Posted in Pic credits : Shubham, Poetry, Uncategorized

I see so much sense in maturity, yet it seems unnecessary

I see so much sense in maturity, yet it seems so unnecessary

To do an act, to perform, to react; the important is just a spontaneity

Where I see love with a sense of pride, coupled with some memories and colourful skies

To go beyond boundaries touching clouds in the rides

I see so much sense in maturity, yet it often seems unnecessary

Bubbles in the water may float into the minds

But the moment they burst and those ideas ignites

The framework it sets, the novation it prospects

I see so much sense in maturity, yet it seems so unnecessary

While talking to a child or ladies and fellas thrown in the wild

The rubber of emotion, so flexible yet fragile

Consumption of situation is a part of life, with all engagements compulsory

I see so much sense in maturity, yet it often seems unnecessary

An athlete is running with an innocent thought,

Without judging or evaluating that he may reach somewhere or not

Time, Distance & Speed is all he may measure to keep his passionate bond

I see so much sense in maturity, yet it seems so unnecessary

Yes, it will end on a day when it is ought

When breaths sojourn, thoughts conclude and the energies revoke

Then all the wisdom, all calculations & the assessments shall fail

It’s just what we believe while unripe still

I see so much sense in maturity, yet it often seems unnecessary

Posted in Movie Review, Narration, Pic credits : Shubham, Short Story, Uncategorized

A semi-circle of glittering emotions : Memories in March

यह रातें, यह मौसम

नदी का किनारा, यह चंचल हवा !

We all know how love, hatred, sorrow, happiness, gratification and such other innumerable glittering emotions constitute Life. Also, that these are like electrons and protons moving vigorously within its mass and thereby unnerving life’s atomic configuration. I am always intrigued by the ever-evolving natural instincts of the beings. We have an inbuilt super-dynamic RAM, which aids us to make swift shifts of emotions that somehow contributes in developing, evolving and mending our AI system.

Rituparno did a sensational job by expressing such simple concept through his story and as depicted in the movie “Memories in March”. The movie flows like a cold soothing stream down the robust hills and finally meeting its fate of serene circle of ocean. No doubt Sanjoy had a rhythmic vision while directing this movie, he indeed did a fab situational portrayal of the tale.

“A mother waiting for a flight to meet her deceased son”, yet carrying a valiant expression & voice, played by Deepti Naval. Siddhartha had been living away for his first job in Kolkata and always used to call Aarti, her mother who resides in Delhi, to come and live with him. Finally, his call is met and Aarti is flying to live with him although she won’t find his physical presence now.

We’re often late. Sometimes reaching someplace or meeting someone is not prioritised over our monotonous routine. I wonder why nurturing our inner-self takes a back-seat and we keep ourselves driven by decorating our outer shells.

Aarti kept memorising e-mails written by her son, where he described everything minutely “the office space, his company allotted 2bhk flat, people, roads, windows and the doors.” Sid was very close to his mother and was fond of sharing even pintsize moments with her. She missed visiting him at those moments.

While coming back from crematorium, she enquired patiently about the accident from Sid’s boss ‘Arnob’ who was accompanying her in his Car. He described all possible events about the tragedy concluding with the one, that the body was kept in ice until Aarti arrived. A mother feels her womb forever; she still could feel the cold just by the thought her son being kept in ice. Arnob innocently asked if he should raise the temperature of AC when Aarti closed her arms tightly around herself with a shawl- an immediate sensory motion while she was listening. Later as she is dropped at her son’s flat, she is found carrying the same dilemma as she opened the freezer and spoke “Babu boht thand thi kya vahan?”.

The epic screenplay of Rituparno turns to its best in the scene where after the big courageous day of Aarti, she is finally seen to be broken; while sitting on a bed with the pot of ashes in her laps like a young mommy carrying her new born in the arms, trying to get it to sleep with a lullaby.

Each morning gives a different twist and turn to our streaming mind-set.

Next morning, Aarti is seen to have moved towards first step of the acceptance of her misfortune. She is texting her relatives, informing them about the incident. She has developed an instinct to get introduced to her son’s life. No doubt she cannot talk to him but for a day or two, she is almost living some part of his life. She is meeting the same people he used to meet daily- the milk-man, the chowkidaar bhaiya, his office-mates, the fishes in the aquarium and the last egg in the fridge which has written over it “Caution: I am the last one.” Well, the last egg has a relatively more importance than other. Isn’t it.

She is now visited by Shahana, a lovely decent girl ‘played by the bengal beauty Raima Sen’, who has shown huge respect & affection towards Aarti since she has arrived. In this deepest time of sorrow, a mother is still capacitated with the thought, that may be her son has finally met someone to settle down. We, the people has a lust towards contentment, we seek to fetch the same at least in our dreams with all possible opportunities.

Shahana helps Aarti to have a flavour of Sid’s life, she takes her to the office. Aarti finds everything as were mentioned in mails from his son- the stairs, the hallways, chambers, cubicles. And then the one where Sid used to sit, it had a soft board displaying his thoughts, artwork, daily schedule and a picture of Aarti- the one from his childhood. But ironically, his chair & desk is now occupied by a replacement. Shahana’s annoyance towards the replacement looks genuine; since till yesterday, the place belonged to the one who is no more. But that is how a system is programmed: the faster a loss is recovered, the lessor is the soreness of a damage.

Aarti also pays a visit with her to the place, where accident actually happened “the broken fence”. The fence to which his car crashed causing him to lose his life. Shahana recollects the yesterday, quoting how happy he was in his new blue blazer and enjoyed throughout the late night party. Aarti cries upon the incident asking why was’nt he stopped from driving in that sozzled condition? Where was the office decorum? and more questions alike. We tend to seek as many reasons as there could be, that may/could have avoided the misery. Accidently, they find Arnob passing by the scene and stopping thereby to know the mother’s well-being. Like any responsible employer he assured that everything is fine and all near relatives are informed. And he offered help getting to know that Aarti is unable to connect Sid’s father. Until this day Aarti has always considered her day of divorce as the black day, not anymore though. Thus, she lost a constant touch with her husband from then.

As she is back to her Son’s flat; Arnob guides her on phone towards Sid’s study table “the room of Sid’s home which she was unaware of existence till day”. A little disappointed from just able to connect to her ex-husband’s answering machine, she moves towards the next morning.

This morning actually paves her path to the room of her child which she never had an access in his entire life span. She is met with the fact that her son was in love. Shahana had no other choice but to tell her, when Aarti fought melodramatically at office to procure her son’s belongings without any delay from Arnob. Her heart descended and sat on the office stairs when She was told that someone may have equal right of possession of belongings as she does; that it’s not just her who is suffering from grief, that her son and Arnob were lovers.

It’s so profound to realise that the reality is actually stranger than fiction.

She doubted, hated and insulted Arnob, when he came to her to return what he had of his beloved. She even accused him of seducing her child, to which he finally broke and tried to counter her by showing her the other side of affection. When he failed to settle the furious mother, he left with a question to her “What is more important to you – an act of seduction or the relationship per se??”

Its conveniently fine to understand that no matter what, we can never believe somethings that are beyond our imagination, until & unless we listen the same from our own self.

Aarti tried talking to know from Shahana, who confessed that she was head over heels for her son but while she expressed her love, Siddhartha gently overruled her with a reason of him being in love with Arnob. Although induced, yet still not convinced to accept something she has never known. She only found a settlement with the truth post reading a saved, unsent draft to the mother in her Son’s phone. She was habitual of listening everything from her lad’s life, however this unsent draft for the mother had given her a message that may be there were somethings which he was still giving a thought for “If she is capable of digesting or accepting it”.

The next day she met Arnob with an open heart, however still struggling with in for this unexpected fact. She tried getting to know this person- how her son recognized some similarities in Arnob with her mother, how this guy is as passionate about life as Aarti herself used to be. She even agrees to share the clothes, the books, the belongings of Siddhartha with him. But not the gifts as Arnob corrected her “gifts are not to be returned”. She suddenly finds that by now she had been unknowingly wearing Arnob’s robe daily while she lived in her son’s flat.

People switch places, relations switch feelings and any particular dress can have alternative bodies to get into a perfect fitting.

Arnob (brilliantly and lyrically enacted by Rituparno Ghosh) is a highly creative person who seems to have a great understanding of female psych. He believes in getting to know life directly in its original raw form. When he was asked about why he prefer eating through hands and not by spoon he referred Nehru saying “eating with fork & spoon is like making love through interpretor.” He personally hated the steel between food & mouth. He wanted things to be in their actual form criticizing keeping the fishes’ captive in a tank, however he was adaptive enough to soon realise that may be fishes have accepted the box as their world like we human do.

We sometimes have few pre-conceived notions about life which is only corrected by an actual experience.

Aarti spent the last day in the city with the person closest to her son. She was snapped and corrected by Arnob at instances where she spoke that she could have her child visited to a psychiatrist at a right age or while she constantly enquired about the sexual interest of her Son. Arnob silently asked her that “what is more grievous for you, his death or the fact that he was Gay”. She couldn’t satisfactorily answer the same, saying – A mother in this situation may go through different emotions. Arnob pronounced that atleast you have two different emotions to switch to while he has a single mountain of a grief for a lost love.

If we give some time to ‘The time’, we tend to know different people and know our different self.

While closing the facebook account of Siddhartha, Arnob wrote on his timeline “If I have to go away, can I leave a bit of me with you??” On her last night Aarti took Arnob out for his b’day celebration and on the way back they found that the broken fence is now repaired. She stepped down in the rain and touched the new fence.

Life do have its own way of fixing and refurbishing things.

As she stepped back in her son’s flat, she found that the pot of ashes has broken due to strong breeze and the remains are set free to flow in the rain.

She left Kolkata the next morning, leaving some gifts for the closed ones – A Sid’s shirt for Shahana and her own sunglasses for Arnob.

May be a small gift puts a comma to a sentence and completes a semi-circle of glittering emotions.

कैसी अजीब दावत है यह, दावत शायद ख़त्म हुई फिर,

सब लोग जा रहे हैं घर, कैसी अजीब दावत है यह…!

 

 

 

Posted in Pic credits : Shubham, Short Story, Uncategorized

a letter awaiting a reply!

Hello Mr. ‘You’

R. No. 119 

Although you told me your name last night. But I am addressing you by ‘You’ for a reason. The same reason for which I am writing to you before I leave the motel this morning.

I had many visits to Manali but this was different and for the first time I am leaving the place with a contention. And believe me if I wouldn’t have written this letter, my contention could never had been accomplished.

Yesterday, at 3:00 AM when I came down, walking outside for some peace. I saw you, I approached you not because I wanted to have a smoke rather I just needed some company to talk. I faked it by telling you that I desperately need a smoke, in fact I have hardly smoked twice or thrice in my entire life. And actually, that scene of a young guy immersed deeply in his thoughts sitting at the rock by the stream-side, and that smoke from his lips creating some mystical image which danced with the symphony of flowing water softly hitting those tiny rocks. Anyone would have got enticed by the view and that aesthetic ambience.

While we talked at length, on different matters, I realised I was missing some part of me since I passed my schooling. It is often said that girls mature at a much wider sense and at a very early stage; but somehow I had been missing my thoughtfulness broadly. May be the more we get into the specifics of life, the more we drift ourselves away from self-introspection. I know it was not intended but our conversation unknowingly touched such topics which intrigued me and my thoughts.

Usually I never do this, but ‘You’ need to know something about me. While what I shared with you from inside of me was all true, straight from my heart. But what I covered for outside of me was all false and cooked up, instantly by my mind.

When I told you that I am in Manali for my work assignment; well that was true. But it isn’t for the construction of any passage in the rear mountains at Vashisht. Also, the fact that I told you that I am being accompanied by my fiancé whom you saw waving and directing me back to the room, is also untrue. I did not want to hinder the quality of our conversation by some irrelevant truthfulness; which ironically seems important now, as I leave the place.

‘You’ shall be acquainted with this: Yes, I work on assignments but the one which are assigned to me are for renting my physical self, and also with that: the one who called me back to the room last night wasn’t a fiancé rather he was ordering me back to work. Do you remember, how we talked about social taboos and interdictions. Well, I am one of the resource as well as production of the same kind.

Whenever I happen to tell someone about my occupation, either I am evaluated as immoral or I am being seen by pity. I shall tell you that, please don’t feel any of them for me. For being immoral is absurd adjective for me, as I am well aware of my ethics. While there are people who see intercourse as a sacred thing that should only be enjoyed only with the person they love or they marry, however there are also people who view it as an ordinary activity that one can do with anyone. And remember that, ‘You’ yourself complimented my thoughts on moral beliefs yesterday, isn’t it?

And for the pity, you may save it for those who needs them actually, I was never forced to do what I do. I am as passionate about my work as you are for writing. The only difference is I have found ways to make it my profession and you’re still imprecise about directions.

‘You’ knew when I told you that how I have tasted success eventually, that was an absolute truth. I started from the streets of Sonagachi, Kolkata to local places of different cities and towns; and then to VIP areas and lavish societies. Moreover, this morning I also got my VISA clearance for Berlin (Germany).

However, I won’t say I have no regrets. I faced dirty challenges, I face them even now sometimes. But as per my fellow professionals’, things are different in Germany. Harlots have their well-defined rights, human trafficking is highly controlled, both the service renderer and recipient are made educated and sensitized of health hazards. People cannot just demand what they feel like. Everything is regulated in a structure, with all mandatory registrations of workers they are endowed with all social benefits just like employees. And evidently there is minimal chances of being abused. Surprisingly, these legalizations were established in the era of 1800s there.

It’s hard to witness harsh realities of life. I have grieved for around ten to fifteen of my fellow workers, who lost their lives due to STDs. Much to misery, one of them was a little girl, not even 18. Due to absence of a definite legal structure, sadly, the little kids are also either forced or lured in this field. I read that a comprehensive study of WHO revealed the fact that prostitutes in India are mostly minors and there is a rapid increase in the numbers in recent years.

‘You’ said you’re studying law, I wanted to ask something yesterday but not wanted to drive the conversation at different and ambiguous direction. But guess I can take advantage of asking the same here in this letter. Even though I know; I am never going to receive a reply to this letter.

A page at Wikipedia says that Prostitution in India is legal, Is that true?

If so, why are we treated in a discriminatory manner? Why don’t the local police who takes bribe for the same, knows this fact? Why are we still charged on criminal grounds for different aids and means of our profession like soliciting, owning brothels and seeking clients for our work? Why isn’t there any person/NGO/ TV ads who/which could educate about our legal rights, if there are any. If government is ready to recognize us, then Why is that we’re still labelled as shady, grey and blacklisted.

I am not expert of interpretations but we are often made victims of circumstances. Honestly, I love my country and I am a little dishearten about leaving my own soil. But this profession of mine, which is one of the most ancient work and once belonged to esteemed-royal services of our country historically; is yet far from a strive to earn its dignity and necessary responsiveness.

Lastly, thank you for being ‘You’ and having a serene conversation. I might be biased about my thoughts but if someday you find answers to my questions, please write a reply and leave it anywhere at the internet.

I might find & read.

                                                                                                                    Thanks, Miss ‘Me’

An acquaintance from the riverside

Saturday, 14.12.2013

(please return the envelope to the receptionist… I just borrowed)

Posted in Narration, Pic credits : Shubham, Poetry, Uncategorized

A recital to my native speech ~ हम भूल नहीं पाएंगे !

IMG_3487

.

वो अक्षर के जंजाल बने शब्द, हम भूल नहीं पाएंगे,

छुट्टी के दिन चम्पक नंदन, भूल नहीं पाएंगे |”

Progressive equations are always meant to bring some material advancements in life.

And so was this faintly warm summer day, which itself taught some paces towards a headway for the language which we have always loved,liked and assimilated.

Contentedly all our group members were keen to rejuvenate our mother tongue “Hindi”. I was intrigued by the memories of my own self. The affection with the language might have been a little difficult to be felt upon initially, but while giving a deep thought as I hosted the session; I had my abysmal encounters with the recollections of some very common events. I think they’re so common that each person with their roots and shoots originating from “devanagri” may feel the way as I did while compering in Hindi for the very first time.

बातों की रूह ईमान से जुड़ी, जब हिंदी में बोला

माँ के दूध की आह हुई, तब भी हिंदी में रोया |

बचपन की सलेटी पर, वो पहला अक्षर था ‘क’

और आज भी उत्तर के शोध में रोज़ पूछा जाता ‘क्या?’

वो अक्षर के जंजाल बने शब्द, हम भूल नहीं पाएंगे,

छुट्टी के दिन चम्पक नंदन, भूल नहीं पाएंगे |”

As the session progressed, remarkably all of us present there in that hall; who were initially struggling and hesitating to have a comfort with our native language, were now able to reminisce the words, sentences, phrases constituting some very interesting actualities and stories.

दादी-नानी की कढ़ाई में पकी, मीठी रसीली कहानी

हिंदी जिसकी स्वाद-याद के तरकश से बरसा पानी |

सपनों में किसी सोच की आँखें, जिस भाषा में खुलती

गुस्से में गाली भी निकले तो भी इस में ही रमती |

वो अक्षर के जंजाल बने शब्द, हम भूल नहीं पाएंगे,

छुट्टी के दिन चम्पक नंदन, भूल नहीं पाएंगे |”

Getting to know the things that we already knew somewhere deep within our self, was a lot more than fun. I was able to see the privilege and the pride in each of our eyes by the end of the session.

“The privilege” for- we have competently inherited one of the very complexed and primeval languages of the world. And “The pride” for- On that day, we substantiated our own selves that this generation is capable enough to sustain the language with the same lavishness and we’re more than eager to pass the legacy to the new ones.

रंगोली, सुरभि और तरंग सब हिंदी के प्रत्यक्ष !

गाने फ़िल्मी या पुण्य भजन हों, गाते हिंदी के अक्स !!

दफ्तर से घर तक की दूरी, करते हम पूरी !

तो क्या हिन्दी की आधुनिक शाखा, रहने दें अधूरी ??

वो अक्षर के जंजाल बने शब्द, हम भूल नहीं पाएंगे,

छुट्टी के दिन चम्पक नंदन, भूल नहीं पाएंगे |”

Posted in Pic credits : Shubham, Short Story, Uncategorized

Perfect menu in my plate : Some Pickles with letters to weight

Not that I know importance of colours very deeply but I still feel that they have something in them which supplies a mood of rhythmic divine.

With celebrations concluding I dusted the dry gulaal off my face and joined back the warm cup of green tea and heaps of virtual files waiting for me in an empty meeting room at the 19th floor of the cyber city glass tower. The festive season coupled with March closing has its own disputed flavour. I spent another continuous 5 hours with balancing numbers, equating cash flows and generating memos.

The wave of Start-ups has created a new culture of its own, they usually create a one-man army from each of us equipped with all automated resources & tools updated on our dear companion – The laptop.

A large clock at the rear end of cafeteria knocked a sharp 12. Usually it’s a difficult vision from the place I was sitting, but it’s almost as easy to note two needles coinciding at top end of a circle as to a slow, balanced & centred delivery at a bowling alley which comfortably assures a Strike.

I thought it must be a high time I should remind myself of some supper needs. I walked out and took the elevator to ground floor. Ironically, we have all sorts of cuisine serving restaurants & food courts in cyber area but still the place which is most alive at this hour of a night is dhabas & sutta corners.

I walked straight inside to the corner back end table. Picking this table had 3 reasons- firstly, while sitting here one can have a whole view of dhaba; secondly, this table is hardly noticeable for a single person sitting & dining; and thirdly, it was the only unoccupied table with a single stool left to sit upon.

Ya garmiyon ki raat jo purwaiyan chale, thandi safed chaadaron pe jaage der tak

taaron ko dekhte rahe chath par pade huye… Dil dhoodta hai fir vahi, fursat ke….!

Today, this dhaba has a very endearing taste of old Bollywood songs, thanks to the owner who let its customer connect speakers with their bluetooth device. While I ordered Keema parantha, this song had already started to fill the hollow sphere inside me. I started to hum the lyrics along with the tune and enjoy the view of corporate crowd rushing in and out of the dhaba.

And then this orange hair-streaked girl met my eyes in the hope of finding a table, I caught the same and signalled her that although I have some space in this small plastic table but there is no extra stool. She still came to me telling the waiter on her way to deliver her order here at my table. While she came to me I felt a little agitated and thinking “what is she expecting? She shouldn’t be thinking of me offering her my stool.” She waved at me with a smile and kept her belongings on a table. I told her at once “Actually I am yet to start and I am waiting for my order”. She replied “Yes, its fine. I assume you’re here by yourself, right.” I nodded Yes with no further clue of how is she going to make a seating at my table.

Suddenly a guy at the next table came to her carrying his own seat in his hand “excuse me I think you’re looking for a stool”. She responded “Ohh this is yours, I have told bhaiya to arrange one”. The guy insisted “No worries I’l take the other one, looks he is taking a while (he stopped, gazed and said) or if you want you may join me at the table there with my team.” She took the stool with a long smile “Ohh stool is fine, Thank you Sir”. “Arrey its Vikram and yeah pleasure is all mine” he said as he left back to his dining squad.

I was amazed both at the timings of this change in the background song to

“aane vala pal jaane vala hai, Ho Sake to Iss Mein Zindagi Bitaado, Pal Jo Yeh Jaanewala hai”

and also at exaggeratedly humble approach to the lady by this guy who coincidently shares the same name as mine. So she sat while both our orders were placed on the table, I had an obvious satirical smile over my face with the lines

“ek baar waqt se Lamha Gira Kahin, Wahaan Dastan Mili Lamha Kahin Nahin, Thoda Sa Hasaake Thoda Sa Rulaake, Pal Ye Bhi Jaanewala Hai Ho Ho..”

She calmly opened to me “what’s the point to grin about?” I said “Ohh nothing, it’s just the song and…”

She: “And? And what?”

Me: “Well.. the song & the situation”

She snapped “there is No situation.”

I steadily answered “If there isn’t then why is this Vikram guy sitting with his i-pad getting the song changed to…?”

“Tum aa gae ho, noor aa gya hai…nahin to charago se lau jaa rahi thi”

She ignored my reference and said very dramatically “this waiter is messed up, see my alloo ka parantha is in your plate while your keema parantha is in mine.” And she swapped the plates swiftly. As I was starving and given that a delicious keema parantha with amul butter floating all over, was calling me for a good time with it; I started to ate.

Arrey what’s the hurry? You know if you call yourself that foodie then you must wait for all the right dishes to be present in your plate. While she said this, she poured some home-made pickles from a tiny earthen pot kept on the table, the one she always carry in her jute bag. I was delighted “Myra, I must say I have never had a achaar as fine as you bring.”

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Continue reading “Perfect menu in my plate : Some Pickles with letters to weight”

Posted in Pic credits : Shubham, Short Story

Tears rolled down as she stepped down from the cab!!

I had this urgent meeting at the far end of Delhi, about 75 km away from my home. So, I hired an early morning Uber. I was well within the time considering a wet and drizzly morning that day. Unlike always, had to direct the driver to rush with an above average speed.

We were going fine, when suddenly he took an unplanned turn. Astonishingly I dropped my jaw asking “this is a wrong turn bhaiya” to which he replied “sirji duty baji hai usi taraf jaa raha hun”. Now I realised out of guilt that I mistakenly chose Uber Pool Cab instead of the private one and so the driver was supposed to pick the other shared passenger now.

With high-end GPS it was quite easy to reach the pickup spot at that lady’s home but acknowledging her intelligence – she got 2 lanes ahead in her attempt to make it convenient for the cab to reach her. Of course, this particular spot wasn’t easily traceable at the GPS now. Somehow taking 20 more minutes, we were able to locate the lady with her 3-year-old daughter.

She had a drop at the airport which must be 35 km from the place we were. Well, I used my Maths and calculated that with all estimated hurdles, I shall still reach my meeting at least 15 minutes before time. I tried making my peace with this fact.

However, still mystified about the way ahead, I had to take my mind off from calculating time over & again. Noticeably, this 3-year-old was constantly drawing my attention. Sitting in her mom’s lap she was enjoying a good time kicking the back of the front seat and with every kick she will turn towards me hoping to see my expressions. I winked towards her twice but was hesitant to react most of the times.

Airport was still half way away when rain started to pour heavily and so did my heartbeats. With rushing traffic and heavy rains my calculations started again and this time it got tougher; disentangling highest level of probability and solving a time-based differential equation, I was 5 minutes short of time. Still thought— “a 5-minute gap could be easily shielded”.

This little girl started making tap-tap sound syncing with the voice of rain falling on the car roof. She made such a cute voice, that by now I had started enjoying her so composed noise. And her impatient eagerness to draw my attention was involving me in her pint-sized game of kicking & punching the seat backed with her “tap” tune.

To say it rightly I was highly entertained by her and may be feeling was mutual as she enjoyed an abundance of attention from me. I asked the girl “what’s your name dear?” She avoided to answer, instead urged me to continue to admire and respond to her game.

I looked upon her mother “Ma’am your baby is so adorable, what’s her name?”. She replied “its Ramya but it’s not my child, I am just an attorney of her.” I thought why would a child as little as her needs an attorney? While we started some conversation, she told me that both her parents are struggling a separation case from past two years. I so questioned, why doesn’t she stay with her mother until the court decides on a custody.

She replied “Actually none amongst her parents wants her custody, they are actually fighting to give away the child to each other. So by the time anything is decided she has been given into the custody of the attorney.

I heard the story but chose not to make any comments. I took the girl in my arms, kissed her and played some more sillier yet much sensible fictional games of her till the airport arrived.

We both found an attachment with each other in an hour’s journey. As she left the cab and her attorney closed the door, I kept watching her. She was tapping her feet in water and enjoying the weather as they approached the airport terminal.

I knew, now it was getting immeasurably late for this very important meeting of mine and I was sad.

Sad for a different reason!

Actually, it so happened that tears rolled down as she had stepped down from the cab.

 

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​आज फिर याद आया मायका !

आज फिर याद आया उसे अपना मायका।  ‘मायका’ माँ का घर यानि माँ के पति का घर, माँ की ससुराल, पर उनकी बेटी का तो है मायका यानि माँ का घर। याद नही कब वह इस शब्द से परिचित हुई, कब जाना इस शब्द का संपू…

Source: आज फिर याद आया मायका !

Posted in Pic credits : Shubham, Poetry, Quote, Short Story

पिछली गली से गुज़रा…(memories from the years past year)

Some people are too particular about their past events and carry-over imprints of the same in their present day. He was old enough to put too many words for his thoughts. So while I sat with him over a cup of tea, I tried his expressions and some slow broken phrases be translated as in here:

बस पिछली गली से गुज़रा तो ये याद है आया,

कि पहले भी तो कुछ ऐसे ही शुरू किय था |

जब सर्दी के कारण कंबल से निकल ना पाया,

हाथ रेवड़ी, गजक मूंगफुली भरे हुए थे |

और क़िस्सों से बातों की लंबी झड़ी लगाए,

ताश के पतों की बाज़ी भी सिमट रही थी |

Winter always greets with a smile and keeps our eyes glued to a foggy colourful painting. This man was dressed extravagantly in his Raymand blue solid blazer and Tag Heuer designer glasses. I was trying to figure out that how and for what reason, this man found an insignificant tea-stall at the roadside of Galleria market worthy enough to spend few hours. While he offered me a seat at his table and tried to make some conversation, a constant outstare was maintained by him at me.

बस पिछली गली से गुज़रा तो ये याद है आया,

यूँ ही एक वादा तब भी खुद से किया गया था |

जो पूरे हफ्ते, फिर कुछ दिन और फिर, लम्हो में खोकेर,

एक मीठी धीमी खुश्बू देकर लौट गया था |

चलते चलते सर्दी ने जब ली अंगड़ाई,

मेने भी किए कंधे उँचे छोड़ रज़ाई |

Since it was the first day of New Year, he was keen to talk about events from the ones that are a story now. The one’s which are too generic, the universal memories which happens with almost all regular people. In one way or the other we all kindle a candle in a similar manner during the dusk and set the same off before the drowsing sleep. Although we might get grouchy about waking up to the same morning but honestly we have always relished the night-time.

बस पिछली गली से गुज़रा तो ये याद है आया,

तब भी तो कुल्फी फालुदे का था एक मौसम |

जब मेने चलती बस से उतर देखा था मेला,

घूमा खेला, किया माप तोल, पर लिया ना ढेला |

गरम हवा के साथ भी एक एहसास जुड़ा था,

अक्सर जिसकी तपस में अब भी खूब हूँ हस्ता |

The sun falling on our table shall be termed as an unalloyed afternoon and its pleasant warmth gave his thoughts an oomph of expression. While he told me how his summers were equally good as winters, still he always ran towards the later one. Until the day he realised that these weathers are an easy replication of one another, they tend to have differentiated skins yet they have the same essence of blood flowing with in them supplying memories to the organs of life cycle.

बस पिछली गली से गुज़रा तो ये याद है आया,

तब उसकी भीगी छतरी से एक जुड़ा था रिश्ता |

सड़क पर पिंडलिया डूब रही थी लेकिन फिर भी,

मेरे ख़्वाबों की नाव हवा में झूम रही थी |

जेसे दिल ही दिल में रूठ के मुझसे कोई कहता,

कहीं हम भी बिन हुए रूबरू तुमसे, ठहर ना जाएँ |

The old man was continuing with some beautiful moments from his life being expressed with each sip of tea he took. And once the cup was empty he began to lift his feet very patiently, slowly and start taking his shimmering foot wears off. I did not ask for the reason for he was doing this rather just maintained being an audience for him. He stood with a support of a half-filled water drum kept along with the table we were sitting on and walked bare foot towards his Car parked across that wet and muddy lane.

बस पिछली गली से गुज़रा तो ये याद है आया,

कुछ बात अधूरी, याद अनकही और इतराए वादे |

इनसे ही तो तब भी मेरा साल था गुज़रा,

कितने स्वादिष्ट पकवान से लगते, हैं ये सारे |

पूरे होकर क्या ये भी होंगे इतने ही मीठे  ? ?

या फिर अश्वो की रफ़्तार से ताल मिला के,

ये भी मुझको दुनिया के इर्द गिर्द ले जाएँगे |

कोने कोने के कस्बों में समय बिता के,

रस देंगे फिर से एसे जो गुदगुदा सकेंगे |

Yes, very likely even I was amazed at this eccentric old man and looking at my expression the young boy who was serving me tea answered “arey bhaiya, ye chacha pichley 6-7 saal se naye saal ki pehli taarikh ko ese hi chae peekey naye chamaktey mehangey valey jootey chhod jaatey hain yahan…” This man comes here only once a year and for no particular known reasons leaves his shoes behind. As the boy took those shoes and walked at the back of his stall he shouted “happy new year chacha”

बस पिछली गली से गुज़रा तो ये याद है आया,

कि एसा ही एक साल मेरे हर साल मे गुज़रा..

.

और यूँ ही गुज़रे वक़्त सा फिर यह लम्हा आकर….

बस पिछली गली से गुज़रा तो ये याद है आया||

Before he sat in the backseat of his black tinted Jaguar, he turned towards us very slowly, waved his hands and then moved in for the next drive. While he waved, I think I saw his lips moving slowly. Although the boy had never cared for a reply and was engaged back in his kettle & cups immediately after he had shouted.

May be the old man wished him back for a decent New Year again, like the one before….!

Posted in Pic credits : Shubham, Poetry, Short Story

The beauty of her….सुन गीत वो मीठी लोरी के, खन खन चूड़ी से खेले हैं..|

This world might not have been a living celestial body, if we were kept secluded from the streams of colourful emotions and sentiments. While the majority waters on this planet are blue and sour, yet the rivers and the lakes are sweet and gratifying.

I have always been thoughtful of how nature has been so endowing to the mankind which is supplemented by the fact that we are born in the hands of this special lady who is yet another effective result of incredible skillset of nature.

image1

A mother is an undefined beauty that one can possibly dream off, so I thought of her while my train was rushing at a massive speed cutting through the woods of Morena, Madhya Pradesh. The fragrance of her kept me reminded of different striking phases and compelled me to some “kaagaz and kalam”……

सुन गीत वो मीठी लोरी के, खन खन चूड़ी से खेले हैं

छम थिरक रहे उन तारो से कल ही तो गिनती सीखें हैं

अभी यूँ ही तो हम बड़े हुए, वो बचपन के जो सवेरे हैं

आज भी उठ नींद से जागे तो पुच्कार सुरीली सुनते हैं

Glare of that morning through those dry mountains and green forests was restful and similar to the bed-time stories that were knitted by her in the dark nights. My thoughts were interrupted by this chai vala bhaiya at the Gwalior Railway Station peeping through the window panes in my papers, while offering some tea and biscuit….

दिन डूब रहा तो याद है कि बिस्किट के ख्वाब खरीदे थे

नमकीन कलम की स्याही से जो सपने लिख खट्टे मीठे थे

अब याद नहीं कितने किस्से रातों को सुन के सोते थे

अक्सर ही यह सब आस पास से बुन रखे हुए से लगते थे

Although travelling alone may sometimes be boring and non-constructive for some people but not for me, I am always surrounded with unimaginative thoughts that are seldom ignited in me while I am with some company. These sorts of little insignificant habits are indeed a genetic swing from her..

तुम जो भी बोला करती हो, वो साथ भी है और पास भी है

जाना बातों ही बातों में वो ज्ञान सिमट के रखा हुआ

जो सोच रहे वो भी तेरा, जो सोच चुके तुझसे सीखा

अपने व्यवहार की तारीफों में जो खुशबू है वो तेरी है

While defining a mother, everything is metaphysical. A sheer image of her being around us, is so lyrical that one may write a song without words and that will be so much of a melody that it won’t be a mandate to get into any symphony.

यह दृष्टि जिस से शुरू हुआ उसकी आवाज़ भी तेरी है

लम्हो लम्हो की बारिश में वो भीगी छतरी तेरी है

एक रेत के टीले पर लिपटा वो सूखा पेड़ है हरा भरा

जो दिया है वो सम्मान भी है, एक साज़ भी है – तेरा नाज़ भी है

Finally I reached my destination and while I set my foot on platform, I found this station a lot different from the one i was used to; at New Delhi. Satna is a quiet place and scarcely populated; what I wondered was that although the city has lot of industries, yet the place like railway station is almost vacate at 2100 hrs of the day.

The only people I could locate were some very few middle aged coolies, a station master, a single tea-staller and a young lady sitting at the corner of the ticket counter’s window holding tiny hands of her little girl and making her scribble some letters on a handy chalkboard.

कांधों पर टांगे जो बस्ते, वो कथन उनका अधूरा था

बिन पकड़ तुम्हारी उंगलिओ से, क्या लिखावट बेमानी ना होती?

यह अर्थ भावार्थ इस रीति का, क्या सन्दर्भ अधूरे ना होते?

अलंकृत जो संसार हुआ, क्या सब वाक्ये बेसब्रे से ना होते?

While I sat in a taxi towards the motel, I marvelled if mothers are mothers because they impersonate their own mothers?? Or they learn to be one eventually and inevitably..

कुछ अभी अभी की बात ही है, जब संजोया सोना चमक गया

वो शीश महल की मखमली चादर को ओढ़ सफेद सवार हुआ

लाखों खुशियों को दर्पण देने चाँद बना और कान बना

वो कान बना उन बातों का जो तुमने हमने करनी है

There is lot to feel, think and express while having a mother in our mind. And so did i..!

While checking into the room of a super deluxe luxury suite of five star hotel of that city which was available at a cost-effective price much to my amazement.

I laid on the king size bed with a smile…

And few enduring phrases that I spoke while my eyes were sealed with a sound sleep after a long exhausting journey; are the ones:

वो लेख लिखा था जो तुमने

अब उसको प्रस्तुत करना है

कुछ धूप अभी फिर चमक रही

तो फूल अनगिनत खिलने हैं

विचार की आँच पर रखा तवा

अब समय को उसपे पकना है

I was able to remember only the above said, out of the lot that I whispered the previous night.

So I opened the same “kaagaz and kalam” impatiently and concluded the verse.

हम शान भी हैं, हम मान भी हैं

हम नाज़ तुम्हारे भी तो हैं |

क्यूंकी..

 सुन गीत वो मीठी लोरी के, खन खन चूड़ी से खेले हैं

छम थिरक रहे उन तारो से कल ही तो गिनती सीखें हैं ||

Posted in Pic credits : Shubham, Poetry, Quote

@ cashless pockets..

Aaj fir lambi kataar me waqt bita ke bhi korey kaagaz ko rangtey na dekh paye…. 

Dilli ki sisakti sard sadak pe yun kehte hue Vo silee jeb main ek or paiband lagatey nazar aye..

Kuch achanak kho gya esa sa ehsaas tab hua, jab khaali jebo se Ye note, chawwani-athanni ki tareh hi khankhanaein!

Maalum hua hawa mein kuch gandh bhi saanso se abhi hi mal malai…

Toh swachta ki varnmala se bani neeti pe noto ki machine bhi jhadjhadai..

Taalio se alankrit hue bhaashan pe humne bhi khoob ki waahwhaai…

Or naachti gaalio pe bhi humne khoob taal milaai..!!

Kuch karishma buntey bunatey har mod pe Ye Adam Smith bantey nazar aye..

Nahin nahin karke har roz hi humne akhbaar ki paperboat mein khabro ki gehrai napaii..

Par Voh..

Vo to apni cashless pockets me; bin hasi, hauley se, dhimey se kal ke intezaar me fir muskuraye..!!!