उमस

औंधे कमरे में अब मेरा पता नहीं मिलता ।
न कोई आहट किसी हरकत की,
न जिस्म की बू कहीं ।
चेहरा और कमरे में बंद अँधेरा
एक दुसरे में समां चुके थे ,
उन्हें अलग करना मुश्किल था ।

आँखें धुप में जल गयीं थी ,
शहर के एहतमादी लू ने
साँसों का गला घोंट दिया था ।
रगों में बहता हुआ लहू
खुश्क आँखों को जज्बातों में डुबो कर
भिगो कर सूख चूका था ।

बहार से आवाज़ देना बेकार था,
नशा कोई भी नहीं - होश कहाँ था?
पर मुझे ख़बर थी
मैं उस कमरे में नहीं था ।

breeze

You seem a little confused.
Have come to me, touched
And gone past and come back again
And again, many times.

And what have you written
On these white letters of clouds ?
I can't read well, the moon is with you,
Or have you sent them blank?

Your words are all mixed tonight
Anger, care, complaint and love.
All come and go fast
How am I to respond ?

Come closer, stay,
Let me feel you on my face.
Let me take-in your scent
In my breath.

Be engulfed in joy innocent
Without reason any
And be aware
That you Are.

sauda

बड़े घाटे का सौदा रे,
सौदा बड़े घाटे का रे ।
हाथ लिए गेहूं,
मोल दिए आटे का रे ।

जो कुछ भी माँगा,
पल में गवाया,
फिर मांगने तेरे
द्वार मैं आया ।
माया मरी न
तृष्णा मरी,
देह मरा पर
यह मन न मरा रे
बड़े घाटे का सौदा रे
सौदा बड़े घाटे का रे । । । १। ।


चैन गवाया, बुद्धि गवाई
बदले में चिता-सी चिंता पाई।
इस दौड़-धुप में क्या पाया मैंने
और कौन मुझसे छुटा रे
बड़े घाटे का सौदा रे
सौदा बड़े घाटे का रे । । २। ।

ध्यान छुटा, मेरा भजन छुटा
विषयों के बाज़ार आकर
मेरा तकदीर फूटा ।
कीमत न जानी कैसा अभागा
सोने को मैंने माना सुहागा
इसकी सुनी मैंने उसकी सुनी
गुरु ज्ञान पे न ध्यान धरा रे।
बड़े घाटे का सौदा रे
सौदा बड़े घाटे का रे ।


तोता भी रट रट के राम का नाम सीख लेता है। सतगुर कबीर जी को पढ़, सुनके ही यह बन पाया है , उन्ही को अर्पित है ।

poem 18

You had filled my empty days,
At nights fought with sleep for space
In the yellow desert of my eyes
And showed me many songs and plays.

Made me forget the lashes of memories
Struck on mind's naked back,
A break too from the cruel game with mirages
Of future, where one gambles on forgeries.

Intellect, knowledge, reason kept aside
So did were feelings dipped in pride
To 'here and now' you brought me
To think, believe, realise, decide.

And to Act , for the result taking no thought,
Whether it was a cheap bargain I bought,
It was my inevitable duty, my nature,
That there was a vital battle and I fought.

This form of poetry is called Rubayiyat (rhyming scheme aaba), made famous by the Persian poet Omar Khayyam.


Many titles could be nominated: Temptation, Kurukhsetra, Guru, The War. Too many for me to decide.

poem 16

maid

she swept neat the floor of the big house,
where from each tile the face of her son beamed.
'left alone at home, would he be crying for me?
ah! if only I could wipe the tear from his cheeks
and sweat from his forehead rather than this floor.'

she put out the clothes in the sun to dry.
the colour reminded her of the red frock
she saw through the glasses at the blue shop.
'should I ask for an advance or wait for month-end;
but my daughter's birthday can't wait no?

'it is so hot this year and then the damned powercuts,
why did they have to cut down the neem tree
that gave shade to her hut?
the children suffer so much during the afternoon!'
she thought while dusting the ceiling and the fans.

'two potatoes and handful of lentils is all that is left,
the children would ask for curry again.
three times he forgot,maybe he is saying the truth
or has he been drinking my Lord !'

her hands, feet and her body were here at her master's house,
busy working tirelessly and well.
her mind's compass though pointed to her small home
and he attention concerntrated on her family above all.

poem 14

First Winter

This winter was the coldest
And the hardest.
During the snowfall of circumstances,
The glass-like sharp edges of flakes of words
Brushed past my exposed face
Unused to climate such as this.

The freezing cold winds from north
Cut my eyes like sharp threads of memories.
Got into my chest made it heavy
And did not even come out.
At night the bones
Could hear them talk among themselves.
The fluid of emotions that oiled them
Must have been dried up.

Many things slowed down,
Some even to a halt:
The heart threatened not to beat at times,
Muscles did not even flinch for a smile,
Tears did not flow past the eyes,
Blood got stuck paralysed,
Unguided by any will to do anything.
The winter would have been bearable,
Had you not pulled away from me
And shred to pieces in a few minutes
The blanket of warm sheep skin,
That took us the whole of autumn to weave.

emotions-reason

well, i have thought about it so many times,
emotions (your heart, gut feel, sixth or seventh sense etc. etc. you get the point right?)
and
reason (judgement, rational, maturity, understanding, analysis etc. etc. again you get the point rt?)
I have experienced the simultaneous existance of both of them,
how one drags the other's hand and how one hold backs the other,
how both are present in the same person but at different locations,
how both think (and with what conviction) that one is right and the other is wrong,
how sometimes both think both are absolutely right only to be proven wrong,
how both thought at times, everything has gone wrong, lost hope, only to regain it miracle-like,
how sometimes emotion goes ahead like an unstoppable tornado or flood and decides something for me, reasons follows up with its slow judicious, careful, spreading fog-like approach and decides on its own and tells it plainly,
how sometimes reason decides something for once and all and then emotions slowly wets the ground with tears, dreams and wishes; impregnates it with seeds of doubt and asks reason to judge again; think again; please.
how both in face of tremendous opposition from the whole of this world give enough courage to man and say - "don't worry, we two are there with you, that should be enough, go ahead"
how both come together, how both nurture each other, how they give absolute conviction to a man and raise him to a level so high..as GOD

for GOD is absolute reason and absolute emotion at the same time...

इन शब्दों का मैं क्या करुँ

इन शब्दों का मैं क्या करूँ,
जो छोड़ के गए थे तुम मेरे पास ?

क्या वापिस कर दूँ ? कितना ?
ब्याज जोडूं या घटाऊँ, कैसे हिसाब लगाऊं?
जितनी तेज़ी से भूल गई थी तुम,
उतनी ही देर से उन्हें समेटा है है मैंने ।
आज भी अगर कोई नया ठोकर मारता है
तो उसे उठा, पोंछ कर जेब में रख लेता हूँ ।
क्या भाव दोगी तुम इन सब का ,
किस तराजू से नापोगी इनका वज़न ?
गिनती तो आसान है पर,
हर शब्द के पीछे जो
जज़्बात पिरोता है इंसान
उसे कैसे तोले कोई ?

कुछ सच्चे पर लाचार से वादे हैं,
कुछ वो जो तसल्ली के झूठे किए हैं,
कुछ उलाहने, कुछ बहाने,
कुछ शिकायतें, कुछ नेमतें ।
खंज़र भी हैं, मरहम भी हैं,
एक से दिखने और एक से सुनने वाले
पर अलग-अलग, कैसे-कैसे बहुत सारे हैं।

वैसे मेरे पास थे, अच्छे थे,
सच बड़े काम आते थे।
कभी नग्मे बनाके गुनगुना लेता था,
कभी स्याही के रास्ते कागज़ पर उतारता था,
फिर घंटों उनके उभरे हुए चहरे सवांरता था।
कभी आयतें बनाकर दुआ किया करता था,
कभी बेबस उन्ही की गली बक देता था।
कभी तकिया कर उनपर लेट जाता था,
कभी हिजाब बना ख़ुद को ढक लेता था ।
एक आदत सी हो गई है इन बेगानों के साथ रहेने की,
आज ना सही कभी यह अपनों से भी अपने थे ।

इन्हे भिजवाऊँ भी तो कैसे?
बड़े से एक संदूक में रख दूँ हिफाज़त से,
खामोशी की चाबी लगा दूँ ?
यादों के दीवार से कुरेद-कुरेद के जुदा करना होगा
तकलीफ तो होगी, उन्हें भी, मुझे भी ।
एक और दिक्कत भी है,
न कबूतर ही ले सकते है,
न डाकिया पहुँचा सकता है ।
मुझे ही ले जाना पड़ेगा
किसी तीसरे के जानने का डर जो है ।
पर जब से छोड़ के गई हो
चेहरे पर एक-दो और दाग हो गए हैं
पता नहीं तनहाइ के हैं या जुदाई के ।
मेरा दीदार करोगी तो चेहरे से मेरे
शायाद और न नफरत हो जाए ।
तुम ही बता दो फिर
इन शब्दों का मैं क्या करूँ।

Silent Horizons

It gives me immense pleasure to inform you about the publication of my first collection of poems titled 'Silent Horizons'.

The book was released on 17th July 2009 at India International Centre, New Delhi. The book was released by Mr. Dinesh Mishra, ex-president Gyanapeetha Award Committee and Chairman, Indian Society of Authors, Dr. Madhu Pant, writer and ex-chairperson, National Bal Bhawan and eminent author Ms. Surekha Panandikar.

Ms. Panandikar made a critical review of the poems. The poetry, she said is marked by maturity of thoughts and boldness of expression.

And YES you can order a copy of the book !

Click on the link below

http://silenthorizons.books.officelive.com/

This is the website for the book. You can take a preview of the book, read/view pics of the release and order a copy by paying through your credit card or paypal account.

OR ELSE

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The book will be sent to you by post within 15 days.

The book is for Rs. 100/- + shipping & taxes

All buyers/hecklers/fans would be sent an autographed copy of the book.
Thanks!!

suggest a title : mine - nothing

She always slept like a baby. Her legs curled up, head bent down, hair disheveled, fingers carelessly touching the palm and sometimes with her glasses on, which would be right up at her nose.
That's how he saw her, in the train to the big city, chasing his dreams where he was headed. She too was going to the big city, she said she knew why, never told him though. She was in the same berth, he wanted to ask her for some water, knowing that the next station was two-three hours away and the old couple would be too irritated if woken up. He looked at her, sleeping this way and could not help a faint smile on his cheeks. He turned back, about to leave, ask someone else waking up at this hour of the blank, cool night.
" Excuse me.You need something?", she was adjusting her glasses, on her elbows, clutching a novel of Marquez. That was their first night together.

One of those may nights when he was late to get back from work, still chasing dreams, not his anymore - he had bartered them and forgotten , he would find her asleep just the same way.
He would put his bag down, slip out of his shoes and go to the dining table and get the food kept for him. Unable to find the customary dal - his favorite, he would search here and there, in the kitchen, in front of TV or in the refrigerator he would come back to the living room. He would look at her, again, smile, again and turn back to resume his futile search. Hardly two paces and she would look up from the corner of her eye " You need something?"
"Yeah. Dal"
"Three times I had to heat it up, three times. It's kept in the microwave"
"Thanks. Go to the bedroom"
Once more. He would heat it up, he hated cold food. She would follow him to the kitchen and cut the salad for him and mix them just the way he liked and munch at the tiny ginger bits cut for him. She would watch her eat and few minutes later yell "Eat it, damn, how many times you have to mix the dal with the rice."

That night, again he was late. She was not in the livingroom. She was asleep in the bedroom, just the same way he saw her first. Some things never change, he thought and the faint smile came up his lips as effortlessly as tears of love and gratitude. For the first time, he did not turn back, he wanted to call her and tell her how much she meant to him. How, to find her carelessly asleep in his home justified everything - good, bad and everything in between.
He called her, once, twice, thrice, many times. He waited.
But she did not get up, with that light in her eye and ask " You need something?"

Now, in this small room, he tried to sleep like her. Curled his legs, looked at his fingers for a long time and tried to compare in vain. He needs nothing.

a wave

There was a wave.
In the vastness of the sea, in its depths and in its greatness there was this one wave.
It was not too long, it was not too fat,
it was neither too violent, nor was it too silent.
He was not too tall, neither was it too small,
it was not that noisy, it was not also always busy.
It was little restless, and a little nervous but not unlike any other wave.

It was very curious though; its head full of questions. It kept asking one or the other of these questions, Do you know where you are going? Do you know where am I going? Do you know why?
Why does not the sea speak back to me? Who makes these pictures in the sky? When do I get to touch the red, er.. orange oh no yellow ball, and when do I get to touch the white ball that comes out when I can not see anything. Where am I going? For how long?
It asked the other waves, the big ones, the small ones, it asked the birds that flew across, it asked the ships, it asked the dolphins that jumped across it.
Some of them looked at him strangely, some shooed him away, some fell silent after listening to his questions, some even got angry and some just ignored him.

He recollected, when it was very young and started out from the bosom of the sea, though it did not exactly remember how, and had been moving forward for a long long time, it saw something different. He saw some movements he was not familiar with, he saw things he had not seen before, he saw very very big ships that the people called homes or was it hotels, he saw very tall people with very long hairs that they called trees-were not they normal people, its just that they chose to move only their hair now and then. He saw waves that were ahead of him slowing down and meeting the shore.
More importantly he saw something that was not SEA.

He thought he would get answers to all his questions. This is it. The end. No return from here. Final stop. No more of rising and falling and rising and falling again and again. No more traveling without knowing where. That was what he thought.
He was so wrong. As he touched the shore, he remembered how helplessly he was pulled back to the sea, and a few repetitions of pulling and tussling, he was back finally to what he knew he always was - part of the sea.
Since the, he has visited many shores, seen many beaches, many lands, many times over and learnt much more, but he could never forget the feelings he had when he saw the shore for the first time, the eagerness and the helplessness.

He looked up ahead, he could sense some movements again, he could see the tall ships from a distance, he could see the rocks, people-trees and people. He took and deep breath, one hard look at the sea and it was ready, ready for one more time.

and blink

He liked to see her face the first thing in the morning, her eyes mostly. They gave him a strange sense of excitement, a reminder that all playfulness is not lost, an invitation to see past them, a tickle to his curiosity.
He only had to seek them, and they would respond. Sometimes there was nothing to be said, but only an assurance to be sought, a presence to be felt. Sometimes their eyes started the conversation, their words filled in wherever required and again let the two pairs continue. Sometimes, they shied away from each other, a fear of being caught too long on a hope maybe.
Sometimes he sought them earnestly, when he said something not readily acceptable to a patterned thinking, his thoughts-not easily digestible to a conditioned appetite, his values-too old for an atrophying morality.

He wanted her to feel, what he felt on the top of that mountain, with clouds close to his feet, and sky almost within his fist. He wanted her to hear what the wind whispered to him that night.
He wanted her to see those things, which moved him to tears and laughter but none around him noticed.
He wanted to tell her tales by the night lamp, with their feet cuddled up in blanket in the winters. He wanted her to look at the smile of the little boy at being offered a chewing gum, look at the wrinkles of the old woman who served him hot tea and momos , see the sweat on the brow of the old potter making tea cups.
He wanted her to run on the beach; free, without care and inhibition.

He thought they had time for all of these : she blinked.
Perhaps he wanted too much.

the orange rain

It rained the whole night. And he kept staring at it through the half-open window of his room.
He could not see much due to the darkness of the night and the mango tree that acted as an unwanted umbrella shielding the moonlight.
The sound of the falling raindrops, the noise of the moist, cool wind jostling with wet, washed, shy leaves (were they scrambling for cover or enjoying the flirtatious breeze's advancements?), the occasional croak of frogs and intermittent guffaws of thunder made him constantly remember the rain though. He crept out of his bed, opened the lock of his gate slowly so as not to disturb the sleep of other people in the house, pushed it open with care to reduce the noise of steel against steel. He was out, staring at the duly washed roads: neat, as if someone had just cleaned them with Her own hands for ablution, shining black and wet, reflecting the stray moon-rays that had found their way through the spaces between the jasmine tree branches, like attraction finding way through prejudices. All of the day's dust had been washed away.

Was it utterly necessary to envoice all that he had in mind, did he really mean all that he said or did she ? All his choices directed by reason and reason alone ? No pride, no temptation, no revenge, no desire hidden ? Were his motives all noble ? Did he not know the answer to all his questions ? Did all her words have sincerity behind them; no flippancy, no mock? Was not that a moment's nay many more moment's weakness, a slip-up, an attempt to be something he really did not want to rather was not prepared to be, a hope to see, to find something when that was not there. He knew it, but still he hoped for things to improve. Time, he thought would teach the best. It did, but it was he who was the student.

A lot of dust had settled in. He waited for one more shower of rain.

spilt

He lied to her. And often so.
She saw the milk she was boiling for her lonely cup of tea in the evening, spill over. As an involuntary reaction, she caught the handle of the container to lift it up and allow the violent bubbles of milk to settle down to the bottom. She had thrown caution to the window and forgot to use a cloth, in hurry, in misplaced trust, in inconvenient familiarity or in self-belief. Burnt her palm in the act. She had to drop that container back on the burner and spilled more milk.

The gas was still on, the fire still raging . By the time she grabbed her hand with the other, and put her mouth into it to reduce the pain, some more milk spilt.
She finally put out the burner knob.
Ice ! She dashed towards the refrigerator. Her stray elbow dashed against the fateful handle, and some more split.
Few minutes later when she was pouring out the tea out to the cup, the phone rang. It was his phone - she had assigned a different ringtone to his number. She turned around to look.
A lot of milk had been split this evening.

understood silence

He was looking out of the bus window, out of no particular desire of his, but to avoid wearing a few fake smiles he no longer wanted to after a long day at office. He wanted to breathe out all the general angst and lack of warmth he had come to identify his office and his colleagues with. A familiar scent of deo disturbed him, a familiar change in the temperature; he looked around, a very familiar face. She paused for a moment and after exchanging hushed greetings took the seat besides him.
Last time he talked to her over phone, she was curt - "yeah" "hmm" "maybe" "i would not know" "nothing" "hmmmm" "everything's OK". It was as if she was struggling to say and few words and really struggling to hold back a few more. Silence, one realizes is the most palatable form of communication. Words, voice only complicate things with and without our permission. They exchanged civilities, asked a few questions that had the answers in them, replied with few more questions and deviations. The silence in between, his raised eyebrows, her downcast eyelids, his rubbing of palms, her looking at her the torn sheet cover, his strange smile, her shifting in the seat and the pauses between their sentences conveyed so much more that what they actually uttered.

Sometimes too much understanding becomes a problem. Then no questions are asked, no anger is expressed, no explanations are given, no excuses necessary. It all becomes so redundant. Nobody is blamed, not even the time, nor the circumstances; everyone is sympathized, understood. Hopes burnt, are seen as clothes that we could do without, dreams crashed are negated as 'mere' dreams, possibility is deemed as inevitability and action or inaction as fate.

what makes us US?

In relation to men and women, what both don't realise sometimes in their incessant efforts to get better or get different is that, the core of their beings is almost unchangeable/unalterable and what they may do at best is manage an impression of it and that too for a very short interval of time. It would also be very ordinary and foolish on their parts to seek regard and care of the other for anything other than that core. Change, if any is to be measured by the magnitude of it and with respect to the core of that person. Again, we have to guard against the perception of change (for the concerned person and for concerned observers) as against real change - look for the actions rather than the words, look for behaviour rather than the claims, look for results rather than the intent.

The best features or rather the main features that makes a man him(what he is) and makes a woman her(what she is), other than of course his/her actions could be many and vary according to taste but that they would be of something of more static and permanent of nature is beyond debate.

With respect to a woman :
the light in her eyes
the liveliness of spirit
the tenderness in her touch
the perseverance in her breath
the depth of her forbearance
the strength of her soul

With respect to a man :
the sincerity in his eyes
the intensity of his brows
the trust on his forehead
the truth in his voice
the assurance pronounced by the sound of his footsteps
the strength of his character

Now how much can one do about one or some of these things. If we reflect upon the way we spend our days and things we do to make a change, to ourselves and to what we want to project of ourselves, we would realise that we hardly scratch the surface of those core areas. Even if we realise that these are the things we should do something about, how much can we actually do; say with only our volition?