तुम नहीं आए

तुम वापस नही आओगे
इस बात का इल्म है मुझे
फिर भी जब भी
कोई और मेरे करीब आता है
रूह कांप उठती है
जैसे जिस्म के किसी कोने में
अभी भी थोड़ी सी उम्मीद बाकी है

तुम नहीं आओगे
ये कबसे मान लेना चाहती हूँ मैं
फिर क्यों जब भी तुम्हारी बात कही छिड़ती है
मेरी धड़कने ज़रा सी तेज़ हो जाती है
वैसे ही जैसे तुम्हे देखने से पहले होती थी
क्यों पेट में गुदगुदी सी होती है
जैसे कि तुम फिरसे पीछे से लिपट जाओगे
और सारी शिकायतें
एक झटके में मिट जाएंगी

क्यों मैं इंतेज़ार करती रही
जब कि मैंने ही तो
वो दरवाजा बंद किया था
जो सिर्फ तुम्हारे लिए खुला था
क्यों मैं आज भी इंतेज़ार कर रही हुँ
क्यों ना चाहकर भी चाहती हुँ
कि तुम एक बार तो दसतक दो

तुम ही तोह अकसर कहते थे
की चाहे कितना भी वक़्त गुज़र जाए
चाहे हम कितने भी दूर हो
हम मिलेंगे
किसी जगह
जहां इतनी मुश्किलें ना होंगी
किसी वक़्त
जब उलझनें थोड़ी कम होंगी

जब टूटे हुए दिल थोड़ा जुड़ जाएंगे
जब एक दूजे को दिए गए ज़ख़्म
थोड़ा भर जाएंगे
एक दूसरे को देने के लिये
जब फिरसे सुकून होगा
जब आंखें नम नही होंगी
और बातों में ग़म कम होगा

वो दिन नही आएगा
ये जानती हूं मैं
पर फिर भी एक आंख
चौखट पर ही गढ़ी रहती है
 कि कही तुम आ गए तो?

क्या करूँ?
अब ऐसा लगता है जैसे
तुम आगे बढ़ गए
और मैं?
चौखट पर ही रह गयी..

If I had a diary, I would name it Sweetu

It's not a dear diary moment, but I am sitting in front of the now abandoned quarry, the sun right on my face, the wind not really helping much except an occasional gust of relief, something which I would usually mind a lot; so much so that I would get up immediately and leave; but in this moment, right now, I'm kind of satisfied with where I am. They say you can tell a lot by what a person writes and never shows anyone. Well, I haven't really heard anyone say this but I am guessing someone somewhere at some point in time would have said it. But if that is the case I wonder what people would make out with my incorrigible habit of writing such long sentences. Or perhaps my writing in English even though I am a Hindi speaker. I blame being more comfortable using English on our colonial hangover which has plagued me and most in my generation. This hangover is something we don't seem to be getting out of. More than that, we don't even seem to be trying. In fact we somehow pride ourselves in neglecting our mother tongue; our roots, and in effect stemming our wings to fly. But coming back to my long sentences; I don't know. Perhaps I have too much to say. Atleast my friends hold this particular opinion. But is what I am saying even worth the effort? I have no answer to this as well. One of my classmates, also the one that I never particularly liked from day one said "Oh, she got in because is pretty." That hurts. Because even now I don't think I am good enough. This feeling sometimes is so overburdening that I don't even feel like trying to be good enough. It was so much simpler when we were kids. Not too much pressure. No matter what you did, however shitty or mediocre; the only thing that mattered was the happiness in doing it. The process. Not the outcome. The journey. Not the destination. Just the fact that you made something was enough. Whether it fit someone's checklist of worthiness didn't matter. I'm still seeking that kind of confidence. That kind of carefree-ness. That kind of abandonment and that kind of freedom. That kind of freedom. And I wonder, if we don't feel that sense of freedom in doing something, in making something; is it really art?

The meaning of a day

What does a day mean in someone's life?
Is it the in and out of the sun from his window
Or the time between when she shuts and opens her eyes
Is it after he cleans his teeth and washes his body
To sit on a desk with a pile of files
Or is it the little moments
That mark the beginning and end of a day
A stolen glance
A stranger's smile
A child's laugh
A cup of coffee with droplets on the rim
A gaze into nothingness
A gentle breeze on a hot summer's evening
Looking at the city lights
Does the day begin when you come back home to hot brewing tea
And take a deep sigh
Floating with the waves of the sea
A tear escaped but quickly wiped away
A long goodbye
A starry sky
Falling asleep with a book on the chest
Him covering her with a duvet
A lingering gaze
Sunday's laze

Hopeless vandals

We walk down the winding lanes
of the old city
Crowded with houses
made of bricks and mortar older
than the oldest person we could think of
We hold hands as we walk these lanes
marvelling that something could survive this long
Long after the kings
who built them
And long after the kings
who wanted to destroy them
We look up at them
envious
And they look down at us with hope
We lie down on the grass holding hands
with our gaze fixed on the Qutub Minar
As it stands tall, proud of its resilience
All the while mocking us for our own mortality
Our transience
And our gullibility for even hoping
that we could last even half as long
Challenging us to put up something,
anything against its formidable record
So we surrender.
By writing our names, the two of ours
and encircling them in a little heart
tucked away in a little corner
on one of its walls
Perhaps knowing, this might be our only shot
At forever.

An ode to self

We thought our souls were islands,
abandoned;
waiting to be salvaged
By someone kind enough
to name them

We thought our bodies were a shrine,
deserted;
begging to be paid homage
By a pilgrim willing enough
to make the journey

We thought once ravaged,
Once our hearts were torn
from our chest and left
to writhe in the sun
We would wither
Like a rose
which only lived in longing
Until all that was left
were thorns of desolation

We thought
and we thought.
Only if
We believed
what the universe
had been telling us all along

That we were an explosion
carefully woven in the stars
A shower that broke the spell
of a harsh summer
The wind that made the buds
bloom.

That we could not be
Ravaged
And we could not be
Deserted
And we could not be
Abandoned

That on our own we were
just enough.
Perhaps more.

I don't have a name yet; but if I did it would be called dear diary

The month of April has arrived at our doorsteps and it gives us a clear memo of who we are every fool's day. It's April now and my life has been sucking. Very much. And I feel like a character off Lemony Snicket's tale of unfortunate events. But I guess I don't really have permission to rant too much as I am not as unfortunate as the millions of people who have much lesser than me. Fair enough, although in my defense it was never so much about having as it was about giving; and I'm afraid I haven't been able to give very much. To friends or family, lovers or enemies, or even myself. Funny, I feel empty even though I haven't let much out of my grasp. Maybe I didn't have much in my grasp in the first place.
Every year we tell ourselves, this year is going to be different; it's going to be my year. By the mid of it, we resign; saying aw, probably next year. Then the next..then the next..and it just withers away. We wither away. And we decide aw, maybe next life. Thank god Hindu mythology gives you a lot of lives to squander away like that. It's April now. One third of the year has gone by. In two months half the year would have passed. And it was just yesterday that I was narrating tales of my naughty new year's eve. Anyway, my life has been sucking right now. But I wouldn't wait for the half year mark to say Aw, next year.
Nope.

Ever since Sarah could remember, her favorite pass-time had been peeling. She first chanced upon this cheap thrill in kindergarten when her seat partner Ravi, a scrawny boy with curly hair and a perpetually runny nose took a generous amount of fevicol and put it all over his palms. Sarah suddenly lost interest in the paper mache leaf she was so meticulously pasting bits of paper to, and instead shifted all her focus to the scrawny little boy next to her, on whose palms the fevicol had now dried and he had begun peeling it off all the while gleaming with such profound inexplicable joy that Sarah found herself unable to peel her eyes off him. Alas, she couldn't ask him what exactly it was that he was doing owing to her timorous nature. But her curiosity got the better of her, as later that evening her mother found the little girl sitting under the table of her room, slowly meticulously peeling off the fevicol and trying everything in her power not to smile; as if she already knew how it would be her undoing. And all this while, her mother stood quietly at the doorway, smiling at her daughter's innocent frolics. If only her mother had understood something deeper lay in Sarah's eyes than just plain amusement, or even curiosity.

If only. She thought, as she frantically started peeling her skin, bit by bit, dead cell by dead cell, slowly and meticulously from the corners of her nails using a filer. On the surface it seemed innocent. But if one just looked a little closer, one could have seen a little bead of perspiration forming on the corner of her forehead and how her jaw was pressed a little too hard and how her breathing was shallow and quick matching the rythm of the filer which had peeled off enough of her skin to reveal the tender pink tissue underneath. Some more filing, and blood would gush out. But Sarah kept at it, intently staring at her finger; staring, filing, watching, and still watching closer...

"Again with the damn filer!" 

A loud booming voice startled her, making her jerk in confusion and broke her fervent, meticulous meditation. She looked up guiltily only to find a large pair of dull brown bespectacled eyes narrowed down on her in disapproval. The owner of the eyes was as large as them; large enough to make a big office seem small and tall enough to touch the ceiling with her hands. If not the ceiling then atleast the old fan dangling from the ceiling.No wonder she was often called the elephant in the room. The elephant went by the name of Mrs. Anari Murthy; and the designation of Senior Manager. And if her behemoth stature wasn't enough to intimidate people around her; her booming voice did the trick. No wonder poor Sarah dropped her filer and felt like her tongue had been tied down in a hundred small knots. "What do you even file? How many nails do you have! At that stupid thing whenever I see you. This will go in your annual appraisal!"

Sarah is still tongue tied and timidly nods her head. A mistake, in hindsight since such a hasty acceptance of her forbearance sets off another round of  censure.

"Are you even interested in where your career is going young lady! Where do you see yourself in five years!"

"The dump?" A confused, hoarse voice joins in on the background. Swayam, Celt Co's own dream boy has stopped in front of Sarah's desk with one hand holding the phone to his ear and the other running nervously through his thick black hair. His voice, laced with the hint of too many cigarettes is enough to even make the elephant in the room stop grunting, as she looks at him transfixed and sweetly asks,"What happened?"

Swayam  again runs his hand nervously through his thick mane and responds with a sigh. "It's Garima. I can't seem to find her. I haven't even talked to her since last night."

Sarah looks at his deep brown eyes, so deep that they almost seem black, ready to engulf her if she looks even a second longer; so she turns her gaze to her finger in the lap, freshly pink after her diligent work on them. 

"Oh. She must be out shopping! Always keeps taking sick leaves. As if I wouldn't know about her pretty little lies. And now that you have proposed-well." Even though Sarah's eyes were on her lap she could gauge the little pang of jealousy in her boss's voice.

"How do you know-about the proposal?"

"Why? She kept showing off that big rock all over the office yesterday? Such a-"

"Have you seen her today? Anytime after 7 pm yesterday" Swayam cuts her off quickly, too impatient to hear her monologue. "Sarah?"

Sarah jerks upwards again, second time in the day. And mumbles a quick, nervous no; too quick, too nervous. 

"Sarah give me that damn report." Murthy switches her gaze from dream boy back to the center of her admonition. Sarah nods and looks hesitantly at her drawer. "I swear you work at a turtle's-"

 "If you remember-" Swayam looks at Murthy again, his voice now laced with pleading and agitation along with a whole packet of cigarettes.

"I am telling you she went shopping-these young girls-"

"Her purse was found in the dump. With no money stolen." Swayam cuts her once again, thoroughly irritated; his eyes smoldering black, almost like molten iron. 

The elephant is taken aback. She puts her hand on Swayam's back and runs her hand down a little too slow, much to Sarah's chagrin. She seethes but doesn't say anything, waiting for her boss to leave.

"Poor boy-come, come to my cabin- have some coffee." Murthy leads him and just as she is out of Sarah's line of sight, Sarah hears her booming sound again. "Get the file Sarah!"

Sarah lets out a deep sigh and checking all corners around her, unlocks her drawer to take out the file. She takes out the file in a hurry and shuts the drawer as quickly as she opened it. She pauses, and opens it again, but only halfway and peers inside before making sure again that no one is looking. And there inside, lies a hand; pink after being freshly peeled, with a diamond ring gleaming on the third finger.