It’s Okay To Upset The Balance

today

Our primary job as a human is not to maintain the balance.
Be it an overhyped balance between the work and home.
A balance between what you are and how you are supposed to be.
A balance between what they think and how you act.
A revolution from time to time is needed to help your mind and your body to be healthy and growing.
Even if it upsets the balance, it is worth all the risk.

मैं इक कवि के क़लम सा।

मैं ..
इक कवि के क़लम सा।
उतावला हुँ
और लाचार भी।
जो लिख दूँ आपबीती
तो ठुकरा दिया जाऊँगा,
सच की दहलीज़ पर
जला दिया जाऊँगा।

किसे पड़ी है
कि अंदर क्या है,
स्याही सूख चुकी
या कुछ बचा रहा है।

ख़ैर,
कवि के शर्ट की पाकेट में
कल मैं शहर घुम के आया।
चेहरे सारे
हताश,
आँखें गुम पर
होंठों पर नक़ली
मुसकान।

कैसे लिख दूँ
आँखों-देखी..
ना पढ़ा जाऊँगा
ना पचाया।
नियति ऐसी कि
कवि की डायरी के
आख़िरी पन्ने से शुरू
और
आख़िरी पर ही ख़त्म मैं।

Testimony To Courage

woman-in-summer-dress-sitting-on-a-wooden-fence-bmwwr7.jpg

Next time
if you would ask me
what is it
that I am going through

then I am probably going to
let you know
how my head,

on some days,
burns like  

the hottest day of the Summer.
It slips away from my fist
like the melting ice and
I have nothing to hold on to
apart from the emptiness
– the blankness.
But
like the late-night calmness

that arrives home
with the dark night,

my head breaks free
from the torrid heat

and settles down
with the little bit of cool atmosphere

right before the new dawn.
Image creditsBeryl Peters Collection

A Fragile Dream

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Last night

during the darkest hours
of my sleep,
I saw myself wandering
barefoot
amidst the thousands of
teeny-tiny tulips
near the mountain’s bed.

Oh! The Purples.
The pinks and I touched
the yellow tulips –
yellow like the pale Sun
of an early spring.

As I wandered around,
I wondered –
who created these beautiful,
colorful mountain birds.
Must they have come from 
the rainbows, I thought.

From my west,
came the sound of
waves of laughter
of small, native kids.
Oh, their tender laugh!
It ripped my heart
with joy and beauty.

My pillows are wet,
I cried in happiness.
How difficult it is
to hold
all the beauty around
into our fragile heart.

Picture Courtesy: @Pinterest

।। रचनाकार ।।

मैं नीचे वाले मँझले पर कमरे के बिस्तर पर लेटी खिड़की से एकटक बाहर देख रही थी। पापा ने लगभग १० गमले में तरह तरह के पौधे लगाए थे। सींचा माँ ने भी था।

गरमी की लू वाली हवा चल रही थी और पौधों के फ़ुल मानो बसन्ती हवा के झूले झूल रहे थे। मगन, किसी भी चिन्ता से परे। उन्हें देख कुछ बचपन का सा अहसास हो रहा था।

कुछ देर में माँ ने आकर गमलों को उठा कर छांव मे रख दिया।

खिड़की से मुर्दे की तरह बाहर देखती रही मैं।

मेरी इस उम्र में जब माँ पापा थे तो दो बच्चों की ज़िम्मेवारी और अकेले हाथ घर चलाने की जवाबदेही थी। बारिश मे स्कूल वाले मौजें, जो सुखने को बाहर आँगन में डाला था, वो ना भींग जाए – इस डर से माँ के दुपहरी की नीन्द कच्ची ही रह पाती थी। सालों बाद भी कुछ बदला नहीं। फ़र्क़ इतना है बस की पहले हमें सींचा, हमें बनाया और आज जब मैं बिस्तर पर आराम से लेटी खिड़की से ताक रही तो माँ मौजें ना सही पर गमले हटा रही। इक पैर माँ का रसोइए मे ही रहता आज भी।

सोच के लहरों मे गोते खा ही रही थी कि कहीं से पापा की आवाज़ आई – “लगता है मेघ बरसने वाला है, मैं सही वक़्त पर बाज़ार से सामान लेकर लौट आया..”।

उस वक़्त में अजीब विडम्बना थी मन की। तीस साल की मेरी उम्र में मेरा बचपन मुझे पिछले दस सालों से याद आ रहा पर ख़याल करने पर भी ध्यान नहीं आता की माँ पापा कब बुढे नहीं थे। कब उन्होंने हमारी तरह बारिश को देख कर अपना बचपन याद किया होगा।शायद ही कभी।

अचानक से गरमी की बारिश बिन बुलाए मेहमान की तरह आकर झमाझम बरसने लगी। बारिश जब आती है तो सब कुछ रुक जाता है – मानव और पेड़ – सब वहीं के वही रूक जाते है। पर वक़्त कहाँ रूकता हैं।

सच मानो तो जब बात माँ पापा की आती है तो यक़ीं होता है रचना/किताब से ज़्यादा अनमोल लेखक/रचना करने वाला होता है। ख़ाली वक़्त मे किया गया शौक़ की तरह नहीं बल्कि सच्चा बाग़बान तो वही है जो मानव और पेड़ों को साथ साथ सींचे – बारिश और तूफ़ान मे डट कर खड़े रहने लायक़ बनाए।

Don’t let your dreams be.

Whispers of your dreams

On a grave, dark night,

Defeaning the silences

And struggling to break free

Into the light.

I don’t know why

You would just let dreams be.

Even the simplest of lives

Sometimes can crumble.

But why won’t you

Pick up the pieces,

Bend the knee.

If road seems difficult and rocky

Between you and me,

Hold tight on to the

Tiny thread of hope

And rappel down to me.

No, don’t need rope,

Don’t need words.

Remember what you dream

And rappel down to me.

You’re Real!

You,

Oh yes, you!

The one holding on to the fear

and the insecurity.

Lost in unsurity

and obscurity –

You’re real.

I hold on to you

And I tell you.

Like the color of my skin

Or the freckles on it,

You’re real.

Like the chill going down my spine

with the thought of a life without you,

That I will be not fine without you,

You are real.

You too are real.

To HIM It Concerns.

Dearest you,

I am not good with words as we both would mutually reckon. Still with all the modesty I can collect, I would put a humble effort to write down that I might not be able to confront on a regular day.

Emotions, when they take over, in lack of proper words I scramble down the road of vulnerablity. And rest becomes the history soon. What shall I despise more about myself than my incapability of putting myself in a better position through the thing, I thought, I might someday master – the words.

I have my dreams. I want to lie next to you throughout my life when evening starts to reduce itself to grave dark each day and wake up next to you when early, premature Sun rings the doorbell.

I want us to rest our bums in our comfy chairs and sip the sun and the tea together – every damn morning. I want us to argue and still respect each other. I want us to see places together. I want you to know that in all those moments when I start to believe that we are two pieces belonging to two different jigsaw puzzle, we can still try together and make the best of what we can create from ourselves. It will require dedication and I am ready to put in whatever it takes to make it last with you. Because having met you, I don’t desire of any other human now to survive this life with. It is just you and if not you, I myself will do this life alone.

Now that I’m clear as crystal about not willing to have any other person to wake up next to each morning and have disagreements with – I would rather make the mess with you every noon and clear it up together by night than to have said – if only. I know we don’t make even near perfect couple and we need working on the ground level before we move up the ladder – I solemnly believe we can make it to good if we will really try.

I don’t want to lose you to let us both know what we meant to each other. For a change, I want us to be together and know what we could have missed if we would have given up on each other. I believe we can turn things around if we really want something to happen. I want you to know that you mean something inseparable to me and I can’t even afford to dream even in the blink of my eyes that I could do anything significant without you. And with you even if I do nothing significant, a day is called off joyfully. I need you. We will be good someday.

I have started to believe that it is more than enough of a hope to look forward to future together that things will be better tomorrow, if not best.

Yours insanely.

Let’s Belong Together.

Quite unlikely my inbuilt nature of not getting out of the bed until the whole world has woken up and moved out of their bed, I woke up that night at a time when I could still see the bright, pearl and octopus-shaped star patterns in the sky from the kitchen window. I can’t really recall the time, but I felt I had been sitting by the kitchen window for long hours that night as I could fairly remember the placement of each star on the bed of sky. I looked plainly at them as they gradually got dim. That sounded more like my life – gradually getting dim.

I poured some more water into my glass and exhaled a long breath before I gulped the whole content of the glass. I struggled to look at the wall clock in the dark kitchen when the only source of light were those sleepy stars and the moon. It was that night when I figured out how foolishly I was misinformed since my childhood about the sound that each passing moment in the clock makes. It did not tick-tocked ever, it was plain and simple tick – tick. It was quarter past 4. Almost the time for him to wake up.

There was not a moment when my mind was not occupied in his thoughts that night. We have been together for almost three years now, but nothing ever seemed to grow old between us. Disagreements and misunderstandings were anew every day. He thought I had a problem with him and I had started to feel I was a problem for him. My heart ached with the thought of not having to argue and defend ourselves from the following day onwards. How foolishly and easily we fall prey into the hands of bad habits. Is it really the daily disagreements alone that we would miss about each other? When did we start to fail to make good and happy memories together – oh, hold on, since the beginning? I never supposed this would feel worse.

I picked myself up from the kitchen shelf and looked at each corner of the house, the obvious as well as oblivious ones, as I headed towards the study to pick up the stuff I packed last night. I loved that part of our house the most – the study. Oh wait, I could smell the fragrance of all those moments when I was busy reading my favorite book and he played my favorite songs on guitar sitting right in front of my eyes. How cleverly I intended to send to him no signs of my state of enthrallment in those moments. I believed that if I pretended to be annoyed when he played songs while I read then he might never quit doing it. And that was the whole idea. When you love something and is made obvious, you soon lose the thing. There I was, my nose into my book and there he walks into the room with two cups of tea in his hands. I could see it all now. Maybe I was not quite right when I thought we never made happy memories.

With a heavy heart sinking deep into the silence of that fading night, I picked up my bag and walked straight into the bedroom. There he was, sleeping on his left. Sound and peaceful. His careless posture limited to one-third of the area of the bed reflected all the efforts he too had to go through to put the grief in his heart to sleep along with him, trying hard to not to be affected by the empty another half of the bed. In that one moment, I felt like a bird alone in this whole world. Homeless and unloved. I have always assumed that a man is poorer than others if he doesn’t have at least one person in his life who makes it difficult for him to give up on. I placed my hand on his warm right arm and uttered: God bless you.  How undue and unnoticed that blessing turned out to be. He was asleep; unaware of the pains of togetherness we have been going through for years. How silly of both of us. So much of hue and cry over the destruction of what we never really created.

I walked all around the bed to have a look on his face, even though his eyelids must have covered his black eyes but, for the sake of all the silent moments we have shared together, how could I miss a chance a talk to those eyes for one last time, however, shut. Tears rolled down my face as I recalled, looking at his face, all the times when we failed tremendously to show how we could have changed our lives by changing ourselves.

Every cell in my body was crying for an escape, an escape from the routine we both have been living for years. And at that moment, I discovered I had that one person who made it difficult for me, too, to give up on – it was him. Without restraining much I turned to leave the room as soon as possible when I heard the voice from my back: “You are back where you belong”. His voice. I turned back – half in joy, half in fear. There he was, still sleeping, belonging only to me. “You are back where you belong” – this ‘you’ was reformed. It didn’t sound familiar but quite joyful.

And suddenly everything to me seemed to change. Even the things tried and used seemed like a new plan to start everything anew. Standing between two of us – Sound asleep him and wide awake me – was a guard of love. Yes, not the love itself but the guard of love. Standing between us in that room was a promise. A promise to stick by each other through the countless disagreements. A promise to come back home only to each other and to nobody else. A promise to not let go. How can we destruct something which is not yet created? But did that mean we could never really create anything together? Certainly not. I looked at the two-sided wooden clock in the room. It was almost 5. I was sleepy and with an urge to say goodbye to that night, I dropped my bag on the floor and hit myself to the remaining two-thirds of the bed he had spared. I seemed to belong perfectly to that portion of the bed right by his side.