माज़ी

आब ओ अब्र के दरमियाँ
वो वहां के मुझे पता नहीं
साहिल की तरफ रुख था मेरा
कश्ती जैसे आप ही पानी पे चल रही हो
अजीब सा सुकून था
जैसे मंज़िल दुर नहीं मेरे पास ही थी
ना हम-साज़ , ना कोई हम-राह
मेरा सफर और मेरी मंज़िल
ऐसा लगा जैसे एक  ज़माना बीत गया हो
या फिर कल की ही कोई बात हो
....
अंजान थी मैं...या फ़िर बेपरवाह
उस कश्ती को रफ़ीक़-ए -रूह समझी
जो कश्ती माज़ी के सिफ़र में ग़ुम थी

So there, I have said it…

When I was…ahmm…younger, the only material possession I swore by were my precious books. I read like there’s no tomorrow. Every visit to a bookshop was as agonizing as it was exciting- from a pile of books (all of which you wanted or rather needed) you had to select a few. I remember standing outside bookstores and promising myself to save enough money to buy the book in the display. And unlike all other possessions I have (except a camera, the loss of which I regret to this day), I love my collection of books, always possessive.

But that’s not all; I have over the years shared my books (almost a part of me) with people – sometimes for sheer joy I hoped that the book might bring them and sometimes for safekeeping. Actually not shared but lent, which means they were supposed to be returned. Some of those books are not even available now, given the fact that almost all noteworthy bookstores have shut down and there is no way you can get those eclectic books online – I mean, come on, there’s no way you will get  biography of Sartre or Simone de Beauvoir on the net – they don’t exactly sell by the dozen. I know technically you are not supposed to be possessive about material things but come on – I don’t want the dresses or shoes or movies or even my camera which I don’t have now – all I want back from people are my books. So there, I have said it…

But There Has To Be More...

Now summer is gone
And might never have been.
In the sunshine it's warm.
But there has to be more.

It all came to pass,
All fell into my hands
Like a five-petalled leaf,
But there has to be more.

Nothing evil was lost,
Nothing good was in vain,
All ablaze with clear light
But there has to be more. 

Life gathered me up
Safe under its wing,
My luck always held,
But there has to be more.

Not a leaf was burnt up
Not a twig ever snapped...
Clean as glass is the day,
But there has to be more.

Arseniy Tarkovsky

Goodness Gracious Me

I had been thinking what is it that impresses me most in people (well intelligence for one), what is it that I find completely missing from me…spending endless days in virtual vipasana…I realized…it is graciousness…

Marked by kindness and courtesy, graceful, marked by tact and delicacy, characterized by charm, good taste, generosity of spirit…

Generosity of spirit…where does that come from…I think it comes from letting go…but how to do that…I haven’t yet met in my life a single person, who has let go of the past that binds them…even if masked and concealed…the bitterness and anger and resultant suspicion lies in everyone…then how to do it…Let Go…

A "Thank You" Note

There is much I owe to those I do not love.

The relief in accepting
they are closer to another.

Joy that I am not
the wolf to their sheep.

My peace be with them
for with them I am free,
and this, love can neither give,
nor know how to take.

I don't wait for them
from window to door.
Almost as patient
as a sun dial,
I understand
what love does not understand.
I forgive
what love would never have forgiven.

Between rendezvous and letter
no eternity passes,
only a few days or weeks.

My trips with them always turn out well.
Concerts are heard.
Cathedrals are toured.
Landscapes are distinct.

And when seven rivers and mountains
come between us,
they are rivers and mountains
well known from any map.

It is thanks to them
that I live in three dimensions,
in a non-lyrical and non-rhetorical space,
with a shifting, thus real, horizon.

They don't even know
how much they carry in their empty hands.

"I don't owe them anything",
love would have said
on this open topic.

--Wislawa Szymborska

फ़िराक...

The biggest loss is the loss of innocence...

वही झरोखों पर पड़ी एक काली परत...
ज़िन्दगी के कुछ लम्हों से
उधार ली रौशनी तक नहीं झाक पाती है उन मैले कुचेले पर्दों से
रात की परतें मैं हटाती रहती हूँ अपनी हथेलियौं से
मंटो की कहानियों के शब्द आज भी मेरी पेशानियौं पे दस्तक दे रहे हैं
उसकी भू अब भी शायब मेरे जिस्म से ही आ रही है
एक वही स्याह परत फिर से थी दिल्ली की गलियौं में
अभी जैसे कल की ही बात हो
माँ चुप करा देती थी अपने घर के चौराहे पे
जैसे किसी की मज़ार पे नमन कर रहे हो
गुरुद्वारा हुआ करता था वहां पे, १९८४ से पहले
और फिर वही परतें
गुजरात की गलियों में
कहीं कुछ नहीं बदला
तारिकों के अलावा...

कुछ यूँ भी तो हो

कुछ यूँ भी तो हो
तेरे सामने बैठ कर भी हम कुछ कह पाएं
आँखों से टपकती बूंदों के
कुछ माने समझा पाएं
कुछ यूँ भी तो हो
दिल की जो आरज़ू कभी कही न गयी हमसे
इस बार तेरे हाथों पर
बे-झिझक ही लिख जाएँ
कुछ यूँ भी तो हो
अपनी गरज में ही सही लेकिन
इस बार तेरे कदम
मेरे दर पर आके रुक जाएँ
कुछ यूँ भी तो हो...