चारदीवारी

जोड़ के ईंट और गारा

बना लिया अपना संसार

अपने हिस्से की धूप,

अपने हिस्से की हवा-पानी

कर लिया जग से बँटवारा।

यहीं पर बॉंध लिया दु:ख सुख को

संजो लिया रौशनी और अंधियारा

ईकाई समाज की ही है

पर सामाजिक नहीं ये बँटवारा।

बाहर बहुत क्रोध है

यहॉं नहीं कोई अवरोध है,

भ्रम हो तो वही सही

पर सुकून है यहीं,

मन यहीं अबोध है।

यदा कदा बाहर सोपान पर

अभाग्य सर पीट जाता है,

दरवाज़े की कुंडी कभी क्लेश

खटखटा कर भाग जाता है। 

मगर जब कोई अपने बोझ को

यहीं पटक निकल जाता है -

वो त्रासदी, मन विचलित कर जाती है

इस चारदीवारी के उद्देश्य को

बिल्कुल खोखली कर जाती है।

गुलज़ार

फूलों के गुच्छे हैं लदे

जाने क्यों कॉंटों की चर्चा है

खुशियों को दरकिनार कर

जाने क्यों हर दिल ग़म से वाबस्ता है!

जो पग अंगारों पर चलते हैं

उनका कॉंटे से ही रिश्ता है

गुच्छे तो उनको बहलाते हैं

सुकून जिनके दिल में बसता है।

मुनसिफ नज़रों से देखो तो

न फूल हैं, न कॉंटे वहॉं,

जिसपर जो जो गुज़री है

गुलज़ार में उसे वही दिखता है।

ब्रह्मराक्षस

कुल में जन्मा, कुलीन न हो सका!

मर्यादा, अहंकार सब है बदा

रहा निर्जीव, सजग हो न सका!

संग थे पोथी, पंडित और अभिमान

कितने वेद, कितने छंद, कितने पुराण

रहा मूक, कंठ उनको दे न सका!

कर्म को ही धर्म बना -

जन्म क्या और जीवन क्या?

वो जो रहे अपदस्थ, वंचित

जन्म का श्राप ढोते हुए,

लालायित, आशापूर्ण आस लगाए हुए!

मुँह फेर, जाने बुरा किया या भला?

बोझ उनका था ज़्यादा 

या उम्मीद थी हमारी भीमकाय।

हाथ न दो तो किस्मत को कोसते,

जो बढ़ाओ हाथ तो होती न ज्ञान की हूक,

सुगम पथ पर कौन बना महान!

संजोया थोड़ा पर बांचा नहीं ज्ञान,

दूसरों के दु:ख से रहा सर्वदा अनजान।

हर झोंके में खोया खुद को

अनवरत रख न सका स्वाभिमान।

कुलीन होने के सारे गुण -

स्वार्थ, अहं को सौंप कर

सशक्त कर, बनाया उनको ही सर्वशक्तिमान!

मौत होगा एक अभिशाप 

या होगा निरवान!

जागकर शैया से बनूंगा क्या?

भटकता प्रेत या ब्रह्मराक्षस!

मुक़द्दर या ख़ुद्दारी

मुँह बाये खड़ा था मुक़द्दर 

हमने आंका तो ख़ुद्दारी 

भभक उठी।

सवाल किए,

बड़े पेचीदे।

जो आस ही रखते हो,

तो व्यर्थ क्यों जलते हो?

गिरना हो शायद मुक़द्दर,

गिरकर उठना है ख़ुद्दारी।

भटक जाना भी हो शायद मुक़द्दर,

राह एक नई खोज लेना है ख़ुद्दारी।

अक्ल पर परदा दारी,

है मुक़द्दर

और मात न खाना है ख़ुद्दारी।

तकदीर हो शायद तेरा मुक़द्दर,

उसका, तेरी रज़ा पूछना, है ख़ुद्दारी।

गिरो, भटको, कोसो तकदीर को

गर चुनना ही है मुक़द्दर

काट कर, दफ्न कर दो ख़ुद्दारी।

Lords of Bhagdatpuram - III

5. And it happened one afternoon

While running around one afternoon after our sumptuous lunch, all of us barged into the study room. There was no one there at that hour and we started excavating for something interesting in the cupboards. It was then that we found a dissection box - and boy! What an afternoon that turned out to be!

The surgical scissors, forceps, needles were completely new to us and we were more than eager to find out ourselves how can these be put to use. Though Bhaiya was not the eldest one in the motley group which had discovered the dissection box, he was our intellectual leader (de facto or de jure is left to one's imagination). It was still early afternoon and the elders were catching up with whatever the other party had missed or enjoying their siesta. 

We, a group of around seven-eight kids, tiptoed towards the open field on the right side of the house with our prized possession. This field to the right also used to be our cricket ground earlier and hence was the preferred one. The first hurdle was an easy one, since the aisle door at the verandah end was generally left open (Zamindars of repute and a renowned family name never close their palace doors, for who knows when a needy might come for help!). The major hurdle that lay between us and the open maidan was NanaBabu's room. This room was a protrusion on the eastern side of the house and had an entrance from the house. There was, though, another door that served as its exit facing the open field. The room most certainly was an after thought - probably to keep an eye on urchins creating nuisance in the middle of the day! To top it all there were two windows, both of which opened towards the verandah. The distance between the windows of the protruded room and verandah was at least fifty meters. This empty space was, as I recollect, where a tractor plough and its paraphernalia was perennially parked. 

This was an open trap and any movement was easily traceable from either of the windows from NanaBabu's room. Our idea was simple - run towards the open field with all your might and don't stop even if someone yells your name. Stop only to catch breath or if you are away from your adversary's line of sight. Pretty lame eh! But you can't expect eight-nine-year-old kids to have military grade planning. The stars and all the planets of this motley bunch of kids were busy preparing for the real dampener, ergo all of us made to the other side.

The scalpel was pretty shiny and so were the other blades in the box. Only forceps was matte and that's what caught my eye when the box was opened. Like any other kid, all my cousins were attracted by the shiny blades and grabbed whatever blade was within their reach, while I calmly took the forceps which was the only thing left in the box after a brief flurry for the blades.

With weapons clenched in our fists, we spread across the place in search of our target for dissection. This field, which used to be our cricket ground in recent past, had been sold out and construction of houses had started there as well. There were brick walls of all sizes around us, though not higher than our waists. Ankle-length grass covered the regions between the walls and it was here that we were looking for our prey - not to feast on but to dissect it.

Jumping across one of the walls in characteristic hunter style, by putting his palm and pulling his entire weight over it, Haddi shrieked - "Yahan par hai, jaldi Baba"!

That was the moniker my cousins had for Bhaiya and Baba without wasting any time jumped over the wall, across which Haddi had spotted a...toad! 

Within no time the entire gang had surrounded the toad and eagerly waiting for the Senapti's orders to neutralize it.

"Attack!", no sooner than Senapati shouted, the mini rangers jumped on the toad.

"Aaaaaaaaaaaahhh!", the shriek was pretty loud and we were sure it would reach NanaBabu's ears, who would by now be enjoying his afternoon siesta.

One of the mini rangers, or probably a few, in their eagerness and lack of blade swinging skills had hit (and gashed) our Senapati's webbing between the thumb and index finger. While Chhotu and Pujan tried to calm him down, Bhaiya started throwing choicest of expletives at all of us! 

Haddi and Dhiro had had enough (or so i thought) and they ran towards the Phulwari. If we are caught because of these fools then gone are all our weapons, dissection box and all our future planning of cutting open a few menial beings.

Blood trickled down Bhaiya's palm to the wrists while Chhotu was holding the webbing tightly to stop the flow. None of us were carrying any handkerchief or were filmy enough to tear our clothes and tie a bandage on Bhaiya's palm. While he continued shouting at us, we saw Dhiro and Haddi running back towards us with some shrubs clenched in their fists. So these guys hadn't chickened out at least!

No sooner they reached the place of accident/mishap/adventure (in future, we would be using different lofty terms to recount it), we saw they were carrying a marigold branch with quite a few leaves on it. It was Ayurveda 101 for me when Dhiro spoke like a sage explaining the healing properties of marigold leaves - at least someone had a presence of mind to run to Phulwari and pluck this Ayurvedic wonder. All of us plucked the leaves from that branch and started crushing the leaves and applying the juice on Bhaiya's palm. 

After a few rounds of pluck-crush-apply-rewind, the blood flow stopped. Consequently, Dhiro had that superlative smirk on his face while we gave a not so loud hurrah to celebrate. 

The toad survived to die another day though another one of his consanguinity did sacrifice its life, to the cause of science, when the experiment was repeated at our home in Tilkamanjhi. I was the only help this time which reiterated my belief on the adage that too many cooks indeed spoil the broth. The silver lining that emerged out of that afternoon adventure - Dissection box was flicked on that day by Bhaiya (though he always maintained that he had borrowed it - from whom?) and would remain prized possession of our adventure kit for many of our errands.

Lords of Bhagdatpuram - II

3. Phulwari

Well demarcated by huge conifers, Phulwari was the place where all of us would be found from afternoon onwards, irrespective of the summer heat or winter chill. The lush green lawn where we used to play conventional games (football, running around playing Chooa-Chooii) or the really interesting Budhiya Kabaddi. This is a game that was improvised on the go. The basic tenets though rarely changed - two circles on either end of the garden where one team has to cross over from one end to the other, while the Budhiya from the other team obstructs the opponent and not allowing him to cross. Simple game, multiple memories!

There are many photos of all of us (we were more than 30 cousins) posing in the Phulwari. The two entrances to the Phulwari were from the verandah end and also from the front entrance end (there was no physical gate there, only a partition in between a huge wall on one side and a bamboo barricade on the other). The barricade side of the entrance had a cycle stand - this was a parking stand (simple life, simpler commute modes!) for all movie goers, as Jawahar Talkies was right across the road (I can count lots of buildings named after Pt Nehru but this one beats them all - who names a Cinema Theatre after him, probably the first in the country!). 

The pathway from the main entrance towards the house was a patchy one, with Phulwari on its left. The entrance from the side had a tap - which would be always running. This tap was courtesy the municipal corporation water supply, which was again one of the rarest things to have in one's residence. Another thing that has remained with me after all these years is the distinct stench of the drain which encircled the entire house. The ever-running tap at the entrance and the other one in the Aangan were the main culprits. However, the bigger culprit was the callousness of the residents to ignore the wastage of water, as the water line didn't have any taps to stop the flow. It was just an open ended iron pipe which would start running as soon as the municipality started pumping water.

In later years, the verandah would become our 22-yards cricket pitch and Phulwari would become our mid-wicket region. This was a time when Tendulkar was not yet the legend we know and bowlers were still compared to Malcom Marshall or at best Kapil Dev. The eldest cousin of ours was an avid Marshall fan (his short stature and dark skin would add to the effect) and would bowl with all his might - imagine the pace with which the ball would be flying on a concrete pitch. The ball on most occasion would be a plastic ball since most of the older protective gears (from our other cricketing cousins) would have been either untraceable or stolen. Bats were always the regular heavy ones (we eventually moved to palm leaf stalk - quite symbolic of the decline of the affluence!). Ground was small, audience limited, fielders pretty much unused yet pace was Marshall-esque and every minor heroics forever etched in memory.


4. Verandah

The verandah (or was it meant to be a foyer?) and the two rooms attached to its front end, were once occupied by Bade Mama and his family. That is my earliest memory of the palatial house and as I think of it now, this part of the "property" has now been handed over to Chhote Mama. The two aisles on the either side of the house were the entrance for family members, while a guest would be made to generally wait at the wooden chowki at the verandah. On the outer side of the front end, after the pathway between the phulwari and the house there were a few steps leading to a huge empty space (which would later serve as our 22-yard concrete cricket pitch), which was the open part of verandah and then there were huge multiple cylindrical columns, connected by arched roof, which would make the house exude palatial vibes. This roof made the covered part of verandah. The wooden chowki was moved between the open and covered parts of the verandah as the season demanded or at the whims and fancy of an esteemed guest.  Each time we visited the place either one of the aisles would serve as the house entrance. It still puzzles me to this day as to who used to decide about which aisle should be used on a given day.

Both the aisles also opened on the two front rooms. One of the rooms would serve as Guest room (or Drawing room as it was referred to), again mysteriously decided by don't know who, while the other would serve as the study room.

When we were kids the study room was quite fascinating to us. In one of the cupboards, we would find lot of fountain pens (I don't think ball-point pens even existed in those days), "Cricket Samrat" - the Hindi cricket magazine and all sort of interesting stuff like posters of popular cricketers - Dilip Vengsarkar, Mohinder Amarnath, Kapil Dev, Gavaskar.

There were palm trees on either side of verandah (which would later yield timber for our cricket bats), which divided the house from fields on either side. Invariably there were a few benches too on the verandah, which would serve as tables for water, lassi, milk, tea or other such welcome drink offered to the guest.

अर्घ्य दान

अस्ताचल सूरज मटमैला सा दिखता है,

शब्दरहित चुपचाप सा

जाने क्यों ये मन छलता है।

कार्त्तिक षष्ठी की छटा है छाई

किस उधेड़बुन में तू फंसा है राही।

न तौलो अपने भाग्य का लेखा

कब क्या पाएगा किसने है देखा।

नि:स्वार्थ, आशीर्वाद की बस रख चाह

झुका दो गर्दन की कमान,

कर भी दो अब अर्घ्य दान।

अस्तोदय तो जीवन चक्र है

सरल कहॉं, यह पथ वक्र है।

कहते हैं, ये है विधी का विधान,

कहीं सुगम सरल पगडंडियॉं

कहीं अवरोधों के ऊंचे मचान।

सर झुका कर रमे है रहना

वाक बाण वाचालों के सहना,

मांगना नहीं कोई वरदान,

बस अभी कर दो अर्घ्य दान।

ठीक जैसा तुम्हे पसंद है

भोर की आलस,

नींद की ख़ुमारी 

और कुछ अधपके सपने 

समेट कर सबको उठ ही गया।  

नीली जीन्स, सफ़ेद शर्ट, 

ठीक जैसा तुम्हे पसंद है

डाल कर, निकल पड़ा।

गीत भर लिए रस्ते में 

की सफ़र लम्बा न लगे। 

गाड़ी रुकी और देखो - 

रुक गई यादें।

अब बस इंतज़ार 

वो चेहरे पे मुस्कान की आस 

एक कुलांचे मारता दिल,

दौड़ भाग करता हुआ,

हर आहट पर चौंकता मन।  

कॉफ़ी के धुएँ से सबको जकड़ रखा है।  

और पता है -

मीठा लग रहा है इंतज़ार।  

कर का मनका दारके, मन का मनका फेर

उसकी आंखों में मैं चोर देखता हूँ,
और दाढ़ी में तिनका -

खुल कर हस्ते हुए भी,
कनखियों से झांकता है।
सवाल सीधे नहीं कभी,
बड़े पेचीदे करता है।
घुमा कर जलेबियों सी,
बातें भी तो चाशनी में डूबो कर करता है।
नज़रें जमाना कहाँ सीख पायेगा वो,
आँखों से जब वैसे करतब करता है।
क्या नापता है, जाने क्या तौलता है -
शब्दों के वज़न?
फिर कांट-छांट भी तो मन में ही करता है।
सवालों के जवाब की जगह,
क्या मंद मुस्कान बिखेरता है।

पीली दाल में तैरता हुआ,
कुछ काला है सिर्फ, कि है पूरा छौंका?
उसकी आँखों में मैं चोर देखता हूँ
और दाढ़ी में तिनका।

पुञ्ज सारथी

जानते हो रुधिर उबल कर
व्यर्थ जब बह जाता है,
एक युग, तिमिर को ही मीत समझ
अंधियारे में गिर जाता है।

अग्रणी कपट, लालच का जाल बिछा
क्रांति-परचम कितने लहरा गए,
गोत्र, धर्म की बीन बजा
भारत को ही बरगला गए।

ज्ञान किताबी, विचार मतलबी, विश्वास-अंध को -
समाज-भावी कब क्षमा कर पाया है।
उठो अकर्मण्यों! कब तक कोसोगे तक़दीर-मुक़द्दर
तुम्हारे भाग्य में ये किसी ने नहीं लिखवाया है।

कोई नहीं कहता, होगी सुगम-सरल डगर
यही ध्येय है, न समझ कुपथ।
कर में ही तेरी है नियति
कर्म को ही अपना देव समझ।



यशगान गगन-भेदी हैं उठते
नर नारायण कहलाता है
समय भी उसकी पूजा करता,
किरण खींच जो लाता है।

भाषाभारत - https://www.bhashabharat.com/

मुझको भी तरकीब सिखा कोई यार जुलाहे 

अक्सर तुझको देखा है कि ताना बुनते 

जब कोई तागा टूट गया या ख़तम हुआ 

फिर से बाँध के 

और सिरा कोई जोड़ के उसमें 

आगे बुनने लगते हो 

तेरे इस ताने में लेकिन 

इक भी गाँठ गिरह बुनतर की

देख नहीं सकता है कोई 

मैंने तो इक बार बुना था एक ही रिश्ता 

लेकिन उसकी सारी गिरहें 

साफ़ नज़र आती हैं मेरे यार जुलाहे

गुल्ज़ार साहब की उपरोक्त पंक्तियॉं, ज़िन्दगी की पेचीदा सवालों को जैसे बिल्कुल सरल बना देती हैं। शब्दों के जादूगर ने ये एक नज़रिया क्या ख़ूब पेश किया है। पर एक और नज़रिया जो इस ब्लॉग पोस्ट के माध्यम से उजागर होने वाला है वो शायद उतना रंगीन न हो।

भारतवर्ष में मजदूरों की दुर्दशा पर कई अभिलेख मिल जाएंगे और उनकी आर्थिक बदहाली पर सामाजिक क्रान्ति की चर्चा भी उतनी ही संख्या में आपको मिल जाएंगे, पर इस दुर्दशा से निजात पाने के लिए कोई संघोष्ठी नहीं होती। इस समस्या के हल पर कोई  विचार संध्या नहीं होती। इस वर्ष हम आज़ादी की सत्तरवीं सालगिरह मना रहे हैं और बड़ी बड़ी बातें जो ऐसे मौकों पर की जाती हैं की गयी हैं। सामाजिक क्रांति पर विश्वविद्यालयों में नारेबाज़ी हुई, लोगों की जमात सामाजिक तबके में सबसे नीची जाती के मोहल्लों में गयी, हो-हल्ला हुआ, चित्र खिंचवाए गए और फिर सब भूल कर लोग अपने ख्वाबगृह में वापस चले गए।

 जुलाहों के वो मोहल्ले, जहाँ कुछ साल पहले तक लोग अपनी संकीर्ण जातिवाद से लैस होकर उनके हाथ से पानी पीने में संकोच करते थे (ये बात अलग है कि उनके बुने गए कपड़ों को खरीदने और बेचने में किसी को कोई संकोच नहीं होता था ), अब सामाजिक बदलाव की आस भी नहीं रखते हैं - सब कुछ, जैसा की आजतक होता आया है, भगवान पर छोड़ देते हैं । और ये एक बहुत बड़ा कारण है की भारत में आजतक सशस्त्र, हिंसक सामाजिक क्रांति नहीं हुई है (माओवादियों को समाज का हिस्सा मानना एक बड़ी गलती होगी, इसलिए उनकी गिनती यहाँ नहीं है) - भगवान का शुक्र है।  

लेकिन आज के युग में सामाजिक क्रांति खोखली नारेबाजी नहीं है। इंटरनेट ने इस खोखलेपन में कीबोर्ड की टप-टपाहट से अगर सामाजिक नहीं तो वैचारिक क्रांति की नींव ज़रूर डाली है। और इस दिशा में एक बड़ा कदम उठाया है भाषाभारत ने।  

भागलपुर की ऐतिहासिक धरती ने कर्ण की दानवीरता देखी है, बिहुला का अपरिमित साहस देखा है, चंदो सौदागर का अनुपम रेशम कारोबार देखा है - और शायद एक बार फिर वक़्त आ गया है उसी स्वर्णिम रेशम कारोबारी युग को वापस लाने का। भागलपुर का तसर सिल्क विश्वविख्यात है और आज तक उसी पुराने व्यापारिक ढांचे के तहत बिकता रहा है। लेकिन भाषाभारत ने एक पहल की है जिससे आप ऑनलाइन तसर सिल्क से बने कपड़े मंगवा सकते हैं और इसका सीधा लाभ जुलाहों तक पहुंचेगा। बिचौलियों को इंटरनेट के सहारे बड़ी शालीनता से दरकिनार कर दिया गया है। ये वैचारिक क्रांति सामाज-सुधार के साथ साथ हथकरघा बुनकरों को उनको अपनी मेहनत का सही मेहनताना दिलवाएगा, इसी आस के साथ भाषाभारत को बहुत सारी शुभकामनायें।  

अंजनेय

रंग पुता है पलकों पर
कि नक़ाब कस कर बाँधा है?
देखो इस भीड़ की भेड़ चाल
जिधर मोड़ा उधर का रुख करता है।

भूल के अपनी एकाकी
बेड़ी बाँध बस बढ़ना है,
लक्ष्य न ध्येय की कोई सोच
बस चलना है क्यूंकि चलना है।

कभी सोचा कि क्या पायेगा तू
पृथक अगर बढ़ जायेगा?
इन पगडंडियों पर तो कई चले
नए पथ प्रशस्त तू कर जायेगा।

ऋक्षराज यहाँ कोई नहीं
गुण तेरे कौन यहाँ बखान करे
सुशुप्त शक्तियों का कौन आवाहन करे,
रौद्र रुप खुद ही अब धरना है
अंजनेय खुद ही तुझे बनना है।  

Lords of Bhagdatpuram - I

1. A Death that I didn't see

My eyes widened and the shock almost gorged out the eyeballs.

"He is no more!", was Bhaiya's terse statement. Being the elder one in the second generation of the deceased's consanguinity, he was the affectionate one - the so called "apple-of-the-eye" of the previous generation. He was clearly shattered and I could see he was fighting his tears.

Quite dramatically, I lost hold of the bag that I had carried for my unsuccessful errand. Emotions all rolled up but didn't flow down the usual egress. It just conjured up all my memories of him and all my plans that I had stacked up for my future interactions with him.

What followed was retelling of how it happened all of a sudden. Within a span of four days (during which, I was coming to terms with my true introvert personality and the inner struggle), his condition deteriorated. Even doctors failed to confirm the real cause of his death - some said it was a heart failure, some blamed the kidney and multiple organ failure. To me it was a void that had grown into a chasm. 

Parents always are the protective ones - chiding and forcing their will on you, while grandparents are the more chilled-out ones, who give you more well-rounded perspective - having seen two generations (and in fact experimented their will on one), they know what exactly is the impact of over-protectionism. The void in me were the missing paternal grandparents, the chasm was the loss of the third one now!

Memories and nostalgia make you travel back in time. While memories are superficial - happy, sad, et al - rarely impacting your present state, nostalgia digs up all sort of things from your past, paints them with the darkest of colors and sucks up your present. So irrespective of you being in a joyous or sad mood, nostalgia gives you an urge, a want to relive the past.

My next few weeks were filled with nostalgia and as is my wont, I was brooding about all the missed opportunities of sitting with him and elaborately discussing life-plans, the swings and the dips - philosophy in general. 

They say he had a foresight, yet what I see is a lack of planning on his part for the rainy day. To me, he is an enigma - having carefully handled the entire family (quite a huge one) and was always a guiding force for all important decisions, after the death of his elder brother (who was old enough to be his father) - how did he miss educating his daughters. By education, I mean a formal education because otherwise they are worldly wise - objective, independent and always having an alternate perspective (Obviously, I am being carried away because of the personal bias). Then how did he miss a providence for his wife or was he under the ubiquitous, misconstrued denial, that he will be there for her, always.

2. Grandeur of a bygone era

Shri Babu Saheb Kartiknath Pandey was a zamindar of indisputable repute - a kind, big hearted man and probably the town Lordnagar was named after him. This family of zamindars welcomed the birth of the younger son, after almost twenty five years of the birth of the elder one. He must have been a pampered one, having two fathers (the elder one was almost there, ergo two mothers too!) . 

From what I have heard, his baarat was a cavalcade of cars (a luxury in those days), with him perched on top of an elephant - with a howdah (is what I imagine). This was a legendary baarat that was talked about by everyone from Bhagdatpuram to Jagadishpur. And whenever it was retold to us - with an extra addition of some resource, be it cars or animals which were part of that cavalcade - we could see a glint in the eye of the story teller.

The estate owned by this family was known as Karela and from my personal experience even after some twenty years back, the rickshawallahs at Bhagdatpuram railway station would feel privileged to ferry us to "Pandeyji's". The decline, though was gradual initially (for political reasons) and steep in later stages (for both personal, personnel and political reasons).

My earliest memories of the grandeur of the bygone era is that of a beautifully decorated entrance, the majestic "verandah" as it was referred to, with myriads of small colorful bulbs hanging from high above - parapets of the terrace, crowns of confers, thatched roofs et al. This is my memory of one of the marriages in the family (where my memory fails is whose marriage it was - mama or mausi?), where I sipping a cola (quite an affluence those days) and gaping, wide-eyed at the wonderfully decorated house. The huge columns of the verandah were also colorfully painted and decorated supplementing the mythical appeal of the house.

The house, as I remember it, was a palatial one flanked by huge fields on either side and a garden (or Phulwari) at the entrance. Like all majestic palatial houses there was a pathway separating the Phulwari and the verandah.

Date: 1st March, 1956 was the date when this palatial house was inhabited by its residents. The residents would comprise of the two brothers, their wives (one of them pregnant with my mother!), and two sons and a few daughters (this number needs a confirmation) of the elder brother. 

भीड़

मुल्क़ के हश्र की आओ सुने दास्ताँ
अनुशाषन लटका ताक पर,
कोने में दुबक कर,
सिसकी भर रहा हिंदुस्तान।

बिस्मिल, आज़ाद, भगत के
किस्सों पर खिलखिलाते नौजवान,
निठल्लों की खड़ी फ़ौज
कैसे हो भारत महान।



ज़िन्दगी चाल हुई महंगी बिसात पर
मौत का तिजारत हो गया सस्ता।
अब तो हर अड्डे-नुक्कड़ पर,
क्या चाय की टोलियॉं और क्या फेसबुक
सभी जगह है एक इन्किलाबी दस्ता।


पत्थर बरसे प्रहरी पर,
लठ बरसे सैनिक पर,
सर कटे जिस्मों का
लगता जाता ढेर
कश्मीरियत की ढाल के पीछे
चल रहा निन्यानवे का फेर।

गरीबों के लिए लड़ने वाले
खुद अमीर हो जाते हैं।
आज़ादी के नारे लगाकर
अपने आराम गृह को रुखसत हो जाते हैं।
मोमबत्तियों की भीड़
धू-धू कर जलती है।
ख्याल पकाओ उसमे
देखो शायद अब भी आंच बाकी है।

क्या, क्यों, कब बदलेगा
हमसे मत पूछो ये सवाल।
लठ, ज़ंजीर, हथियार उठाओ
चलो मिलकर करें बवाल।

कर्तव्य विमुख

खिड़की से आसमान ताक रहा था -
एक हल्का फुल्का सा बादल,
जैसे एक बहुत बड़े बादल से बने
रथ को खींच रहा था।

नैपथ्य में सुदूर सफ़ेद बादलों का एक बिखरा समूह था
शायद ऊपर से देख कर इठलाते हुए
मुस्कुरा रहा था।

ये छोटू लगा रहा
खींचता रहा,
और धरती पर नीचे उसका साया पड़ा -
छोटू का तो नहीं
लेकिन उस रथ का।

नीचे धरातल पर
घटा छा गयी,
मल्हार गए जाने लगे,
तपती धरती को जैसे चैन की साँस मिली।

आस में लगे उस कृषक के चेहरे पर
मुस्कान आ गयी।
कितना फरक है उस सुदूर
कर्तव्यविमुख उन बादलों में
और झुर्री पड़े इस चेहरे पर ! 

काबिल

ये फिल्म तो अभी कुछ दिन पहले रिलीज़ हुई थी और एक बार शायद टीवी पर दिखाई  जा चुकी है।  लेकिन वो काबिल और हमारे काबिल में हिन्दू मुसलमान वाला फर्क है।  (ये तो मैंने इश्क़िया से उठाई है :)) वो न सिर्फ सकारात्मक सोच वाले काबिल हैं बल्कि प्रेरणा स्त्रोत भी हैं।

हमारे काबिल, जिन्हें बिहारी लहजे में "ढेर काबिल" कहते हैं, आपको राह चलते अपनी काबिलियत दिखाते हुए दिख जायेंगे। और प्रदर्शन के बाद इन्हें किसी दाद या वाह-वाही की दरकार भी नहीं होती।  लेकिन गर मिल जाये तो जैसे इनकी बाँछें खिल जाती हैं, पगों में पर लग जाते हैं।

"मैं मेन रोड पर नहीं हूँ।  दो सौ बार इधर से गया हूँ, कभी कुछ नहीं हुआ।  और मैसेज तो मैं कर भी नहीं रहा था।  मेरे पास इयरफोन्स हैं, बस कॉल काट रहा था। "

ये है हमारे काबिल का दक्यानूसी लॉजिक - ख़ैर उनसे लॉजिक की अपेक्षा करना हमारी ही ग़लती थी।

"और सर अगर कोई, खुदा-न-ख़ास्ता, आपको पीछे से ठोक कर निकल ले तो किसको दोष दीजियेगा?", हमने बड़े ही शिष्टतापूर्वक उनसे ये सवाल पूछा।

"तब देख लेंगे" - वाह! जाने क्या देखेंगे ये - अपना फटा हुआ सर, लहेरिया कट मार कर भागते हुए अपने सवा सेर को, या ग़ुबार में डूबती अपनी चेतना को!

D को उन चालकों से खासी चिढ है जो एक हाथ में मोबाइल पकडे दुसरे हाथ से गाडी चलाते हैं - द्वि-चक्र वाहन होने के बावजूद, और वो ऐसे लोंगो को उनकी गलतियां ज्ञात कराने में बहुत ही तत्पर हैं।  चिढ़ तो हमें भी है पर हम वाक् वाणों के बदले उन्हें एक भौतिक प्रयोग दर्शाने में ज़्यादा विश्वास रखते हैं।  और हुआ ये था की D ने बगल से गुजरते हुए "ढेर काबिल" को आवाज़ दी (या यूँ कहें की उनकी भलाई के लिए, उन्हें उनकी ही ग़लती का एहसास दिलाने का प्रयास किया) और फिर वही हुआ जो आजकल काफी आम बात हो गयी है।  उन्हें बात टच कर गयी - उनके स्वाभिमान को एक बहुत बड़ी ठेंस लग गयी - हमें हमारी ही ग़लती कौन बता रहा है, उसकी इतनी जुर्रत, और वो भी एक लड़की!

ढेर काबिल ने आव देखा न ताव, द्रुत गति से अपनी द्वि-चक्र वाहन को खूब खदेड़ा।  कभी दाएँ से , तो कभी बाएँ से - वो अपने आपको सुरक्षा के गनमास्टर G9 ही समझ रहे थे - आगे निकलने की कोशिश की।  लेकिन अव्वल तो रास्ता इतना संकरा, थैनी हमारी उधार मांगी हुई कार और थैलीथ G9 की बेवकूफ़ी , न वो आगे जा पा रहे थे और न ही हम उन्हें साइड दे पा रहे थे।

आख़िरकार रास्ता थोड़ा चौड़ा हुआ तो हमने सोचा उनकी मेहनत को ज़ाया नहीं होने दिया जाये और एक ओर गाड़ी रोक दी। और हमें कहाँ इल्म की हमारे प्रतिपक्षी को बड़े फुर्सत से, किलो के भाव, लॉजिक का भंडार मिला है।  थोड़ी देर तक उनसे जिरह करने के बाद, अपनी नीयति को कोसते हुए हमने उनसे व्यंग्यातमत तरीके से माफ़ी मांगी, जो की उनकी समझ से वैसे ही परे थी , और अपने रस्ते हो लिए।

तो ज्ञान ये बंटोरा हमने -
रहिमन धागा व्यंग्य का, फेरो जब मन भाय
उपकार ताक पर रखकर, गरियाओ जो आ जाय!

To Sir

"हैं और भी दुनिया में सुख़नवर बहुत अच्छे
कहते हैं ग़ालिब का है अंदाज़-ए-बयां और"


As he would walk in the aisle, between the benches, our hearts would start racing - not me, please not me!
"Kya vahiyat hai ye?"
"Aap sirf nachtey rahiye, sawal toh aapse banenge nahi"
"Goldie...baap ka kya naam hai silvery !!"


Throwing such personal remarks at his shivering culprits, terror in std IX B (and later X B) had two legs, a lean stooped frame, a brilliant superlative brain and perfectly suiting his Einsteinesque face - a handlebar mustache! The chalk powder would be everywhere, on his trousers, his shirt, his forearms as he would delve and make us dive in the world of circles, tangents and that elusive alternate angle!


Old school, stern and never shy of using expletives Mr Javed Hasan, as a teacher, was a giant among dwarfs. Peculiar though he was in his handling of students, his teaching methodologies were ahead of its time. He introduced us to Mir publishers and books beyond our school curriculum - hence never letting us limit ourselves by such superfluous boundaries.


Maths and Physics, the two subjects on which a young mind's logical thinking rests, were the favorites in his arsenal (ghazals, literature, shayari were his other not so commonly known interests) and he would use them judiciously to take you on a virtual tour of the world. Anecdotes from yonder, interesting problems from Russian books (Mir publishers, AF Abbot, Concise Physics et al) were what he would often throw at you to give you a measure of how the world actually behaves and how Physics, with Maths in tow, quantifies that.


The sher at the start holds completely true for Sir Javed. Maths and Physics can be taught in a number of ways but the way he taught it, is a feat that can never be repeated. Many would argue that he was biased towards students who attended his private tuition but ask the same people did he even care if people paid him the tuition fees. I agree that the informal setting at his residence (palatial one at that) brought out his more casual side - quoting a lot from his personal experience, hum a couplet or two, even take a dig at India's sports performance (one such incident was the Olympics semi final match of Leander Paes, which as Sir had prophesied, Paes lost to Andre Agassi to bring back a bronze).


While he was a terror in class, during the tuition sessions he would be a completely different self, sometimes even overshooting his one hour limit. And no one complained, for on such days we would collect some gems from the field of philosophy, science and sometimes literature and music.


I had met him last just before our ICSE exams were to start and had promised myself to return back to the great man if I ever achieve some success in life - someday!


Someday, incidentally and colloquially is just an excuse to fool your heart when you know such a day is never going to come. Last month I came to know that he is no more and I could sense a rush of emotions, memories and humongous personal loss. I also felt a deep gash in my heart to be reminded of my false promise of meeting him again - someday!

झिझक

ये जो झिझक सा आ जाता है बोलते बोलते
याद है मुझे बचपन में तुम कितनी साफ़ बातें करतीं थीं माँ !
बोझ बहुत है क्या - हर सोच, हर शब्द में
उस वक़्त कब तौला था तुमने शब्दों को माँ !

उलझ सी जाती हो किन ख़यालों में,
कभी ख़ामोशी, कभी बस एक मुस्कान
क्या मैं इतना बदल गया हूँ माँ !

यूँ लगता है कई किनारों से जैसे
छिप छिपाकर बच कर निकलती हो
हमारा रिश्ता क्या इतना संकरा हो गया है माँ !

शब्दों के गुलज़ार

खिड़कियां खोल कर आज थोड़ी धूप बटोर रहा था।  जुकाम के कारण मिज़ाज थोड़ा दबा सा था सो गर्माहट के लिए वहीँ पास में बैठ गया।  कुछ किताबें भी स्टैक कर लीं की साथ में थोड़ी पढाई कर लें।  पर हाथ में जब मोबाइल फोन हो तो फिर कहाँ पढाई!
Twitter पर देखा की अभिषेक शुक्ल बहुत दिनों से छाये हुए हैं।  सुख़नवर हैं, बहुत अच्छी शायरी करते हैं।  पर डॉ कुमार विश्वास के साथ जो हुआ था या यूँ कहें की जो उन्होंने राह पकड़ ली है, हमारा मन नए शायरों से थोड़ा बिफर सा गया है।  और हुआ भी वही, हालांकि शुक्ल साहब की शायरी में बहुत सारे लफ्ज़ समझ नहीं आये लेकिन बहुत गहराई दिखी और उसी विडियो में नीचे गुलज़ार साहब का सजेशन भी आया।
गर्माहट थोड़ी धूप की तो थी ही पर जब गुलज़ार साहब का जश्न-ए-रेख़्ता वाला विडियो देखा तो जैसे गर्मी सिर्फ जिस्मानी नहीं रही, अंदर तक महसूस हुई। किताबें गुलज़ार साहब की लिखी हुई कंटेम्पररी कविता है जिसमे वो किताबों और उनकी घटती महत्ता पर टिपण्णी करते हुए कुछ ख़ूबसूरत शब्दों का जाल बुनते हैं। एक सैंपल:

"ज़बान पर ज़ायका आता था जो सफ़ा पलटने का, 
अब ऊँगली क्लिक करने से एक झपकी गुज़रती है "

ऐसे शब्द जैसे गुलज़ार साहब के सिग्नेचर हैं, सिर्फ वो ही ऐसी रूटीन सी चीज़ (उँगलियों को चाट कर पन्ने  पलटने का तरीका) पर एक शेर लिख सकते हैं। उनके बात करने का तरीका भी निराला है - रुक कर, थोड़ा ठहराव देकर अपनी भरभराई आवाज़ में (शायद इसी आवाज़ से गर्माहट टपकती है ), जैसे कोई उम्रदराज़, अपना सा कोई, ज़िन्दगी के मायने समझा रहा हो। और उनकी उर्दू तो जैसे चाशनी में डुबोये उस पंतुआ की तरह लगती है जिसे अभी ताज़ा तलकर निकाला गया हो।
इन सब के अलावा उन्होंने एक बात बताई जिसका ज़िक्र बहुत कम होता है - उर्दू (उनकी और हमारी, पाकिस्तान और हिंदुस्तान की), उसपर अन्य भाषाओँ का असर और उर्दू लिपी।  गुलज़ार साहब ने तो शबाना आज़मी की एक गोपनीय बात का भी खुलासा किया की उन्हें उर्दू लिपी नहीं आती और वो देवनागरी में ही उर्दू पढ़ती हैं।  लेकिन लिपी से तलफ़्फ़ुज़ पर असर नहीं पड़ना चाहिए।  और एक बेहतरीन उदहारण भी दिया -
"पिताजी दवा खाने गए हैं" और
"पिताजी दवाख़ाने गए हैं"
नुख़्ते की हेर फेर और शब्दों के मायने बदल जाना कोई नयी बात नहीं है पर ऐसी रोज़ाना सी बात का उदहारण सिर्फ गुलज़ार साहब ही दे सकते हैं।  एक छोटी सी बात से उन्होंने बता दिया की वो कितने प्रोग्रेसिव हैं - चोंगा बदल लेने से आदमी नहीं बदलता, तो उसी तरह लिपी बदलने से भाषा नहीं बदलनी चाहिए।  अलिफ़, बे, ते , टे से बढ़कर है उर्दू भाषा और उसे बांधने के बजाय अलग अलग साँचों में ढलने देना चाहिए!

PS: विडियो देख कर बहुत ही ज़्यादा इन्फ्लुएंस हो गए इसलिए भाषा थोड़ी भरी भरकम हो गयी है - I am not complaining though!

Theatrical Physics - Of uncertainty and complimentarity

An evening well spent, in the company of my better half and and more than half a dozen physicists (or at least vocally pronounced) is how a concise sentence would describe our evening. For descriptive insight, read on.

Surfing through the morning newspaper I chanced upon a section in the entertainment supplement, which lists down events, plays and similar reasons to plan a nice evening. Copenhegan, written in bold, quite stood out in that myriad of words (the name always rings a bell in my head - as does Casablanca, which has such exotic ring to it - with so much history and of course the Copenhegan interpretation). I was startled when I found out that it was a play on the famous meeting of Neils Bohr and Werner Heisenberg in the autumn of 1941 at Copenhegan (which Bohr remembered as September and Hiesenberg as October, or so it was in the play). D agreed to watch it without battling an eye lid but with a smile - mysterious as it appeared, I knew what it was for - this play would be fodder for my pseudo-intellectual show off at social gatherings, which I admit I don't forfeit, given a chance (rather I grab it at the first opportune moment).

The play was scheduled at 7:30 pm in the evening and having booked the tickets in the morning while sipping my bed tea, I was restless throughout the day. I was so looking forward for the day to wane and as the long shadows went past the building oppposite to our apartment I started hinting D, subtly though, to shut down her laptop and get ready for the play.

We reached Ranga Shankara just in time to grab a bite - since the play was almost 2.5 hrs long, it was a wise thing to do - and also grab a seat which was anything but a compromise (Ranga Shankara is pretty well designed, accoustically speaking, nevertheless I feel that a sense of 'being cornered' creeps in if you are not sitting in the middle rows). Before Mr Karnard's voice over asked us to switch off our mobiles, D pointed out to me how there were a few eager ones in the audience, clicking pictures and promptly posting them on SM.

As the play started with names like Fermi, Pauli, Chadwick, Dirac thrown in casually (it was Bohr and Heisenberg talking about their peers so what else would you expect, or as Heisenberg says in the course of the play, they were the innermost electrons of Bohr) I could sense a rush of emotions in my head. With so much of history, morality, theoretical physics entwined with politics and just the right dose of drama, I almost had a lump in my throat.

A father figure to many theoretical physicists of that era, Bohr is described in the play as their spiritual leader (Pope is how his wife, Margrethe, refers him during one of the lighter moments of the play). With just three actors the play covers almost three decades of the twentieth century, circa 1924 to events ending in the year 1949.

I had done some reading about the play in the morning and knew that it had had multiple shows at Broadway and London National Theater. Here in Bangalore, however, this was the only show and with the lackluster response it doesn't seem like there would be more shows (what a pity!). To top that, I even saw a few walking out in the middle of the play. It shouldn't, however, be any reflection on the wonderful performances by all the three actors who gave their heart and sole to bring to life the believable and humane side of the greats.

The 1941 rendezvous between Heisenberg and his spiritual guru Bohr is wrapped in mystery to this day and there have been numerous conjectures regarding what they discussed. This play picks up one such thread and digs out political, social, nationalistic, scientific, geographical perspectives of the first half of the tumultuous century which has shaped the current world and defined so many nationalistic prejudices. There is absent mindedness of Bohr, mathematical faux pas of Heisenberg, glimpses of German penury after first world war and subsequent resurrection, gestapo's outreach, fascism and Nazi pride, Auschwitz - this play is actually one huge tome of history in itself.

When Heisenberg recounts his story (or his side of history) of crawling in a war torn Berlin (I am presuming that is at the end of first world war) to buy daily essentials, promising all along to himself to not let his children and grandchildren be born in such poverty, I was deeply enthused, even moved! He also recounts how 1920's was such a wonderful decade where he earned his PhD under Bohr and also how he became so close to Bohr's family at Copenhagen. These insights made the play really interesting.

And the life-changing decisions of the greats based on their perspective of the situation - Heisenberg remains in Germany after the war because of the love for his land and what he had seen, Bohr abhors Germany, Hitler and finally escapes to Las Alamos, via Sweden (which again as Heisenberg recalls was facilitated by a contact he had at the German embassy) - which the play so seamlessly incorporates in the course of its running, are rare gems that are hard to find in any war literature. Some other gems that I collected from this play are how Heisenberg was an expert piano player and could pick what note was being played, in the midst of a lunch where many of his peers are discussing, well what else, physics. How he had to cycle for three consecutive nights to escape from Berlin after the war had ended to reach a monastery in a West German village and like a lost, adamant child (without a caring, helping hand of his foster father) was trying to build the bomb. They had dug a hole near that monastery and had run multiple iterations in trying to reach the critical mass and trigger the chain reaction for fission, with only a lump of Cadmium as the controlling element - an idea at which Bohr is shown scoffing at in the play.

History is victor's story and this play so clandestinely touches this part in its second half (a ten minute-break divided the play into halves). After the war and long after the dust of Hiroshima and Nagasaki had settled, when Heisenberg reaches America, all the physicists present there refuse to shake hands with him. The victors, who were responsible for killing more than one lakh people would not shake hands with a physicist, who had fought his own war of morality and the promises that he had made as a young lad to revive Germany to its old glory. The victors, who raced ahead in the war, all thanks to the enormous money pumped into the Manhattan Project and with the degree of stress incomparable to what Heisenberg had undergone, not to forget frequent bombings which broke more than physical structures around Heisenberg. Physics was defeated by economics and what evolved out of it was a capitalist uni-polar world (who knows what would have happened if Heisenberg had sold his soul to the devil, buried his morality and had been successful in creating the bomb - a completely new world order may be; more fanatic and chaotic but would that be any different from the disheveled world we have inherited now?).

The play revisits a scene multiple times, where Bohr and Heisenberg go for a stroll on that autumn night of 1941 and each revisit gives a different treatment to the snapping at of Bohr at probably what Heisenberg said. At the start of the play it shows a warm camaraderie between the two, in further iterations it opens up the mind of Heisenberg and his moral dilemma regarding the bomb, shows the layers of queries floating in Bohr's and Heisenberg's minds. The play's climax is a very intelligent "what if" scenario - What if Bohr had not snapped at Heisenberg and instead cross questioned his intentions and provided him the warm adobe that the self-doubting Heisenberg had come to seek from Bohr. Probably then, history would have no mention of a "fat man", or the "little boy", rather an Ubermensch!