पंक्तिया #2

क्यूंकी
कुछ आदते रहनी चाहिए,
किसी संदूक मई भूली फोटो फ्रेम की तरह!

जैसे रिश्ता कागज़ और कलम के बीच,
चिठियो का आना जाना प्रेमियों के बीच,
नदी का अपने दो किनारो के साथ।

आसमान का खितिज पर धरती मई सिमटने की
और अप्रैल के महीने मई बर्फ का चटानो पर पिघलने की।

कुछ, जैसे मेरा सांस लेना बेवजह,
या हमारा एक दुसरे को चूमना बेवजह।

यह दुनिया भी तोह अब किसी भगवान के भरोसे नहीं,
एक आदत से मजबूर चल रहा है

पंक्तियाँ #1

कभी यूँ साफ़ होता है आसमान
जैसे नीला रंग अभी उपजा हो
किसी समुन्दर की कोख से

जैसे की आज अक्टूबर की एक सुबह।

किसी छोटी सी बच्ची ने
नए पैकेट से खोल कर ओढ़ी है
एक नीले रंग की फ्रॉक और घूम रही है, खेल रही है
तुम्हारे अंतर्मन मई

हाथ भड़ाकर जो तुम छु लेते,
तुम भी जान जाते की
यह आसमान मखमल का बना हुआ है

उड़ रहा हमारे ऊपर जैसे कोई रुमाल
जो ढूंढने निकली हो अपना पता

Meditation ( a haibun )

On the brink of a dreamless night’s goodbye and welcoming dew tears of a pristine morning, I sit in precarious balance . My spine grows deep into sounds of earthworms kissing freshly tilled earth. Flock of pigeons carry shadows of clouds on their back, as clouds themselves float on the formlessness which is ingrained in all of us.

 

Sun’s first rays
warm my eyes
in meditative emptiness
I dance to the silence
between a koel’s calls

 

Vast expanse

 


Tempting sounds of nature make my mind travel hither and thither. It runs like a squirrel scurrying over a fallen log on the rapid currents of a gushing restless river.
Every drop of my being thirsty for the stillness of eternal silent ocean. The thirst for this quiet finds home, as the vortex of my thoughts settle into the Universal Divine living in me.

 

silence sings
after meditation…
Tat Tvam Asi

 

 

Letters without an address #4

How happiness and sanity hardly go hand in hand.

So here goes,
When I was in Kashmere Gate metro station in Delhi this past month just having come out of the station on my way to the bus station to buy a ticket to Himachal I walked, with a crowd, like a current driving through sea. Such is how rows of humans move in eager large metropolitan cities. And as I was walking, I saw just a few paces ahead of me a man laughing and his laughter would echo back from the indifference of all people walking by. At first I thought he was having a conversation with couple of more youngsters in step with him. But as soon as they increased their pace and my man turned around, the scene got clearer to me.
The man held a tape recorder, very old style to his ears, almost like a boom box and he was listening to some evening Radio Jockey miles away. And laughing at the jokes of RJ. The RJ for the life of his wouldn’t have had a better and a keener listener. And this man was walking , strolling through the evening rats of the race with his music on his shoulders and smile on his face.
I absorbed this scene, stil wondering maybe I am mistaken as I went into the ticket counter, got my ticket and returned.
When I returned to almost the same spot, I looked around for this guy. Very hard to miss when you are tuned out of general frequency and looking for such things right out of ordinary. This time he was standing at a place and the song that was just about to start was Chaand taare tode laau…(SRK movie) and maybe it was my mistaken eyes but surely he tapped his feet to a beat or two.
What is sanity, some simply put it as the rules of the majority, the norm and expected. Here stood a man, unlike others that evening, not rushing, neither waiting in a queue, with no furrows on his forehead, no baggage of journey weighing him down. He stood in a moment chipped away from time while the rest of us clung to time like bread crumbs strewn behind by rushing child .
That person is stil dancing and laughing. Right there in the middle of my criss crossing thoughts and madness. And when everything gets so quiet in my nights , when I fall asleep by rolling my body to one side and tucking my head underneath the pillow, covering my eyes to the sharpness of night and the blankets to clothe over my sinned soul, I hear the tapping feet of a dancer who hasn’t yet heard the music stopping or the world crumbling.

Letters without an address #3

If letters fell like snow , and there was a night you slept a tad bit long with no moon in the sky, no sounds of any animal nearby , you would wake up to find a heavy fall of postcards at your doorstep, in your garden , your street leading up to the town square and the whole damn city.
Any postcard you pick has a story for you. And as you wade through these stories carrying purple bruises on your shin, scarlet rose petals on your knees, paper cut wounds on your palms, you remember that line you read somewhere.
The world is not made of atoms, but it is made of stories.
And this night its made up of ours.
Every story has a person reminiscing his home, every home missing its children. Rooftops heavy with orphaned autumn leaves and hearths dark with soot of abandoned nights.
All these postcards and their stories will melt as if it all was just a dream. Like my words before I put them here and spend all night rehearsing.
Let the ones that cling like wines to your limbs , grow as myriad colors, like a field of roses and rainbows. Hold them like you hold memories of your Christmas Eves.

Letters without an address #2

 

How does a river know the way which leads it to the sea.

 

कोई दीवाना सड़को पाई फिरता रहा
कोई आवाज़ आती रही रात भर।
 
So bear with me as I write this down. This image that is in my head since yesterday. I spoke to you of silence and the unscathed innocence of it. Imagine a landscape of plains, trees, forests, small hillocks recently formed land masses. Indian sub continent has just hit the Eurasian plate and the Himalayas are forming due to its impact and we are witnessing in our eternal eyes, the birth of a mountain. An elevation in the maps. A patch of white snow becoming a field , a field then turning as big as a town, bigger and bigger. ( if one sees Himalayan belt in google maps terrain view, you will know what I am talking about )
Through this rise and changing landscape we watch, as suddenly from a wound in a stone there arises water. Water that never before had seen the Sun, the Sky or the Air. This water , the first few drops of which you could hold in the cup of your palms, drink or gurgle suddenly has a stream behind it. You take a step back. You watch it trickle down the slope, into a valley. A toddler taking it’s first steps.
Where is this headed. This message from the earth’s womb. Is there an end to the length of its serpentine body. If there is no way, it goes under the stones, between trees in the black canopied empire of northern India, but it wouldn’t stop, not a moment’s  rest. It is moving covering new land , the first Marco Polo, Ibn E Batuta.
How does she know of her path. The thousands of miles that she keeps going in darkness and uncharted terrain until suddenly it reaches the sea. Mingles at first then pours unending. A thread long invitation turning into an estuary, devouring more flora and fauna. She rages.
The Ganges from the Gaumukh to the Bay of Bengal. Even before there was language and names, she was born and travelling miles.
How does a river know which way leads to the sea?

Letters without an address #1

And on evenings of a Sunday where half the world considers an end to the old week, other beginning of a new one, I write to you from a place where the ending meets the beginning.

If the stars run away from polluted cities do they end up crowding some child’s random dreams.How about the way in which the deaf realize that love has finally arrived at their doorstep. What sounds do words make then.

Silence fissures my room from the world outside as if a piece of cake split from the whole as an offering to a hungry deity in obeisance.

We know of all things within this world by their absence.
Night lacks the Sun. Conversations often lack meaning. Sounds lack silence. But if one knows the art of reading; the sand on a desert plain, river through a valley, milky way through a dark sky are all scribbling something.

And I am here to read what silence has scribbled in its wake.