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Showing posts from 2014

Your Children My Children

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You don’t hold their spirits for they will soar and fly over the muck of loathing up, above, ever so high the petals you thought crushed under your pitiable heels leave behind their fragrance the world inhales, deep within feels I know you gloat over my tears if you could see, I would show how in the quest of endless beauty even the evil helps us grow oh you poor misguided soul in despicable depths of desolation love-deprived, care-lorn, mistaking fear as adulation I pray no harm for you, from you released from the shackles of hate when you meet my winged angels you will crumble to reverse your fate blood of babies, men and women bask in it at the peril of your own slaughter is a sin often repeated to irrigate the seeds you had sown there are those, your muted friends comparing one grief with another a heart that small is bound to tear when his children are pitted against his brother on you go, spread what you

धुंध

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आज भोर की धुंध जैसे मेरी ज़िंदगी की कहानी बयां कर रही थी. रस्ता अकेला था, मौसमों ने तन्हाई की चादर ओढ़ रखी थी. पक्षी भी जैसे सहमे कहीं चुप बैठे थे. हवा की ठंढक में सर्दी का खुश्नुमापन भी था, और रूह को झकझोरने वाली कठोरता भी. एक ओर, इक शर्मीली युवती की आधी हंसी जैसी खुल रही थी हवाएं. दूसरी ओर, कोहरे की परत मातम का माहौल बना रही थी – घोर, भीषण, निस्तब्ध. चीखता सन्नाटा. उस खामोशी में चुनौती थी...यदि हिम्मत कर सको तो अपने ह्रदय की तड़पती गहराइयों से एक नज़्म ढूंढ निकालो. और बरसों की यातना, सदियों का प्रेम उसमें निचोड़कर, उस बंदिश को अपने कंठ का सहारा दो. उसे गाओ. मर्म और वेदना से उत्पन्न एक ऐसे लय का सृजन करो कि तुम्हारी गूँज में फिजायें समा जाएँ. वो गीत, तुम्हारी रचना, तुम्हारा पैदावार...वही तुम्हें इस धुंध से बाहर निकलेगा. नहीं, तो इसी अंधकार में लुप्त हो जाओ, करने दो इस धुंध को तुम्हें भ्रमित, गुमने दो फिर से रास्ता, खो जाने दो उस एकमात्र डोर को जो तुम्हें मंजिल तक ले जा सकती है. हिल जाने दो उस वजह जो, जो आज तक तुम्हारा अस्तित्व बनी हुई है. तुम्हारी आस्था. धुंध की दीवार थी...और

All in a name

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She clamps down on the horn of her Swift. Bee……..p. The blaring horn slices through the silence, rousing a sleepy afternoon from slumber. She presses down hard. Till the noise equals the angry hum in her own head. No, she won’t let this Ecosport go past. One, it was the chagrin of a small car being railroaded by a big brute. Two, the bully didn’t even possess the grace of an indicator. Three, and most importantly, she was not in the most charitable of her moods. She’ll have it her way at least somewhere. The exhilaration of choosing to go somewhere, rather than being led. Led like a pet on his master’s leash… into an unknown territory… scared of the surrounding, yet thrilled with the company. Tail wagging. Eyes glued to the only one. She releases the horn only when the SUV has been warned off. She keeps staring ahead. Not on the road, not on the horizon, just ahead. Eyes bloodshot. Jaws clenched tight. Angry. Seething. Mad. She zooms ahead at 110 kmph on the shining bituminou

Aggrieved

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The arduous task of holding grief Of emotions manipulated to make The seizures of angst seem brief Of hope thinning, causing to rake The wish tree's last lonely leaf Relentless fate threatening to break Fragile left overs of reprieve Against time running for its sake Spending death wishes in all but a heave Pain that grips the innards like plague The lump in throat that doesn't leave Inner implosions turning blake Leaving precisely nothing to bereave Ears bleeding, eyes steeped in ache Heart as mind's wretched fief Pauseless suffering, soundless writhing The arduous task of holding grief

Cracker of a festival

“Don’t teach me. Don’t try to patronize. Tell me a story so that I may learn.” Two years ago, I met a friend, a prolific reader, who happened to utter these words in a casual conversation. He was talking of an author whose style he considered rather didactic. It must have stirred something deep in me, for I remember his words, and the lesson, clearly. And so I will clothe my message in a story. A real one. The year I joined college, Delhi government woke up to the traffic chaos faced by residents of Palam and Dwarka. Then, Palam was bustling with life and business, and Dwarka had been freshly dug for the coveted metro. Property hawks were, as always, the first to milk the fattened cow, and before we knew, our modest property had become Delhi’s latest desire. Resultant – habitation in Dwarka soared; cow sheds were replaced by buildings and private vehicles zoomed on the roads hitherto dominated by buses. What the property dealers inadvertently forgot to mention was t

Raise your voice, not the sea level

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“Silence is a powerful enemy of social justice.” – Amartya Sen History stands testimony to the fact, that among other things, it takes voice to staunch injustice. Whether it was Raja Ram Mohan Roy or Nelson Mandela, one person with courage has made the majority, riding on the wave of voice and words. Today, as 52 small island nations across the globe face serious survival threat owing to environmental imbalance, as 1 billion people go hungry day after day, as 13 million hectares of forest cover is erased annually, and as species get extinct sooner than the most pessimistic scientist predicted…humanity longs to hear the surge of that voice of dissent. Nature knows the best The planet bequeathed to us by nature has a history of 4 billion years. Through eons of evolution, a gurgling molten mass of material cooled off to become conducive for life. First in the form of singular cells, and later in complex forms, life broke through the chrysalis of uncertain environments, and flour

I=YOU

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Did I tell you I will be ok without you? Did I lead you into believing that I shall remain intact, my insides in order, even if you were not there to hold my hand every day? Did I actually ask you to leave, without forcing myself on your path? Smiling, did I tell you that physical absence didn't count where conscience is united? Was I the one to have guided you on the other hand of the fork, urging you to have faith in the beauty of our union, and the tremendous power inherent in it. Did I really possess the power to hold your gorgeous face in the cusp of my hands, your milky complexion reddened with grief, moments before we parted, saying I’ll send the kisses through the moon? You see, I’m updating my restraint diary. I’ve a feeling I’ve been doing a splendid job, managing to breathe, live, behave and love with nearly the same panache. No, it’s not sadness. I do remember your single-minded desire for me to be happy, and so I settle for a state of be

An essay on Cleanliness

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“Don’t throw it outside. Because there is no outside.” The statement above, taken from an award winning campaign against littering, bespeaks the fact that this shared planet is everybody’s home, and hence, everybody’s responsibility too. Cleanliness is next only to Godliness, is a proverb we’ve all heard in school, and in this essay, I shall try to understand and explain its multifarious facets. The topic of cleanliness reminds me of an anecdote narrated by a senior during my Plant days, seven years ago. During his official tour to Australia, while sauntering on the spic and span sidewalks of Sydney, he happened to drop a wrapper on the pavement. Unmindful of his act, he carried on without qualms. An elderly woman, walking a few steps behind him, lifted the wrapper and put it in her bag. Stumped, our man stopped in his tracks, as the lady went past him with a nod and a smile. “I learnt the lesson for once and for all,” he confessed. The eloquent silence of that woman was preg

Talking hands

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I went through that entire metro ride, with a book in my hand, barely able to read a page. I don’t know exactly when they materialized before me. I must not have noticed. My sensory receptors generally aren’t good picking up superfluous signals. That is why I don’t know if they came together, or if one of the two had come before and waited for the other. But what I do know, from the time I set eyes on them, is the magic that flowed between the two of them. Two fair, thin hands, seemed to stem out from behind my book. Her right, his left. Clasped at the centre. Nothing extra-ordinary about that, considering many young things hold hands in public places. It was the chemistry, the silent talking between the two that got me distracted. And how! I couldn’t hear what they were talking, their voices were deliberately muted, but their fingers symbolized the graphic pitch and frequency waves of their conversation. In the beginning, they only allowed their fingertips to meet. Wi

हिंदी.

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हिंदी. मेरे बचपन की भूली-बिसरी सहेली. बोकारो तक इसके साथ जम कर खेली, याद है. लेकिन दिल्ली आने के बाद सब कुछ बदल गया. चौथी क्लास के बीचो-बीच बैठकर पहली बार यह अहसास हुआ कि medium of instruction अगर अचानक से बदल जाए, तो दिमाग का सन्नाटा बहरा बना देता है. उस साल पहली बार, और आखिरी बार, अंतिम परीक्षा में मैंने 80% से कम स्कोर किया. दिल चूर-चूर हो गया. वो अलग बात है कि काव्य पाठ और वाद-विवाद में मैं हिंदी की ही होकर रह गयी. आज भी मुझे स्कूल के कुछ दोस्त 'हिंदी वाली सोनल' के नाम से बहतर पहचानते हैं. बड़े बोझिल हृदय से मन को अंग्रेज़ी की ओर झुकाया. कई साल लग गए अपनी प्राथमिक भाषा बदलने में. मानती हूँ कि शुरू शुरू में बड़ी कुढ़न हुई. दिल्ली वालों के चक्कर में अंग्रेज़ी सीखने पर विवश होकर. लेकिन जैसे जैसे मैं इस नयी भाषा को जानती गयी, समझती गयी...लगा जैसे मेरे मन कि बात को मुखरित करने के लिए ख़ास बनाई गयी है ये भाषा. अंग्रेज़ी से प्रेम का सिलसिला स्कूल से शुरू हुआ, और इस तरह रम गयी उसके प्यार में कि आज अभी रूह को तिनके का सहारा चाहिए होता है, तो वो roman alphabet के रूप में ही आता है.

For bhaujaai. Happy Birthday.

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Picture a dainty pahadi beauty stepping into a not-so-dainty Bihari household. As a bride. And the question that follows, yet unanswered, is who changed who more. The bride the family or the family the bride? She is sweet tempered. As a result of which conscious effort in made by old residents (most of all her better half) to maintain sobriety even when raw impulses are dying to be heard. She loves eating out. In a majority which, when thrilled, prefers to sprawl on the floor and snooze. Her dishes are generously spiced up, which leaves the writer, who is still accustomed to baby food, to grow up her taste buds. When she mentions shopping and finds not a single soul echoing her excitement, she is reminded, as a solace, of her other sister-in-law who shares similar tastes, but alas, is away. Her eyes widen as she hears शुद्ध हिंदी words bandied around with unfamiliar ease, and how each member has not even a passing acquaintance with shyness. They break into a dance, a song, a poem

Try you may, hope won't fail

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waves of time, unrelenting unleash with fury on the bunds of hope, frayed yet enduring slipping 'n standing, alone 'n shunned up come the clouds threatening destruction at heart and aim vainglorious in terminal attempt to leave nothing to proclaim rain lashes out an angry downpour intent on the show of power under the knifing blows of spear the crying bunds stand that hour in the wrath and fury of nature melts all but the sturdy trail against character, strength 'n love heap up the odds, hope won't fail

Endurance Testing

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Bigger the Prize, Larger the Price I have fainted once. In the summer of 2010. Cause – Neck spasm. Reason – doing 200 breadths in the swimming pool, that is 2.5 kilometers, at a break-neck speed, literally. Come to think of it, it was the doctor’s negligence that made me faint, not so much my own extremism. The swimming only gave me a bad cramp, which I went to get cured from the doc, who insisted on turning my neck and bringing it back to a neutral position (and she was a physiotherapist, lord help her patients!). I had resisted, telling her it was too painful to bear. But she labored on, till I passed out in pain. Till two weeks after that, I could not move my neck. Had to exercise my eyeballs way too much that fortnight! Post that incident; I have done 200, and even more, without committing the mistake of going to a doctor after that. I learnt that muscles will ache when fatigued. So why do I fatigue myself to that extent? Why do I stretch myself to the point tha

That one thing

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“Whose class is this? And why are you shouting like hooligans?” Kamakshi Mukherjee ma’am glared at us with eyes that Bengali women can file patent for. A class of 40 teenagers in complete bedlam came to a stand-still. Pin-drop silence. No student dared to move under the extra high scanning power of Ms Mukherjee’s eyes. Satisfied with the intended effect, she went on, “who’s the monitor of this class?” A petite Sumita came out of the third row, head bent in shame that only good souls carry for others’ mistakes . Probably Ms Mukherjee took pity on this harmless looking girl, for all we heard was a strict warning and some inaudible murmurings of Sumita…of the math’s madam being absent and the zero class teacher being untraceable. Ms Mukherjee didn’t waste time in hearing Sumita’s defense. She threw her all-pervasive look once again, and raised a stern pointer to her lips. We got the message loud and clear. When Ms Mukherjee was separated from us by more than a floor (we

बहाने

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“जब-जब मेरी याद आये, किसी भी बहाने से मुझे बुला लेना...” ट्रेन में चढ़ने से कुछ मिनट पहले तुम दाँत चिआरते हुए कह गए. मैं दूर तक तुमको देखती रही. ट्रेन की छुक-छुक जब मेरे दिल की धड़कन सी तेज़ हो गयी, तब तक. पटरी पर घड़घड़ाते हुए आखिरी डब्बे के निकल जाने के बाद तक. प्लेटफार्म से भीड़ छंट जाने के बाद तक. मेरे मन में उदासी का एक भारी सा लौंदा पिघलकर पानी, और फिर उड़कर काले बादलों सा घिर आया, तब तक...मैं देखती रही, सोचती रही. किसी भी बहाने से बुला लेना? सुबह कॉलेज जाने से पहले, जब बस स्टॉप से उतर के, बेसब्री से सड़क पार करके तुम्हारी बाइक तक जाते-जाते पसीने से लथ-पथ हो जाती थी, तब तुम अपने हाथ से ग्लव उतारकर मेरे माथे का पसीना पोछ देते थे. फिर उतने ही ध्यान से होंठ के ऊपर जमी बूंदों को ऊँगली फेरकर ऐसे समेटते थे जैसे समुन्दर की गहराइयों से निकले मोती हों. फिर मेरे चहरे को हाथ में बटोरकर कहते थे – good morning Rockstar! और मैं हर दिन, उसी हैरानी, उसी मेहरबानी के साथ ज़िंदगी का शुक्रिया अदा करती थी जिसने तुमसे सिर्फ मिलाया ही नहीं, तुम्हारा प्यार भी मुकम्मल कराया. तुम्हारे जाने के बाद, अन्द