Thursday, November 04, 2010

"हैपी बर्थडे"

यादों की टहनियों पर
कुछ बूंदें जो बचपन से मैंने छोड़े थें
मंझे धागों में लिपटे हुए पतंग,
जिन्हें आसमान को ताक-ताक के बटोरे थें
बारिश में भीगे कुछ पत्तें,
जिनपर छिप छिपकर मैंने कुछ नाम लिखा था
काली राख का हुक्का,
जिनके चाहत में, मैं कुछ शाम बिका था,
छुक छुक करती लम्हों की वह "ट्रेन",
जहाँ कुछ लोग मिले थें.
धूल में लिपटे रस्ते, जो मेरे संग कुछ देर चले थें

मेरे साथ पड़े थें
और 
मैं था, मिटटी का मेरा ये देह
"हैपी बर्थडे"

Sunday, October 31, 2010

"चैप्टर"

आज तुम्हे "हैपी जर्नी" भी नहीं कह पाया
तुम्हे "स्टेशन" छोड़ते समय लगा कि
ज़िस्म का एक हिस्सा वहीँ छूट गया है;
और बचे टुकड़ों को घसीट कर,
मैं अपने घरौंदे में लौट आया हूँ.

वक़्त की रेत,
आसुओं को तो धीरे धीरे ढक देगी.
और संवेदनाएं स्याही बनकर,
पन्नों से लिपट जाएँगी.
पर,
तुम्हारे साथ गुज़ारे वक़्त की खुशबू,
बस रूह में धीमी धीमी महकती रहेंगी
मैं कभी उन्हें शब्दों के दायरे में कैद नहीं कर सकता.

एक "फ्रेश चैप्टर" शायद ख़त्म हो गया है.
तुम्हारे वापस लौटने पर नया "चैप्टर" शुरू करूँगा.

Friday, October 01, 2010

We -The People

उम्र की चादर
जब मेरे घुटने तक हीं आ पाती थी,
और आलिम, फ़ाज़िल, बुद्धिजीवियों की तालिमें
बस्ते में रह जाती थीं,


मैं तेज़ भाग कर चाँद चूमना चाहता था.


अब,
मेरी जिदद जब चाँद से हटकर,
रोटी पर थम आती है;
और अँगीठी पर हाथ सेक कर,
नींद मुझे आ जाती है;


तुम क्यूँ मेरी रोटी को नोंचने,
मेरे गलिआरे आ जाते हो?
कभी मज़हब, कभी जाति बताकर,
मुझको ठगते जाते हो.


वैसे भी,
हर नीलामी में,
मैं अपना वज़ूद बेचने जाता हूँ,
कुछ किस्से अपने कहता, कुछ औरों से सुन आता हूँ.


नीलामी के सिक्के रख लो
रोटी मुझको खाने दो,


आज बहुत मैं भूखा हूँ.

Wednesday, September 08, 2010

हिस़ाब

सच तो ये भी है कि,
वक़्त की सारी साजिशें समझते हैं हम,
और,
खून की उबाल पर लगाम कसने वाले उसके ख़याल से,
अन्दर ही अन्दर जलते हैं हम.

सच तो ये भी है कि,
आईने और झुर्रियां - दोस्ती को बेताब हैं,
और,
रूह को कब्ज़े में रखने की तरक़ीब
उसने सीख ली है.

उठो, चलो !
सच की ऐसी कैफ़ियत को अनसुना करते हैं हम.
तोड़ते हैं आईने का श़क्ल, और,
पिंजरे के परिंदे को आज़ाद करते हैं.

आख़िर उम्र भी कभी ना कभी हिस़ाब मांगेगी

Tuesday, August 31, 2010

नियत

कतल कुछ मैं भी करता हूँ,
कतल आप भी कर लीजे
दरिया खून से अब बस सूर्ख़ हो जाए

लकीरें मैं तनिक खींचू, 
दीवारें आप खड़ी कर लीजे 
अर्ज़ ख़ुद में सिमट कर बस दफ़्न हो जाए   

भूखे पेट की अर्ज़ी,
कहाँ कोई आज सुनता है...
कि बोटियाँ नोच कर अपनी
भूख कुछ कम ही हो जाए 

तमाशा आप का लिक्खा, 
गर्द और रंज लाया है  
दुआओं में परिंदों ने बस राख़ पाया है.

शर्म कुछ मैं भी करता हूँ,
शर्म कुछ आप कर लीजे
कुछ अश्कों को पीकर शायद,
अपनी नियत बदल जाए 

Saturday, August 21, 2010

शहर

कुछ शौक को दफ़न करके, नया शौक पाल लेते हैं. 
कुछ ज़ख्म को छिपाकर, नया ज़ख्म डाल लेते हैं.
इस शहर का सुनसान कँही अपनी गुफ़्तगू सुन न लें,
चलो संदूक से नयी शक्ल, नयी पोशाक निकाल लेते हैं. 


हर शख्स का चेहरा मिलता है हुबहू,
हर ख्वाइशों की चादर का रकबा भी एक है,    रकबा - Area
कुछ सरफिरों ने चंद आसमानी तस्वीरें खींच ली,
इस शहर में आइना नहीं बिकता, 
बाज़ार में खीचें गए तस्वीरें बिकते हैं. 


आँखों में बेबसी की झलक, 
माथे पर दरारें क्यूँ हैं,
इस नस्ल में आख़िर 
सभी थके-हारे से क्यूँ हैं,  
ये रंगीन शहर कभी बुझता ही नहीं है. 
हर लाश के दरमयां, ये दीवारें क्यूँ हैं. 

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

Graffiti

He was standing at the middle of a crossroad; probably everyone stood there atleast once or probably no one did ever. He was never sure of this part of the universe, probably no one was or probably every one was. It was a crossroad of thoughts, beliefs, murmurs, whispers, silence, screams or perhaps just an empty space.

While a civilization was celebrating life under the hypnotic music of moonlight at one side of the road, a society of thinkers and philosophers was chanting requiems for themselves and for their society below a gloomy rain at the other side of the road. Rest of the roads were either so much covered with snow and fog that nothing was visible or were too bright to ramble and focus upon. A chime from some far church started to amplify behind a junkyard in the woods. The voices of profanity, wisdom, rejoice, sadness, hunger and perhaps everything harmonized with the sound of that chime.

Bang!


Dey got up of his dream.


Dey was one of the most respected professors of his college. Born to a criminal lawyer and a house wife, Dey was blessed with most of the facilities possible in the city. It so happened once that a dejected old man, who lost a case to his father's client came crying at his home one midnight. His repetitive half an hour yelling turned out to be a first good enough reason for Dey to ponder about sufferings. Psychology may have defined that impulsive behavior with unknown assumptions and predictions, but for Dey, to understand the origins of whims and caprices had no meaning. There was melancholy in the wind outside his home and hidden desire to celebrate sadness inside his mind. The old man's pleading - "No one likes me and no one cares about me" got engrossed for ever in his memories. 


Dey was then only eight years old, but he was very much convinced, overwhelmed and disgusted for this fate to human. Although, he did not choose to by solve the mysteries of life like Buddha, but since that day, his subconscious brain probably realized its scope to dominate Dey. For the next few days, whenever he slept, he could only dream devastations and echoes of that old man utterance. For the other few days he saw himself running away from his home to some unknown destinations for some unknown reasons. He never disclosed his childhood dreams to his father, as he feared and hated him.


Dreams frightened him, dreams thrilled him and dreams encouraged him to weave his own universe. At the age of ten, he started taking interest in dreams of other people. Once when he was assigned "family" as a topic for his school drawing competition, he asked his mother to share colours and intensity of her dreams, and then he tried to spray colours of voices and sounds of his servant's daughter. He submitted it to his teacher with a layer of text written over it . It was from his father's diary...


"मेरी कल्पनाओं की उड़ान इक दिन आस्मां को चूमेगी;
मेहंदी के छीटें बिखेरती दुल्हन बनकर झूमेगी..." 


Dey, reputed as a shy and introvert student of his class, topped his school in secondary school examinations. He always had more inclinations towards mathematics. He believed that maths will help him to align all the patches of dreams, that he captured as texts, music pieces, drawings etc since his childhood days and span a world out of it. He joined a reputed college of mathematics and spent lots of his time in library to code and decode his patches.


After years of his researches and lots of human interactions, he was able to find some broken links to map dreams. He was very much obsessed with his findings and often struggled against himself for the acceptance of  dominance of reality, his mind and his dreams. He chose the dominance of dreams over all other factors.


Society is like fast food. The more you try to make it enticing, the more it rots. Dey was very much confident to build a platonic society inside his dreams. He started working on a space capsule, where people could spend atleast few hours of their lives in a platonic dream world. He spent sleepless nights and days gathering informations and patching them for his research. Yesterday, he got very tired and slept for few hours with a alarm in his watch.


He was standing at the middle of a crossroad. People met, societies amalgamated and civilizations merged. The fog faded away and left violence, greed, lust, hatred, bloodsheds, stampede and their justifications.


Bang! The alarm clock ranged. Dey woke up. Tears dropped off Dey's eyes.

Friday, July 16, 2010

Voids

He was sitting silent in a dhaba with a glass of vodka in one hand and half smoked cigarette in other. Unlike his colleagues, he sat uninterested, avoiding any intellectual arguments over good,bad and their parametric justifications. A radio kept on a shelf was broadcasting some hindi song, which, Ravi thought, relates to his life...


"चौराहे पर,
 ख्वाइशें
 राख़ बन उड़ जायेंगे,

 रास्ते फिर से,
 आँधियों से टकराकर,
 भीड़ में जुड़ जायेंगे...

 ये समन्दर
 भूखा बहुत है,
 सबको एक दिन खायेगा,
 देखता हूँ कब तलक
 तू खुद से यूँ लड़ पायेगा..."

He was not a regular Dhaba vistor. The "Daru Parties" at dhabas appeared him more as a forum of its attendees to speak their desires, dreams, frustrations, lusts, pains, etc. than any celebration.  However, at his visits to the dhabas, he fantasized audience to be convinced of his two abstract musings - Human emotions are continuously collected within them and dhabas are easiest available sink for their eruptions;  human definitions are incomplete without their post drunk state documentation, else their avaricious, bestial and hypocritical avatars remain uncaptured. Often, he also compared these parties with prolonged sexual intercourses, which start slow in murmur, giggle and smile, get louder, wilder, faster and end up as emotional less attachments of strangers. More than that, he was confused whether these celebrations are more like a social badge, which people add to upgrade their hierarchies in the so defined social animal system or a necessary tool for people destitute of understandings of truth to temporarily peel of layers of their discomforting emotions. Infact, at times he considered the whole idea of celebration a waste. Interestingly, his contemplations and arguments about the requisiteness of many of these parties used to fade away as his involvements in them geared up.  

Ravi denunciated his belief of self existence as an iconoclast unique species long time back; but he could not get rid of his belief about society till recent. He graduated from a glorious literature school in the country, which was known never to sleep. People could be found discussing, sharing, speaking, hearing, writing and reading their thoughts at any time of the day. They talked about life, love, literature, revolution, reservation, politics, science, war or probably anything and everything. Umpteenth amount of thoughts exchange, stacks of books and considerable amount of writings left different impacts on different people. 

During first year of his stay, some Asian country witnessed a month long civil war, which shattered its economy. Millions of families were ruined and news papers could only capture devastations. The topic knocked everyone's door. His college got flooded with the discussions. While the burning topic sparked many dead clubs and literary societies, the overdose of it forced Ravi to start hating social systems, revolution and interactions. While this batch mates were exploring themselves discussing Mahatma Gandhi, Che Guevara, Marxism, communism, revolution, etc, Ravi used to read all the anti-social theories. He spent all his years of graduation staying alone and reading books. 

Society, for him, was yet another dustbin, where he could throw his least intellectual ideas. Ravi rarely talked to people, and whenever he talked, his motive was to express disrespect, make mockery and convince them inferiority of intellect compared to him.  Their anger appeased his ego as he considered anger as a defence mechanism of impotents and handicaps. Revolutions, for him, were tools to glue all the ignorants, hungry and useless people for some unknown reasons. Once during a class discussion, when people linked hunger, suppression, capitalism, etc to revolution, Ravi left a note writing ...

"किसकी लपट में जलने को, 
 तुम इतने बेताब हो,
 काली हवा में बह रहा जो,
 अंधे से सैलाब हो. 

 ये भूख है किसी भेडिये की
 तुम चीख़ कर मर जाओगे.
 तारिख में कब्र पर तुम्हारे,
 सज जायेंगे कुछ लफ्ज़ -  " यह तुम्हारा भी इंक़लाब था".

 इंक़लाब हो, इंक़लाब हो !

He never expected to make millions from his writings. His writings received a severe jolt during his college days, when his best work "आग से ठंडक"  was highly ridiculed, mimicked and disrespected. But, he assumed his dustbin works to feed him atleast. Unluckily, his literature could not feed him for more than few initial months as it faced severe competition from others dustbin works. Ravi had to leave the city and move to a near by village for his living. He, then moved from one village to another, sometimes as a postman, sometimes as a school teacher and sometimes as a bus conductor.His iconoclastic approaches couldn't fetch him anything and his lonely existence could not grab any attention. His writings and understandings on human behavior and psychology were nothing more than a myth for him now. 


He craved pain,but he could not endure it for long. To continue dustbin writings for his survival was more like committing suicide for him; he feared death, so couldn't think of suicide. It was an indication for gradual metamorphism to him. He was not reluctant for change. He never wrote that changes make people impotent. Even much before his college days, he accepted a change when he ran away from his home and altered his surname. 

The dhaba matured in state from murmur to howling. In the midst of that din, Ravi sat uncomfortable and perplexed. He was frustrated, as he was not able to focus on the torrents of thoughts rolling in his mind. Lots of vodka, whiskey and bear intoxicated ambiance of the dhaba. A sudden drizzle and subsequent petrichor made it more romantic. Someone sitting at a table near to their team was reciting ...

"और मत पिला साकी
 बेआबरू दुनिया मुझे मैखना समझ बैठेगी,
 अपने ग़म का दामन,
 बेवजह मुझसे जोड़ देगी..

 मैं तो निकला था
 उस शाम, 
 तनहाई में खोने की तमन्ना थी;
 काश पहले से समझता,
 दुनिया, पैमाने से यूँ रिश्ता जोड़ देगी..."

The last village, where he got settled was Pipidiha, a village at the border of two states. He started socializing with more and different people to add dimensions and reality to his understandings. He made connections over there, and started paying more attention to any occurring social changes. He changed him enough to behave as a social animal, although, he still resisted to fit all of his thoughts in the social frameworks. Before coming back to the city, he also participated in a strike organized by his village people against drinking water problem. His slogan captured special attention of media..


"प्यास मेरी है, तो हंगामा भी मेरा ही होगा,  
 छीन के ले आयेंगे नदिया, यदि न्याय ना होगा. " 

Some newspaper company from a city noticed and inquired about him and offered him a position of journalist. He started writing about social issues. His works were appreciated, and his column "शोषण" was highly rated.

Last night, there was a sudden unrest at the border. People from state near to Pipidiha were demanding separate state for long time. Some innocent villagers of Pipidiha resisted the civil war, as a result of which, they were slayed in the name of revolution. All the newspaper chased the news madly. The discussion flooded media more that the Asian civil war, which Ravi heard during his college days.

The revolution was much more senseless and devastating. Today, his colleagues organized a "daru party" to discuss the rebel. Everyone had their own deep opinions. Ravi could just hear some words - socialism, liberty, poor, nation..

The song of the radio continued

"बुलबुला दीवार में दरार बनकर उभरेगा,
 आज बारी तेरी है;
 बोल... 
 जिंदगी के इस हवन में,
 अपनी तू आहुति देगा ? ..."

Monday, June 21, 2010

An Old Friend

Y - What?... Philosophy ! You mean to say, you spent your whole graduation sitting near by the banks of Ganges, intoxicated in some damn fucking philosophical world and ideologies. Why do you always over rate these absurd writings and also expect us to rate them esoteric?

X - No... I don't

Y - You do it. You have done it since your child hood days.

X - I meant... I don't want you to rate it.

Y - What has communism, socialism, philosophy, literature, poems and ... whatever... given to the society. These have just portrayed a non existent world to people like you and refrained you from reality. Tell me..what has they given?

X -  I don't know. I thought I knew it earlier.

Y - and now...my lord... what do you think about your thoughts?

X - Now, I don't think. At most I guess, I am a lazy sack.


X and Y were not siblings. They started with different schools. India was then witnessing the neo-liberal economic reforms,so,  their fathers, to get rid of retro caste revealing names, stamped them with identities of Axe and Wahi. It so happened that, both of them landed in same boarding school. They entered as 10 years old kids.

Desperate to add more imaginations, rather, absurdity in their nomenclatures, a batch-mate of them convinced others to call them X and Y. Y was the batch topper. One of the most decent, modest and intelligent kids. Once, during a normal introduction class, when some teacher asked him about his best friend , almost every one desired to hear their names.

X was never explained by his family, whether they were rich or not.However, he always thought himself to be rich in imaginations. Y was one of his best friend. When the teacher asked Y about his best friend, Y replied  - Z and in a moment drops fell off X eyes. Let bygones be bygones.

His batch mates believed that X suffers mood swings, though, X some times justified himself that he is some tough guy born with difference, and some other times felt that he lacks concentration. X used to have sudden strong likings and fascinations for any unexpected entity that happened to come across him. His sporadic desires ranged from stone pebbles to an expensive parker pen. No one knew, or to be more precise, no one was ever interested in his whims and sixty percent of the times, X wanted them not to know and discuss about it. As he grew older, percentage of such times increased, and his fascinations started spreading more and more wings.

When X desired of any thing, he used to do anything and everything to own that, and if he got that, he used to get bore of it in a day. His self justifications included satisfaction, intellectualism, modesty, etc. He never resisted his impulse. X tried to get bore of Y's friendship. He could never manage that, and this infuriated him. He spent lot of time to find faults of Y, so that he get bore of Y. Apart from silly arguments and some squabble, he could manage nothing.

They did not converse for next 7 years. X got fascinated by literature. He read it and got bored; liked communism followed it and got bored; praised tranquility of mind, tried it and got bored.

He is trying to call Y after these so many years. While the connections are yet to be established, X is murmuring and imagining some conversations. Same old impulse!

Y is not picking the call. He never picked it for the last 3 years. X is scribbling some texts ... Some of my friends are in so much hurry to write their future...that they prefer to delete history. After all who cares for torn yellow pages.Let bygones be bygones.

Sunday, June 13, 2010

मोसे और लिखा नहीं जाए*

बदरा मोरे अंगना पिघल गएँ,
बैरी बड़े इतरायें,
अंखियों ने जो गीत लिखा है,
मोहे सारी रात चिढाये;
मोसे और लिखा नहीं जाए..

दर्द ये मीठा, थमता नहीं है,
सावन भी रह रह इतराए
हर आहट हम करवट बदलें,
मोहे सजनी की याद सताए
मोसे और लिखा नहीं जाए

याद में तोरी रात गुजर गयी,
बदरा पिघल छिप जाए
नयनो में तोहे भर लेंगे,
तोरे नयनो से अब ना लजाएँ
मोसे और लिखा नहीं जाए...

*Inspired by मोरे सैयां मोसे बोलत नाही

Saturday, May 01, 2010

अट्ठन्नी

आठ साल का था
जब,
चोकलेट के लालच में,
अलमारी से मैंने अट्ठन्नी चुरायी थी;
पकड़ा ना जाऊ,
इस डर से,
हडबडाहट में घर के पीछे लगे बरगद में,
उसे मैं गाड़ आया था.

दौड़ भाग और कशमकश में,
अट्ठन्नी के साथ साथ,
बरगद ने मेरी रूह का एक टुकड़ा भी निगल लिया था, शायद
और,
ज़िस्म पर छोड़ दिया एक ख़रोच.

आज बरगद बड़ा हो गया है;
अपनी शाख से, ढक लेता है सूरज को.
सूरज घूमता तो है, लेकिन
हर पहर रात जैसी ही होती है.
जब भी नए चोकलेट खाने की कोशिश करता हूँ,
अँधेरा दबोचने को दौड़ता है
और मेरे रूह की कीमत,
उस अट्ठन्नी से सस्ती महसूस होने लगती है.

बचपन का खुरेंचा हुआ वह घाव,
आज भी इंतज़ार कर रहा है,
गर्द की परतों का;
इस बार मैं अट्ठन्नी चुराकर मलहम नहीं खरीदूंगा.

Saturday, January 23, 2010

फ़ासला

मुददतों से रौशनी ख़ामोश है,
वक़्त की दरख़्त पर,
उम्मीदों की ख़रोच का नामोनिशां कंही है नहीं।
और,
शून्य सी खड़ी है वही शीशे की दीवार;
एक तरफ़ ठण्ड में ठिठुरता रहता है चाँद,
और एक तरफ़ हुक्के के धुंए में जिंदगी मदहोश है।

तुम्हारी रोशनदानी में जब मैं झांकता हूँ,
दिखता है वही चराग़
बेचैन, इंक़लाब के जिदद में,
फड फडाता रूह मेरी ताकता है।

जब फुर्सत मिले,
तुम, तुम्हारे चाहने और जानने वाले सारे लोग
एक छत के नीचे जमा होकर,
तब तक...
हँसते रहना, बातें करना, रोते रहना, ख़ूब लड़ना,
जब तक सारी बेतुकी ख्वाइशें झुर्रिया बनकर चेहरे पर उभर न जाएँ;

फिर लौट जायेंगे सब अपनी गली,
और नयी सुबह,
बेरुखी जिंदगी से फ़ासला कम हो जाएगा।

Monday, January 11, 2010

Something Random

Using sketches to document ideas is really interesting. Folkstride is one of such attempts. Comments invited :).

Wednesday, January 06, 2010

Old Memories

This is a link to an old song written and directed by me. Music was composed by Amrit and sung by Vaibhav (college ka room mate :) ). Most of the actors are batch mates at IT BHU.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mvjd91UctuM

Tuesday, January 05, 2010

सयाना चूजा घोसले से फुर्र फुर्र उड़ गया

सौंधी सौंधी खुशबू थी, हलकी हलकी बारिश,

पलकों में खिली थीं नयी नयी ख्वाइश,

होश भी था हौसला भी...

वो खुली हवा में पतंग बनकर उड़ गया...

सयाना चूजा घोसले से फुर्र फुर्र उड़ गया।

बुलबुला बनकर बहता था गलियों में,

बादलों कें काँधें पर बेलगाम छलियों सा...

लिखने निकला था अपनी दास्तान..ढूँढने आसमा का रास्ता॥

थामे जो मुश्किलों में...

आज वो..ऊँगली नहीं थीं, आचल नहीं था, लोरी नहीं थीं॥

अनजानी भीड़ में अनजाना जुड़ गया...

सयाना चूजा घोसले से फुर्र फुर्र उड़ गया।

ख्वावों के रस्ते चलकर, पगडण्डी टेढ़े चढ़कर,

यारों का एक शहर था॥

छल्लों में शाम ढलती, सुबह किसको खबर था

होठो पर टूटी फूटी सीटी...और वही jeans पुरानी,

मशाल था वो,

आँधियों में जलता गया ... चलता गया ..चलता गया

खुद को पहचानने लिए सुर नया

सयाना चूजा घोसले से फुर्र फुर्र उड़ गया।

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