Somethings ephemeral

Come here, my love, sit close by me,
On this patch of grass, moist still, see,
from the slight drizzle in the afternoon,
You are late, and it will be evening soon,
Watch with me the sun, the birds fly by,
Night shadows looming in the fading sky,
Gold-edged clouds turning skips and hops,
Night ascending from the roots to tree-tops,
That gecko staring from two feet away,
Waiting with us for the end of the day.
Life is so beautiful before it dies,
Time so ephemeral when it flies.

Watch with me this descending night,
See the world slowly lost to our sight,
Search with me for landmarks familiar-
A fumbling kiss, a whisper in the ear,
Your hands in mine, a touch of your hair,
Your lips ajar, your smile free of care,
A lone star twinkling in the dark sky,
Too soon it will be time to say goodbye.
Days pass into night, a dawn will come,
For most of us, though not for some.

Possibly my love, the night lies in wait,
Tomorrow not be for us, fickle is fate,
Our dawn might be dark with pain,
Our love might not be same again,
My heart is razed by unknown fears,
Our love may wither with passing years,
It may fall prey to the dullness of days,
Wounded by routine, we may part ways,
Or worse still, descend into indifference,
Only poets sing of love's permanence.

That day when we have nothing to call our own,
Nothing to share, except a sigh and a moan,
and memories of faraway days just like this,
Starlit eyes, and perhaps a stolen kiss,
Languid evenings, a rain-kissed breeze,
Your eyes whispering: let me go please,
A brazen lizard with beady eyes two feet away,
Staring at us instead of looking for prey.
Hold these memories, for when the skies may rain,
We may find them in our heart, and smile again.

Ghazal kehne ko jee chaha

Ghazal koi kahne ko jee chaha,
Aaj udaas sa rahne ko jee chaha.

Sambhal sambhal kar thak gaya tha,
Hawaaon sang bahne ko jee chaha.

Unki aankhon mein dekh kar aansoo,
Unka har gham sahne ko jee chaha.

Jaane kya hua jo jeete jeete,
Kuchh kar guzarne ko jee chaha.

Wo koi dost tha jo kho gaya hai,
Kyun use yaad karne ko jee chaha.

Ek soyi khwahish thi jo jaag uthi,
Khwabon ka sanwarne ko jee chaha.

Anand ko pyar hai zindagi se fir kyun,
Kisi ki aankhon pe marne ko jee chaha?

Unravelling the rains

I'll remember her when it rains.
Her presence, a whiff of moist breeze
pregnant with the possibility
of rain. Her errant hair like wild,
vagrant clouds rooted in the wind.
Her eyes, the dark, deep sky
laden with rain, flashing with fire
when lightning strikes.
Her sudden smiles, bright as the sun
peeking through a veil of clouds.
The torrent of her words, a river
in spate, or a gust of wind
carrying a helpless leaf
far and away.

Tempestuous, as only
the rains can be. Gentle
as a drizzle one moment,
falling softly on the waiting earth,
Blinding cascades whiplashing
the earth the next. Her changing moods
mirror the swift colours
of a monsoon sky. She is pretty
as a paper boat covered with poems
that speak of rain, or a slow melody
that breaks the monotony
of rainless nights.

Seasons change, and she will
one day, go away with the passing
monsoon, leaving behind
memories of a fragrant sky,
that I shall carry into a warm winter fire,
Seeking to decipher
the mysterious monsoon,
aided by a glass of old wine
sparkling with the rememberance
of having once been soaked
in the rains.

The morning after

The morning after,
Sleep floating in my eyes,
My hands searched the bed,
Only to form across empty space,
A solitary bridge.

The only witness to her presence,
A slight impression in the bed,
Defining the contours of her body,
Remembered still by my fingertips,
Imprisoned in a dream
Fading already.

Caressing the imprint,
The fugitive dream I tried to hold,
Unravelling with my fingers its knotted threads,
Till the sun intruded,
And the dream melted away,
Leaving nothing behind.

It was the morning after
A chance encounter with a stranger,
It was perhaps well that it ended so,
A dream dreamt in the shadows of the night,
Is seldom as beautiful,
In the harsh glare of the sun.

The last legacy

There was a time long long ago,
When my dreams were young, my child,
When they spoke of mornings crisp
as pages of a book opened the very first time,
Days dawned in those dreams fresh
as the breeze salt-laden on the sea-side.
Those were days when a long time ago,
In my dreams then I played with the sun,
Soared on gosammer wings of wispy clouds,
Bathed in volcanoes and floated on the sea,
My dreams were then a trusting child,
Spinning stories with the lady in the moon.

Time passed on its journey and slowly, my child,
Like an old shirt worn a thousand times,
The edges of my dreams were frayed,
Smaller they became, their skies more distant,
Ageing, they resembled a pot-holed street
That had no exit sign on the other end,
They now got scalded in the heat of the sun,
Flaky hope fell away like dried skin,
Until I clenched my eyes tight,
And shut all dreams out of them.

These blind dreams are all I have,
Their shattered pieces my legacy to you,
Still, though worthless pebbles they may be now,
Keep them secure in your eyes, my child,
As a memory of what this world could be.
Go my child, dream dreams of your own,
Unhindered by my legacy of broken dreams,
May your dreams bear fruit where mine were lost
in the dreary desert of endless days and nights,
Conquer the kingdom of dreams and make
This world fit for dreams once more.

Neither here nor there

Between light and darkness
lurk the shadows,
Neither seen, nor unseen,
Neither real, nor a fantasy,
Yet the shadows are both.

Between the earth and the sky
Stretches the horizon,
An arm's length away,
And yet,
Ever-distant,
A boundary unmappable,
A bridge unbridgeable.

Between love and loss,
Lies longing,
For though love be true,
Yet inevitable
Is its end.
The coin spins
between the two,
And longing is all
that remains.

In this uncharted territory
called life,
An hyphen lies
between you and me,
An hyphenated existence
all we have,
Condemned to be together,
And yet apart,
Fumbling through the journey,
Always.

Esperanto

Read my heart,
As you would read a poem,
Slowly, uncertainly,
Gingerly finding your way
Through thickets of overgrown syllables,
Unravelling, with infinite patience,
The maze of metaphors,
Alleyways of allegories,
Stumbling over images
That wont be side-stepped,
Pausing now and then to savour,
A nuance delicately flavoured,
A turn of phrase that imbues,
Words with unglimpsed hues,
Till finally, you reach the end,
And find freedom in the soul,
That intimately bares to you,
All its beauty, and its
Moles and warts as well.

Or,
Go away,
If prose is what you prefer,
For,
The heart knows no other
Language than that of poetry.

Tumhari Tareefon Ka Sandook

Chhoti si thi jab tum,
Chalti hui ghutnon par,
Pariyon waali frock pahne,
Bholi si muskurahat liye chehre par,
Mitti se sane tumhare chhote se haath,
Doodh aur baby powder ki
Sugandh se saji tumhari saansein,
Chhoti si tum aur chhota sa tha
Tumhari tareefon ka pulinda.

Thodi badi hui tum aur badha
Tumhari tareefon ka pulinda bhi,
Jise tum liye ghoomti thi har waqt,
Seene se chiptaaye,
Totli zubaan mein kahani sunne ki zid karti hui,
Apni si hi chhoti chhoti kavitayen sunate hue,
Gudiyon ka ghar bikhar jaane par munh fulaaye hue,
Un tareefon ko liye kitni sundar lagti thi tum,
Ithlaate hue, khikhilate hue,
Sundar kisi bhi phool se kahin zyada.

Din beete, mausam bhi, badi hoti gayi tum,
Sapne badhe tumhare, paridhi badhi
Tumhare vishwaas ki, tumhari asha aur nirasha ki,
Tareefon ke pulinde mein shamil hone lagi tareefein,
Tumhare doston ki, tumhari duniya ki,
Wo duniya jisme pravesh ka adhikar nahi tha mujhe,
Tareefon ka pulinda bhi badha itna
Ki unhe sahejne ke liye sandook bhi chhota padne laga,
Un saari tareefon mein kahin kho si gayin meri tareefein,
Tumne unhe sambhalna bhi chhod diya shayad,
Aur nikal padi tum apne safar par,
Apne muqaamon ki talash mein,
Bahut peechhe rah gaya main
Aur tumhe talaashti meri tareefein.

Aaj bhi kabhi wo sandook kholo agar tum,
To reshmi kapdon mein lipti tareefon ke beech,
Chithdon mein lipti kuchh tareefein meri bhi milengi tumko,
Agar tum pahchan paao ki wo tareefein kiski hain.
Aur agar kabhi kam lagen tumhe
Apne sandook mein sameti duniya bhar ki tareefen,
Nahi mil paaye dilasa aur hausla unse,
To ek nazar peechhe chhooti sadkon par bhi daal lena,
Kisi mod par khada mil jaaoonga main tumhe,
Aankhon mein ashirwad aur haathon mein
Guldasta liye mahakti tareefon ka.

Letter to my Father

I was always a little in awe of you,
The way you explained Marx
Making his dreams come alive,
The way you spun the wheels of time
With Hegel and history's dynamics,
The way you dissected Ayn Rand
When I returned from hostel too full of her,
The way you touched an idealistic core
With tales of Garibaldi and Guevera,
The way you made Euclid look simple
And Freud believable,
The way you turned me away from bigotry
And taught me that Gandhi was indeed a mahatma,
The way you ignited my dreams
Giving them wings to soar
Into a cloudless sky.

I was always a little in fear of you,
Of your silences that grew heavy
Digging roots in the corners of the house,
Of the thundering shadows in your face
That would make us speak in whispers,
Of the deepening frowns in your forehead
As I grew older and started crossing
More and more often
The lines of propriety,
Of the sadness in your eyes
When for a brief period
I became a rebel just because
I had nothing else to do,
Of the way you believed
My dreams would find
A place to rest one day.

I always hated you a little,
Hated that the best you could afford
Was a second-hand, run-down car,
Hated that there was no television
In our home till I was in tenth,
Hated that you hit me once
Even though I was seventeen,
And hated you even more
When I caught hold of the descending blow,
And you never raised your hand again, ever after,
There were also times when I hated
Your honesty that could be heartless,
Your conscience that could be mindless,
Your zest for life, your way with words,
All that in you which could
Make me feel just a little bit smaller.


Awe, fear, hatred, all were there,
But there was love as well,
Like a placid sea whose depth
Is untested, untried and unknown,
The way you purposely lost at chess,
Your pride in my amateurish poems
Which I can't, even now, bear to read,
Your laughter, your wit, your stories,
The way you would ruffle my hair
Thinking I was deep asleep,
Your dragging me out in the rains,
The way our talks would lengthen
Deep into chilly winter nights
Over smouldering embers,
The way you looked at Ma entranced
Whenever she sang a song.

Had I known it to be the last goodbye
When slowly the train steamed ahead
And your face dissolved in the crowd,
I would have imprisoned the moment,
Two days later in Delhi I got the news,
Rushing back to find that you were gone,
The cold, unseeing, unfeeling flesh
Could not be you, and so
I did not shed any tears that day,
And have not done so these past fifteen years,
Though every day I have died a little as well.

Cleaning your closet, I found a book
Of your poems, a testament
To your concerns and tears,
Your dreams and fears,
Your joys and sorrows,
Your life and the way you lived it,
Your laughter rustling the pages,
Your tears staining them brown,
The words faded with experience,
The binding falling apart
Unable to hold such beauty together.

I did not write a word these fifteen years,
It has taken me this long
To come to terms,
With my loss
And my mediocrity.

A friend remembered

On the wings of wind, with you by my side,
In a smoke stuffed car, into the night we ride,
Talking of music, friends, man's longing for the moon,
And of blissful moments that pass away too soon.
Of your unfinished novel- 'The Drought' you called it,
That you crossed out many times, as many times rewrit,
Now forever incomplete, with you amid the stars-
Just like your life. Destiny plays such a farce.
Remember how first we met and talked the night away,
Atop the cathedral, watching moonlight's shadow-play,
(Though why its called a cathedral, I shall never know),
With the lights of Delhi spread deep down below.
Till the flickering dawn said the end of night was near,
You reminded me that night of all my heart holds dear-
(Ghazals, old film songs, Vikram Seth's verses,
Films, philosophy, history's boons and curses,
Saahir, Faiz, Firaaq, Ghalib and Gulzaar,
And of course the girls as also heart's scar),
Till by dawn we knew we would be friends forever,
(Forever, alas we had known, was not for us to share).
Remember how drunk we got during a college festival,
And the slap you earned, we were too much trouble!
Remember the girl we dated, both you and I together,
(And the way it ended, for worse or for the better),
When I wrote to Anu, you just won't let me be,
Insisting all the while that she was the girl for me,
The countless hours we spent dozing off in class,
People wondered when we did well and not just pass,
Too soon the time came to choose our separate ways,
(The army for you, for me the civil services),
Marriage claimed Monica, Roli created such a fuss
For management, (how we teased her on a DTC bus),
Akash returned to Jaipur, Ritesh just disappeared,
Of Deepali after college, no one has really heard.
Our jobs made us slaves, took us to distant lands,
Little we knew of future; a puppet in fate's hands

Though these past years seldom we could meet,
We've kept close- phones, letters, and then the net-
-All of us, that is, except you, my dearest friend
Who went on in your journey around life's final bend.
A few years ago, in December, I first heard the news
Of cells multiplying in your blood, many opinions and views
Of doctors and charltans, of seers and holy men,
All saying you were lost, the only question was when.
We went to visit you, and little could imagine,
Death was so near to see the glow on your skin,
We returned reassured, fate could not be so crass,
After all, bigger miracles have often come to pass.
Till the phone call came, deep in the dead of night,
That you had softly sighed, and finally gave up the fight.
With agonised tears we all curse fate, still unforgiving,
But know this, my friend, it is hard to go on living....

-A true story based upon the poet's best friend.

This, then, is the end

Nineteen Sixty-Eight,
When Calcutta was not yet Kolkata,
Its signs of decay not yet tell-tale,
A Calcutta where Howrah Bridge stood alone,
And suspension bridges buried in the womb of the future,
A Calcutta where trams still regularly chugged the streets,
Wide enough for the occasional cars to pass,
The Calcutta of Firpos, Park Street and poetry,
The Calcutta of coffe houses and Apur Sansar,
Where nights would pass arguing between Ray and Ghatak,
Engulfed in unfiltered Capstan smoke, over endless cups of tea,
Cultured Calcutta, literary Calcutta,
It was here that they first met,
Circa Nineteen Sixty-Eight.

It was the unlikeliest of love stories, as love stories go,
She, a bare chit of a girl,
Daughter of working-class parents, migrants from Chittagong,
Slight and frail, barely five feet out of her sandals,
Dusky, sallow-skinned, slightly protruding teeth,
Curly hair that would never stay in place,
Who wrote poetry, listened to Rabindra sangeet and Nazrul-geeti.
He, the scion of landed aristocracy,
La Martiniere for boys, Presidency thereafter,
Six feet in his stockings, fair,
Who could run hundred meters in 11 seconds,
The heart-throb of countless girls,
Who had read poetry only to scrape through his Senior Cambridge,
Who thought of the Beetles as passe,
Jazz the only thing to listen, with maybe
a little bit of Beethoven and Mozart,
Who liked Charulata better than Pather-Panchali,
And adored De Sica.

Yet, they met.
He saw her first through a tram on College street,
And could understand every word of what she was saying,
Just through her eyes, fleetingly glimpsed,
He jumped off the tram then, landing in a pot-hole,
Then stumbling into a lamp-post,
Acquiring a limp, ever so slight, in the bargain.
'You were swept off your feet when you saw me!' She'd tease him later.
It took a while longer for her,
She was wary of his looks,
Bewildered by his tastes,

'It were her eyes', he told his friends,
'I'll make this bohemian civilised still', she told hers.
It was a Calcutta where the fresh breeze from the sea,
Swept off the sultry days in languid evenings,
A Calcutta where sail-boats fluttered in the Hooghly,
Where roses bloomed in December.

And yet, it was a Calcutta of gathering clouds,
A Calcutta where Meghe Dhaka Tara was a reality on the streets,
Where passions flew high,
And ideals rained from the eye, vying with bullets and tears,
A Calcutta where dreams soared,
And hope painted the sky in colours of red,
An exuberant Calcutta which would change the world,
Or so the city believed,
In circa Nineteen Sixty-Eight.

Cut to Scene 2,
Connaught Place, New Delhi, Two Thousand Nine,
A glitzy Delhi, Delhi of CNG buses, Metro Railway,
Delhi of the ridge, history seeping through its lanes,
Delhi- ancient, medieval and modern all at once,
An excavated Delhi, with jostling buses, autos, motorcars,
Gingerly threading their way around mounds of earth
strewn on its streets, yet a Delhi,
Beautiful and balmy on a late February evening,
When a tall man, fair, slightly stooped,
Silver streaks in his hair,
Fine crow-feet around his eyes,
Stumbled over a pile of rubble,
And fell right across the road from Regal.

'You still fall at the feet of girls', said she,
'No, I only stoop to conquer', said he,
Brushing the dust out of his trousers,
Straining his neck at the voice,
Redolent with the fragrant promise of lost years.
'Oh, so you finally read that delightful play?'
'I even go to the opera now, and know what a liberetto is',
'Liar, you must have a thing going with the soprano',
'No, nothing after the day I lost you',
'You still have that limp, don't you?'
'It has got more pronounced with time',
'I thought it would be cured by now',
Some things, once broken, are never healed',
'True, but one finds other things to replace them with'.

'You have not grown an inch since I last saw you!'
'Silly, it was my twentieth birthday that day',
'And now you are fifty-one',
'You have learnt to add!'
'I'm an investment banker in New York now',
'My, my. I teach poetry at Miranda',
'Still doing all the useless jobs!'
'And what are you doing, counting currency notes?'
'Isn't it a far cry from counting pamphlets at Naxalbari?'
'Then why?'
'Because thats what revolutionaries do when revolutions die',
'We thought you were killed that day on Alimuddin Street',
'Do you think I am alive now?'
'My parents brought me to Delhi after the shooting',
'And mine sent me to the promised land',
'You have turned into a cynic, haven't you?'
'How do you expect I'd retain my faith in life?'
'What could I do? You were rumoured to be dead',
'So many of us died that day',
'Those who survived were scattered all over',
'And nobody knew where every one else went',
'So what could I do? Life had to go on',
'I've been dying bit by bit every day ever since',
'I must go now. Its already eleven',
'Marry me. I've a flight back in the morning',
'I must really go now. Kaushik would be worrying',
'Kaushik?'
'My husband. He teaches economics at D-School',
'Oh, I think you should leave then',
'Have a nice flight. Your wife must be waiting back home',
'I've an empty house to return to',
'What? I thought you were joking when you asked to marry me',
'I dont joke anymore. Something within me is dead, though I survived',
'Will we ever meet again?'
'I dont know. Please don't go',
'I must. I have a job, a family, a husband',
'Well, I guess its goodbye then',
'I guess it is.'

She stood on tip-toes, while he bent low,
She caressed his lips with her fingers one last time,
Before hailing a passing autorickshaw,
While he stood there rooted,
Watching her melt into the shadows of the night.

And finally, Scene 3,
A scene which is yet to play out,
But is destined to unfold just like this,
Bombay, circa Two Thousand and Thirty,
A Bombay of land reclaimed from the sea,
Bustling, teeming, frantic, chaotic Bombay,
A Bombay of bomb-blasts, chawls and open drains,
A Bombay of gang-wars, sub-urban trains, and Dharavi,
A Bombay of contradictions,
Manufacturing celluloid dreams for millions,
Where the Samovar still has an aroma of coffee,
and culture hanging to its table-cloths,
The Bombay of Flora Fountain, VT station, Bandra Bandstand,
Where the sun still sets gently in the Arabian sea,
And the Marine Drive sparkles like the Queen's Necklace at night.

In this Bombay, still the same twenty years later,
A frail woman, a Sylvia Plath book in her hand,
Suddenly rushed across the corridor of JJ Hospital,
Smashing into a stretcher, upsetting a food trolley,
Overturning almost a wheel-chair where sat huddled,
A fair man, bent low with age,
His shirt hanging loose on a gaunt frame.
'Marry me', she laughed and sobbed,
'Marry me, marry me', she whispered and shouted,
Causing a passing nurse to drop the tray she was carrying,
'Marry me, Abhijit' her voice faltered,
'Marry me, please', she pleaded,
While the man looked vacantly at her,
No signs of recognition illuminating his eyes,
'I'm sorry, but I dont know who you are',
'No Abhijit, not this',
'Say no if you want to, but dont do this to me',
'Don't be a stranger, Abhijit, look at me',
'I'm Madhavi, and I haven't grown an inch still',
'My eyes are cataract-clouded, but they still have stories in them',
'See Abhijit, I'm still stupid enough to read poetry'
'................................', silence,
'Kaushik passed away of an heart attack ten years ago',
'I'm retired now, my children settled',
'I live in Bombay now, and I still yearn for you.'
'...................................' silence, all pervasive now.
'Dont you remember Naxalbari? The revolution?'
'The trams in Calcutta?'
'You know the streets are still potholed there, though the trams have stopped plying',
'Don't you remember the shooting? Kisses stolen from the Hooghly?'
'My twentieth birthday?'
'You have mistaken me for some one else',
'I've never been to Calcutta in my life.'
Words finally, colder than steel,
Echoing, bouncing off the narrow corridor,
'You must remember Connaaught Place',
'My fingers brushing your lips?'
'I'm sorry madam, but you have mistaken him for someone else',
'He needs to rest now, all this commotion is not good for him',
'Please go. Leave him alone.'
Voices surround her, as she pushes back her tears,
And turns to go with fumbling steps,
The weight of a lifetime in her eyes,
Which sadly, do not speak anymore.
While he slowly gets up, limping across to his room.

This, then, was the end,
Except that stories need epilogues
to round them off. And sometimes poems do too.
Everything needs a conclusion,
Be it a story, be it a poem,
Be it life itself.

A month later, Alzheimer's claimed Abhijit,
Madhavi died exactly three years later of a broken heart,
Without knowing that he had never forgotten her,
That he could never do so,
Not really.

Some stories, though they come to an end,
Are never concluded,
The same is true with poems too...

The second law of Thermodynamics

When I am gone, think of me
rarely, like an incidence on the edges
of consciousness, remembered
only when the heart is made maudlin,
Perhaps by a glass of wine too many,
Making aching feet climb the creaky stairs
to the attic, wary hands reach
for the old photo album, to dust off a print,
Rememberance of a summer day
long past, the sound of laughter
clinging still to the dust.

On those rare nights, let not
falling tears soak the arid earth,
Instead, with a fond smile and sparkling eyes,
Let the sun curl around
the sharp edges of the night. Remember
the shared moments, hear
the hushed whispers, taste
ice-creams fought over, smell
the sweat-seeped sheets, feel once again
the urgency of my lips searching yours.
Remember the quarrels too, the days
we refused to speak, hating each other
for the sullen silence spread between us,
Also a child of the love we shared.

Let the intervening years fall away
for an instant, the illuminated past
etched sharply in your eyes, like the answer
to a puzzle long unsolved, that flashes
suddenly in the eyes of the mind,
Like your beauty unwrapped
in the stillness of the night, with
the clothes having slowly fallen away.
But do not dwell for long
on days gone by, the present
is fragile always, the future
still unmapped, the past tricked often
by memory painting it in vivid hues.
Shut the door to memories in a minute
or two. Entropy increases with time,
And the pieces of a shattered dream
can never be put together again.

Things which are gone are gone forever,
But what remains must live through its days.

Time to say farewell

I remember the way you looked at me,
As the parting drew near,
Tiny droplets built a bridge on your face,
And I couln't help thinking
Of the fickleness of fate and love.
The hushed remnants of your words,
Mumbled, heard, and yet unheard,
But still understood,
Swept over me as I took a last,
Long long look. The world was lost to me.
Your face as you smiled,
Dimpled like the valley,
Dark and barren, the valley of my life.
I didn't see your smile,
Rivetted I was to the sadness in your soul.
And again, even now, my thoughts wander,
To all that is lost to me.
Won't you ever return,
To calm me in this furnace of life,
And make me once more,
The master of my dreams.

The illusion of innocence

How touching the innocence of young,
Its belief in nights having a morn,
In hope eternal and in dreams reborn,
And in songs which are forever sung.

At the doors of death I cast my eyes,
With sinking heart on a life gone by,
On dreams dead, hopes dying without a try,
And on love that lingers like empty skies.

Koshish ek ghazal ki

Wo khayalon mein jabse samane lage hain,
Kaante bhi ghulab nazar aane lage hain.

Rozi-roti ke chakkar, zindagi ke charkhe,
Aap aaye to sab gham bhulane lage hain.

Kam-aqla humen kahte aaye sabhi hain,
Ab samajhne zindagi ke maane lage hain.

Aap rahiye humesha aankhon ke aage,
Warna mele bhi humko veerane lage hain.

Unko jaane mein faqat ek lamha laga,
Aane mein jinko zamane lage hain.

A smell like rotten fish

Alone in the dark of a moonless night,
The fan slowly sweating overhead,
It seems as if nothing shall be right-
Your memories strewn across the bed.

In the locked dungeons of my mind,
Shackled, bound and suppressed,
I barely know what I shall find,
In wounds which have long since bled.

It all happened long ages ago,
The distance yet is blurred somehow,
Blindly I wonder why should it be so,
That the past strangles the here and now.

I would like to smile and to live again,
I would like to count my blessings few,
Though it's easier said than done,
To be fully and finally free of you.

Memories that won't let go of me,
Clinging to me unbidden, indiscreet,
As the rotten fish smell doesn't let you be,
Long after passing the fishermen's street.

Toh kya ho

Khayal unke zehan se mita lo to kya ho,
Aashiyane ko khud hi jala lo to kya ho?

Zamane ki fiqron se sahma sa dil hai,
Is dil ko hatheli mein chhupa lo to kya ho?

Chiragon ki hasti hawaaon mein kya hai,
In chiragon ko ab bujha lo to kya ho?

Ret ke gharondon ka bharosa kahan tak,
Lehron se ab aashna ho to kya ho?

Sambhal sambhal kar bita di zindagi tumne,
Kadmon ko ab na sambhaalo to kya ho?

Khwaabon ki taabeer wo samjhen na samjhen,
Kabhi fursat mein khud ko samjha lo to kya ho?

Gham e ishq 'anand' raas na aaya to kya hai,
Gham e dauran ko dil se laga lo to kya ho?

The ground beneath my feet

Years ago, I left this land,
This shelter of my hearth,
The laughter of my loved ones,
Drawn I was by the rainbow
On the distant horizon.

The rainbow glittered
With the brightness of a million suns,
Reflecting dreams of a myriad colours
Concealed in my eyes,
And drawn I was,
Into a spider's web of deceit and desires,
Slowly, inevitably, inexorably.

Restless
My feet trudged the ground,
In search of an elusive horizon
That receded like an ebbing tide,
Just when I had it in my grasp,
Almost.
Till bone weary I opened my eyes,
To found myself in a strange land,
With strangers all around,
And only my fading memories
For company.

The horizon was still as far away,
As on the day the journey began,
The contours of my dreams
Unfamiliar still,
As a world seen through smudged glasses,
The rainbow had long disappeared,
Leaving behind
A lonely, dark and starless night.
At the centre of the web
Lay just the shell of hollow dreams.

So with lead in my heart,
My steps I retraced,
To where the journey had once begun,
My patch of land, my wicker chair,
A half remembered pair of eyes,
Drew me back through endless miles.

Till one day I was back to where I belonged,
To this corner of the earth I can call my own,
To my own four walls, to all I possessed,
To the waiting smile which is mine alone.
I sleep content, none can deny all these to me,
This ground, this hearth, this piece of sky,
Till I pass them on to a child of my blood,
And myself pass on with a gentle sigh.

Subah apirichit si

Bahut dinon baad aaj
Aankhen khul gayi subah subah,
Uthne mein waqt nahi laga zara bhi,
Khidki se jhanka to dekha,
Subah ki hawa mein kanpti
Gulab ki pankhuriyan ab bhi geeli thi,
Narm, makhmali dhoop khili thi,
Raat jalayi angeethi ki garmahat
Ab tak kamre ke konon mein bikhri thi.

Bahut dinon baad dekha maine,
Rangon ko aasman mein ghulte-milte,
Nazar bhi milayi aaj to suraj se,
Subah ki chai bhi meethi si lagi,
Ghazal suni Fareeda Khanam ki,
Saath saath gungunaya bhi,
Jaane kyun Faiz ko padhne ka ji chaha,
Jaane kyun muskurata raha
Subah bhar, bematlab.

Itni thand mein thande paani se naha aaya,
Maa se tabiyat ka haal poochha subah subah,
Ek purane dost se baaten ki phone par,
Doodhwaale ko pani milane par toka bhi nahi,
Nashte mein chupchap baasi rotiyan kha li,
Baraamde mein bane jis ghonsle ko
Teen baar tod chuka tha main,
Aaj usi goraiya ke ghonsle se gire ande ko
Sahej kar wapas rakh diya maine.

Kaisi aparichit si hai ye aaj ki subah,
Kahin tum raat sapne mein to nahi aaye the?

Yahi sach hai

Aaj fir mere ghar ke
Paas waale chaurahe par
Ek hatya ho gayi hai,
Main gaya tha abhi abhi,
Dekha maine bhi
Kuchh chheente khoon ke jin par
Bhinbhina rahi thi makhiyan.

Laash ko to shayad
Utha le gayi thi police,
Ab wah laash jo
Kuchh kshan pahle tak
Kisi ki ashaon ka
Jeeta jaagta swapn thi,
Ab wahi laash
Police ki anginat faailon mein
Ek file ban kar rah jaayegi.

Us file mein kuchh bhi baat na hogi
Us kamartod karz ki
Jise lekar boodhe baap ne
Padhaya tha apne bete ko,
Wah file to jaanti bhi na hogi
Un aansuon ko
Jo kisi par ban ashirwad
Bahe honge.

File to bas file hai,
Kagaz ke kuchh tukde bhar,
Jinki fadfadahat den hoti hai
Pankhe ki hawa ki,
Jinki fadfadahat mein
Nahi chhupi hoti hai sihran
Un ashaon ki,
Un swapnon ki,
Un akaknshaon ki,
Us vishwas ki,
Aur us nishthur, nirmam
Bhagya ki.

Log bhashan denge
Samaj mein badhti hinsa par,
Goshthiyan aayojit hongi,
Prashastiyan padhi jaayengi,
Smarak banwaaye jaayenge,
Aur in sabke beech
Kisi khushnuma subah
Mere ghar ke paas waale chaurahe par
Sooraj ki pahli kiran ke saath
Ek aur gumnaam laash paayi jaayegi.

Fir tootengi ashayen,
Fir bikhrenge swapn,
Fir anath hoga
Kisi ka pyar,
Kisi ka vishwas,
Kisi ka bhavishya.
Aur police ke record room mein
Rakhi asankhya faayilon mein
Ek file aur badh jaayegi.