Tales from ‘89

My memories started in ‘89, that is if I discount the taste of rubber from the milk bottles that i used to suck as a toddler or the lullabies that my mother sang to put me to sleep, or...well I remember quite a few things before ‘89 (I, in fact, do remember Indira Gandhi’s assassination announcement on the radio, hell I do) so I would rather say ‘89 had a long lasting impression on my memories.

I believe it is because of a number associated with that year - 272/89. This was my admission number when I got admitted to Mt. Assisi School - the English medium, neighbour’s envy/parents’ pride kinda school, at least in those days. The impact this number has on my life - the three consecutive admission numbers starting from 272/89 have been friends since then and will be life long ones, we believe.

I also remember, how a cousin failed to get an admit after the interview (yes, they used to take an interview even then) and how I bragged around at my nani’s place whenever we used to meet.

‘89 is also infamous for the Bhagalpur riots and I was in the midst of it (though too young to see it all) and for sure saw its repercussions. I have clear visuals from those days - Sanjay chacha carrying a few Singer sewing machines and boastfully exhibiting it in our neighbourhood, having snatched it from ‘them’, while elders in that house were criticising Bhagwat Jha Azad’s endeavour of serving ‘them’ khichadi!

As kids, we enjoyed this forced to live as a community (because of the riots) experience - everyone from the neighbourhood would gather in one house to spend nights there (we moved to a relative’s place, a few blocks away, later till things normalised) so that if any untoward incident happens we face it together. By evening we kids, motivated by some enthusiastic elders, would collect stones, brick pieces, metallic parts from the neighbourhood and anything that would make a dent in ‘their’ heads, in one corner of the terrace of that house. In our imaginary world, we were the first layer of defence that ‘they’ would have to overpower, where the plan was to hurl projectiles comprising of our collected paraphernalia from that terrace! Every night, for more than a week, we used to hear lot of clamour and sloganeering from either side, which sometimes would sound like ebbs and flows of ocean tides, till curfew was imposed. And what followed were vigilant nights where we would shout from top of terraces to communicate to each other - suggesting all is well (Tridev was released around then and Oye Oye being the most popular song was frequently used by us as signals)!


And then the story of my first fist fight - since I didn’t have many - I remember this one vividly and I ensured that the first cut was the deepest one, for my adversary. I never liked this guy in our group - he was a new addition and was cousin of one of our friends, who had come to study for a few months. This guy was like the-man-who-knew-too-much, the dher kabil in local lingo. While we would be doing some sorta treasure hunt (and what fun it used to be) running around in narrow lanes and finding new alleys in our neighbourhood - it was quite an interesting neighbourhood, as most of the houses were pretty close to each other sometimes connected via very close terraces or some stairs helping us in crossing over smaller boundary walls, uncovered drains through the lanes, which would open up in one of the main lanes - this guy would be smirking at us.

But this wasn’t the reason for the fight. It was something fairly trivial. It was Saraswati Puja and as was the norm, the pandal and the goddess’ idol had blocked the main lane. These pandals, after the Sandhwars had moved in our neighbourhood, had become quite colourful both literally and figuratively. While the Sandhwars suggested that we put triangular, multi-coloured banners (jhandi in simpler terms) throughout the lane - which we enthusiastically participated in; they also suggested that we have live musical programs in evenings during jagran - to which we were just mute spectators. These live musical programs had songs/instrumental performances by the entire Sandhwar family and also a perfect setting for a casual meet and exchange of mutual feelings between interested couples, if any. Behind this pandal on the morning of Saraswati Puja, this dher kabil shoved my friend Mishtu on the choice of jhandi probably and though it didn’t hurt him, it hurt where it mattered. I rushed in a rage and pressed him against a wall. Before he could come out of that shock, with all my might I swung a right upper cut across his face. It was such a sudden gush of testosterone, that by the time I was done with the act I was trembling. My adversary picked himself up while trying to stop the blood from his lower lip, spat and rushed towards me only to be blocked by the gang. We dispersed almost immediately with me sobbing (don’t know why) and the smart alec nursing his wound. I don’t remember much after that and vaguely remember my right upper cut but the visual is captured deep in my psyche. So much so that till the end of last millennium, I used to clandestinely practice it by throwing punches in air.


Like any other well oiled freshly conceived machine, memory tends to be working at its maximum efficiency in its younger days and probably ‘89 was the year when my memory was at its zenith. I have lot of visuals from that year like the one where our gang is trying to catch kittens and Bhaiya’s thumb is scratched by one (and we have kept it a secret to this day) or when we see roller skates for the first time at Dileep bhaiya’s house and fall hard in trying our hand or rather feet at it. Ah! We were an adventurous gang.


So even though it wasn’t exactly six strings and a rock band but it did build and shape my character - ergo, in a way, ‘89 were the best days of my younger self!

स्कूल या दफ्तर

अलसाई ऑंखों को मलते

बासी नींद में लड़खड़ाते

उबासियों की नि:शब्द तान लगाते

अब जो होड़ में लग जाते हैं

पुरानी यादें जाती जैसे बिखर!

क्या बदला हमें ही है खबर

पहले जाते थे स्कूल,

अब दफ्तर!

सिगरेट पीना स्वास्थ्य के लिए हानिकारक है

कमी थी तो बस एक सिगरेट के कश की। घटाएं उमड़ घुमड़ रही थी और करने को वैसा कुछ खास था नहीं। दिन के पहले हिस्से में एक बड़ा काम निपटा लिया था और दोपहर सुस्त सी थी और उस पर ये मौसम- शायर होते तो आशिकाना कह कर एकाध शेर पढ़ ही डालते।

 सुना है कि ख़यालों के घोड़े दौड़ने लगते हैं सिगरेट की कश से। उस पर से उन्होंने कहा एक-एक प्याली चाय हो जाए।तब तो तलब और भी बढ़ गई। ईस्टमन कलर के किसी आर्ट फिल्म का दृश्य आँखों के सामने तैर गया- जिसमें हीरो अमुमन सफेद कुर्ते पजामे में, तर्जनी और मध्यमा के बीच सिगरेट को फँसाए, उसी हाथ से चाय की चुस्की लेता है।  शायद हम एक सदी लेट पैदा हो गए- बेलबॉटम हमें हमेशा से पसंद हैं, फिर वो बड़े कॉलर वाले शर्ट(हाफ स्लीव हों तो और भी अच्छा) और लम्बे कलम वाला हेयरस्टाईल। कपड़े सफेद और उस पर जैसे सिगरेट के धुएँ का श्रृंगार- हम सच में एक पीढ़ी लेट पैदा हुए!

 खैर बात कश की- आप मंटो से लेकर अस्सी के दशक के लेखकों को देख लिजिए, जैसे कलम के साथ सिगरेट एक लिबरल सिम्बल हो गया था। और बात कहॉं आकर छूटी- सिगरेट के डब्बों पर जले हुए फेफड़ों से लेकर मुँह पर विकृत ट्यूमर तक; और एक पीढ़ी का फैशन बन गया अगली पीढ़ी का कैंसर!

ख़याल-ए-सोमवार

हर सोमवार ये ख़याल आता है
एक कम्पनी खोल दूं।
तू सबसे बेकार आदमी है
अपने मैनेजर को बोल दूं।
वो जो कट कर, अभी लहराते हुए गया
उसकी गाड़ी फोड़ दूं।
तेरी क्या कीमत है बता,
अभी तूझे तेरा मोल दूं।
फिर ख़याल चमकता है -
बज बज कर फ़ट गया
मैं भी कैसा ढोल हूँ!

रेखा

“चंपा काले काले अच्छर नहीं चीन्हती

मैं जब पढ़ने लगता हूँ वह आ जाती है

खड़ी खड़ी चुपचाप सुना करती है

उसे बड़ा अचरज होता है:

इन काले चिन्हों से कैसे ये सब स्वर

निकला करते हैं।”

-त्रिलोचन

ये अचरज हमने भी देखा है

अखबार सुबह जब हम पढ़ते हैं

मायरा की ऑंखें हम पर टिक जाती है-

क्या हो जाता है पॉप्सी को?

इन कागजों में ऐसा क्या है,

जो नजरें मुझसे हट जाती हैं

कहीं मोटी कहीं पतली

देखने में तो बस आड़ी तिरछी रेखा है।

अब वो चलना सीख रही है

उत्सुक सी 

वो अब हर कोने को टटोल रही है

कभी लुढ़ककर, 

कभी पकड़कर

अपनी दुनिया का विस्तार कर रही है

पैरों पे अपना वजन 

तौल रही है

डगमगा कर 

गिरती सम्भलती है

उठकर गिरती, 

गिरकर फिर उठती

जैसे मानव मन की उपमा दे रही है

अब वो चलना सीख रही है

All the worlds a map and we are mere elevations and depressions

In my thoughts he had never aged. He was always the short stout moustachioed man, with a peculiar knack for discipline. When someone shared a recent photo of his, I was shocked to see shades of grey on his ever dark crop and whiskers - it was like a childhood memory of mine was being erased! His peculiar knack for discipline gave him a habit of introducing a twist on our every free hand drawings of rivers and mountains of india/world map. Whatever Geography we know and remember is all thanks to Sir. World was just a map for him - Kamchatka peninsula being his favourite, lying ignored in one corner of the world map but Sir had an eye for such hidden treasures and bringing out the best from ignored entities.


His three books full of almirahs, may have been a gaffe from his colloquial collection but for us it became common parlance - so much so that I still have to correct myself while using a similar idiom. In his effort to familiarise us with vernacular phrases, he introduced us to man grazing in the field - common knowledge/sense in his terms - who could answer all questions that we so embarrasingly failed to do! His other favourite the boulders, cobbles and pebbles which were present from Savannas to the arid waste land of Rajasthan, though an instance of mirth now in our nostalgic trips, gave us enough substance to fill in our answer books!

Survey map was made interesting by him and if he had his way he would have introduced broad, broader and broadest gauges in the legends, all owing to his knack of discipline. Though I (and all my classmates and the generations who studied Geography and the dreaded Survey map from him) would remember him mostly for his faux pas, he made the subjects interesting for us. A change in one degree of longitude introduces a delay of 4 minutes - which he so casually proved with a smirk on his face, probably indicating that mathematics is just a tool for subjects like Geography, is a trivia I remember to this day, all thanks to Sir.

There was a short duration when Sir was on break and Geography was taught by a substitute and it was then that I realised his worth. Sir for a person who loves nuances, may you find peace in your heavenly abode and for a man of Geography I am pretty sure you would be enjoying your top view of the world - introducing a twist here and a turn there in the rivers and mountains of the universe.

शिक्षा

मैं उसे उसके नाम से जानता था और वो मुझे मेरी गाड़ी से।
मेरे लिए वो बनवारी था और मैं उसके लिए हॉन्डा सिटी । वैसे मैं बस एक ग्राहक था उसके लिए, तो मैं कुछ भी होता तो बनवारी को कोई फर्क नहीं पड़ता - मर्सिडीज़, ऑऊडी, ईन्डिका या नैनो।
"ले लीजिए सर! धूप से बचिएगा", बिक्री के लिए बनवारी ने एकदम सरल सा सेल्स पिच रखा था।
"नहीं छोटू", आजकल की बोलचाल में ऐसे बच्चों के लिए यही सम्बोधन चल रहा है। १०-११ साल से ज़्यादा की उम्र नहीं होगी उसकी।

"कल बोले थे ना, इस गाड़ी के लिए अलग शेड आता है।"

फिर मुझे थोड़ी ग्लानि हुई तो मैंने पूछा, "स्कूल जाते हो?"
"नहीं सर, कहाँ स्कूल!", जैसै वो कहना चाह रहा हो कि स्कूल से तो अच्छी है रस्ते की कमाई।

"अरे कोई ठग लिया तो? बिक्री में सौ पचास का हेर फेर हो गया तो?", शिक्षा की इससे कमज़ोर सेल्स पिच शायद ही कभी सुनी गई हो।
"पहले पैसा, फिर सामान! कौन ठग सकेगा मुझे!", नये भारत का आत्मविश्वास बनवारी की आँखों में चमक रहा था।
तभी सिग्नल हो गया और मैं उद्विग्न मन से आगे बढ़ गया।
अगर किसी छोटे शहर के चौंक पर ये बातचीत होती तो शायद मन उद्विग्न होने का कोई कारण नहीं होता। पर विडम्बना देखिए, ये बातचीत भारत के सिलिकन वैली कहे जाने वाले शहर, बैंगलोर के मुख्य सड़क, महात्मा गांधी और ब्रिगेड रोड के चौराहे पर होती है।
क्या बनवारी को शिक्षा का महत्व समझाना इतना मुश्किल है?
मास्लो के पिरामिड का सजीव चित्रण है बनवारी। पहले पेट, फिर शिक्षा, फिर ऐशो आराम, फिर सोशलिज़्म, कैपिटलिज़्म, ग्लोबल वार्मिंग..।
स्ट्रीट स्मार्टनेस और साक्षरता का फ़र्क है बनवारी।

होमियोपैथिक आतंक

होमियोपैथी की दो हार्मलेस सी शीशियाँ थीं। बैग के नेटवाले पाउच से झांकती हुई सी लग रहीं थीं। लड़का, जिसने वो बैग उठाया हुआ था, अपने टीनेज की दहलीज को लाँघने ही वाला रहा होगा।

पटना के जय प्रकाश नारायण हवाई अड्डे के जेन्ट्स चेक इन की कतार लम्बी तो नहीं थी - पर यात्रियों की, सेक्योरिटी के द्वारा टोकने के बाद का नर्वसनेस और फलतः हड़बड़ी से वो कतार किसी खुले हुए बक्से के बिखरे सामान सा लग रहा था। सुबह की फ्लाईट थी इसलिए अलसाए यात्रियों से छोटी मोटी गलतियां स्वाभाविक भी थीं। कोई बेल्ट रखना भूल जा रहा था तो कोई अपना वॉलेट।

"ये नहीं जाएगा" - हार्मलेस सी दिखने वाली होमियोपैथी की शीशियों की ओर ईशारा करते हुए सी. आई. एस.एफ के तैनात सिपाही ने एक्स रे मशीन के पीछे से सर निकालते हुए कहा।

और उसी पल मेरी आँखों के सामने करीब १७-१८ साल पुराना एक वाक़या तैर गया।

"लाल वाले बैग में ठेकुआ-पिरकिया है और काला वाला में आचार और शुद्ध घी - रोटी में लगा कर खाना", माँ अपने प्यार को अलग रंगों के बैगों में भरने में प्रयासरत थी। साथ में यह भी हिदायत दी गयी थी कि दिन के किस वक्त, क्या और कितनी मात्रा में खाना है।

दीदी पास में खड़ी, आँखों के कोने से आँसू पोछती, रुंधे गले से बस इतना ही कह पाई थी - चिट्ठी लिखना। (जी हाँ!  वाक़या, मोबाईल क्रांति के पहले की है)

बेलाडोना और रसटॉक्स की होमियोपैथी की शीशियों को दोनों हाथों में पकड़े पापा उसको खाने की विधी बताने ही वाले थे कि मैंने टोका - "नहीं ले जाने देगा पापा, आजकल सेक्योरिटी बहुत बढ़ गया है"।

एक सजग और सचेत ग्लोबल नागरिक, जिसने ९/११ की भयावह दुर्घटना टी.वी पर सजीव देखी हो, की भाँति मैंने कहा।

"नहीं ले जाने देगा तो फेंक देना", पापा ने मेरे बैग के नेटवाले पाउच में उन शीशियों को लगभग ठूंसते हुए कहा।

यहां भारतीय, या कम से कम बिहारी, संदर्भ में प्यार कितना सिम्बॉलिक सा हो गया था - माँ का प्यार दो अलग अलग रंगों के बैग में और पिता का बस दो शीशियों में। मैंने सजगता और सचेतता को उसी नेटवाले पाउच में बांधते हुए चुप्पी साध ली। उस उमर में पापा से उतनी ही बातें कर पाता था।

पहली बार घर से निकलना या शायद यूं कहें कि घर से निकल जाना, बड़ा ही भावुक क्षण होता है। फिर "किसी दिन" वापस लौटने का ख़्याल भी कहीं न कहीं अन्तरमन में घर करने की कोशिश करता है; जो १०-१२ सालों बाद घर से बाहर रहने के बाद पता चलता है कि भुलावा था - वो "किसी दिन" कभी नहीं आता।
"सर दवाई है", लड़के ने अपने पिता के प्यार के छिन जाने से पहले एक क्षीण प्रयास किया।

"अल्कोहॉल है", सिपाही जी ने भी तर्क दिया।

'हाहा! जहाँ वो जा रहा है सिपाही जी, उस बड़े शहर के लड़के इतना अल्कोहॉल तो नाश्ते में डकार जाते हैं।'

पर वो शीशियां कूड़ेदान में चली गईं!

१७ साल पहले मेरे साथ ये नहीं हुआ था। मैं अपने माता-पिता के आशिर्वाद के साथ उनका प्यार भी साथ लेकर बैंगलोर उतरा था।
शायद ९/११ के आतंकी हमले से डर उतना व्यापक नहीं हुआ था, जितना पुलवामा के पलटवार से हुआ है; या वो आतंक का टीनेज था, जिसमें दोनो पक्षों ने खूब सीख ली और अब आतंक अधेड़ावस्था में है जहाँ दुनिया सजग और सचेत के साथ साथ शायद आतंकित भी है।

खैर जो भी हो, पर डर की नई ईकाई तो बन ही गयी है - बेलाडोना और रसटॉक्स की हार्मलेस शीशियाँ!

सहर और यादें

एक पुरानी दोपहर का मंज़र आँखों में ठहर गया
कल यादों की बोझ में वह सहर गया|

वो मसूर के पकने की खुशबू,
खिलखिलाता बचपन,
सुदूर विविध भारती पर बजते
गानों की तान,
छत के छप्पर से छनती धूप
जाने कितने पलों का वो मंज़र आखों में ठहर गया
कल यादों की बोझ में वह सहर गया|

खिलखिलाने पर पाबंदी वाली झिड़क,
धूप में नहीं खेलने की हिदायत
बेबात शोर पर एकसुरी शशशश,
और फिर से वो बेकही हंसी
हैफ कि वो मंज़र ही क्यों नहीं ठहर गया!
कल यादों की बोझ में वह सहर गया|

Few Stories and a Mango Tree - 2

​I vaguely remember what I was doing that eventful afternoon more than 30 years ago. However, I do remember what it led to - an ideal toy for us kids and loads of fun which gave us amazing memories and a craving to own that toy someday!

Willy's Jeep is a mean machine in the world of machismo or even otherwise. It has stood the test of time, since its launch in India in the 60's, and is still considered a stud vehicle. If you have one you are the man and that's how the tagline should go!

I do not belong to that era, however, I am pretty sure that Willy's Jeep or just Jeep, as they say in common lingo, must have made its impression on the Indian psyche - especially the macho psyche - post Aradhana, the 1969 Shakti Samanta classic. Rajesh Khanna (without any bulging biceps nor a six pack to match) made girls swoon with just a tilt of head and a disarming smile - which some find irritating in our era. And what is better than Rajesh Khanna - Rajesh Khanna riding on a Jeep, driven by the hero's friend, the stereotyped Sujeet Kumar, with that smile (killer or irritating - take your pick) and gyrating head! That gave the girls of that era the much sought after reprieve from their mundane lives and boys of the 70's, the excuse to own the macho machine!

One such macho machine, with Mama astride and his Sujeet Kumar in tow, drove into our Bengali styled home in Deoghar on a sleepy afternoon. This was late 80's, pre-liberalization India, when people used to reach earlier than their travel plan messages.

Ma and Mausi were pleasantly surprised and we kids were shocked not by Mama or his companion but by that beautiful gray colored Willy's. He parked it under the mango tree at the house's entrance - the innocuous looking one with terminatoresque branches and a girth to match. And there it laid parked (or may be is still parked) to become a bag of bare bones structure minus all the proverbial bells and whistles!

The urgency of the drive or for that matter the purpose of the trip is lost somewhere in the time travel of the last 30 years or was never told to us kids. I don't even remember for how long Mama stayed but his Jeep stayed with us as long as we stayed in that house in Deoghar.

Majestically parked under that mango tree Jeep was our adda. We would be Jackie Shroff one day, or Mithun or whatever hero's movie we had watched the previous weekend on our neighbour's VCR. This story is so old that neither we had TV's at our homes, nor Doordarshan had started it's weekend movie Bonanza! Mr. Bachchan was on his waning spree and Anil Kapoor was just making his mark around that time so it was mostly Gunmaster G9 who was ruling the roost in Bollywood. And we would each take turns to be the CBI officer who was saving the country from unknown enemies (unseen , too in this case, since all of us were heroes in our heads and in our respective parallel stories).

A special mention is needed for the shiny crystal head on the gear lever, which was cynosure of all kids' eyes. It would serve as a secret transmitter aiding the very stylish Gunmaster G9 on his super secret missions, to being an automatic button to pop guns off the dashboard (which was minimalist in that Jeep), to being a plane gear lever being handled by very able G9's side kick. Sometimes the Jeep would be our aircraft and this lever with its crystal head would be magically used to drop bombs, fire bullets or just convert the craft back to Jeep.

The windshield in the front of the Jeep also deserves another special mention. It had a mechanical lever to open it and place it on the hood. We didn't have much success with the lever and I even remember one day one of us had a finger crushing experience with it (and then that kid was carried away by Ma or Mausi away from the after effects of the mercury shooting mood of the male members of the family). The Stepney* tyre that was fixed on the rear half-door (rustic yet beautiful - Jeep designers knew their machology) of Jeep also served as an essential prop in our adventure stories. Someday our hero would be hanging on for his life on it while the Jeep would be a speed boat, racing past all super villains and their Tonygunj (I came to know much later that it was Tonygun and that it was actually a very efficient assault rifle used by Gangsters of New York). On better scripted days, it would serve as a cover against adversary gunfire for our hero who would be shooting from his imaginary gun, with uncountable bullets in it, to save damsels in distress.

Jeep, the original company, has finally made an impressive entrance in the Indian market which makes me wonder - if only the owners of this Jeep had retained the four-wheeler and if only we had known the worth of that beautiful beast then!


*Stepney in UK was the place where a typical styled Tyre was manufactured, which could be used as spares in older cars and hence the name.

Few stories and a Mango Tree - 1

An innocuous looking mango tree, especially the one with branches stronger than terminator's biceps and a girth to match, can be quite a story teller. Sitting at a serene resort in Coorg and looking down at an unusually tall mango tree brought in dollops of some from a bygone era.


It was a swing, as I remember it and a pretty crude one at that. One of the top branches on that mango tree (with terminator sized branches and girth to match) had entwined across it a long rope which then encircled a tyre, if my memory serves me right, on the other end. And on that tyre was Mausi! Swinging first, sitting with legs crossed and then daringly standing up on the tyre and swinging even harder!

I must have been 6-7 years old and don't remember anyone else around. Mausi was entrepreneurial enough to have thought of the idea of a swing and was managerial enough to get her idea executed by her man Friday, Bidesia.

It was a Bengali styled house, with shuttered windows to match in Deoghar. A small verandah led to the house, flanked by pillared protruding on either side and stairs leading to that. From the main entrance to the verandah was our playground (it looked gigantic at that age), and what amazingly memorable games it hosted! From the ubiquitous cricket to football to gulli (kancha as called in our parts then) to pitto (laghori for the uninitiated) and each game with its share of memories!

The mango tree, mentioned above was to the right of the entrance and to the left was a huge cylindrical well. It had stairs, encircling the well and leading to its parapet at a height of around 10 feet from the ground. I remember this well being mostly dry and occasionally Ranjan chacha diving in to fix the tullu pump at its base. As I recall the walls of this well were pristine white.

The stairs served various purpose from being a stadium for the audience watching our sundry games to hiding place during luka chhipi (I-Spy desi version) to hiding injured kids on whom tragedy had befallen at a prime time - sample instance, once when Papa was starting for office I stepped on a glass shard, which lacerated my not so meaty right ankle and Mausi rushed to carry and hide me behind those huge walls, all this while covering my mouth to stifle my agonizing wail! All this was to curtail any shooting up of the proverbial mercury indicative of the the temper, which in those days elder male members of the family, tended to loose, irrespective of the demand placed by the stimulant - less salt in food * mercury shoot * plate flying tending to escape velocity; Your kids failing to scale up to Sharmaji's son * mercury shoot * Newton's second law, force exerted by hand's mass and acceleration proportional to temper.

Well coming back to the swing perched high above from the ground, on that mango tree and I gaping at the daring act of Mausi swinging higher and higher and each time almost coming to level with the terminatoresque branch from which the swing was hanging. And no, I wasn't cheering her for my six-year-old self was in awe-scare-shock all at the same time. Meanwhile I was already planning what I would do when I reach Mausi's age - match her dare or might even surpass it, kissing the horizon as I would sway on a better version of this tyre-swing. Yes - I was after all the next gen of her family and it was expected of me to figuratively and literally achieve greater heights!


A crack-a thud and an aaaaah is how this story ends! Crack was thunderous, thud was loud and aaaah was comparative to the wail which Mausi had tried to stifle few days ago. The terminatoresque branch turned out to be just a poser and cracked no sooner it was asked to prove its worth and Mausi came crashing down on the terra ferma. I don't remember much after that fall as I had gone back to my awe-scare-shock state again!


However, with that fall, my dreams of achieving greater heights, came crashing down too. You are nothing but a continuum of your present, past and painful lessons from the past and this vicarious pain that I have carried has made me a man who hates anything remotely related to yo-yo motion.

अब वो हँसना सीख रही है।

तनी भृकुटी को अब वह
आहिस्ता-आहिस्ता सहज कर रही है
अब वो हँसना सीख रही है।
गीतों की अपनी मंजूषा में
राग नये वो लिख रही है
अब वो हँसना सीख रही है।
ऑंखों को ऑंखों में टिकाकर
समय की गति जैसे रोक रही है
अब वो हँसना सीख रही है।
सीख के इस समन्दर में
गोता पहला ही ले रही है
अब वो हँसना सीख रही है।

वो रोकर अपनी बात कहती है

वो रोकर अपनी बात कहती है
भूख हो या हो कोई कष्ट
या ध्यान कभी जो हो भ्रष्ट!
दिन में कम,
लम्बी कहानियॉं हर रात कहती है
वो रोकर अपनी बात कहती है।

तान लम्बी कभी,
कभी हिचकियों से शुरुआत करती है।
पेचीदे नहीं
सरल सीधे सवालात करती है
ऑंखें मूंद कर भी
क्या खूब खुराफात करती है
वो रोकर अपनी बात कहती है।

A long night

He was lying on his back and through the corners of the eye keeping a close eye on, something which looked like a blob from that distance and angle. It had been a long day and his eyelids weighed a ton. He tried turning to his right on his side to get a better view. This sudden movement seemed to have caused enough dent in the environmental, rather circumstantial, parameters. He saw the consequent movement of the blob and could sense an icy shiver run down his spine! Battling cold sweat, he held his breath and position and squinted at his adversary. Only a trained sniper could have held this position and angle without any muscular movement yet with such alacrity!

All through this exercise a constant thought ran through his mind - what if...? No! He had prepared mentally for all this and trained his brain for this situation over the last few weeks! It was a mental game after all - or at least that’s what his comrades, who had gone through similar crusades, had told him! And how well had they spoken, with a glint in their eye about the raison d’être of human existence and the accompanying joie de vivre!

His adversary didn’t make any further movements and he swiftly moved his left palm over her. And that was a blunder he had not foreseen. What followed was mayhem...loud cries interspersed with hiccups! He had to give up. Slowly he rose up and picked her up in his arms, patting her and uttering musical words, which had a remote semblance of some obscure lullabies from his subconscious memory, to console her!

दुहिता

तुम रचना नये कीर्तिमान

मैं मील का पत्थर बन जाऊं

तुम चमकना सूरज के किरणों सी

मैं रंगो बू सा बस जाऊं

तुम बनना अपने रंगमंच की नायिका

मैं नैपथ्य संगीत बन जाऊं

तुम महाकाव्य सी कृति बनना

मैं अलंकार, रस, छन्द बन जाऊं

तुम मोड़ना अपने ढंग से जिन्दगी

मैं मार्ग पट सा बन जाऊं

परदेस सा अब भी लगता है

बहती पछिया, पूरवैया भी

जाने मन क्यों नहीं तरता है

खुशबू अनजानी लगती है

कुछ तो अधूरा सा लगता है।

होने को आए अब दो दशक

पर जाने क्यों यहॉं 

परदेस सा अब भी लगता है।

कुन्बा भी बस गया है अब तो

सुविधाओं का अम्बार सा लगता है,

कमी की कमी खटकती है

पैर जमने से क्यों डरता है?

कुछ फंसा रह गया है वहॉं

आवाज़ जो देता रहता है।

एक तान छठ के गीतों की

आरी सी चला जाती है

पहले से आहत इस मन को

और विक्षिप्त कर जाती है।

खान पान अपना लिया है हमने

बोली से जाने मन क्यों कतराता है

होने को आए अब दो दशक

पर जाने क्यों यहॉं 

परदेस सा अब भी लगता है।

कोई जतन करो ऐ युगपुरुषों!

जुगत तो अब कोई लगाओ

पीड़ बिछोह का तुम क्या जानो

क्या छूट गया तुम क्या जानो

उन्मूलन का दर्द तुम क्या जानो?

जब जब बात छिड़ती जन्म मूल की

माथे पर बल चढ़ जाता है,

मन निरस्त्र, नि:शब्द होकर

मसोसकर रह जाता है।

जड़ से आखिर दूर रहकर,

वृ़क्ष कब तक हलहलाता है!

दिन ढला, 

ओढ़े चादर काली

ढली शाम,

मन विचर रहा अब भी

कहॉं मिले विराम, आराम।

बहुत जोर 

आज मन भागा था

पैर जो दिखते 

तो कटे फटे 

घाव दिखते शायद!

सवाल बहुत थे आज 

कहॉं भाग रहे हैं

कोई हांक रहा है

या बस सरपट भाग रहे हैं?

किस कल के लिये

शूल चुन

शैया बुन रहे हैं?

उधेड़बुन भी है बहुत

रूक जाएँ

पलट जाएँ

या बदल लें राह?

दौड़ आधी और बची है

न कोई वाह

खतम सब चाह

थक कर चूर हो गए, आह!

दम्भ-धैर्य

दम्भ टूटे तो होता है शोर

धैर्य टूटे तो शब्द नहीं होता।

हर रोज़ जुड़ जुड़ कर बनता है दम्भ

जीत में नए आडम्बर ओढ़ता है दम्भ

प्रतिपल नए बहाने ढूंढता है दम्भ

रोकना चाहो तो बिफ़रता है दम्भ।

मानो तो चपला, नहीं तो चट्टान है धैर्य

महत्वाकांक्षाओं की नींव है धैर्य

हर आस में हिम्मत है धैर्य

समेटना चाहो तो रेत है धैर्य।

अपने चरम पर महाबली है धैर्य

सशक्त मन को करे, वो ईंधन है दम्भ

योग कर लिया जिसने दोनों का

सफल, महान जीवन का उसने पा लिया मंत्र!

वसन्त

पिताम्बरी ओढ़े देवाधिदेव हुए प्रकट
चपला सी संगिनी थी उनके निकट
हर पीत पल्लव को कर सजग
लो देखो स्वर्णिम हुआ शरद।

हाथ पैर जुड़े कैसे एक हुआ कर रहे थे
कहीं वरदान तो कहीं दुआ कर रहे थे
इस प्रलय का न दो अब साथ,
दर्शन दो हे दीनानाथ!

संगिनी, शीत लहर बन जब हुई हावी
देवाधिदेव ने नीरद की घूंघट काढ़ी
अवनी-अम्बर जम बने हिमसागर
क्षमा देव! अब हो जाओ उजागर!

वसन्त भी कब से बाट जोह रहा था
रंगों को एक एक कर जोड़ रहा था,
स्वर्णिम छटा बिखरा, समेटो अपनी जयजयकार
अभिनंदन देव! अलसायी वसुन्धरा का हो अब श्रृंगार!