The cynic in Aam Aadmi (or Aurat if you please)

Okay, so the AAP has formed the government and Mr. Arvind Kejriwal is the seventh Chief Minister of Delhi and the youngest one to be so. Remarkably, his ascend to this post, is also one of the swiftest and most covered (by media and public interest) in Indian politics. This phenomenon is nothing short of a mini-revolution or coo akin to the India’s freedom from the British. Use of democratic means to achieve the objective of movement, complete rejection of violence even in the face of provocation and involvement of every section of the society were hallmarks of this movement which were also that of the freedom movement; though the duration of freedom struggle, involvement of entire geography, the complete illegitimacy of British rule lend a different shade to that great movement.

What started as a movement against corruption, for which Mr. Kejriwal was acclaimed by the classes (Magsaysay award if you like) and masses (who were there at Jantar Mantar and Ramlila) alike, became a political movement out of which was born the AAP. Critics are quick to point out that this was always the plan and the movement and association with Anna was the façade. Even if it were true, one dares to ask ‘What’s wrong in that?’ Here are bunch of people who are well-educated, have no criminal background, have no muscle or money power to back them up, no surname which gives them a platinum membership the moment they are born and are not asking for votes because of our caste, religion or thankfully liquor. If having an experience or the backing of an already establish party is the only criteria for serious political dialogue, then political or social movements which essentially want to bring a change by new people would never have had the impact they have across the world. And, such movements are not a thing of the past, if one is even cursorily following the events in the Middle-East or for that matter in many districts of our own country where people have chosen violence as their only or last measure to get a rightful share of development.  Even if all this is not true, since when have we become dismissive of experimentation and why should we. In the words of George Bernard Shaw “We need more insane people in this world, look where the sane ones have landed us!”

The rise of AAP which was dismissed as ‘a story’ by the defeated and out-going Chief Minister Shiela Dikshit, needs to be studied for various reasons. Successful political movements have always had causes that people relate to at that period of time, and inspired leadership that is able to use and give momentum to the feelings and thoughts of people. Issues can rarely be planted or concocted; they can be given wind only if they exist for real. The issues that AAP championed – corruption, rising prices of utilities such as water and electricity, transparency in governance, high-handedness and aloofness of the political class, plagued the common man for a very long time and were actually party agnostic. The response of the common man was apathy at worst or finding a corner away from the mainstream to express himself/herself (as an organisation or activist) at best. The option of addressing these issues in the mainstream public or political arena was ruled out, despite our chest-thumping as the largest democracy in the world (even this sounds like such a cliché!).

To make matters worse a certain cynicism had crept in, which others used to colour the efforts of this movement and treat it with disdain. History is an easy refuse for the cynic. Comparisons were drawn to previous political movements that had either lost their sheen due to leadership struggles or failed abysmally due to governance and administrative reasons. Not surprisingly some of the biggest critics are also the victims of the same phenomena and are no longer ‘the party with difference’ as even people among them would admit. The need to create an alternative space which the youth of today could relate to and aspire for, was discounted. The entry barrier to politics as an occupation (one would shy away from using the word profession) is one of the highest and the youth was dissuaded and discouraged to have anything to do with the ‘dirty thing’.

This movement among others has certainly ended the cynicism for many. The ‘Aam Admi’ in India is a cynic and might remain so because of limited opportunities and practically unlimited competition for resources but there has been an honest attempt by some ‘aam aadmi (and aurats)’ to take matters that matter to them in their own hands through rightful means. That includes not only Mr. Kejriwal and his team of ministers and elected legislators, but the thousands of party workers and volunteers who worked tirelessly for their spectacular success. This attempt should be lauded.

This attempt will be under surveillance in the days to come, its success to be belittled and failures to be magnified. The foundation itself is shaky and contradictory – issue based support from the party or parties against the actions of which this movement was born. Whether the AAP is able to deliver on the causes it has chosen to take up and meet other challenges such as relevant and quality education, livelihood opportunities, affordable healthcare and inflation, if it does not compromise on transparency and corruption, it would remain vindicated. The AAP has to remain true most importantly to the people whose causes it espouses – the aam aadmi.  This might look simple but as the lessons learnt from past suggest, it is not. 

My school is on the bank of river Daya

My school is on the bank of river Daya,

The river of kindness;

The river that was kind to mighty king Ashoka, 

And made him the ruler of hearts of men through Dharma. 

The teacher told us so in the history class,

Just before the rains came in. 

This river goes up all the way to the Lake Chilika, 

Which I wish to see through my eyes;

The words of  Utkalamani* ring in my ears,

Which I read in the school recitation competition

Just before the rains came in.   

In the holy month of Kartik, 

My mother and I, along with others of the village

Take our small boats made up of banana bark,

And set them sail on this river, 

In the glory of the tradesmen of Odisha who sailed 

To distant lands like Sumatra, Bali and Java. 

I too wish to go,

When older I grow, 

But the rains have come in, 

The river has flooded among other things, my school. 

There are no classes, no play, 

My friends and teachers I miss too. 

O kind river, be kind once more,

Let the water go away to Chilika,

And the children go to school with joy. 

* Utkalamani Gopabandhu Das 

Jajabara Travels - Khajuraho : Poetry in Stones

I have a new look on the art of sculpting and the sculpter after visiting the Western Complex of temples at Khajuraho. Sculpting requires, not only the art of a painter and imagination of a poet but also the calculations of a mathematician and the strength and discipline of a worker. It requires a perfect balance between body and the mind. This is where it becomes a more exacting art form than say poetry or painting.
            The sculptures of Khajuraho speak to you in a way that intricately carved, richly decorated and high priced pieces of 'art collections' at any museum would not. Here in the setting and surroundings of temples they are not isolated works to be admired as the output of some artist; rather, they are simply present as a depiction of collective effort of many and represent the everyday life. The setting and the place is their own.
They speak to you with their gestures, their beauty, their actions, with compassion on their face, inviting admiration, exclamation, empathy, love and sometimes jealousy.
           Precise beauty in human forms, sheer horror in form of strange beasts, divinity in forms of gods and architectural brilliance in setting up of richly carved stones ('balua' stones in this case) are all brought together in this magnificent world created by hammer and chisel. As a poet beautifully puts it and as recounted by the voice of Amitabh Bacchan in the glorious light and sound show here

'Make me a stone among the many stones here
O Master sculptor of Khajuraho !'

I reflect: Isn't the world we live in, a similar marvel created by God.

'O Lord! make me a beautiful stone and place me in my rightful place!' A prayer rises up in mind spontaneously. I am sure the Lord's reply, if we could hear it in the din of our restlessness, would be
'Tathaastu' (in Sanskrit) or 'It is already so!'

Dew drops on bamboo leaves

We saw them last night 

Spread against the sky. 

Somewhere in perfect patterns

Which we could understand;

And some we could not,

But, beautiful all the same. 

Smiling and winking at each other

Having a chat may be

About the moon, who was missing. 

Some said he got down,

Through its dancing reflection

From the sky into the beautiful lake

With white lilies,

Where a fair girl was bathing;

He has not come back since. 

And the blue lake, the green lily leaves,

The black night bird

Won't say a word. 

But, the sun

Has come out this morning,

Red in shame. 

Does it know?

Has it seen something?

But, it won't tell either.

The stars have now set it upon themselves

To look for the unwilling moon,

And have it come back to the sky.

Here, they have spread out against every leaf of bamboo

Hanging on the tips,

Looking in all directions,

Signalling each other with movements in the wind:

But will the find?

The sun is not helping at all,

Growing big and pale in anger.

The stars have to hasten their search

Else the sky and they

Will be without company at night. 

Of cyclones with funny names

I am the black fisherman's wife,
Who loves her husband dearly,
Even though he beats me up,
When Drunk;
But then, that is when he says the sweetest things
Only as a rugged fisherman can.
But, I never get angry on him from within,
Though I threaten to not to cook for him
I always do, even if it is only rice
And fish left over from selling in the local haat.
But, why did he have to fight this morning
Before going to the sea.

The clouds have completely covered the sky,
Rendered it black,
As if the night never got over.
The dogs have been barking as if they have seen a devil,
The hen have been running around as if there is no tomorrow.
And my right eye has been flickering since yesterday.
One can't trust these omens though,
But what to do of my heart which has been beating like a drum
And rushing to come out of my bosom.

The village head-man was saying about
Something on the radio
Some funny name which can't be from here.
Sometimes I wonder, who sends these curses.
Can't be the sea,
Who is our father and feeds us throughout the year
Even mother earth was kind this year
And the fields of the farmers looked green
When my husband took me to the market last Monday.

O what disaster will ensue!
Houses will be swept away,
Cattle and other animals will die first,
Fields and roads will all be filled with,
Dirty water, broken trees,
Belongings of people and corpses too.
Food and clean water will be scarce,
People used to break their backs for their earning,
Will live on crumbs of mercy thrown at them.
God only knows when will people return to their old homes
And old ways of life.
But my heart goes out to my husband,
Who will be the first in harm's way.
Alone, on his small ship,
In look out for the fish,
Looking at the sky occasionally
And maybe muttering 'another bad day'
Only, I am afraid it isn't any 'other bad day'
O Godess Kali ! I offer you my two hens
On the puja day;
And also the small black goat with white spots.
Let my husband comes back well.

Puraana Akhbaar

अखबार कागज़ पर नहीं छपते,
छपते हैं समय के चेहरे पर,
फिर इनकी कई कापियां बनके
पहुँच जाती हैं हमारे पास
एक आइने की तरह ।
हमारा और हमारे समाज का आइना ।
अखबार, इतिहास का ही पहला स्वरुप होता है ।

अख़बार कटता  है, बंटता है,
जुड़ता और पढ़ा भी जाता है ।
अख़बार हम इंसानों की तरह ही हैं ।
लोग इनका इंतज़ार करते हैं,
मिलने पर खुश होते हैं,
कभी शिकायत भी करते हैं ।
ये कभी अकेलेपन के साथी होते हैं
तो कभी घर की चहल-पहल,
और बात-चीत का ज़रूरी हिस्सा,
चाय इनके बिना फीकी ही लगती है ।

ये हमारी घर की  कुर्सियों को
सीधा खड़ा होना सीखाते हैं ।
सन्डे के पिकनिक में कभी बैठने की या प्लेट रखने की जगह तो
कभी खुद ही प्लेट बन जाते हैं ।
हमारे बच्चे इनसे खेलते हैं,
कभी नाव तो कभी रॉकेट बनाते हैं,
इनपे कलम या रंग चलाते हैं ।
और माँ हर एक-दो महीनो में
घर के सारे अलमारियों पर
पुराने अखबारों को उतार कर
नए बिछा देती हैं है ।
सच ! पुराने अख़बार बड़े काम के होते हैं ।

हमें अखबार बहुत कुछ देते भी हैं ।
काम करने को नौकरी की खबर,
रहने को आशियाने का पता,
और कितनी ही बार
उम्र भर को निभाने को रिश्ते ।
अखबार कभी पुराने नहीं होते ।

The Plateaus of Deccan

From the last blue mountains,
Where your sight reaches,
To the other blue mountains,
When you turn back,
Lie the great plateau,
Reminding of Buddha's
'Middle Path.'

--
A hot summer afternoon of Decaan

A tired farmer
Sleeps in the shade of neem tree,
He bullocks ruminating
Over the changing colours of the tilled earth
Or varied symmetry of crops in the field,
And flicking their tails in between,
Which two tireless flies dodge without effort.

A brown bird looks left and right
And then digs its beak into the field,
Quick and swift,
Looking for food without luck.

The dark clouds above
Cling to the neck of the mountains,
They might come down the curved path soon
And provide some respite.

We Were the Forests

Story of vast dry stretches of Yawal forests in MP. It is called Yawal Wildlife sanctuary, but , there is hardly any wild or life in it any more. 

We were the forests,
But we are no more now.
What you see around 
Are sad pictures and bad memories.

An uninspired photographer 
May have some interest, 
In our leaf-less structures,
In our grey and black hues,
In patterns that our pale thorn-like branches 
Make against the dark monsoon sky.

Monsoon! 
We once waited for it,
And rejoiced when it came.
Used to feel the tiny cool raindrops 
Touch us, tickle us and trickle down 
To reach our happy bosoms,
Through our veins. 
Those were happy days and nights!

We used to share a story or two 
With the travelers,
Who stopped by for some shade or smoke.
No one stops by now.
Not even the birds,
Who fly past us. 
May be we look like men now.

An army of men rather,
In straight rows and columns,
In arms outstretched and ready 
To ready to strike down..
Another small world,
Of us trees, animals, birds.
Another one of us,
We who were the Forests,
But now we are Men !

Babuji

She was there every day on Ashwin’s way to office, too loud to be unnoticed, too commonplace to be remembered. She used to sit a few yards away from the metro, in sun during whitish winter mornings of Delhi and in the shade of a tree for the rest of the year. She used to cry out to people for a few rupees, a baby either playing around her, eating or simply sleeping in her laps. She used to always ask for the child and his welfare. Ashwin wondered sometimes if the kid was even related to her remotely. He never gave anything other than a condescending glance.

One day she was not there, conspicuous by lack of her definitive presence for the eyes and ears. Ashwin was not bothered, but simply curious. Illness? Then, he remembered a man trying to get her off her usual seat last evening. She was not even replying or protesting. A man was shouting at her and asking her to leave the place immediately. He was rude and extremely curt. Ashwin was wondering if he was an official who was doing her duty or simply an irritated commuter who had had enough. Also, he observed that the girl was keenly looking at the shoes of the man, particularly the orange strings that were sewn to the sole.

‘Did you get the clothes Babuji’

‘No. Not today. Will get you tomorrow. Have you had anything to eat?’

‘Yes sir’

‘Okay. I have to leave now…’

Ashwin remembered a broken conversation between the girl and a person whose face he had not seen. A good Samaritan, he thought and moved on lost between his thoughts of home and office.

Ashwin started to conjure up a story.

The girl was intently looking at the shoes of the man. She did not remember anything else. It was too dark the previous night as she was gathering her stuff and money collected throughout the day. A man came up to him and talked to him about promised clothes. He took her to a corner and offered him a hundred rupee note. She was surprised. She extended her tentative hand to take the note. The man grabbed her hand and asked her to come with him. As the girl refused and pulled back her hand, he came closer and grabbed her by both hands. He offered more money – thousand rupees and tried more force. Then he tried brutal force and no money. The child was screaming and crying, simply hungry, not too sure of what was happening. The girl was on the ground and the man had her by the throat, trying to avoid any sound, though there was no one at this point in time. Her face was pressed against his shoes, which has orange strings sewn at the sole.

Few days later, the girl was still staring at similar shoes with orange strings. She did not confront the man. She did not shout, or protest. She simply walked away. Who would be interested in what happened to her, who would believe and why. She was rather happy that she did not have to have another child to carry around. 

Unseen-Unheard | Farmer protests in Jantar Mantar - New Delhi

We are cynical, disparaging many times at the motley crowd of protesters assembling at Jantar Mantar or Ramlila Maidan for various reasons thinking aloud 
'what will they achieve?' 
'what a nuisance to the traffic/public'
'another farce'
'attempt at political mileage'
but the most elitist being 
"Do these people even know why are they here for?"
or "they would have been just handed a few notes or cheap liquor"

Well, I got to know better today.
I hesitated for a while, but then finally stopped near two elderly farmers to ask the brig question
"Why are you here for dada?'
"For our rights" answered the friendlier looking one.
"That I know, but, what exactly do you want?"
"Minimum prices for our produce."
"Hasn't the government decided that already?"
"Forget the government, but the courts have decided the minimum prices for agricultural produce and urged the state governments and companies to follow. But, this government does not even follow court rulings!!"
"Such 'looteraas' these governments are" added the other fierce-looking farmer who was standing at a distance and scanning me
with his yellow eyes to decide my background and motive.
"You tell me sir, you are educated and you do a job here. How would you feel if 3-4 sets of people took share from your salary. How will you feed your children" asked the former farmer.
"If the farmer get his right share he can't produce. Then what will you eat" again the angry farmer added and came closer to me.
" I understand dada, I come from a village and understand the hardships you face. That's why i am talking to you"
"This government is so arrogant, they don't even listen to Supreme Court!. What option do we have?" they were talking among each other.
"Is there a market around? asked one.
"What do you want dada?"
"A mobile shop?" said one, absolutely non-chalant.
I showed them the route and went ahead on my way to office. Some curious onlookers were, looking at us having the conversation. I am sure the same questions and cynicism would be there in their heads.
Go. Talk to Them.

Death of An Evening

The sky wept all night. The tears which twinkled in its eyes as stars came down as rains and moistened the bosom of the earth. Each drop had a story; unspoken pain, long longing, abandoned hope and definite despair. The apathy and indifference of man made no difference anymore. The leaves though were trembling and nodding their heads in silent but helpless empathy. The wind was restless and angry like a young boy pacing up and down in his room, unable to understand why his parents are fighting or what he should do.

The evening, the beautiful bride, which the sun brought home had died.

A train journey

Wo doosron ke ghar ke bane poori aur aloo ko dekhna, 
Offer karne par, pehle naa aur phir haan karna,
Pede ka aadha tukda kha kar, padosi ko aadha.badha dena,
Breakfast me humesha bread cutlet ka hona,
Samose wale ke baad chaiwala aur chaiwale ke baad mungfali wale ka wait karna, 
Bahut yaad aata hai, train mein safar karna.

Politics se lekar cricket tak, 
History se lekar weather tak,
Faasle khatam Ho jaate the, par guftagu nahin,
Antakshari, dumb cherades aur Taash ki baaziyon se
Haseen silsilon ka shuru hona,
Nazron ka milna aur milte hi  pher lena,
Muskurahaton ko dabaana, 
Phone numbers ya address exchange karna,
Aur kabhie kabhie un khaabon ka mulaqaton me mukammil hona,
Bahut yaad aata hai, train mein safar karna

Khidkiyon se hawa ka chehra choom lena,
Suraj ko patriyon par bhagte hue dekhna, 
Baarish ka bijli ki taar par naachna, 
Sufaid kohre ke shawl odhe peele.sarson ka neend mein unghna, 
Station ke kaale-peele naam padhna, 
Chalna-rukna, aur hilte-dulte, dhire-dhire,
Jaise maa ki thapkiyon ke sahare so jaana,
Bahut yaad aata hai sach train mein safar karna

Morning Walk

Yaadon ki gathri ko baandh kar
Ummeedon ke chiraag ko jalakar
Kal ka kaajal ponchh kar aankhon se
Aaj ka chamakta suraj laga maathe pe
Ek thaka hua raahi uthkar jaise
Phir se taiyaar hota hai
Raat ki rajai se uthkar
Theek waise hi, hum chal dete hain
Din ko seene se lagaane
Jo shaam hote-hote bojh sa lagne lagta hai,
Aur hum betaab ho jaate hain
Ki kaise utaar phenk kar use
So jayen raat ke god mein phir se.

Din-raat, log-bag,
Aansun-muskaan, Jeet-Haar,
Baichaini-sukoon, sukh-dukh
Dard-Dava, Sab mile
Jaise park mein morning walk karte hue
milte hain, doosri taraf se aate hue log,
Jinse milkar hum chal dete hain
Apni-apni disha mein
Akele, Ekaant,
Hum akele hi chalte hain
Apne khayalon ke udhed-bun mein khoye hue.

Ye nahin tay kar paate
Ki ant kahan hai?
Lakshya kahan hai?
Aur chalte hue
Kuch duri, Kuch deri ke baad,
Phir milte hain

Aansun-muskaan, Jeet-Haar,
Baichaini-sukoon, sukh-dukh
Dard-Dava se,

Aur milkar hum phir chal dete hain
Apni-apni disha mein
Akele, Ekaant.

Work

There are days,
When we work,
And work much,
Without any rhyme
Or reason as such.

Too busy to be glad,
Too busy to be sad.
Moving from one thing,
One person, to the other,
Not knowing whether,
We loose or we gain.

All get mixed up,
All look the same,
Too far to future,
We can not see
No fruits of action in sight
We dig only in earnest right.

Friends and foes
Both forgiven and forgot.
Victory and Misery,
All relinquished.
Fame and defamation,
Cast aside like yesterday's flowers
From the body of temple deity.

Forward or backward,
We are not certain,
But we move,
And one this is certain,
We act, and We do,
We do it rather good.

Jajabara Trips - V (Biking in Odisha)

There were two options, either I stayed at home or frowned or I travelled and be happy. I chose the latter.

I thought about it while packing my bag for this short unplanned road trip on bike. I thought about it while taking shower, while making a phone call to arrange for a bike and while I frantically ransacked the entire house for my pair of glasses which were lying just next to the pillow. I did not have a plan or a map and I had never done this route before. I was alone, but as in the toughest moments of my life, this was my strength. It was a chance that my friend, from whom I had borrowed the bike and almost said goodbye also joined me for the ride, to attend a wedding he had forgotten about. The wedding was in the exact place where I was planning to ride to – Gopalpur-on-sea.

“…when men travel and meet, they talk and think…” – H.G.Wells, A short history of the world.

These lines were echoing in my head while we rode out of the city. It is interesting how when we are travelling on the road, what we eagerly look forward to many times, is a city or town to get fuel, food, sleep, medicines or to get the bike repaired but, most travels start out with this pressing urgency to get out of the city! We got out all right, tanked up the silver coloured Bullet Electra 350-‘the good old bullet’ as my friend Prakash would refer to it.

We stopped first at ‘BataBhuasuni’ which means Goddess of the road. I had once, many years before not stopped by at this temple and went ahead in arrogance but returned with a broken bike, back and ego. It occurred to Prakash that we could have the temple prasad for lunch. The Mother Annapurna fed her children well. The vegetable curry was cooked in mustard oil and has mustard paste in it, the strong smell still fills my nose as I write about it.

The road was the best I have seen in Odisha, riding was very comfortable. The ‘good old bullet’ was really good. It was steady even at 100kmph. The traffic was minimal by NH 5 standards. The afternoon sun was bright and hot but the cool winds of December helped shield some of the impact. My friend had no idea why I was on this trip. He got the first hint when I pulled over to turn to the Narayani temple, 100kms away from Bhubaneswar. The temple was clean and the mountain stream flew right through the temple, from the sanctum sanctum to courtyard all the way to the steps. We drank some of the water and exchanged the driving seat. The road continued to impress and give joy.

There is a small town on this road, known as ‘Tangi’ which means a large open space. That is what the roads would make you feel and you can very well see a good two or three kilometers away. The roads would be inviting you like the open arms of your beloved, to come and embrace them.

After a few kilometres, we came closer to Rambha, a scenic place overlooking Chilika Lake. Prakash has the fortune to drive on this ‘ghaati’ and I had the fortune to soak in all the beauty of the green mountains, black roads, blue sky and blue lake with green and black islands scattered over it. Prakash showed me a sign board and I asked him to pull over. There was a tea shop as well. The sign board was for Oliver Ridley Turtles. A narrow mud-road led to the mouth of river Rushikulya, where the turtles come every year for hatching and breeding around this time of the year. This event is a much-awaited one in the calendar of wildlife enthusiasts and lovers. The tea shop guys told us that we could see some turtles. This was certainly not a part of the plan and I was thrilled to say the least. We did some planning and headed out to Gopalpur-on-sea to find a place to spend the evening and half of the night. We would visit the tea shop again in a few hours but this time slightly angrier.  

We checked in into Swosti Palm Resorts. It was no coincidence that it did not have a ‘Sea’ suffix or prefix with its name. We discovered in the light of the morning that the only thing near that hotel was a large pool of foul-smelling waste. Then we headed out to the beach. It was dark and beautiful, the sky was clear and I could not remember when was the last time I had seen such a clear sky that you could tell one star from another. We roamed around, and exchanged stories that we had not shared for the last 5 years. We had some tea and some really fresh salad, thinly chopped sprouts, tomato, cucumber and onions with half of a lemon squeezed over it! The unmistakable ‘jhaal-mudhi’ followed. 

Prakash still had the Science (actually Zoology) hangover from his college days and I was in ‘I-need-to-get-my-poetry-back’ mode. He explained that the waves were due to temperature difference and that they actually don’t travel from one point to other as they appear. I said that the waves looked as moustaches on the face of the sea-god and that the stars twinkled when the talked. We walked back to our hotel to have dinner. We planned to sleep early after having minced vegetables and rotis for dinner. The pool table was the saving grace of the hotel and it kept us away from our wake-up early plan. I woke up at 2.30 AM, Prakash has not slept at all. We got ready and put on our jackets and helmets. Shoes gave way to slippers as we expected to walk long miles in the sand to watch the rare Oliver Ridley Turtles. It was cold and dark but our spirits were high and we rode at around 70kmph. Prakash was right, the chill of the night affected our speed. We reached the spot on highway soon but then the black magic began.

There were no fellow wildlife or nature lovers, there were no guides or villagers. It was 4AM and the world was doing what it should be-sleeping. The only light was that of our ‘good-old-bullet’ and we could not tell the road from the open fields. We followed the trail and reached a dead-end where we met white bright field and a red broken temple. A strong smell engulfed us along with fear. I could almost see a naked sadhu come out of the temple with something like a head in his hands.

‘Let’s turn back’ I said and turned my back on the temple. I did not want to see a one-eyed, broken-toothed smile greeting me.

‘I think we lost our way here’ Prakash has been here before and was trying hard to remember the right way.

We went ahead and soon we had a surprise company.

‘Look. A black hare’ Prakash shouted.

It was black hare, which was in a hurry. Though the road was full of stones and mud, it still allowed us a speed of 30-40kmph. The hare was faster. It was as if it was sent to us to lead us to the river mouth.

I would not have been surprised if the hare stopped and her mistress in stood there with a Dalmatian and a magic wand. Well, our guide disappeared at the next crossroad, leaving us to figure out the rest of the road. 

We lost our way again, Prakash’s past memory and present sense vying with each other. We finally reached the point, but there was no one.

‘The turtles won’t be here for another month or so’ a villager informed us as he came from the sea.

What was he doing in the sea all night? I was curious to look into his bag, but avoided the temptation. As we were discussing whether to head ahead, wait or get back, there was a sudden brightness behind us. First one and then two, three flames lit up. We turned back and saw three women besides the fires.

They were more fluent in Telegu than Oriya. They were cooking rice for their husbands which would be their breakfast and lunch both. They also confirmed that we were too early for the turtles. We tried to not get disappointed.

‘It was thrilling. I have made my first night ride’ I said.

‘The hare would be my take away!’ Prakash added as he laughed.

We decided to watch the sunrise from the Gopalpur beach and this time I was on the driver’s seat. It was meditative. The silence and the chill of the night, the darkness rendering an eerie uniformity to the landscape sent me to a meditative mood. Prakash was on alert thankfully and gave a timely pat to show me a diversion we approached in a hurry.

‘Keep your eye on the yellow indicators or the white line’

‘Ohh. Thanks.’ I followed this useful advice. 

It was still very dark when we reached Gopalpur but the horizon was a spectacle beyond words. It was as if a painter was preparing his canvas. It was lit with blue and red colors. The rest of the sky was pitch black with beautiful stars shining.

We decided to simply wait for the sunrise there.

‘Sunrise is at 5.45 AM’ Prakash informed.

‘Says who?’

‘Google!’ He smiled.

The sky slowly changed its colour-from the horizon to the centre. The morning clouds added the extra hues. It was well-past 5.45, but there was no sign of the sun. I was beginning to wonder if ever I would behold a sunrise over the Bay of Bengal. I had tried many times to witness the spectacle which my mother described something as ‘popping out of a ball from a child’s hand’, but had not succeeded. On some occasions, it was morning mist, on other it was long queues at gas stations and on yet another occasion, it was having an over-enthusiast photographer-friend for a driver, who decided to click palm trees on the road instead of sun-over-sea.

It was truly rewarding to say the least. The red sun turning to orange and finally yellow and all the while warming our bodies, hearts and mood. It was like the sky pouring out the wine of the sun to the glass of our souls. We carried the warmth and goodness to the huge red and white lighthouse. There was an abandoned project site with lovely stonework to match the images of ‘postcards from Europe’. We did some posing, not to miss out on the photo-opp.

We checked back into our hotel and played another round of pool accompanied by nice brown-black tea with strong aroma of ginger. We took shower and headed out for the religious part of the trip. First, it was the trip not planned to Dhabaleshwar – Shiva temple on beach and next it was to the temple of Mother Tatatarini on the hill-top.

We rode back to Bhubaneswar after a sumptuous wedding feast we had for our lunch. It was one of the most tasty wedding feasts I have had in recent times. We rode non-stop for three hours before stopping for tea and snacks. It was fast but steady riding with average speed of around 90kmph. The city lights and backlights of vehicles on the highway signaled the ‘same old world’ feeling. ‘Same old world’ of compulsions, delusions, confusions, emotions, duties, explanations and gumption (word borrowed from Zen and art of Motorcyle maintenance) of a different kind.

I DO NOT die!!!

This is a protest against everything that happened to the 23 year old young girl who was gang-raped in New Delhi and who succumbed to her injuries today. I chose the easier way-writing, than people who are on streets and expressing their protest, anger, grief and solidarity.
---

I DO NOT Die!

You may stifle my voice,
Choke my throat with iron hands,
Gag my mouth with black clothes of your party flags.
But my voice will resound and resonate
From the Gates and Hills,
Through thousands of mouths,
Thorough millions of hearts,
Of my sisters, brothers, fathers and mothers
Who are just like Me.

You may batter my body,
Infect it with pestilence and gangrene, 
Shift it to foreign lands,
To die with the darkness of the night. 
But, my spirit will shine in strength and brightness
Like the Sun and blind you,
You who are hiding behind
Your sun-glasses of hypocrisy. 

You may stab my heart
With knives of bestiality,
You may thrash my limbs
With sticks of lies and false promises,
You may cut my stomach
With bloody swords of accusations,
You may bury my shattered body
Under the cold mud and grovel of politics.
But, you can not kill me.

You may try to drown 
The rising waves of my spirit by water canons,
You may use gas to make me cry 
And make my vision blurry.
But, try as hard you can,
You, the hideous, heinous,
Abominable, abase character of every man,
I must let you know,
I am a free soul
Soaring high in open skies,
I am a free soul,
I did not die,
I DO NOT die!

besharm shayar

bada hi besharm hai ye shayar,

log kehte hain,

apne zakhm chupa lo,

duniya dekhegi to hasegi, mazaak udaegi,

kamzori ka fayeda bhi uthaegi.

par dekho, ye to apne zakhmon ko apne nazmon mein utar kar

unhe dikhata, padhta aur sunata phirta hai duniya mein.

 

sari kharashein saaf nazar ati hain iski

kyon na ho

pairahan jo halke shabdon ka hai?

ab khaab aur khaak ke beech ka faasla

is shayar ke hothon jitna hi hai.

uska dil aur chehra hi to wo safhe hain

jin par wo khoon-e-jigar ki syahi chipkata hai

bada besharam hai ye shayar

apne ruh ko jala kar din karta hai

apne nazmon mein apni raatein kaat-ta hai

है

क्या आप उसे जानते हैं ?

उसे जिसका कोई रूप नहीं है, जिसका कोई नाम भी नहीं है . 

जो कहीं से आया नहीं है और जिसे कहीं जाना भी नहीं है . 

जिसने आकाश और पृथ्वी पर बिखरे रंगों की होली को देखा, 

पर वह दृष्टी नहीं है . 

जिसने कोमल और कठोर शब्दों के निनाद को सुना 

पर श्रवण शक्ति वो नहीं है . 

प्रिय-अप्रिय गंधों का अनुभव किया 

पर वो घ्राण नहीं है . 

सारे रसों का आस्वादन किया 

पर वो रसना नहीं है . 

जड़-चेतन सभी को छुआ 

पर स्पर्श का अनुभव भी वो नहीं है . 

सुन्दर और वीभत्स विचारों को उसने देखा 

पर चंचल मन नहीं है वो . 

स्थूल-सूक्ष्म वस्तुओं को जांचा-परखा

पर वो बुद्धि भी नहीं है . 

सृजन-पालन और विनाश भी किया अनेकों बार

पर क्या वो महत अहम् नहीं था? 

उससे कई प्रेम करते थे, घृणा करते थे 

पर वो किसीका शत्रु या मित्र नहीं था . 

जिसने कई लोगों से सीखा और कुछ सिखाया भी 

पर ना वो गुरु था ना शिष्य . 

जन्म-मरण के चक्र से वो गुज़र चूका था 

पिता-पुत्र, के चरित्र निभा चूका था . 

जो निर्विकल्प और अद्वैत है 

जो सर्वत्र है , जो शाश्वत है 

जो था, जो है और जो कल भी होगा 

क्या उसे आप जानते हैं ?

Rat Race?

We all knew the saying
"The winner in a rat race is still a rat"
But, we all kept running all the same
For the bounty and the shameful fame,
Of being 'The' rat
Or the First among rats!

A mere piece of bread,
Thrown purport-fully to tempt,
Would never fail to agitate our lot,
Whether we got it nor not.
Some would run for fear,
Mostly imagined, never real.

Yet many would run,
Simply because, Many others are.
Too busy to ask 'Why?'
Or even think 'What for?'

There are a few who run
To get away from the tails of past.
After years of sweat,
Only get frustrated to find the past
Clinging on to them and moving just as fast!

Oh, the old puzzle is never old enough,
Of an onlooker trying to make out
"Who is ahead?"
"Who follows whom?"
In an ongoing race in a circle.

A race where the means and the ends
Are not in sight.
Eyes myopic, sense of smell ageing,
Blurs the sense of wrong and right.
Rats come and go,
Rats watch rats run,
Rats live and Die,
But rats never learn!

Jajabara Trips IV (The Holy Monsoon!!)

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1400 kms of Train - 1583 kms of Road Journey | 5 states | 
Gods | Saints | Monuments | Caves | Forts | Forests | Rivers | Monsoon | 
1 car | 3 Travelers |


Details soon...