अमलतास का गीत

वो अमलतास देखते हो?

वो ना 

झूम कर 

बांहे फैलाये 

हवाओं की हथेलियों पर 

सूरज की छननी से ढ़ांप कर 

एक गीत 

भेजता है हर सुबह 

मेरी ओर. 

पर 

वो गीत कभी मेरे 

फ़ोन के अनायास बजते गाने से 

य़ा घर की ओंची आवाजों से घबरा कर 

कभी मेरी रगों के शोर से 

टकरा कर 

एक उदास बच्चे की तरह लौट जाता है... 

मैने सोचा है 

कुछ और हो ना हो 

उस गीत को गले लगाना है 

उसके चेहरे को चूँम कर 

उसके बिखरे बालों को सुलझाना है 

और 

उस के साथ खूब खेल कर

उसे हंस्ता हुआ लौटाना है 

हर रोज. 

बस.झूम कर 

बांहे फैलाये 

हवाओं की हथेलियों पर 

सूरज की छननी से ढ़ांप कर 

एक गीत 

भेजता है हर सुबह 

मेरी ओर. 

पर 

वो गीत कभी मेरे 

फ़ोन के अनायास बजते गाने से 

य़ा घर की ओंची आवाजों से घबरा कर 

कभी मेरी रगों के शोर से 

टकरा कर 

एक उदास बच्चे की तरह लौट जाता है... 

मैने सोचा है 

कुछ और हो ना हो 

उस गीत को गले लगाना है 

उसके चेहरे को चूँम कर 

उसके बिखरे बालों को सुलझाना है 

और 

उस के साथ खूब खेल कर

उसे हंस्ता हुआ लौटाना है 

हर रोज. 

बस.

She & I: The Quarantine Diary (April 2020)

SHE and I sit exploring the worlds trapped inside us. Our paintbrushes become our limbs and we sit in silence, painting our inner worlds. She makes the most boisterous pink flower with acrylic paint, then another one that is purple and red and green and brown in varied parts, and yes, a sun that smiles. I paint pink and red Spring flowers on brown branches with tiny ochre green leaves. We love each other’s paintings and we say that to each other. We both feel happy. We both feel still. We both feel bliss. We both feel complete.  

As always, our silence right now is ever interactive than the conversations of this lifetime. Outside the enmeshed door, the Corona-ridden stillness makes music. And the only musicians are the birds hopping around the greens embroidering our apartment. In a still afternoon, paints on our brushes and a meditative chant on my phone, the chatter of the birds is even more intense. I say I love the birds chirping about. She instantly says “me too” – and I can tell, she is completely riding the wave I am riding. As always. Then I joke about one particular bird making too much noise... She laughs and agrees instantly, as if she too were going to say that, had I not. Then she adds: “but I like this bird”. I say “naughty bird”. She laughs. She loves anything that comes preceded by ‘naughty’. We both laugh a little more and then go silent, dipping into our colours. She keeps requesting me to open the blue colour bottle and then red and then pink and then brown and green... She asks for yellow and I rue that I think I lost my yellow. She says no problem and smiles and goes back to her little flower. Her flower has a huge centre and tiny petals.

She too has a huge centre - her inside world. And tiny words. Precious, precious words. And I hang on to each one of them, like dear life. 

She is a child of four. And I know she has been around for thousands of years.

So I wait, yet again, this afternoon, praying for a few more moments with her...

The afternoon is slipping in, the silence is inviting and the birds are quiet...

I know the music will begin when she comes and sits across, painting orange and blue flowers and twinkling at their songs.

I wait.     

The Corona Clarion

Lives hang from a thread.

Actually life always does hang from a thread.

Except that the realisation of it does not knife its way like this.

But these are different days.

Different in a massive way. In the way that these kind of days have not been seen in a few generations. Days when a virus seems to lurk all around. And the humanity goes about dodging, or ‘attempting to dodge’. So we sanitise our hands obsessively, we clean our homes religiously, we bathe like humans possessed every time there is an ‘exposure’ and we flee from all humans except family. Ah well.  And then there are the days when ration or fruits and vegetables are to be brought in. The most dreaded days. First there is the fear-ridden stress of how the one who goes to pick them would be duly protected. And once the bagfuls arrive, we stare at them as if they were some bombs ticking away. After realising ‘you got to do what you got to do’, a bucket is filled with hot water with ample soap and dettol poured over. And then whatever can be washed is washed and the rest are wiped and wiped and yet wiped some more to erase all possibilities of the virus. It’s a blind stroke actually...  we really do not know how and where it actually strikes. They very mysterious virus. It keeps baffling the humanity every now and then.

But as days go by, in quarantine, and in the circles of waking, cooking, cleaning, eating, washing, cooking, sleeping... gradually the fear and the doom that rises like a black snake in all the news, begins to wear itself out. A flood of Youtube videos watched, rapids of whatsapp messages exchanged and enough of note-sharing later, we are left with a silence that stares out of all pairs of eyes. What then...? You cannot step out and hop into your car and long-drive the questions away. You cannot go drown into the din of malls and binge away the questions either. You cannot give yourself the excuse of jobs, projects, chores, shopping, this and that, that and this... anymore. What then...? You cannot meet a friend over coffee and give yourself the false comfort of sharing stories of how life is and how you are moving... at least something is moving...  your relationship, your job, your marriage, your household, a new house maybe, a new car, a new achievement, even an award... You cannot tell such stories anymore. What then?

Well, finally, all there’s left to go is go inside. To the chaos that’s been breeding out of fears, fears and more fears. So you dive inside. The first few times might get the wind out of your wits. You might just get so shocked at the weights you carry. And then, as you begin to turn to prayer, to the Divine, shedding yourself layer by layer, you begin to pick out the weeds from the garden and well, if you keep at the Spring-cleaning, you might start sprouting one Spring within.

Chances are, the 2020 kind of Spring may not get repeated for some time. A few generations maybe.

The question is: are we going to start blooming up?  

एक बार फिर

मेरी दोस्त कहती है मैं मैं नहीं रही

मैने उसका हाथ अपने हाथ में लिया

और उसके कानों में धीरे से कहा….

मैं जानती हूँ, मेरी दोस्त,

मैं मैं नहीं हूँ इस वक़्त,

अपनी रूह की लकीर से दूर जा बैठी हूँ कहीं;

बीते सालों के जो भी पन्ने हैं मुझमें बसी डाइयरी के

सभी इस वक़्त तेज़ किसी तूफान से बिखरे हैं आस पास,

कुछ मोती जो चुने थे सालों से,

वो भी एक झटके से बिखर गये हैं आस पास की ढलानों में…

पर

क्यूंकि ज़िंदगी है बहाव में,

पानी के नये रंग ओढ़ कर

इस खेल से हैरान होने में,

बस एक किनारे से सॅट कर तो रुक सी जाऊँगी मैं

किसी खूबसूरत सी हरी काई की तरह

लेकिन काई तो काई ही है ना!

उसके गर्भ में तो सिर्फ मौत ही उतरी है.

तो बह निकली हूँ मैं नये एक सैलाब में,

जानती हूँ इस नदी की बाहों में

बहुत से नये पड़ाव हैं

जो मेरे गाओं से दूर हैं बहुत

लेकिन लौट आने से पहले,

इन पड़ावों की सैर

बहुत कुछ छीन कर ,

मेरी हथेली पर कुछ नये रंग जड़ देगी

मेरे चेहरे पर नयी लकीरों के साथ साथ

मुझ पर थोड़ी और ठोस मिट्टी भी लेपेगी

और लौटा देगी

मुझे अपने गाँव

अपनी रूह की लकीर के ठीक ऊपर,

जैसे के कभी मैं बिछड़ी थी ही नहीं ….

अपने आप से…

उस दिन आना मेरे घर तुम,

और मुस्कुराना मुझे एक बार फिर मिलकर.  

ठीक है?

उसकी बातें सबको हैरान कर रहीं थीं
शब्द थे के आँखों के इर्द गिर्द बर्फ जमाने लगे थे
चेहरों पर मुस्कराहट की जाली तो थी
पर दूर कहीं गहरे धंसता आभाव का आभास भी था

लफ़्ज़ों ने रेशम के धागे तो बराबर बुने थे आज भी लेकिन
कपडे खुरदुरे से हो चले थे 

सब अपने अपने कपड़ों को एक दुसरे की नज़र से बचा कर गुज़र जाना चाहते थे 

लेकिन उसकी बातें हैरान कर रहीं थीं...

के बस समझने की उम्मीद में रुक से गए थे...

उसकी बातें कितनी अलग थीं...

पर राज़ कितना सरल था 

उसकी बातों पर दुनिया की परतें नहीं जमीं थीं बस

इतनी सी बात थी...

पर सबके लिए कितनी अनसुनी, अनजानी सी....

 

अक्टूबर ५

सोचा सब खाली कर दूं,
अपने अन्दर की अलमारी,
बीते साल धो डाले,

यादें दान में दे डालीं और
कुछ सूखे पत्ते और मेरी diary के नम पन्ने खिड़की पर,
बिखेर दिए,

दानों की तरह...
... के कोई परिंदा उड़ा कर बीते मौसमों को लौटा आये...
सब परतें झाड़ीं... और फिर सो गयी.
आज सुबह खोल कर देखा,

तुम अभी भी वहीँ बैठो हो...

Prayer

To stand in the surges of chaos

and get swept into the arms of a fragrance

of a tree I don’t see...



To cut through snarling roads

chatter, blood and unrest crossing the danger marks above my head...

and then, find a smile break out at me, faceless, formless, bodyless but there...



To walk past a season and find its face on skies, trees, and roads

and to feel one hand that strokes

all time zones off my brows...



To love You and love the earth, that snail, that fly, that bee...

to see You smiling and smile with all the flowers, trees and leaves,

to love You and to know that it means loving them all...



To pray and ring the temple bells and still not feel the prayer ring inside

and then to pray that I pray the way You will it from me

and then, to pray everytime a wonder sprouts around me...