Dust

Posted: February 25, 2014 in Fiction of My Mind, Thoughts

Last night my mom called me in the middle of night, I rushed to her but I was of no help, she was shocked, maybe because of some weird dream. Once she realized it was only a dream she had a little water and then calmly settled in her sleep, dad was there just watching her sadly. In past three years he’s aged like a decade. He used to be a strong man full of life and courage, but sadly not anymore. He retired last year from his job in that government office. He used to go out a lot and mingle with people his age, but somehow he’s stopped doing that, like he doesn’t derive any pleasure out of it. He never says anything and I can’t read minds but I know somewhere deep down inside he’s sad, very sad, but he has to pull up that strong face. What else can he do? He must hold his nerves, at least for my mom’s sake, she’ll be shattered if she realize how sad he is, so he still smiles but cracks no jokes, he still hold the newspaper but hardly reads anything, maybe thinking all the what ifs in his head?

Ahh let me introduce myself, I’m… but how does it matter? My name won’t change anything, will it? But I’ve to tell about myself, it is not fair to tell you about my parents’ sadness without introducing the reason behind it. I’m one of the thousands born every day, but to my parents I’m special, though I beg to differ, I’m just mediocre. One of the many IT professionals out there. But for my family I’m special… the smart one, one who reads all the time, or this is just what they think. It’s not that I’m boring or dull I’ve many friends but I’ve lost them all slowly. Things change, time change and so does the priorities of people. I remember clearly the day of my engagement… makes me smile, I had struggled so much to fit in that size 38. Sigh!!  Vanity…

I don’t know where she is, but I hope she is happy, somewhere with someone. I haven’t tried to track her; I fear how I’m going to take it. Even if she’s happy or sad, in both cases it’ll make me more depressed, after all we are not together and for me it is not easy to let go… I had friends, but I think they too are busy with their own lives; no one has ever come to my doorsteps in the last three years. Secretly I had this hope that they will come and check how we are doing after that accident. But no one ever visited us, some simply don’t care and some find it awkward to make any communication regarding me so they simply moved on. Something deep inside me tells me they have forgotten me, the memories have faded or maybe just left behind because it is unsettling and uncomfortable. Sometimes we ignore the sight of plight and grief because it makes us sad. And of course when you have so many troubles of your own why would you worry about someone left behind. Right?

It’s already 10 in morning, my brother is usually up by this time but today he’s not here yet. Mom has got no breakfast ready. Strange! But Maybe she’s still pondering over her dream from last night and Dad? As I said he’s on the ground floor with his thick glasses and newspaper. And see here he is, my brother… He used to be my best friend but like everything else we too have stopped talking, mainly it is me, because I can’t tell him that I’m still not letting go and I’m still sad over what happened that night and I know it was my fault because of what I’ve caused you this grief…

What is he doing there? Dad is also there now, mum is crying silently, and they are just huddled up. What is that they are looking at in the newspaper??? Oh like last year, someone has written about me. I think it’s… again what it has to do with the name? But I suspect it’s her

In memory of…
The Best Son, The Best brother and the Best friend
(19xx-forever)

For three years life has been the same, exactly same for everyone, nothing changed apart from those three people I call family.

Tomorrow I’ll complete three years in this very realm between the living and something, watching everything helplessly… Tomorrow I’ll be dead, for three years,
for three years nothing but settling Dust!!

==============
    कुछ जो खो गया
==============

कैसे सोचते थे ना तुम,
बदल दोगे सब कुछ,
पल में एक, नहीं पल में तो नहीं
पर कुछ पलों में शायद

और अब कुछ खो गया है
जो पता भी नहीं क्या है, पर है.
है नहीं था, अब तो खो गया ना
और वापस भी नहीं आएगा
टीवी का धारावाहिक थोड़े ही है
की रात को छुटे तो दिने में

कभी कभी या अक्सर कहते थे
शायद कभी किसी दिन ऐसा होगा
या फिर ऐसा ना हो तो वैसा होगा
अब सोच रहे हो कैसे होगा?

मोमबत्ती के मोम की तरह
पिघलकर या जलकर
सिगरेट के धुंए की तरह उड़कर
या बस यूँ ही, पर खो गया
पर शायद… अभी भी लगता है
फिर वापस मिल जायेगा

 

कल वो अकेला था, शायद बहुत अकेला
घर से दूर, अनजान शहर में, अकेला
अब वो अस्पताल में है. और मैं ?
मैं उसके बगल में बैठा हूँ… अकेला.

पता नहीं वो अकेला है या मैं
या हम दोनों अलग अलग अकेले हैं?
बस एक बात पता है,
अकेला नहीं छोड़ सकता उसे.

आज कोई नहीं आया
शायद कल आये, उसके घर से
या परसों, या ना आये
मैं अकेला रहूँ या नहीं
उसे मैं दिखूं या नहीं, पर
मैं उसे अकेला नहीं छोड़ सकता

तो बस मैं रात भर यहीं बैठा रहूँगा
बिस्तर के पास, ठन्डे फर्श पर,
दीवार से कमर सटाए,
इस पन्नों और कलम के साथ

देखो ना, अकेला कहाँ है वो,
मैं हूँ, मेरी कलम है, ये पन्ने हैं,
ये रात है, और रात है तो
कल दिन होगा, कल तो वो उठेगा

सुबह के बाद मैं कहीं जाऊंगा नहीं,
कहीं उसे ये ना लगे की वो अकेला है
सब खुश हैं, वो नहीं, मैं नहीं,
और मैं जानता हूँ…

अकेला होना बहुत बुरा है

 

सवाल

Posted: September 9, 2013 in So called Poetry, Thoughts

आज बारिश हुई थी.
‘आज भगवान खुश हैं’ ऐसा माँ बोलती थी,
क्यूंकि मैं सवाल करता था, बहुत सारे सवाल.

सीधे, उलझे, पर सवाल, हर बात पर,
और लगता था माँ को सब मालूम है
और सब मालूम होता भी था
क्यूंकि वो माँ हैं.
नहीं मालूम होता तो भी वो बताती थी
कुछ ऐसा की मैं सीखूं, कुछ अच्छा

आज फिर सवाल हैं,
जवाब भी हैं, पर वैसे नहीं जैसे माँ के पास थे
क्यूंकि अब सवाल भी तो माँ से नहीं
खुद से हैं.
और ज्यादा नहीं, थोड़े ही हैं, दर्जन भर
या उससे भी कम, पर जवाब बहुत हैं

हर एक जवाब सही है, अपनी जगह
पर शायद अब मैं सही जगह नहीं हूँ
किसी ने कहा था, ना सवाल गलत होते हैं
ना जवाब, बस गलत होते हैं तो हम.
अब सवाल होगा क्या मैं गलत हूँ?

आज हर जवाब सही है,
बस शायद मैं नहीं…

 

 

ये मेरी किताब है, मेरी कहानी भी
शायद…
यहाँ वो सब है जो कहीं नहीं.
कहीं नहीं ?
नहीं ऐसा नहीं है की
कहीं नहीं तो सब अच्छा है
कैसे हो ? मैं खुद नहीं.

ये चीज़ें यहाँ हैं, और कहीं नहीं
क्यूंकि ये किताब मेरी है,
और इसमें कुछ कहानी मेरी भी.
ये चीज़ें यहाँ हैं क्यूंकि, क्यूंकि
इन्हें कहीं और जगह नहीं मिली
और मुझे भी नहीं. इन कागजों
के आलावा.

नहीं, ये हेडफ़ोन भी तो लगा है
पर इनमे मेरी जगह नहीं है
किसी के गीत, किसी के बोल,
मैं बस सुन रहा हूँ… शायद
या फिर ये भी काफी पहले से बंद है ?
शायद लैपटॉप के साथ ही बंद हुआ

जो भी है, ये कागज़ मेरे हैं,
कलम भी, किताब भी, नहीं कलम नहीं
आफिस की है, बैग में छुट गयी थी
पर किताब मेरी है
और एक दिन ये पूरी होगी
नहीं इसलिए नहीं की ये अच्छी है

ये पूरी होगी क्यूंकि
इस किताब में कहीं मैं छुपा हूँ,
शायद.
कहीं कुछ भरे कुछ खाली पन्नो के बीच
कुछ अच्छे और बहुत से बुरे पलों के साथ
और जब तक मैं रहूँगा
मेरी किताब भी
क्यूंकि ये मेरी किताब है
मेरी कहानी भी…
शायद.

 

आज़ाद हम.

Posted: August 14, 2013 in So called Poetry, Thoughts

देश आज़ाद है मेरा, और मैं भी
कल तुम भी थे और मैं भी
और फिर दूसरे कल भी रहेंगे
ऐसे ही, आज़ाद

कमरों में बंद, टेलीविजन से चिपके,
बम, जेहाद, आतंकवाद से डरे सहमे,
माओं के कहने से घरों में रुके लाखों
हम, आज़ाद

फेसबुक पर तिरंगे झंडे शेयर करते
और नेताओं पर फब्तियां कसते
और पतंगों की डोर से भी ज्यादा उलझे
हम, आज़ाद

और ऐसा क्यों न हो, हम ऐसे ही हैं –
पढ़ते, याद करते गाँधी जी का जंतर
नहीं याद आते कभी, भगत, सुभाष
और वो आज़ाद

मानता हूँ मैं, एक दिन नशा उतरेगा
इस कथित आज़ादी का, इस आडम्बर
के सैलाब का, वोट की राजनीति का,
होंगे हम, आज़ाद

तब ना डर होगा जंग का, ना रोष होगा
लाल किले के एक और व्यर्थ भाषण का
होगी तो बस एक आवाज़, एक उद्घोष
हम हैं, आज़ाद ।

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

कभी कभी मैं खुली आँखों से सपने देखता हूँ, हर तरह के, और ऐसा ही एक सपना अपने मुल्क के लिए है. एक ऐसा देश जो सच में आजाद, उन्नत, विकसित और खुशहाल हो. कई बार लंच के समय अनेकों बार बहस की है, क्यूंकि वर्तमान चाहे जो भी हो पर मैंने अभी अपने देश से उम्मीद नहीं खोयी है. जादू, चमत्कार या कोई प्रक्टिकैलिटी एक दिन हम सबसे ऊपर होंगे, ये मेरा सपना भी है, विश्वास भी. ज्यादा नहीं लिखूंगा, सपने बस तभी कारगर हैं, जब सिद्ध हों।
और मेरे सपने सच होते हैं… अक्सर।

जय हिन्द.
जय भारत.


लिखने में हुई गलतियों के लिए माफ़ी (दोष इस सॉफ्टवेयर का है, मेरा नहीं)

एक नज़र का चश्मा है मेरी मेज़ पर
और एक पानी की बोतल, शायद स्टील की
और कुछ पन्ने, उस एक अधलिखी किताब के
जो शायद कभी पूरी ना होगी.

नाम मिटने लगा है अब इस बोतल पर से
बुरा लगा था जब पहले पहल मिटते देखा था
ठीक वैसे ही जैसे बचपन में लगा करता था
जब वो मोम वाले रंग खत्म होते थे.

कुर्सी पर कमर लगाये, मेज़ पर पैर फैलाए बैठा हूँ
पर इस मेज़ को शिकायत नहीं, ना इन पन्नों को
बस मुझे है. शिकायत का शायद पता नहीं, पर हाँ
रोष है, अवसाद है, और सर दर्द भी.

कभी कहीं भाग जाने को दिल किया है आपका ?
पर भागे नहीं, क्यूंकि एक मेज़ थी, और उसपर
वो एक तस्वीर, उसे ही देखकर पैर ठिठके थे ना ?
मेरी किताब भी ठिठकी है, और मैं भी.

आये दिन ये नज़र का चश्मा भी मजाक करता है
काम नहीं चलता ना  इसके बिना, पता है इसे
आज मेज़ भी है, चश्मा भी, और शायद कुछ नहीं भी है
तभी शायद इन पन्नों पर लिखने का मन कर आया है.

पर ये पन्ने भी खोते से जा रहे हैं अब, गम नहीं
और क्यूँ हो, मेरी कहानी थोड़े ही है इनमे
और हो भी तो क्या मैं यहाँ तुमसे सच कहूँगा?
कहते हुए शायद रो ना दूंगा?

ये थी मेज़ और अधलिखी किताब की कहानी
मेरी कहानी ?
किसी दिन और सही…

जीवन की राहें, और उम्मीद का दीपक 
चलते रहते हैं सदा साथ-साथ, 
कभी तार-तार होने लगती हैं 
सब उम्मीदें, आशाएं तब भी 
नहीं छोडती उनका साथ,
ये निराशा भरे कदम ठिठकते तो हैं 
लेकिन रुकते नहीं, घिसटते हुए ही सही 
पर अनवरत चलते रहते हैं अपनी 
मंजिल की ओर, जीवन के 
न जाने कितने ताल- तलैया 
कितने खेत-खलिहान, नदी-झील 
पार करते हुए आज कदम
पहुँच गए हैं तपते जलते रेगिस्तान में,
लड़ते हुए, करते हुए संघर्ष कर जायेंगे पार,
या तो फिर पा जायेंगे कोई नया अपना 
एक नखलिस्तान, और बस इसके लिए 
उम्मीद की एक सिहरन ही काफी है।

Will Not Stop

Posted: February 20, 2013 in So called Poetry, Thoughts

A small walk
that goes hand in hand
a sound sleep that
rests on shoulder
a sweetness that we share
your frown that I care
our voices so still
that heartbeats come to living
no matter how and where and why I am,
will not stop loving…

Happiness is cherished with you,
and you know about my tears too,
days sometimes are just black
Hopefully I can hold myself back,
I just count my days dear,
hours with you will be many more
o please..!!
hold me, hug me so near to you
so that every breath,
every thought
starts thanking you,
for I promise that a bigger promise
is waiting,
will not stop loving…

A whisper I hear,
a call so dear,
an hour much awaited
when another day adds to us again,
may the smile remains the same,
and happiness lifelong blooms,
and may everything you touch
always experiences unfading spring
will not ever…
will not ever stop loving!!

First drop of tears

Posted: January 14, 2013 in Fiction of My Mind

‘Life is short and unpredictable, make the maximum out of it because in the end only memories are left’ read the wallpaper on her laptop. Outside the fifth apartment window, dark clouds were gathering for a downpour, unexpected at this time of the year; it was the 12th of November; she was working furiously on her laptop, typing words almost faster than she usually spoke. A single strand of hair fell on her face and she blew it away, her hands too busy to leave the keyboard. She could hear her husband hustling bustling in the bedroom, half tired, half annoyed. “He must be looking for the remote for the TV”, she chuckled, marveling how she just knew. “Hey Princess”! he affectionately call her princess, his familiar voice came slithering through the corridor, “Where is the TV remote?” He’s too dependent on her even for these small things. They’ve been married for Five years, met in school, drifted apart, met again, they connected well and ended up getting married.

For a moment, the keyboard heaved a sigh of relief from the rapid cluttering of her manicured slim fingers. A familiar urge to get up and find the remote rose in her, like a subconscious force rising in the capillary of her throat; long ago, as a child, her mother had taught her about “how to be a good wife”; “I think it is in the kitchen,” she shouted back. “I think I forgot it there while making tea”. He’s not the complaining type, he understand her, she’s busy, and picking up a remote from kitchen is no big deal.

Obedient as a naive school boy, he came hobbling out, one hand holding their orange towel. She spared a glance and looked at her husband. Work, or coding rather, had altered his dimple into a wrinkle. Five long years ago, she had left her parents for him. “That isn’t true,” a voice inside her whispered, “You had run away and tagged him along.” Another voice piped up “But he has done well, hasn’t he?” she smiled. They have turned out to be the best couple, in every way, caring, understanding. “He’s such an open book”, she smiled somewhat overwhelmed. Her mind shuffled with practiced ease between what she was typing and her wandering thoughts. he had always gawked at her ability of multi tasking, but again she’s smarter than him.

He worked as a Software Engineer in one of those big shot tech giants where salary is good and so is the work life balance. His long shabby hair,  bespectacled smile, and that ‘geeky’ look always gave away his profession much before he could introduce himself to anyone.

“I have to go back to office, need to fix this critical bug, it’s urgent,” she could hear his voice over the blaring noise of the TV. “Why do you have to go now”, her voice carried a note of irritation, “I thought we will have dinner together today”. Though her husband was meek and she knew she used her dominance over him, still she loved him. “It is our anniversary today and he has forgotten” that little voice inside croaked in despair “I thought I would remind him during dinner.” But that day he hadn’t forgotten, he was just going to do something different.

“I shall be back in an hour” he said, as he hurriedly put on his shoes. She wasn’t typing anymore. She wanted to cook something special tonight. “Come early or eat cold dinner alone”, she quipped as she closed the door behind him.

The repeated banging of the bell brought a smile to her face. The day they had run away, he had come to her home while her parents were out and had frantically rung the bell repeatedly before she opened the door. Though years had passed, he always played the same game — rang the bell repeatedly while coming or going out, he’s a child inside his heart.

He remembered their anniversary very well. He imagined her eyes when he would put that diamond pendant over her soft skin. He chuckled at his own mischievousness.  “He wasn’t that sort of a person, he was the simple, straight forward guy, or so she thought”, he reflected, “She will be in for a surprise today”. He know she’s not the materialistic type, but it’s their anniversary and he wanted to gift her something special.

Half an hour later, she was in the kitchen. “Every night in my dreams…” she hummed Celine Dion as she chopped onions for paneer curry, he loved paneer. Soon she was marinating the paneer slices, garlic-ginger paste and haldi when she realized that the TV was on. “No wonder we pay so much on electricity bills”, she remarked as she strode to the bedroom; one hand dripping with marinade, while the other struggled to put that irritating strand of hair back in its place.

“Breaking News: Mumbai terrorized by blasts again” the idiot box blabbered. She stopped in her tracks. “Zaveri Bazaar has been ripped apart yet again—-“, there was silence inside her. A part of her wished that little voice inside would say something. “Zaveri Bazaar, one of the major hub for jewelers and diamond mrchants” Her mind refused to think. Dumbstruck, her bulbous eyes stared at the TV screen while marinade dripped from her fingers; that irritating strand of hair still on her temple. “His office is on Lamington road, why would he be there in Zaveri bazaar” but what if, what if… Crying girl

She felt the bile rising up in her throat; she couldn’t shout nor speak, her whole body was trembling. Like a zombie she picked up the mobile phone lying on the bed and dialled his number. Her practiced fingers trembled, her ears begging for the click of him picking up the phone. Her eyelashes were moist, she could not see clearly through the haze, but she couldn’t cry; her thumb pressed the green redial button all over again. She felt an unusual tingling in her toes, her usually steady fingers shook in uselessness; her ears pleaded to hear that voice, his voice…

That was when the perplexing silence was broken by a ring of the bell. And it rang twice. And then again. And again.  It was ‘him’.

The first drop of tear fell from her eyes, and then something broke, hysterically crying and half laughing she ran to the door, he was there all soaked up in rain and shocked, maybe he had heard the news on the way. He took out the small red box and wanted to say something, but her fingers silenced him, she was crying clutched to his chest. He softly hugged her and gently first drop of tear trickled from his eyes.