कुछ गिरहें (Some Knots)

कल गुलज़ार के नज्मों की ऐक किताब लिए बैठा था | पन्ने पलट ही रहा था की इस  Black and White नज़्म से मुलाक़ात हुई | मनो मेरी ही काहानी लिए कब से उन पन्नो में जा छुपा बैठा है | गुलज़ार की नज्में बहुत रंगबिरंगी होती हैं, पर इसमें मुझे ऐक सुना सा चेहरा नज़र आया | दुनिया से लड़ते लड़ते छिल गया था, थक गया था | 

कितनी गिरहें खोली हैं मैने

कितनी गिरहें अब बाकी हैं

पांव मे पायल, बाहों में कंगन, गले मे हन्सली, 

कमरबन्द, छल्ले और बिछुए

नाक कान छिदवाये गये

और ज़ेवर ज़ेवर कहते कहते

रीत रिवाज़ की रस्सियों से मैं जकड़ी गयी

उफ़्फ़ कितनी तरह मैं पकड़ी गयी...

अब छिलने लगे हैं हाथ पांव, 

और कितनी खराशें उभरी हैं

कितनी गिरहें खोली हैं मैने 

कितनी रस्सियां उतरी हैं

कितनी गिरहें खोली हैं मैने

कितनी गिरहें अब बाकी हैं

अंग अंग मेरा रूप रंग

मेरे नक़्श नैन, मेरे भोले बैन

मेरी आवाज़ मे कोयल की तारीफ़ हुई

मेरी ज़ुल्फ़ शाम, मेरी ज़ुल्फ़ रात

ज़ुल्फ़ों में घटा, मेरे लब गुलाब

आँखें शराब

गज़लें और नज़्में कहते कहते

मैं हुस्न और इश्क़ के अफ़सानों में जकड़ी गयी

उफ़्फ़ कितनी तरह मैं पकड़ी गयी...

मैं पूछूं ज़रा, मैं पूछूं ज़रा

आँखों में शराब दिखी सबको, आकाश नहीं देखा कोई

सावन भादौ तो दिखे मगर, क्या दर्द नहीं देखा कोई

क्या दर्द नहीं देखा कोई

फ़न की झीनी सी चादर में

बुत छीले गये उरियानि के

तागा तागा करके पोशाक उतारी गयी

मेरे जिस्म पे फ़न की मश्क़ हुई

और आर्ट-कला कहते कहते 

संगमरमर मे जकड़ी गयी

उफ़्फ़ कितनी तरह मैं पकड़ी गयी...

बतलाए कोई, बतलाए कोई

कितनी गिरहें खोली हैं मैने

कितनी गिरहें अब बाकी हैं

कितनी सच बात कही है गुलज़ार ने! 

खुली हुई है कुछ गिरहें मेरी भी

टूटे हुए हैं धागे कई

ज़ेवर बिखरे पड़े हैं मेज़ पर

और ऐक दिल रखा हुआ है  उस पुरानी सी अलमारी में...

ख़ामोशी का वो भयानक चेहरा

नहीं कर पाई कुछ

वह भीड़ बस खड़ी रही

एक टक देखती रही

पर नहीं कर पाई कुछ

एक आवाज़ उठी थी कहीं से

पर डर के धार ने चीर के रख दिया उसे

उठे थे कुछ सर

कई हाथों ने हल्ला भी बोलना चाहा

काट के गिरा दिए गए ज़मीन पर

कोई नहीं आया बचाने उन्हें 

किसी ने नहीं बढ़ाये अपने कदम

मनो कोई तमाशा देख रहे हों

खून टपक रहा था कटे हुए गर्दनो से

मनो की लोग सिक्कों की बौछार कर रहे हों 

तमाशा हुआ ख़त्म 

घर चली गयी भीड़

चैन की नींद सोने को 

कल ऐक बार फिर सजेगा मंच 

कल ऐक बार फिर से सिक्के बरसेंगे 

Last year I had tried to render a silent conversation in my words.

ख़ामोश रहकर भी वह ख़ुशी बाँट रहे हैं

और हम...

बात करते हैं तो

लोग रोते हैं | लोग मरते हैं |

And this year, the silence has come back to haunt me, donning a different mask. 

Of indifference. Of ignorance. Of fear.

A silence that watches a murder and yet be calm about it. 

A silence that pierces the soul. Murders it. Buries it deep.

Now I yearn for a voice amidst this deafening silence.

ख़ामोशी से डर लगता है अब |

लहू में नाहाई वह बूँदें

साल की पहली बारिश
बूँदें कल गिरी थीं सुर्ख ज़मीन पर
समा सी गयी थीं जैसे वह बूँदें ज़मीन में
सुकून मिला था धरती को कल
अरसों बाद प्यास जो बुझी थी

भीगा तो मैं भी था इस बरसात में
खेलीं थी मुझ पर भी वह बूँदें
आ गिरे थे सपनों पर, जो झुलस रहे थे अब तक
धुल सा गया था मैं
और घुल सा गया था खून इन बूंदों में

कभी लहू को पानी में समाते हुए देखा है तुमने?

Have you ever let the droplets play their music on your soul? 

Have you ever come out of the cozy shelter or your umbrella?

Have you ever let the drops pour life in your burning dreams? 

Felt the rain so closely that you can see your blood getting absorbed in the rain?

खुशियों से डर लगता है

 

तरसता हूँ मैं
उसे पाने को
छु सकूँ ऐक बार इन्हें
पास आयें तोह कस के जाकड़ लूँ बाहों में
इन खुशिओं को

तरसता हूँ मैं
जब देखता हूँ चारों ओर
तितलिओं सी उड़तीं रहतीं हैं ये
पास आयें तो मुट्ठियों में बंद कर लूँ
इन खुशिओं को

और ऐक दिन आ ही गयीं मेरे करीब
वह तितलियाँ
एक उडती हुई आ बैठी मेरी उँगलियों पर
फर फडाते हुए परों से जैसे कह रहीं हो
क्या हुआ? इतने खामोश क्यों हो?

और अगले हवा के झोको के साथ उड़ चलीं
मन में हजारों ख्याल छोड़े
हजारों अधूरे ख्वाब तोड़े
और कुछ अरमान लिए

और मैं बस देखता रहा उनकी उर
डरा सहमा सा

बड़ी नाज़ुक होती हैं ये खुशियाँ
इन कागज़ की तितलियों की तरह
टूट के कब बिखर जाएँ पल भर में

बड़ी कमज़ोर होती हैं ये खुशियाँ
एक पल रहती हैं साथ
और दुसरे पल दे जाते हैं दर्द
दे जाते हैं घाव ज़िन्दगी भर के

सच बताऊ?
आज कल खुशियों से दर सा लगता है बहुत

 

I have always yearned for happy moments. But most of the times, the feeling has been short lived.

Because the moments are like paper butterflies, break easily with the wind.

Leaving behind shards of broken thoughts, hopes and dreams.

Happiness is quite perilous.

खुशियों से डर लगता है |

The story of Colours

One evening at the beach I saw

Swirling in the wind
Like butterflies
A million pieces of paper
Each narrating a story

The blue one spoke of the clear skies
Where one would just fly away
Without a care in the world
Where one would be bound just by the imagination
Without the fear of the unknown

The red one spoke of courage
Where one would walk with one's head held high
In a world of freedom
Where one would not be afraid to fight for the light
In a world of darkness

The colour Yellow brightened up in the sunlight
Spreading the warmth and joy all around
Embracing the present
Illuminating the future
With rays of Hope cutting through the suffering

Green spake of growth
Making a new start when all had been lost
Of life in an otherwise barren land
In a world with no looking back
Of a beginning from a dismal end

Orange made me a promise
Of another sunny day
To come back again
After the ephemeral sunset

As I buried my fingers in the sand
And looked out to the horizon
I could see the vanes
Swirling in the wind
Mixing the colours of life in a single palette

I see them now
Bleeding into my life.
In an otherwise black and white life.

आईने में वह चेहरा

सदियों तक इस आईने में मैं

किसी ना किसी को तलाशता रहा,

कभी कोई कलाकार या कोई प्रेमी,

कभी कोई विद्वान या कोई पागल.

हमेशा कोई चेहरा पाया सामने

कोई और चेहरा...

अनजान सा, उदास था,

बेचैन था, बेताब सा

एक खोखला सा ढांचा है ये चेहरा

दिन गया, चेहरा नया

नए पोशाक में, जग को हंसाया...

लोग मिलते गए, ये बदलता गया

पर आज, मैंने आइना खाली पाया

शायद आज मैंने खुद को देखा है

For ages, I have looked in the mirror,

Searching for Someone or the other,

Sometimes I met an Artist or some Lover,

Sometimes someone Wise Or someone Crazy.

I have always found a face within,

Some other face,

Unknown, was Sad,

Was Restless, Impatient.

This face is a hollow mould,

Changed as the day passes,

Changed costumes, spread happiness around,

Met people, changed colours along the way.

But today, I found the Mirror to be blank.

May be, I saw myself.

Yesterday when I looked into the mirror, I saw nothing. I was perplexed yet was relieved. Relieved to know that I finally have stopped looking for someone else within me. Relieved that I have started becoming myself again. What I am. Who I am. Relieved that the Mirror is not showing any more Mirages.

The Face in the Mirror.

Some Dreams

On one of my recent journeys, I came across this poem, this simple amalgamation of words, this arrowhead - which pierces the heart leaving a abyss behind, this truth. And it has left a mark, an indelible mark on me. I insist that you too go through this masterpiece.

I borrow the words from Paash (Avtar Singh Sandhu). The Poem in hindi is not in its entirety, but I have put the english translation by Dr.Satnam Singh Sandhu. Will Try to fill the void as soon as I can.

The poem is titled:

सबसे खतरनाक | Most Dangerous

मेहनत की लूट सबसे खतरनाक नही होती,
पुलिस की मार सबसे खतरनाक नही होती,
गद्दारी, लोभ की मुट्ठी सबसे खतरनाक नही होती|

बैठे बिठाये पकड़े जाना बुरा तो है,
सहमी सी चुप में जकडे जाना बुरा तो है,
पर सबसे खतरनाक नही होती|

कपट के शोर में, सही होते हुए भी दब जाना बुरा तो है,
किसी जुगनू के लौ में पड़ने लग जाना बुरा तो है,
पर सबसे खतरनाक नही होती|

सबसे खतरनाक होता है मुर्दा शान्ति से भर जाना,
न होना तड़प का, सब कुछ सहन कर जाना,
घर से निकलना काम पर, और काम से लौटकर घर आना|

सबसे खतरनाक होता है,
हमारे सपनो का मर जाना|

Most treacherous is not the robbery
of hard earned wages
Most horrible is not the torture by the police.
Most dangerous is not the graft for the treason and greed.
To be caught while asleep is surely bad
surely bad is to be buried in silence

But it is not most dangerous.

To remain dumb and silent in the face of trickery
Even when just, is definitely bad
Surely bad is reading in the light of a firefly

But it is not most dangerous

Most dangerous is
To be filled with dead peace
Not to feel agony and bear it all,
Leaving home for work
And from work return home
Most dangerous is the death of our dreams.

Most dangerous is that watch
Which run on your wrist
But stand still for your eyes.
Most dangerous is that eye
Which sees all but remains frostlike,
The eye that forgets to kiss the world with love,
The eye lost in the blinding mist of the material world.
That sinks the simple meaning of visible things
And is lost in the meaningless return of useless games.

Most dangerous is the moon
Which rises in the numb yard
After each murder,
but does not pierce your eyes like hot chilies.

Most dangerous is the song
which climbs the mourning wail
In order to reach your ears
And repeats the cough of an evil man
At the door of the frightened people.

Most dangerous is the night
Falling in the sky of living souls,
Extinguishing them all
In which only owls shriek and jackals growl,
And eternal darkness covers all the windows.

Most heinous is the direction
In which the sun of the soul light
Pierces the east of your body.
Most treacherous is not the
robbery of hard earned wages.
Most horrible is not the torture of police
Most dangerous is not graft taken for greed and treason.

Imagine how many of us have buried that dream under the heaps of so called necessities of life.

Trip to my heart..

I recently made a trip to my heart, a trip I had been waiting for a long time (368 days to be precise). I started my journey on the 23rd of January. And reached the heart of the country on the 25th. Then friends, the 26th and the 27th went by very quickly. So quickly that would make the long wait seem a grain of sand on the line of time. But I stole a few memories from the trip. On of them was the journey itself. Posted here are a few snaps right out of my memories...

Words can not describe the journey... am quoting a stanza from one of my favorite songs:

बरसो बाद में घुमने निकली हु

ऐसा लगता हैं वोह किसी और सदी की बात थी

हाँ, शायद उन दिनों की बात होगी जब यह ईमारत अभी उझडी नही थी

हाँ? पिछले किसी जन्म की बात ही तो लगती है |

एक काम करें?

जब तक तुम यहाँ हो रोज़ घर पे खाने के लिए तो आया ही करोगी, खाने के बाद घुमने निकल आया करेंगे

कमसकम यह ईमारत कुछ दीनों के लिए तोह बस जायेगी |

Vicarious Lives.

Have we been living a vicarious life?

Before I say anything, please consider going through the following. This is from one of my favourite movies 'Good Will Hunting':

So if I asked you about art, you'd probably give me the skinny on every art book ever written. Michelangelo, you know a lot about him. Life's work, political aspirations, him and the pope, sexual orientations, the whole works, right? But I'll bet you can't tell me what it smells like in the Sistine Chapel. You've never actually stood there and looked up at that beautiful ceiling; seen that. If I ask you about women, you'd probably give me a syllabus about your personal favourites. You may have even been laid a few times. But you can't tell me what it feels like to wake up next to a woman and feel truly happy. You're a tough kid. And I'd ask you about war, you'd probably throw Shakespeare at me, right, "Once more unto the breach dear friends." But you've never been near one. You've never held your best friend's head in your lap, watch him gasp his last breath looking to you for help. I'd ask you about love, you'd probably quote me a sonnet. But you've never looked at a woman and been totally vulnerable. Known someone that could level you with her eyes, feeling like God put an angel on earth just for you. Who could rescue you from the depths of hell. And you wouldn't know what it's like to be her angel, to have that love for her, be there forever, through anything, through cancer. And you wouldn't know about sleeping sitting up in the hospital room for two months, holding her hand, because the doctors could see in your eyes, that the terms "visiting hours" don't apply to you. You don't know about real loss, 'cause it only occurs when you've loved something more than you love yourself. And I doubt you've ever dared to love anybody that much. And look at you... I don't see an intelligent, confident man... I see a cocky, scared shitless kid. But you're a genius Will. No one denies that. No one could possibly understand the depths of you. But you presume to know everything about me because you saw a painting of mine, and you ripped my whole life apart.

A beautiful union of words, but you would ask what relevance does it hold? Well, this beautiful piece of work has definitely made me think. Think about what we are actually learning? Learning from books? Its definitely true that books are the only means through which we can look at the world through the eyes of great humans. But where is this vicarious learning taking us? Quoting from William Shakespeare,

"If I profane with my unworthiest hand
This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this,
My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand
To smooth the rough touch with a gentle kiss."

We read this and know what love is, what it is to lay in our beloved's arms, how divine it feels like to sit near the one we love and secretly wishing that the moment never passes away. But how many of us have actually felt love? how many of us can describe how it feel like to hear the voice of ones beloved after days which seem like eternity? How many of us have actually felt their knees getting weak when we meet the person we could give our life for?

"When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself and curse my fate."

We learn what pain is, what it is to cry at the heavens. We know everything about pain from the sonnets the poets weave. But how many of us have actually felt their hearts ripped apart when the person we love is taken away from us and the separation is termed destiny?
Emerson describes friendship as,

"The glory of friendship is not the outstretched hand,
nor the kindly smile nor the joy of companionship;
it is the spiritual inspiration that comes to one when
he discovers that someone else believes in him
and is willing to trust him."

True. Friend is a special relationship which transcends to a spiritual level. But have we ever considered looking up for that old friend from school? Making that call to that friend we used to share our lunch with? Have a walk down the memory lanes and share the nostalgia?

We presume that we know everything and have our judgments ready for every occurrence and quote someone hence labelling the judgment correct and the actions follow. So often i have read opinions and comments by many of us who don't have the slightest clue about what we are judging. And this starts a rippling process known as word of mouth hence preventing others from experiencing the same before coming to an judgment. And we call this learning. We call this living. Vicarious living. But if we have to start living life,a life experienced first hand...and this will not be possible is we are not ready to take the first step...listening to our heart...not fearing failures...obviating opinions made laws by others...and starting to believe in ourselves...

But are we ready to take the first step?