मेरे टुकड़े

भोर  में मिले पटरी पर मेरे टुकड़े
और मिली चार दिन के सफर की
चार रोटी
रोटी पन्नी में बंधी
पन्नी खून से संधी
टीवी पर देखकर
बाबू निवाला तोड़ते हुए बोले
"चीन को भगवान माफ नहीं करेगा"
बाबू, मेरे देश का क्या?
जिसने अरसे बिता दिए
मेरे टुकड़ों पर इमारतें बनाते हुए

पीली पतंग

आज छज्जे पर गई
तो पाई एक पीली पतंग
उसकी डोर
गुलाब की डाली से
उलझी हुई थी
डोर सुलझाते हुए
आपकी वो हसी याद आ गई
उस पल की
जिसे आपने हमेशा याद रखने को कहा था
वो पल जिसे
तस्वीर भी कैद नहीं कर पाई
इसलिए मन का एक कोना
मैंने उस लम्हे का कर दिया
कुछ चीजें कुछ लम्हे
कुछ लोग
दुनिया की कैद से परे
आजाद हैं
फिज़ा की तरह
बेबाक हैं
हवा की तरह
बस छू जाते हैं कभी कभी
लहर बनकर
और दिल का एक कोना अपना कर जाते हैं
हस्सकार मैंने डोर सुलझाई
और पतंग को फिर से
उड़ा दिया।

BHEEGE SE

Bheeni si baarish mein
Do log jaa rahe the
Log do the par chhaata ek
Ek ne chhaata pakda hua tha
aur doosre ne earphones
Ek ke haath mein phool tha
doosre ke kaano ke peechhe
Jaane kya gunguna rahe the woh
Uss khaali sadak par
Jaise woh raasta sirf unke liye hai
Manzil se beparwaah
Duniya ke shor se door
Kuchh daer woh sang chale
Fir doraaha aa gaya
Aur baarish bhi tham gayi
Kaano ke peechhe se phool gir gaya
Par earphones ki dor ulajh ke reh gayi

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.