Kavitaaen meri jo tumhaare wajood se joodi thi
Anath hoke tar batar aaj vo bhatak rahi hai
Fir kisi hasin ki khoj me dil me dhokhe ka dard chupaake
Par lavaris se ye mere lafz apane maayane bhool rahe hai
Aur unaki har aah se nikal rahe hain kuch naye labz dard ke
Fir bunenge wo dard ki daastan jo waqt ke sailaab me beh jaayegi
Aur fir na bachega dard ya bachega mere alfaazon ka ehsaas
Bas reh jaaaynge bikhare hue itar bitar mere lavaris lafz
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Kavitaaen meri jo tumhaare wajood se joodi thi
Jal ke raakh bhi nahi hota Aur jalan kam bhi nahi hoti
Na is astitva ka ant hai par astitva bhi to nahi hai
Bandhnone baandh ke pakad liya hai sansaar ke
Aur lagi hui hai aag bas chaaro aur
Na in zanziron ko tod ke bhagane ka dam hai
Naahi hai in lipato me lipat jaane ki himmat
Bas ek panchi ko dekhake ji raha hu
Khwaab me ek din udane ke
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
और ना होती काश ये रात दिन मे तब्दील
बस थम जाता ये वक़्त यहाँ और
पीगलती तुम मेरी बाहों मे ऐसे
जैसे ना तुम होती ना मैं होता
और ना होता ये वक़्त का एहसास
बस होता हम दोनों का सिर्फ़ एक वजूद
पर तुम हो वहाँ मैं हूँ यहाँ
जहाँ रात भी ढलती है दिन भी निकलता है
और वक़्त सिर्फ़ चलता रहता है
बस एक आरज़ू के साथ ही जीता है अब ये बाँवरा दिल
इंतजार की उस रात मे जब
तुम होगी और मैं और होगा ये चौदवि का चाँद
जब थम जाएँगी ये साँसे हमारी होके एक
और थम जाएगा ये वक़्त भी
लिपटके हुमको अपनी बाहों मे
Friday, July 15, 2011
Are engulfed by those mighty oceans
Forgotten is history and lost is time
As memoryless shores surrender to tides
And I reflect..
Amnesia blessed o ocean sand
Torment of memories is thy distant land
Reborn with each wave anew you are
While I burn in the agony of past
Stubborn is past refusing to leave me, crying
I AM you, you otherwise amorphous cretin
No, I cry, you enslaver of memories, you past
Emancipation they seek from the spell you cast
Wait they in the dungeons for the mighty tides
When rescued I will be from the fettering confines
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Bhaumin told me this hilarious anecdote. I thought I would add some masala to it to and make it an interesting story. So here it is and it is written purely in vein of humor so don’t take any offense, please.
Our story starts with an anonymous white man who, for the purpose of this story, will be referred to as A. It was a rainy Saturday but A was determined to stick to his appointment as he readied himself to meet his friend in Sunnyvale. Yes Sunnyvale. Now for those who don’t know what Sunnyvale is, and yes ‘what’ is more appropriate here than ‘where’, it is an “Indian” reservation located in the heart of Silicon Valley. The tech industry of Silicon Valley has provided the thriving atmosphere and we the desis (people of Indian sub continent) relish in the glory of “preserving” the culture. Upon one’s visit to Sunnyvale one could witness the abundance of desis per square mile this sanctuary provides. So it was not surprising that A was up for a big surprise. Even within this reservation there exists a ghetto, the techie getto if you will, where all the bad-ass indian techies live. It was here A’s friend lived and for the reasons of anonymity I will omit the details about the ghetto being referred to here.
As A entered the community, our ghetto, the aroma of curry filled his nostrils and he knew he was up for some danger. As he walked through this persisting aroma he couldn’t find anyone around. But as he crossed another block and into the heart of the ghetto, the street was full of desis talking/chatting that suddenly turned into whispers. The mean stares (or rather stares of surprise) were being thrown at him and he was ill equipped handle them. He knew he had to get out of there. He crossed the block and made a right and with quickening pace crossed another block. As he finally caught his breath he wasn’t sure anymore if he should continue his quest of finding his friend’s place or not. Just then he spotted a young lady in saari crossing the street and in her non threatening looks he decided to take shelter and ask for his friend’s place. He slowly and cautiously approached her.
“Excuse me” said A.
“Yes?” replied the lady-in-saari with a surprise.
“I am looking for this place” he asked her as he showed her the address. “Do you know where it is?”
For a few seconds she threw a strange glance at him and replied
“No.. but there are no foreigners living here” and she walked off.
Shock waves passed through A as he didn’t know what was that supposed to mean. But surged back the memories of his forefathers from nearly 4 centuries ago when they had landed at Plymouth and how they would have felt.
We don’t know what A did later as little information is available of that account. But it won’t be surprising if we stumble upon a blog “Foreigner in my own country, welcome to Sunnyvale”.
And what would complete the circle with irony is reading of that blog by a Native American.
To flutter miles away where the cuckoos sing
"Must I escape from the fettering wisdom to
The country where the iridescent flowers blossom"
Beheld in her eyes is a world of dreams, of
Puerile meadows swinging under wise oak trees,
Of waltzing monarchs on the waves of wind
And serene lake embracing the pebbled brim
But must she wither the threatening storm,
The dark rain clouds and the distant thunder
And attempt must she to escape this fate
Of looming darkness compelling surrender
For the fragrance of freedom is just a storm away
The fragrance of freedom is just a storm away