Monday, January 27, 2014

Counter Counter Counter

I wish people have a view these days. All they have are counter views.
Counter views they found on the foundations of designations that rebuke facts and that appeal to a strategy they defined ignorant of variables or laws/practices that govern certain.

How can you live? 

Thursday, January 23, 2014

एक अजनबी दरार सी

किस्मतों कि बारिशें,
धुली धुली सी आहटें,
गरजती हैं जब धड़कने,
दरवाज़ों कि तकरार सी,

छीटें गिरी दीवार पे,
ख्वाब जो बादल हुए, 
उमढ के सांस निकल पड़ी,    
दीवार में दिख पड़ी, एक अजनबी दरार सी 

( प्रयास कि आंधी में, हौसले कि बारिश ज़रूर आती है ) 

 


Monday, January 20, 2014

Warmth

As a child and even in days older, my mornings would be shrouded in the slight mumble of my grandmother reading verses from her prayer book and the fragrance of incense that covered the room like a shroud. I don't remember clearly if I looked at her through the covers of my bed or was the room really distilled by the fragrant light or was it the quick strokes of sunlight that the drapes allowed to sneak in; like juveniles bribing the doorkeeper at a film screening that made the room appear that way.

Then, of course, the sight of burning incense sticks and her voice colliding with each other to become one. The melody of her voice and the wafting of fine grey smoke, she paused to catch her breath. The fragrance emerging just like her voice would. Step for step. Like a dancer. Sometimes out of sync, like curtains against the wind.  


(Caught this in the holidays this December while she talked to my sister, similar settings)

Slumber would come easy. My eyes would fight it, selfish to feed on the mood that soaked every bit of the room.

Under the covers of my bed and the imaginative world that I had managed to create, I lay in the sublime bliss of the ragas she sang and the grey fragrant warmth she drenched the room in. Smiling, just like a juvenile who had sneaked in more than his share of fun on a days end (when the day had only begun).

Monday, January 6, 2014

काला

मासूम  सा  मन यह तेरा ,
काला कभी लचीला,
दिल के रंग यह बदले,
कभी चीरे इरादे,
तोह कभी चीरे यह सीना।   

Wednesday, January 1, 2014

Drift

Sometimes the incessant strumming of a chord on a guitar has a music of its own.
Like being stuck in a constant argument and relishing it.
Like driving a car in a gear that ain't at either end of the limit.
You are on cruise control and not in a rush.
At peace. In calm.
Sometimes like being surrounded by a school of fish. Swirling the water around you.
Or like at the edge of a river that is in a hurry.
Sometimes like starring at the fast changing flight schedule board at an airport, while you ain't even taking the plane.
Or the wipers of a car wiping away turbulent rain on the windshield of a car stationery.

In a un-hurry to get somewhere you often pick up thoughts stranded on the middle of your minds highway.