Rubaru milenge...

ये क्या रोज़ रोज़ कीबोर्ड पर उंगलियाँ नचवाना...
मोबाईल के कीपेड पर
फेस्बुक के स्टेट्स मसेज में
गूगलटॉक के खाने में
जैसे कि ज़बान नही कीबोर्ड बातें करता हो
उंगलियों के टेरवो पर पूरी कायनात
तस्वीरों में दोस्तों को हस्ते देखो
खुशी और ग़म
निराशा और आशा
गुस्सा और पागलपन
जज़्बातों के भी सिम्बोल
ऐसा भी नही कि सब कुछ झूठा है,
लेकिन थोड़ा ज़्यादा हावी है,
हम पर
किसी नशे की तरह
एक जाल की तरह
बॉस बहुत हुआ
रूबरू मिलेंगे...

An Ode to my dear Fan

I sit on my bed with almost a dozens of books and thousands of other artifacts. I give up my on my writing a decent article for the upcoming issue of a summer edition magazine. A nearby wall spider watches me in attention as I flip disdainfully through the pages of one of my chronically erroneous articles. The humidity today in this part of the world making me realize that the human body consists of 70 % of water..(C'mon..Though many disagree, I am a human too). I have a sadistic look at my little dust-covered cornered table fan, which nearly smirks at me as I battle my thoughts like a little Crusader against the mighty gigantic heat(20 degrees celcius yes but warm and hot compared to what we usually have here! so yeah tahts heat!). Meanwhile, I wonder why this fan has three fins and what the fins may be talking within themselves about me. It has watched me in all my emotions, crying at times, cribbing at times, laughing over some old joke. It has watched me as I undertake my journey down the memory lane, as I bask in sunlight, watch the crisp flight of the eagle on a bright morning. It has watched me dreaming about that wonderful future that lies ahead, as I gaze at the half lit moon making its way among dimming stars. It has watched me as I fill myself with the cool breeze and hope it goes as far as I would wish it should. It has watched me as I exchange smiles with the sunflowers adorning the lawn ahead. It has been there when I do just close my eyes, hoping to find someone when I open it. It has seen those tears, those laughs which no one has ever and never will. It has been a witness of the constant surges of emotions, those spurts of energy which make me the unparalleled at times, those fleeting moments where I become just a spectator to my life which keeps heading on a freeway and destined for a sudden end.
'Dear fan. I never thought I would say this. But, I've never cared for you enough, never noticed how you are there all set up and ready for the moment I might need you, and I've never thanked you the way you deserve it. You are far away in that corner but you are still always there for me! I wish you read this someday. Anyways, words are poor conveyors, the heart knows itself.

The words that flutter from your mind...

I do not care what car you drive... where you live. If you know someone who knows someone who knows someone. If your clothes are this year's cutting edge. If your trust fund is unlimited. If your are A-list B-list or never heard of you list. I only care about the words that flutter from your mind. They are the only thing you truly own. The only thing I will remember you by. I will not fall in love with your bones and skin. I will not fall in love with the places you have been. I will not fall in love with anything but the words that flutter from your extraordinary mind.

Yesterday evening

The storm has now mellowed. The cavalry of dark clouds smoothly floats over the distant mountain. A lull of serene silence lends a distinct touch to the atmosphere. A gentle blow of air touches my cheek. It is twilight. The rays of the tranquillized dignified sun struggle to make their way through the maze of clouds to reach the ground. The chirping of the birds suddenly dissipates in this forlorn silence. A circle of black smoke emancipates from a distant chimney. The water in the river seem to be backtracking to reach its source like a little toddler desperate to hug her mom who seems busy with work. I felt like racing with the river waters. The red banner on the church tower flutters gleefully greeting the dark clouds bid adieu. A piece of broken crockery is discovered by a bright coloured sand trotting tiny dog. A girl with her locks falling into her eyes gazes at the varied coloured eastern sky. She throws up her arms to reach and catch hold of the rainbow. An aroma of wet sand adds a tint of fragrance to the surroundings. A drizzle soon follows.
A piece of silk scarf gets strangulated midair in hideous branches of the maple tree. And then a train whistle breaks this natures' moment of romance. I believe the train needs to carry on with its journey. I wonder which destination is the train headed towards. Is destination the journey or journey the destination? And that reminded me of…

What is this life, if full of care.
We have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stare at a beauty's glance,
And watch how well her feet can dance;
No time to wait till her lips can,
Enrich the smile her eyes began ......

Suddenly then my eyes light up with a bright smile…a grin almost!
I look up onto the horizon.
A stroke of divine brush creates a spectacular rainbow.

Tattered Hearts

Here's a small story I believe in completely. Do read, will open a lot of your senses.

One day a young man was standing in the middle of the town proclaiming that he had the most beautiful heart in the whole valley. A large crowd gathered and they all admired his heart for it was perfect. There was not a mark or a flaw in it. Yes, they all agreed it truly was the most beautiful heart they had ever seen.


The young man was very proud and boasted more loudly about his beautiful heart. Suddenly, an old man appeared at the front of the crowd and said, "Why your heart is not nearly as beautiful as mine."

The crowd and the young man looked at the old man's heart. It was beating strongly, but full of scars, it had places where pieces had been removed and other pieces put in, but they didn't fit quite right and there were several jagged edges. In fact, in some places there were deep gouges where whole pieces were missing. The people stared -- how can he say his heart is more beautiful, they thought? The young man looked at the old man's heart and saw its state and laughed.

"You must be joking," he said. "Compare your heart with mine, mine is perfect and yours is a mess of scars and tears."

"Yes," said the old man, "Yours is perfect looking but I would never trade with you. You see, every scar represents a person to whom I have given my love - I tear out a piece of my heart and give it to them, and often they give me a piece of their heart which fits into the empty place in my heart, but because the pieces aren't exact, I have some rough edges, which I cherish, because they remind me of the love we shared. "Sometimes I have given pieces of my heart away, and the other person hasn't returned a piece of his heart to me. These are the empty gouges -- giving love is taking a chance.

Although these gouges are painful, they stay open, reminding me of the love I have for these people too, and I hope someday they may return and fill the space I have waiting. So now do you see what true beauty is?" The young man stood silently with tears running down his cheeks. He walked up to the old man, reached into his perfect young and beautiful heart, and ripped a piece out. He offered it to the old man with trembling hands. The old man took his offering, placed it in his heart and then took a piece from his old scarred heart and placed it in the wound in the young man's heart.

It fit, but not perfectly, as there were some jagged edges. The young man looked at his heart, not perfect anymore but more beautiful than ever, since love from the old man's heart flowed into his. They embraced and walked away side by side.

Memories…

Her smiling face lit up with those bright eyes, as she journeyed into the corridors of her memory, silently… as if, to touch the distant horizon, where the sea of humanity meets the sky of spiritual luminescence. The sounds of the morning hymns rise up to the holy spires and send their echoes back to the heart.

She took me on her lap, placed my face gently against her palms and planted a wet kiss on my forehead. Sometimes I was amazed about her caring sensitivity for everyone. She always used to hold me and my sister close to her, eating her bread & tea in the morning, and narrated the same three stories over and over again. She started with ‘Kabir’, then followed a story of various Saints and the last story was always ‘Ihyo bi guzri vendo’(This also shall pass).
She also used to narrate us sometimes about her past, but that included only stories of her children.

I remember her peaceful face when she heard prayers and hymns early in the morning keeping her radio near her ears, with very low volume so that others might not be disturbed. And then mostly she sang along all the prayers and hymns. I remember her beautiful face filled with calmness… I was proud of her, of being her granddaughter.

I remember her 90th birthday very clearly. She was always so happy when all of us got together. Her contended face is still in front of my eyes. At 90 too she was a strong woman of mind. There was courage in her heart, determination in her veins. The look of her eyes with such intense care and love, made her eyes shine in an eternal bliss. Ah and she always used to keep in store Badam, Akhrots and Mithais for us. To me she always said; Meetu don’t be lazy in anything, just get up and jump! I used to enjoy learning so many things from her. I’ll never forget a sentence she told me once… “Meeta, any relationship is all about giving and taking, in which giving always has to be more than taking. You’ll find perfect people everywhere, only if you be the prefect partner to them!” It was amazing… so many things stored in her heart! She viewed the family as a circle of strength and love. With every birth and every union, the circle grows. Every joy shared adds more love. Every crisis faced together makes the circle stronger.

All the more it was painful for me to see her at the end. For me she was always a wonderful person conveying the quality of life. I felt so helpless when I saw her last. I felt sorry that I could not better it for her. I hope she has found relief and eternal peace at last. For me she will live forever in my sweet memories of her.

I miss you nani.
Yours Meetu.

Springtime Mornings...

In the mornings I like to walk around the town, the suburb where I live, and now during late springtime, I always start around 7am, after the sun yawns up over the horizon. It’s my favourite time of the year to go for a brisk walk or say a light jog. Things move at their own pace in this city, no matter what time of the year it finds itself in. When I get out of the house, the sun is hiding up there like a wide-eyed curious kid, hugging the curtain of clouds, playing hide and seek, peek-a-boo! There are always some people standing on the opposite side of the main street waiting for the only inbound bus that travels once a day. And over time I’ve got used to them. To me they are statues. They stand there every time I step out my house-door on to the main street, as if they have stood there in that same position for ages and always will until I no longer come out here. They were put there for me. I walk down the centre square towards the city school. The houses appear empty. No sounds, no movement, yet the lawns are trimmed, the paths are swept clean and the fences appear to have been whitewashed yesterday. The BMWs, the Audis, the VWs are freshly waxed and standing neatly in their little garages. A ghost town without ghosts.

And the ocean in my heart already beckons me from a distance. My steps on the sidewalk call back, telling me how far I still am. Anything that would disturb me would be a pure coincidence. Nothing is directed at me. My shoes touch the cemented tiles of Maxplatz square and they yawn crisply in the misty morning dew. I stand for a moment and look out. Watching the beautiful little ducklings with their confused smile in the morning fog. I look at the flowing stream. Every time I'm here, I try to persuade myself that there is an ocean in front of me, a massive body of water, a giver and taker of life, with an array of calm and storm all in one. As I stare, my eyes adjust and all they discover is a small puddle. And beyond it, the hope that the sun shines through; the hope of brightness no eye can pierce. All I hear is breathing, heavy and thunderous. A roar lays in there. Yet only a puddle.

I sit down and wait until the first mild rays of light show themselves from behind the clouds in a distance. They begin to dance across the crests of waves in my heart, jumping towards me, springing from the fire that glows cardinal the length of my horizon. I squint my eyes together and like magic, the puddle grows to a lake and then to the Ocean. I see it as a gentle roar, docile with a strength that protects and doesn't harm, if one only wishes to be near and not conquer. The roar knows it will live forever and it treats me the same. As if I will always be around.

The air smells as if it has just been born. I begin to walk along the stream towards the outskirts of the city. I walk almost to the next town and stop where the stream vanishes below the ground to give way to the Autobahn construction. It's funny how humans bend nature blocking it with their concrete jungles of technology. I smile. It doesn't affect my view of life though.
I carry my ocean within.