मेरा शून्य !!

कुछ चिढ़ता सा चिल्लाता सा,
डरता सा घबराता सा;
बढ़ता है वीरानो का सन्नाटा,
देख मुझे वीराना सा।

कभी हँसी खुशी में ढल जाता,
साँसों में मेरी गल जाता;
पर बढ़ता है अविरल चलता,
देख मुझे दीवाना सा।

हाथों को मेरे थामे,
नदियों और पहाडों पर;
रुकता सा और थकता सा,
पर देख मुझे हीं बढ़ता था।

जिव्हा पर एक जबानी सा,
साँसों में छिपता पानी सा;
गीतों में मेरी हीं कहानी सा,
वीरानो का जो सानी था।

अब तो अथाह में भी मीठापन,
नीले में भरता सादापन;
पर दामन थाम के घूम रहा,
मेरा अब भी मेरा सूनापन।

तीन दिन

दो थपके हों या चार सही,
मिट्टी से निकले आग कहीं?
ठोका, थपका पानी से सींचा,
दो चार ने खड़े हो प्यार से पुछा।

सूखी मिट्टी थी मुरझाई सी,
पानी के करुणा से सकुचाई सी;
कंकड़ पत्थर की वर्षा होती,
सुबह की ओस से वंचित थी।

नए सृजन की आवाज़ उठी थी,
बाहों में भरकर धुप खिली थी;
आटे से उठकर चोकर में मिली थी,
चाकों की बाटों से पिसकर बनी थी।

हल्की बारिश की बूंदों ने जिव्हा पर,
लालच की मिसरी धरी थी;
हाथों में भरकर सुविनय का प्याला,
मिट्टी के होंठों पर रख सी दी थी।

मैं!!

प्रकृति के नियमों को चीरती,
भेदती, एक असामान्य,
असाधारण उलझन काटने,
कचोटने, नोंच खाने आती है।

क्या असामान्य हीं होना
मेरी परिभाषाओं को सार्थक
और परिपक्व बनाती है?
या मुझे असमय सागर में डुबोने का प्रयास?

क्रियाओं में संलग्न जीव,
हर जीव, अपनी परिभाषाओं हीं को तो
सार्थक और शब्दित करने में लगा है।
फिर मैं हीं असामान्य क्यों?

तर्क से इसे खंडित करने पर,
हर जीव असामान्य और
असाधारण सी हीं तो यात्रा करता।
कुपित कुंठित फिर यहीं यह अग्नि क्यों?

इसकी ज्वालाएं शरीर के हर अंग को,
झुलसा, तपा देती हैं।
शायद, सुना है सोना भी कुछ
इसी प्रकार तैयार होता है।

क्या वो आई थी?

किसको लगता है यहाँ वो आई थी,
झाँका था, पलकें झपकाईं थी;
साँसों से सदियाँ महकाई थी,
किसने कहा वो आई थी।

कभी कंगन की आवाजें हैं,
पायल भी झनकाती है;
पर किसके कहने पर आई थी,
और किसको लगता है वो आई थी।

जब घूमा करते थे अंधियारों में,
कानों के झुमके सुन सुन कर;
जब लगता था वो आई है,
कब लगता था वो आई है।

हाथों की खुशबू बहकाती थी,
चेहरे पर हँसी खिल जाती थी;
पर कबसे पूछता घूम रहा,
क्या किसी ने उसे देखा जब वो आई थी?

One got left behind, or did he??

“This is my dream, this is my nightmare,” said the guide who took us camping to the Black and White desert in Egypt. Mine was a 9 day visit to the land of Pharaohs in the month of April, when my Bhaiya and Bhabhi called me to Cairo. I travelled via Nairobi and landed at the Cairo airport in the night. Two of my Brother’s friends were joining us from US of A and then the 3 of us were to proceed to Luxar. The mysticism wrapped pyramids and sphinxes open their arms wide to welcome us in Giza. The sheer magnitude of the structures makes me understand why it is called a wonder of the world. Enthralled by the magnificence and captivated by the sense of smallness I travelled through the sand and got lost in the history. The tales of the Pharaohs, their wars and primarily their belief in the afterlife and all the paraphernalia created around it which pretty much is THE MYSTIC of AGYPTEN. Fascinated as I always was with the splendour this kingdom once was I got drawn in tooth, nail and hair into it all. The visit of Citadel which remains till dare as a reminder of all the invasions Egypt has seen and all the conquerors trying to establish their supremacy.

But at the end of it all the most poignant experience that remained with me was that of Rashid, our guide at the camp in Black and White desert. It is called so because the sea once extended well inside what is today mainland of Egypt. There were under water volcanoes that erupted and resulted in mountains of black stones and limestone. The sea retreated leaving behind these mountains and stones. Rashid remained with us once we reached the village nearest to the campsite. Scruffily dressed in half sleeve shirt, Jeans and a sleeveless camping jacket he appeared a contradiction from the beginning, more out of place than anyone else around and still more in tune with his surroundings than even the palm trees. He remained quite for most part of the trip speaking only when spoken to. After remaining quite for most part myself, trying to soak in all, I settled next to his fire illuminated face in the night and asked him his story.

After a little probing I discovered that he has an engineering degree from the top most college in Egypt and after working for six month returned back to his village. He said he could not take the moronic and fast paced life of Cairo. He came back to his village as he could not think of life without it. After a point he started working as a camp guide to earn some money. “There is not enough of it, but I like staying in the desert, sitting in the sand. This is my dream, this is my nightmare.” With the campfire illuminating his bearded face, pale brown eyes catching the fire dance, smoke of cigarette escaping his tobacco stained mouth, he looked more content than even the Dalai Lama. He touched a chord in my heart which pulls me now to go back to Egypt again and experience it all over again.

PMji ki Amethi

I am travelling like the wind god, Pavan, through the deforested terrains of U.P. Taking the Janata Express from Benares to Ramanagar, the aim is to travel to tiger country. I am as ill equipped as they come, grossly misjudging the weather, the National Park and the train journey itself. I intended to take trains throughout this trip as a means to tear through and introspect. I am constantly reminded of Mr. M.K. Gandhi's train journey before he chose to resume his political career in India. Small grain of salt, though I am, I challenge none around and only myself to carry on unfettered and package home a wider understanding of life itself. Some would argue that life was right where I left it on 2nd Nov but there is no harm in evolving or looking out the window, at the terrain de-evolving.

The train has picked up and started rolling its ball bearings at 11.55 from Benares and in the typical frustration that plagues Indian Railway's patrons I was unable to find my coach to begin with. Nothing is marked and no official about to guide. In the typical Babudom drudgery of India one of them responds "arre kissi mein bhi baith jaiye na." “Just grab a seat in any one of the coaches. When the TC comes he will direct you to your seat.” Hissing loudly, I storm out of the baggage coach and decide to stroll till the end of the platform and Eureka I find S-8 at the fag end of the train loudly proclaiming the reservation chart with my name on it. I climb aboard and find my berth. Prostrating on it I vent my anger and then snooze for a bit. Waking up I find the train tearing through the Ganga basin and one of the most fertile regions in India. Not much has changed. For those who can afford it, the mud houses have changed to brick ones and nothing around has evolved in terms of infrastructure.

I wonder if these people don't have voting rights or if they choose their representatives for promises of simple things like electricity and road which seems absent all around. The train stops at the famed Amethi railway station. I look in amazement and disbelief at a small and insignificant looking village, which but for its name would have gone unnoticed. The Lok Sabha constituency has voted in 3 Prime Ministers, if you include Sonia Gandhi the ruling party's leader as one. I smile wryly, shrug off my disbelief and think if only they were remotely interested in public welfare.

10th Nov, 2008 - A date is Definitive

I don’t know what to call this, may be my travelogue or just a collection of my random thoughts. Whichever way it gets described it has begun. I have started gathering mass and now rolling slowly and building momentum. What percolates down 84 layers of skin transcends to heaven when all ceases to exist. It vibrates and gives vent to all energy. It gets violated when I get pushed around, it loses hope when a vein is severed, it mocks me when wet cheeks surface from the corner of darkness, it reminds me that I can cause pain and only I can love. I am told I need to nurture and care, for when all ceases to exist and only I will remain.

 

All enveloped in ash and soot burning fire upon the mortals of the realm only I will be dancing atop the corpses. I will look beyond the hills, un-focus myself and get ready to drown all in my glory, then the mother beckons from downhill, calling her flesh to come home, get enjoined at the hips and breathe my last, silence till the end…..

Holy Shit

One trip to the holy city of Benares, the city of temples, of shrines, of red tikas, of saffron clothes, of shikha clad men and ochre sporting women & you are confounded by myriad of thoughts. There is the common, everyday, middleclass man/woman, like my mother is, who starts his day by visiting a few temples of his deity/ies and bathing in the Ganges. Clad in minimal clothing, as befits a temple visit, these early rising denizens of a city that dwells on Lord Shiva’s trident, make this not a religion but a way of life. This is as much a part of their routine as bathing or eating everyday is. I am calling this a way of life because there is usually nothing transactional (overtly) in the relationship. It is a way to deconstruct the road to peace and well being.

 

And on the other hand is the curious, SLR carrying, shorts clad, hat sporting, white skinned tourist who dwells and contemplates this way of life. He has his own methods for deconstructing the road to peace. He is more explorative than ritualistic. He is more curious as he doesn’t understand it and drawn in as his own world is moving rapidly away from belief systems. Away from him and towards individualism. Both these polarised worlds clash firmly in Benares and produce a wilting of the slits and reverberating, settle down, in the clanking of the temple bells.

 

I look to these worlds with as much curiosity as familiarity, as much belief as questions, as much joy & love as hatred and ask myself seldom and often if I can belong to either or both.

Frenzy

Brains on the wall,

Blood on the floor;

Mud all around me,

Nothing but a whore;

You might be Mumbaikar, I am a Bombayite

I keep coming back. I have to. I still come, stare wide eyed, get plunged into the crowd and slowly retreat back to whence I came. I came this time around, got swarmed again and took that eternal lifeline from Marine Lines to Goregaon. This must have been the last local to Virar – the 12:25 for Virar, for it was crowded. I have travelled all my growing years on this electric lifeline of BOMBAY, have been used to bringing other people’s sweat, on my shirt, home; reach deep in the light of my soul – closing my eyes – when all around me were people, their chattering and an all pervading darkness. I have grown resilient to a lot in my life travelling on this Bombay bullock cart, carrying all life alike, not discriminating, not caring, relentless, purposeful, hopeful – chugging away with mind numbing efficiency. Bombay and its lifeline have MADE me.

 

 

I sat clutching onto my backpack, trying to stare out casually. There was plenty of import in the backpack and it made my pulse go faster, my heart more nervous. I purposefully glanced around trying to take stock, create semantics for all that was around and give labels. There was a group of 6-8 Muslims, clad in white kurtas and payjamas, skull cap about, black marks on the forehead. They looked as devout as a monkey intent on grabbing a sweet out of your hand. They were discussing religion. The lump in my throat bobbed up and down. At the next station 3-4 Hindus, devout as the Muslims, the saffron mark on the forehead, long hair and the look of resolute dedication, the monkey again, climbed aboard and stood near the gate. The lump expanded and threatened to squeeze my heart.

 

Two stations later at Mahalaxmi, a group of people, from their conversation they sounded the filmy types, the labourers of the film fraternity, got on the train and sat around me. And now it was getting difficult to breath. I looked around feeling suffocated, eyes growing dim and weary because of the effort. I was just trying to calm my senses and breathe normal, trying not to draw any attention to myself, when at Andheri station 5 young kids, possibly engineering 1^st year students, speaking Marathi entered the wagon.

The North Indian in me (for that’s what I am to them) shuddered. Looking at the Muslims the Hindu in me winced, looking at the Tika clad men the peacekeeper in me held its breath and looking at the labourers the middle classer heart pumped more blood. I grabbed my backpack, hurriedly left the WINDOW SEAT, looked around, trying myself not to look suspicious and waited eagerly to jump out of the train at Goregaon. Hurriedly climbing up the FOB I went across to Goregaon (E), sat in the auto and heaved a sigh of relief.

 

Thank You to all those who have contributed towards making me feel like this in a place where I spent 16 years of my life and called HOME.

You Judge Yaar!!! I dont know the title

My blue veins are turning black,

Blood rushing to obscure corners;

Turning frenzy into madness,

Chaos on the borders.

Bohemianism smitten on the roads,

Walking in passive directions;

Glory around the corners,

Riot at every intersection.

Shooting colours from the canvas,

Drown every scream;

Away from all this,

Heaven sleeps in peace.

dISTANT to the pain of random,

Kicking in its dreams.