Words words words

Words words words
They are everywhere
Rushing into each other
Bumping into each other
In the crowded lanes of backlit pages
Crushed between images
Squeezed through 4.6 inch screen
Words that send you to another backlit page of crowded words

Like traffic on 101 parked right behind Each other words
Information they say we r hear to convey
Breathe us in breathe us in
And liberate us from these pages
We are suffocating let us breathe
So am i with the onslaught of you the words
Suffocating let ME breathe
Everywhere you are. in my facebook, twitter feed, on wikipedia and on the blue enticing links

Lets go somewhere where you the words and i have space to breathe
A page white on which you have a stage to dance
Not that backlit pages where you are crammed in and overflowing like a local mumbai train

Let us both find a place to breathe

Consumed

The moment I sit in
So captured and imprisoned
You must know this
It must have happened to you

Time is flowing a moment after another
Like a river, a drop after another
And comes then a moment when
Being carried away you are in it
Captures you, imprisons you,
That moment for eternity

Locked you are in its chains
But struggle you not to free yourself
As the moment has consumed you

Such is, I want to tell you,
Your beauty
Captured and unwilling to struggle
To free myself
So Lay I
Consumed by your beauty

Pregnant desire

Arrested is desire, in the chains of cupidity

Posses she must that is forbidden

Blinding is the aroma of transgression

And seized desires swell..

Disintegrate they then

On the shores of Eden

Pregnant is the desire fulfilled

From the seed of “sin”,

grows and then born thus is

guilt, the child of desire

Shikwe

Deke maut ke havaale muje
aye ruh rukhsat tu ho gayi
karke waada zindagi ka
maut ke darwaaze pe tu chhod gayi

lita diya duniya ne kabr mein
aur zameen se mein lipat gaya
simat ke fir jaise maa ki god me
aanson bahaata teri bewafaai ke raha

jab thak kar badli karwat maine
to aashiko ka maikhana paya
jahaan lete hue hai sab chhe foot andar
gaate hue, ruh, teri bewaafi ka gaana

As the time flies..

A bird swift with a hawk's velocity
whizzes it through the invisible skies
Lingers the whiff of past, as behind
Fragrance of nostalgia lies

Sheds it a feather on some flights
And born is a moment florid
Capture I wish to, the colorful plume
But dances it away with the wind

Builds it a nest in a distant land
Where slow moos of the cows are heard
And in the slow rustles of the trees
Comes the lost wind for nomad's rest

Some Sundays comes the bird to my porch
And slow down the clocks their breathing
But come when the Mondays, Tuesdays and so on..
Takes it off to distant land for the nest far away

And I watch the time fly by..

raat kuch raaz hume bhi bata ja

raat kuch raaz hume bhi bata ja

ki jo baate chaand ne sitaaron se
aur guftgu baadal ne baarish se
labz jo chhede tapkti bundone chhate se

aise kuch raaz
raat humko bhi bataa ja

jo lamhe kiye bayaan palkon se aasuon se
dard jo baante ghunghru ne kadmo se
kahaani jo sunaai sharaab ne bottle se
aise kuch raaz
raat humko bhi bataa ja
leke aaghosh me apne
sune se ye dil ko behla ja

Prisoner of words

Abound by the words I am
Of its fettering shackles
Confined is my expression
In the cells of sentences

Story can I not tell
In paragraphs and chapters
When my expression in enslaved
By the words and sentences

Waqt

waqt tham sa gayaa tha chalte chalte
ghadi ki sui jaise so si gayi thi
rakkhe jab kaan maine uske sine pe
saanse uski jaise tham si gayi thi

kya saanse aakhri apni waqt ne leli thi?
alas
nahi,
ghadi ki spring bas unwind ho chuki thi

tute shishe

kuch shishe aapane tode to kuch hamane

tute hue vo shishe fir farsh par bikhar gaye the
aur tute se hamaare vajood bhi unake saath bikhare the

na bikhare hue tukado ko aapane joda
na ki koshish hamane unako banaane ki aayana

aur tuta huasaa mera vajood farsh pe hi reh gaya
aise bikhar ke ki... ki aaj bhi

chalate hue vo tuta vajood chubhataa hai pair me
aur baukhalaaye kadam leke hum aaj bhi chal rahe hai

Footprints

Constraint: 600 words and a character must leave the town and a character must enter the town.
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“What are you sifting mom?” I had asked amidst the bustling activity in my maternal grandfather’s, nana’s, house. Dad was moving about groceries for the post-twelfth day ceremony, called baaramu, of passing away of nana. The whole village was to be fed. I myself had been fed many times that summer as death seemed to be the only recurring event that year.

But nana, well I never thought that he would give in. Not that he was not old enough. He was 95 and his frail body seemed to have wanted him out. As if it was tired of carrying him all these years and just wanted to rest. But his soul never seemed ready. He has been ‘mukhia’, the village head, for 40 years and has seen it through the times of prosperity, decay, battles, crimes you name it. I still remember the heated debates between him and my dad who was hell bent on the urbanization of modern India and where it is to take us versus nana who was as much hell bent on the ‘tree is as strong as its roots and the villages are India’s roots’. His soul seemed more attached to this village he has served all these years than his own body. May be that’s why his body had felt neglected and wanted to desert him.

“Well I am just sifting to get a very fine sand in the plate. It is said that if a soul is reborn as a human, an infant’s soft footprint will appear on the sand on the twelfth day and we will know that his soul is not astray anymore”

I still remember that moment vividly. For an eight year old’s mind that was a swell of an idea. I was excited. I followed mom to the little temple we had inside the house where she lay the plate among small oil lamps and scented incense. I sat next to it.

Mom reprimanded me “now don’t just sit there”.

But I didn’t listen. The idea of small footprints appearing out of nowhere was refuting everything that modern science was trying to teach us. Possibility of this miracle, an open ended challenge to science was more exciting than anything.

So... well.. I sat there. Just waiting for the miracle to happen. Half an hour.. hour.. hour and half.. the restlessness of a kid’s mind was unsettling me and I was running out of patience. Science seemed to be laughing in the face of lamps and scented incense in the house of god. Finally I got tired and went to dad who was busy arranging things for the cook.

“Dad when will the footprints appear?”

He didn’t seem to know what I was talking about. To stop me from pestering him he said
“Just go and make sure lamps are not running out of oil”

I stood there for half a minute hoping for an answer but when none came I went back to the temple to check on the lamps. And there.. and there, there were two little soft footprints on the sand. My heart was racing. Dhak.. dhak... dhak.. I couldn’t believe my eyes. “mom mom mom” not finding her in the house I ran out looking for her. “mom”

And there she was holding a newborn baby of our neighbor. There was a smile on mom’s face and tears rolling down her eyes and I remember what nana always insisted during the debates with my dad,

“I can never leave this village and if I ever did I will come back right away”

A fallen leaf

Fell a green leaf of the branch
on a sultry winter morning
Blew a dry breeze and it fell
miles away from the tree

Came the days and went the nights
And stolen was the moisture
Flushed were veins and dried was leaf
as severed it felt from the tree

Blew another breeze and away it took
in the distant that longing leaf
in it alive were still the memories
of the veins broken from the root

calls the tree sometimes with whisper
the distant aloof fallen leaf
but prevails drought in the dried veins
As it waits to drench in rain

Lavaris lafz

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

Udaan

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

काश जाती थम ये रात

काश ये शाम ना आती और काश ये दिन ना ढलता
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

Emancipation of memories

Frail attempts of my ephemeral impressions
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

Lost in Sunnyvale

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.

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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.

Just a storm away

Wakes she up with the spreading wings
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

An awaiting symphony

Some rain here some thunder there
Blew a breeze among the fluttering leaves
A symphony emerges amidst those swelling waves

But Where are we all running to
To an orchestra in tuxedos or to an opera in gowns
Oblivious, as nature conducts its diligent score

Hamsters stuck in a wheel we are
Yet gloating at our achievements
Pause, breath and step out of that wheel
A symphony awaits for an audience

A transparent state

States high was a normal high school. Bitchy teenage girls, football jocks, geeky nerds, sprinkled with a few goths. A formula for a classic high school. Sleeping around were jocks, wishing to be sleeping around were nerds and world was a fucked up place doomed to darkness for goths. It won't be complete without gossips among 'mean girls'. All in all a classical american high school. Peace prevailed in open and chaos behind the closed doors.

But change was imminent. Omen was in the air as vicky walked the corridors. Vicky Leaks, a new entry to States high from the land of kangaroos, was a quiet and creepy young girl. Though no one was sure about the girl part. Guys, even not-ever-getting-laid nerds, stayed away from her and bitches.. well they bitched about her. Acceptance is what Vicky had always struggled for. Some argued that thats why (s)he became she though creepiness never left her. But the corridors that were undisturbed by goths could easily take one more creep. Very soon everyone forgot about her and States high returned to what it was before. And continued frustration of not being noticed returned to Vicky.

All her life she had struggled to be recognized, struggled to prove her existence. So much so that the doubts of her own existence and invisibility occupied her thoughts. She tried to commit suicide, picked fights with other girls, and stole things from grocery stores, just to get noticed, just to prove that she very much existed. But that wouldn’t last for too long and as normalcy would return and so would her doubts about her own existence. But this too was set to change.

A week before States high's football game with Mideast high she overheard some of the school cheerleaders gossiping about who's who of 'sleeping around' in school's football team. This was Vicky's chance to prove to the world forever that she very much existed. She knew if this information was leaked it would bring disaster for school especially just a week before the game. She could threaten to release this information. The idea of holding such a baton filled her with sudden surge of empowerment. Thrilled was Vicky for her awaiting future but she knew that the power can corrupt people. “Who cares” her inner voice seemed to say. It was the least of Vicky's worries and her thoughts seemed to suggest “what is far more important for you than the corruption-of-mind is the exposure of corruption. Its about the time people know who you are”.

Yet a justification was needed. Justification to expose those secrets, least of which shall include her necessity of being noticed. But what could be such justification she thought. As she struggled to put her idea into a moral framework one word rung a bell. Corruption. What fights corruption? Transparency. Yes transparency. That was her answer. She knew that to the world of opaqueness she needed to bring transparency. And that was her justification. Her moral framework.

She realized however that she need more. She needed diversity of information whose leakage would justify the moral framework of transparency beyond the gossips of who slept with who. This was Vickey’s day and ideas were pouring over her in abundance. She had found the treasure trove of questions, answers to even one of which would be explosive enough to bring her to spotlight. She needed to find what were teachers upto, what was the principal, who was school’s football coach as well, upto, what was SCHOOL upto?

But how? How could she know what they were upto? Locker room gossips could only reveal as much as who slept with who. As she walked past classrooms in the long silent corridor the answer walked past her. “Dos is dead” “Debug this.. bitches”…… , their T-shirts read. She knew geeks were her answer to the burning questions of revenge in her heart. But she hadn’t left a great impression on anyone including geeks. She needed a way in among geeks.

As she lay down in her bed contemplating what would appeal geeks and the ways to befriend them, the weight of her own thoughts put her to sleep. But she had already found an answer the next morning she woke up. And it had worked. The geeks turned around in awe and surprise as Vickey walked the school corridor with a t-shirt that read “you can pipe your output here ;)”. Geeks were sold. To the principle of transparency on surface and to their only hope of getting laid underneath. Subsequently they hacked their way to know everything about teachers, principal, school and everything that was to bring transparency.

Storm was coming. Lightning could be seen and thunder could be heard in distance as Vicky made everything public from who slept with who of football team to teachers’ affairs and closeted principal. “Girlfriends need to know what cheating bastards are their boyfriends” “Football team needs to know who their coach really is when they share their locker rooms with him”. Principal broke down. Quarterback, one of the “cheating bastard”, with few others, was ambushed and found beaten with “they deserved it” banner. Needless to say the football game was lost even before it could be played. But transparency was brought.

Most importantly for Vicky, revenge was served. And notice was made. Forever.

PhD Blues..

When will you graduate?


















Only a PhD can take you that long..