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Showing posts from 2013

My Charmer

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Boy, I swear, I’m gonna nail you for the tricks you pull with your charm for the crimes you do, and get away with that smile you use to disarm my petition is ready, and I’m coming strong with a mind to get all even will knock all doors, and I’ll be heard my mood, today you can’t leaven I’ve had enough of gritting my teeth ending up a slavering schmuck swept away by your wordless beauty bereft of will, devoid of pluck pray, tell, how you con me and what do you dissolve in the air making me forget, every little defense unraveling me from far, layer by layer it’s merciless you know, to have this effect on anybody who loves you so making them exist outside their skin exposed, vulnerable, slow today, honey, is a different day i’m prepared with a battery of guns just don’t turn back, oh my killer coz I’d be dead, if you looked at me once

मैं क्या-क्या हो सकती थी

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सुना है रोज़ सुबह उसे चाय की तलब सताती है सुना है एक डाइरी है , जिसे वो काँख तले दबाये चलता है लोग बताते हैं , वो कोने वाली गुमटी से पान खाता है और पुरनकी बजार वाला पेड़ा पसंद करता है जाने कहाँ से बनी हैं वो ऐनकें जिन्हें वो सोते वक़्त भी बगल में रखता है और वो गर्मी वाली खादी की बूशर्ट जिसे हर तीसरे दिन पहनता है एक लंच-बॉक्स भी लाता है जिसे चाट-चाट कर खाता है और वो सुनहरी ठेपी वाली कलम को सीने से लगी पॉकेट में रखता है... हाय किस्मत ! मैं क्या-क्या हो सकती थी- वो प्याली , वो डाइरी , वो पान , वो चश्मे , वो कमीज़ , वो बर्तन , वो कलम , वो पेड़े ...  

Hot!

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So you think you are hot. Others have contributed to this notion too. And meant it as a compliment. In all honesty, I too think you are hot. You have a way of turning up things, including people, in flames. Flames that burn. Swinging between extremes of an unctuous boyfriend and a vengeful jilted lover. When you are pleased, you lay out an entire garden of daffodils before your object of appreciation. And mind you, you don’t marvel yourself any less for doing that. When you are displeased, you take a perverse kinda kick in trampling the other person in the meanest of adjectives. Not loving yourself any less while doing that. You seem to have led yourself into believing that this macho, irrational and filmy-hero type behavior makes you look like a demi-god. Polite and tolerant people let you swim in this fantasy, knowing well that disturbing your turf with objective feedback will only dirty their hands, not change your course. If you only had the eye for self-introspec

कभी तो तुमसे रूठेंगे

ऐ प्यारे। ऐ मेरे ज़ालिम। ओरे मेरे डार्लिंग। एगो बात कहें ? तुम ना , एगो चाकू लेके मेरे आर-पार कर दो। ई साल भर मीठा-मीठा आंच पर पकने से अच्छा है एक ही दिन में मामला खतम हो जाये। तुम्ही बताओ , तनी बेसी नहीं कर रहे हो तुम ? बताओ , कोई लिमिट ना होना चाहिए जी ? इंत जा र का ? हम बता दे रहे हैं। अब तुम इसको धमकी समझो या गुंडई। अब हमसे और नहीं सहा जाता। तुम हर बार जाते हो तो लगता है जैसे जीवन ही रूठ गया हो हमसे। चाह के भी तुमको रोक नहीं सकते। जाने कै से आदमी हो तुम कि तुमसे लड़ने में , या तुमको बुरा-भला सुनाने में , अपने-आप को ही खराब लगता है। सच्ची बताओ , टोना-ऊना सीखे हो क्या कहीं से ? हमको पुराने जमाने की कहानी के राजा जैसा फील होता है। जिसका प्राण दूर किसी पिंज रा में बंद सुग्गा में कैद रहता था। काहे रे मोर सुगवा , लाजो नईखे लागत हमरा ई हाल कर के ? हमको बहुत दिन से सच्चे लग रहा था कि हम स राफत कि मूरत बनते जा रहे हैं। तुम कहते हो ठहरो , तो चुप-चाप ठहर जाते हैं। तुम कहते हो चलो , तो तुम्हारी दुल्हनिया लेखा पीछे-पीछे चल देते हैं। तुम कहते हो बात करो , तो खुस

Love is magic

(Angry. Waiting. Brow-knitting. Teeth-grinding.) Full 6 hours since morning. Since 9 am in fact. From the time I woke up, full 9 hours! What does he think…am I going to crumble and collapse if he doesn’t call? Is he even thinking about me at all? Does he realize it’s more than half a day gone without hearing his voice even ONCE? My voice too is not so bad. Sorry to sound haughty, but a considerable few would give away something precious to hear it once. And look at me. Reduced to hands and legs and fingers and toes…fumbling with every damn familiar thing (forget the zone of unfamiliar, I’m too ashamed to reveal my ineptness). Scatter-brained and hare-focused (if the latter means anything). Attention span reduced to sub-zero. Distracted like scared pet in a new house. Tch. Whatever. Let him come to me the next time. If I don’t bleed his lips kissing…if I don’t dig in my nails and sink in my teeth…If I don’t simply ravish him right left and centre…arrghh. Not that I’m d

The squeeze

She had been married for 2 days. He hadn’t touched her yet. The marriage, like all arranged Indian marriages, was an exercise in organized confusion. Collective hysteria. Mass pranaams . Deafening music and inscrutable Sanskrit. She remembers catching glimpses of his face while the marriage ceremony was being performed. The time he tied the mangalsutra around her neck, and when he smeared the vermilion-dipped ring on the parting of her hair. On other occasions, she was too lost being herded by her mother and aunts from one ritual to another. Too exhausted to express irritation. Anger doused by an overwhelming sense of change. But when she did steal those looks at him, a mixed emotion of love and shyness flushed her. Forcing her to bite her lips and suppress her smile. She could not believe her luck. A boy she had loved since her girlhood days was now being given to her in marriage! He would be her man…a distinction too great to be digested in a day. In her honest opinion, four, e

My Literature

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Mornings. That’s when you kill me most. On many nights, I dream of you. On many other, I can’t recall my dreams. Irrespective of the night, I wake up CRAVING for you. It’s almost as if the need to see you is compulsive. Biological. Physical. I keep thinking about you, often wet and wild thoughts, till I can think no more. Till my head is all choc-a-bloc with mosaic of your photos. Your lips, eyes, face, neck, chest….. Looking at the world through the darting eyes of a hunted animal. Desperately searching for the only sign of hope. You. Sweetheart, it’s not fair to unleash all the assault, with such ruthlessness, right at the beginning of each day. I know, wherever you are, it must be giving you some pleasure to watch me squirm for your touch. I know you know, how badly I need you to squeeze me in your hug. How elaborately I want you to love me. Kiss me to the point of suffocation. How you occupy every available space of my consciousness. Pray, why don’t you help me then? For

the Void within

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There is a part of me that is made of wax. It lies between my ribs. Somewhere between the throat and the stomach. Right at the centre. A fist-sized portion maybe, its size varying with time. In tender moments of love, fear or anxiety, the wax melts. Giving way to a space that is void. An aching vacuum of nothing. Life keeps happenings on the sidelines, the mind witnessing it with the detached patience of a disinterested audience. Tears don’t sting the eyes. They flow without pause or permission, quenching the pillow that has smelt only oil and shampoo. The voice remains placid, speech tempered. The quiet of a death fills that empty space between my bosom. There are times when the void cracks, the crevices going up and down, tearing skull and toes. It pains. A wincing sort of physical pain that forces me to seize it with the flat of my palm and press it hard. Breathing returns to normal, but that deafening silence remains. That high-pitched siren in the ears never quite en

Distinguished, ain't I?

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I see a hapless little squirrel chasing its tail with hysterical speed bang in the middle of a driveway. I go close, hoping to scurry it off to a safe corner. It doesn't budge. I bend down, run my fingers over its delicate, smooth back. It becomes still. I take silence as assent. I try to lift it, to move it to the grass, a safe haven. In a split second of ferocious intensity, it bites my finger and blood spurts out. I lose the grip. I have to borrow tissues to staunch the oozing blood. When I turn back to look at my attacker, it's doing the same ridiculous stunt...before gradually coming to a final halt. A few seconds, and it's dead. In coup de grace, an Innova runs over it. The legacy comprises a nasty finger, one tetanus injection and 6-dose anti-rabies vaccine. Friends express concern - for the poor little thing that died after biting me.

Blank

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I’m no addict. The only knowledge I have of dope is through Amitav Ghosh’s Sea of Poppies and its sequel novel River of Smoke. In the former book, where a great deal is written about opium, I particularly remember one sequence. It depicts a scene where an addict is forced to undergo de-addiction. No, don’t ask me who that character is. But what I can tell you, in good detail, is how he craves for his drug. There is a reason why I can recall the scene so vividly. So this addict begs for his cake till he faces a near black-out. He wakes up with immense pain in his limbs. It’s a peculiar pain. He feels that his innards are being twisted with iron hands till he can’t breathe. And multiple claws are gouging out his eyes, gagging his mouth…and suffocating the life out of him. He thrashes, he kicks, he shouts, he salivates, he implores. He’s garrulous with deprivation. All he needs is one sniff of his wonder drug for everything in the distorted world to return back to a silken state o

inter-mingled

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sadden not those sweetheart eyes nor burden that lovely heart in each second, i am with you for there's nothing to do us apart your lashes are laced with my scent in your breast-pocket lies my strand pressed against the cushion of your palm is my committed steady hand pages of your book hold my voice my fingertips are alive in your hair find me present, oh! beloved! in your every song 'n prayer my taste still lingers on your neck your eyes can paint my face a part of me will throb in your arms whoever with love you embrace know i watch you in all your moods as i stand against your fear you are of me, and i of you the ring in your laughter, the salt in your tear

Practical Love

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through the chinks of a mauled heart seamless tears ooze into the drain of everyday life traded in the name of practicality. an entire love story lies scattered in pages and the cup is held away from withering parched lips the distance of cruel years is yet to be sealed. faith's test passed is a youth wasted away.

OLIVER

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He was asked to report at 3, but he came at 4.20. Upon enquiry, he said he mistook my name for a Mr Solanki! He sounded apologetic over phone, but I was miffed. He couldn’t have chosen a worse waiting spot, for I had to go ankle deep in puddle to reach his car. I was ready to give him a piece of my mind when he turned to me. Instinctively, I smiled. And decided to like him. He reminded me of my grandmother (all old people do). Only, he’d be a decade younger than her. Aaji is 94. Let’s call him Oliver, a kind of portmanteau for Old Driver. In his prim blue suit and cap, dear Oliver looked rather cute. His driving, though, was a complete disaster. He held the steering with unsure, fidgety hands, peering ahead with blinking eyes. The machine, least to say, was as old as the man himself. Every part of the Santro shuddered; it had the talent of sputtering to a total halt in most difficult traffic situation. Every time that happened, dear Oliver took a good one minute to restart the

I prefer BMWs (sic)

As the swanky white car came around the bend of the porch, I narrowed my eyes to search its occupant. I had been waiting for ten minutes, and it was a dry, drab, professional wait. More to help himself, the person standing behind me offered an explanation for the white wonder. “It’s my car, you know,” he said with undisguised heroic. “I prefer BMWs”, he added to complete the kill. I wonder the range of reactions I could have given him. I enjoyed thinking it up: (with big suggestive eyes) “Oh yah? If I sit in your car looooong enough, will you give me one of your cars that you DON’T prefer?” (the complete baby look) “But what is the full form of BMW, sir?” (the naughty-you look) “And so do the brats who mow down street dwellers” I have a feeling he would have loved the above reaction. (flatly) “What’s the big deal? I’ve done it in a Hummer.” (bluntly) “I still prefer my office peon.” (laughing) “You bet I sleep better in my chartered bus!”  (matter-of-factly) “I prefer

Pyaar, and gifts

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A conference room turned studio. A young girl and a coroporate-ish looking man are laughing self consciously, feeling silly and witty respectively. The set is ready, and on they go: Girl: Mr Pyarelaal, thanks for joining us…. Pyare (interrupting): call me Pyare, please Girl (unprepared for this intrusion, racing her mind to pick up script lines): Oh! Umm…sure…umm…Pyare ji, thanks for joining us on this show Pyare gives her a smile that would have appeared hilariously constipated to anyone on the road, but in the corporate world, it is read as a grateful gesture. Girl: so Pyare, you’ve been elevated to the post of Director (Pyaar). This is unprecedented in the history of any corporate. What made this possible? Pyare: Gifts. Girl (flabbergasted): What? The anchor is surprised. Even she knew the truth, but didn’t expect this uncharacteristic candour from Pyarelaal. She didn’t know he was prepared. Pyare (with the air of a sanyaasi): You see, life is a gift. Our birth

The Perfect 10

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Two decades after the Romanian gymnast Nadia Comaneci first scored the Perfect 10 in 1976 Montreal Olympics, a girl was born in Bokaro General Hospital, who would go on to score a Perfect 10 in her Class X Board exams years later. Meet Nupur Singh, a darling of her teachers, a student of Bokaro Ispat KalyanVidyalaya (BIKV) from Class sixth to tenth, and a topper throughout. The Topper Singh It takes Nupur some time to get settled in our conversation. She admits she is a little shy; has been from her earliest memories. But when she does open up, what an insight she allows in her world of struggle, uncertainty and achievement! Born to a contractual worker Mr Niwas Singh and a home-maker mother Ms Gauri Devi, Nupur speaks of her lack of resources in a very matter-of-fact manner, not once blemished by self-pity. “I feel a wee-bit out of place when children of my age discuss their i-pods, i-pads and other gadgets, but I ignore these conversations and get on with my work”, she adds w

Devjani the Dreamer

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“You guessed it right, it’s a baby girl; a girl, who has no idea whether she’ll go to live or not…” As she recites lines from a poem called ‘Why is a girl never wanted’, Devjani’s cheeks get inflamed with passion, her brows furrowed and eyes darting, hands moving to enunciate her point. The fiery delivery leaves her audience with a lump in their throats which doesn’t melt for a long time. Maybe this is why she won the first prize for this poem in a pan-Bhilai poetry recitation competition. Devjani Chaudhary, 9, daughter of contract labour Jyotirmay Chaudhary, fluent orator in Hindi and English, is one of the 295 other first generation learners of Bhilai Ispat Kalyan Vidyalaya (BIKV), an English-medium school catering exclusively to children coming from below poverty line (BPL) families. With an intention to alleviate families living in abject poverty by providing education to their children, BIKV was started by SAIL Bhilai Steel Plant in 2007. Every year, a new batch