and they maintained it well. The curious truth of a hill station is one can’t stay there for a lifetime. Parts of it may be, not in totality. After all one needs urban lifestyle and many times also a reason to show off success.

 Naagar was a journalist and did stories on tourism, travel, culture, art etc. He very well understood, long ago that the day he would start reporting, politics, crime and other things would not be his forte.

To this botanical garden, he made his way with the help of a musician friend. Very few people knew about it, because it was slightly remote, limited visits here had allowed better maintenance.  The weather there was pretty cold, it usually was chilly there, but today it appeared slightly on the other, colder side. Even at 2 o clock in the afternoon it felt as if it was a morning and it felt really fresh, with clouds floating around together moistening roses that right now, were on his right. The whole garden, because of clouds, wetted. And every color around him, glossed.

Vishwas knew reality, he had to go back to his office, and write about this place, while his heart was unwilling to do so. If he could, he would stay here, nearby somewhere. But after all, urban men had responsibilities, and those who were strong willed enough to do what they wanted to, for them, their responsibilities were not compulsions, they accepted them happily and Naagar was one of them. Unlike most of the other Indians, who would not really choose anything by themselves and later on the responsibilities of a human being turn into compulsions and very sadly they pass by them. He turned around to move towards a forest. That was basically on the other end of the garden and quite a distance to walk, as it was not exactly within the perimeters of the garden, and moreover slightly on a height.

Officer there told them it housed a lot of pigeons, unique and varying in colors. He went inside the forest. There was a patch, without dense vegetation. A man varying saffron cloak stood there, feeding the pigeons. He looked like a Buddhist saint, who observed Vishwaas Naagar coming, he smiled and nodded to say hello, to which Vishwaas reciprocated. Vishwas approached him, and could not resist from talking to a very charming personality, “Hi, I am Vishwaas”, “God bless you, my name is Ashok”, said the saint. “Whenever I find a saint, a lot of questions pop up in my mind; can I ask you a couple of them, if you don’t mind?” asked inquisitive Vishwaas. “Please ask, though I can’t guarantee I can answer all of them to your satisfaction, but I can try, for sure”, he replied in a charmingly polite manner.

“People tell me, a saint knows answers to all questions, really?”
“My dear friend, there is no difference in being a saint or being anyone else, knowing answers to every question doesn’t make you one, knowing answers to your own questions does, and you immediately establish the foundation once you step out to find the answers to your questions, when you take a step forward in your search for truth”.

Vishwaas nodded, he looked at the hoard of playful pigeons in front of him. He thought may be staying here, is his ultimate truth. He was continuously thinking about a lot of things, what should he ask, or he should simply cherish the moment. The problem lied there, he was pretty content with his life, and he knew that nothing can be perfect.

“I can see, something leaves you confounded, speak, as you should, don’t worry about what I will or anyone else will think, it doesn’t make a lot of difference, really”, Ashok, was not really a very old man, rather a young man, and like any other human being he liked talking, and he liked listeners.
“Ashok, what if, you are inside a class and you have a teacher in front of you, but you don’t have questions?” Asked Vishwaas, abruptly.
“Perhaps you are sitting in the wrong classroom”, replied the wise young saint, smiling, pleased by this situation.

“And what if the teacher asks me a question?”
“Then teacher is trying to evaluate whether he is successful in doing his job or not”
“And what if the teacher simply takes his class, and he doesn’t ask anything from his students, students don’t ask anything from the teacher?”

“Well, then that would be a perfect situation, a perfect disorder, failure for both, the teacher and the students, Vishwaas, this life is a classroom, whatever around you is your teacher, and you are the student. If you do not question the correctness or wrongness around you, then you fail as a student, and your surroundings fail as your teachers. You are here, amused by the prettiness and poetry of this place, but what if, it existed only to attract? Truth is not what you accept, but what you find, by asking and looking for it”
“If it exists to attract, then it would attract me to something good or bad?”
“Not necessarily, few things exist only because they look good, that is their purpose. They don’t lead you anywhere, or solve a bigger purpose”

Vishwaas could absorb what he said, perhaps, beauty never lied in looks and anything that looked good, but we simply run behind them, in this world, filled with greed and brutality, he looked at the saint, who was just not afraid, not afraid of anything, he was, in true terms, free, but this never meant that everyone should be one, after all everyone is needed in this chaos, may be this chaos needed lost individuals, to maintain stability to it, or perhaps, add poetry to it.

The Hands that build India

This title, is a modified line of a song “The Hands that built America” taken from the soundtrack of the film “Gangs of New York” which plays during the end credits that start rolling right after a violent battle between gangsters for dignity and satisfactory survival concludes. The staggering irony is, it is shown in the movie that America which developed into a nation of Empire States and WTCs, as the movie’s tagline suggests, was born on streets. India and America are two different countries, they faced different problems and their needs and dreams and requirements are different, but what continues to be a common truth, for any country let alone India or America, is that any country for its development needs men who would fight for their existence, because like any creature who can feel, its existence matters.
Around 5 lakh engineers were produced in India in 2011, out of them only 17.45% are employable. With more than 113 universities and over 2100 colleges, this is a generation of confounded, angst ridden youngsters, who are afraid to run away from their houses, invent a job for themselves, and then return with success written on their Ts.

Or they just accept the shortcut, buy a degree, find a job and then forget about life. Life that doesn’t really exist, but since there is a bed to sleep, a fancy shirt to wear and someone to talk to, it doesn’t make a lot of difference. Every year, since the day I joined an engineering college, there is a youngster, calling me, asking me, which engineering course he/she should choose and I ask him/her why, you want to join engineering, they tell me, because they can find a job easily.
Why is it that merely finding a job is the last resort. Inside an office in front of a computer someone may/may not do anything that he/she might really enjoy doing, but because they’ll earn money, rather easily so they are ready to do anything. And to be precise I am a part of that youth, and us lazy generation don’t think.

In meetings people literally argue, how much they struggled and they are just not happy about it, and I don’t understand in case someone really loves about whatever he/she is doing why would someone not be happy about his struggle. The point is nothing really matters in terms of growth and development, all that matters is pay scale, people who can be afraid of us, someone outside may get attracted to the enigma that one can create and for that our generation is ready to sell our souls.
Or perhaps, it was hard coded in our system? Just to breathe through our lives we accept slavery, maybe because to show off a seal we do it, and we ignore that we are not really contributing towards better living standards. People here sit inside offices late, because we are afraid that this, whatever we have, if it is lost then it is a done deal and there is no way out. Or maybe because we know that there is nothing else that we can do.
And we are the hands who build India, who are plain clueless, afraid of severities which are hypothetical. And because we are lazy, we don’t want to try, not anymore. If something falls our way, we’d grab it, be it job or life. We wait for something to happen and nothing really happens and we just move on, after a point all of us are frustrated, angry, disappointed. And we still carry on, we don’t have anything fruitful to talk about, so we talk about people around us. We find entertainment in troubling others around us, to see someone troublesome in trouble gives us a cheap thrill, and we don’t realize that it is just sad.
And then people talk about social improvement, charity, issues that are impactful globally, but what about the issues impacting us? Every act of brutality is an after effect of prolonged sadness, because it is after all an extremely passionate move, of some one really passionate about something, unfortunately his passion got directed in wrong direction.

And because we just gave up, we no longer wish to fight for ourselves, we are still not free and though Englishmen have left, we have not left our mentality of being a slave, somewhere at some stage of time, we have been afraid to complain, afraid to stand up for ourselves because we are just dependent, we were dependent and perhaps will be for the rest of our lives and don’t want to lose those who feed our dependence. Because, may be have this inherited and because may be we will pass it on to the future, and like we are hearing for last 10 years, we will become a super power in next 10 years, we will keep hearing it for the rest of our lifetimes, and I blame no one else for such a situation but myself, because I didn’t put up a fight with reality, where somewhere in between I lost my search for truth and accepted whatever crossed my way, stopped fighting for something that would add meaning to my existence and I will, forever be guilty, for contributing my hands towards building a flawed India.  

क्या फर्क रहा

उन शीशे के टुकडो में

तराजू में

आदतों में

अजीब शिकायतों में

मतलब ढूंढते रहे हम

किस्मत को कोसते रहे हम  

आपस में लड़ते रहे हम

इंसान होने का बोझ

लाद लाद कर

झगड़ते रहे हम

खुशियो के मौके

ढूंढते रहे हम

मन बवंडर में उलझा रहा

तो मुस्कान होने पर भी

क्यों खुश न हो सके हम

जब इच्छा ही न रही

तो क्यों खुद को तकलीफ देते रहे हम

दुनिया की उम्मीदों को

तसल्ली देना

अपना धर्म क्यों बना बैठे हम

इसी आवेश में

जहां खुशी से उदासी और उदासी से खुशी

सींचने लगे हम

जहां ज़िम्मेदारी और मजबूरी में

कोई फर्क न रहा

जहाँ सद्भावना और मुसीबत में

कोई फर्क न रहा

वहाँ

जिंदगी जीने और काटने में

क्या फर्क रहा || 

कहाँ खो गए हम

भटकी हुई भीड़ में

शेहेरो में गलियों में

लोगो में

दुनिया में

कभी हम

बड़ों का हाथ थामे

खड़े रहेते थे

अब न तो वो हाथ है

न वो समझदारी

न ही दिशाएं

बस भीड़ है

लोग हैं

दुनिया है

और शोर है

तब एक डर सा था

उम्मीदों को तोड़ने का

अब डर सा है

सपने टूटने का

इस दुनिया में

जहाँ सिर्फ शोर है

इस शोर में

इन लोगो में

इस भीड़ में

एक डर सा है

न जाने  

किस रस्ते पे

किस मोड़ पे

किन उम्मीदों के मेले में

किन उपदेशो के आडम्बर में

समझ नहीं आता

कहाँ खो गए हम ||