लफ्जों  के  लिबास  नहीं  होते ! Words are Naked !

जो  बातें  कभी  जाहिर  नहीं  होती

खामोशियाँ  जिक्र  कर  जाती  हैं

लिहाज  का  क्या  कहें

लफ्जों  के  लिबास  नहीं  होते

काफिले  चलते  रहते  हैं

कारवां  जाता  है  गुजर 

क्या  खोया  क्या  पाया

रिश्तों  में  हिसाब   नहीं  होते

परछाइयां  धुँधली  हैं

पर  खोया  चेहरा  ढूँढ़ते  रहते  हैं

आईने  पे  सायों  की  जमी  हैं  परतें 

अधूरे  ख्वाब  कभी  पूरे  नहीं  होते

हवाएं  न  जाने  कहाँ  उड़ा  ले  जाती  हैं

परिंदे  परेशां  नहीं  होते

ऊंचे  आकाश  में  छुपी  है  समंदर  की  गहराई 

ख्यालों  के  कभी  दायरे  नहीं  होते

बनावटी  बातें  जो  हैं …उनसे

कभी  कभी  नमी  का  अंदेशा  तो  होता  है

पर  लफ्जों  की  धोकेबाज़ी  से

दिलों  के  रेगिस्तान  हरे  नहीं  होते

बेगानों  में  अपनों  को  खोजते  हैं

और  दूरियों  में  नजदीकियां

दहलीज  पे  खड़ी  ज़िन्दगी देती  है दस्तक    

धड़कनों  के  दरमियाँ  फासले  नहीं  होते

ख्वाइशों की हसरतों  से  हैरत  क्यूँ ,

फितरत  को  जब  हरकतों  से  फुर्सत  नहीं

उधार  की  ज़िन्दगी  से  नाराज  क्यूँ 

हमराज  अक्सर  हमसफ़र  नहीं  होते

क्या  इंसानियत  के  चर्चे 

क्या  हैवानियत  के  किस्से

शख़्शियत   के  कई  अंदाज  हैं  ये 

हासियों  में  बंटी   ज़िन्दगी  के  मायने  नहीं  होते

Pic : Amanda APS

No Sins in Cousins

Relationships are relative; relatives relate, but reluctantly.

But the creatures called cousins are exceptions.

Cousins cross the coast of blood-relationship to become friends. A class apart—where friendship frolics, and relationship lurks in the shadows.

Cousins combine the best of both. They give us what we love in friends, shunning what we dislike in relatives. In “cousinship”, the theory of relativity falls flat.

Cousins do not weigh us down with relationship’s expectations. With cousins we are free as fun, buoyant as bobs, and light as laughter.

Cousins neither con nor control… they console. They do not count or concoct… they connect. They are neither caustic nor cumbersome… they care.

Aren’t cousins cute… albeit crazy?

(Dedicated to all the cousins and their wives & husbands)

आओ कभी… मेरी खिड़की में बैठो…Come Sometime… Sit in My Window

आओ  कभी … मेरी  खिड़की  में  बैठो…

कुछ  गाओ , कुछ  गुनगुनाओ

कुछ  हंसो , कुछ  मुस्कुराओ

कुछ  खिलखिलाओ , कुछ  फुसफुसाओ ;

और  आओ …

करें  कुछ  चुगलियां , कहें  कुछ  चुटकुले

करें  कुछ  कानाफूसी , लगाएं  कुछ  कहकहे

करें  कुछ  गपसप , और  कुछ  गिले शिकवे

कहें  कुछ  किस्से  सुने  सुनाये , कुछ  अनकहे ;

आओ  कभी  अलसाई  लसलसी सी  दोपहरी  में …

मेरी  गरम  अदरखि  चाय  के  घूंटो  में 

करवट  बदलती  खूबसूरत  कहानियों  की

चुनिंदा  चर्चरी  चुस्कियां  हैं ;

आओ  कभी  शबनमी  धुँधली  सी  शाम  ढले …

मेरी  पुरानी  रक्तिम  शराब  के  प्यालों  में 

सलवटें  और  खुमारियों  भरे

दबे -पावं  रिश्तों  के  नशीले  लम्हे  हैं ;

आओ  कभी  फटे  पन्नों  वाली  पुरानी  किताब  में …

ढूंढे  अपने  आप  को , या  फिर  खो  जाएँ ,

और  उसकी  लज़ीज़  लिपटवां  खुसबू  में

लपेट  लें  वो  अरमान  अर्सों  पुराने ;

आओ  सुलझा  लें  मांझे  को , जिसमे  उलझी  है …

पतंगो  सी  उमंगें  और  ख्वाहिशें ,

अतीत  की  मुंडेर  पे  बैठ  दो  पल …

आओ  करें  कुछ  ऎसी  बातें  मुलाकातें ;

आओ  कभी ऐ जिंदगी , के  एक  मुद्दत  हुई ,

आओ  के  सहला  जाओ , तुम  मुझे  बहला  जाओ ,

झरोके  मेरे  खुले  हैं , अपने  खोल  दो ,

झांको , मत  झिझको , मत  जाओ , रुक जाओ , रह  जाओ .

आओ  कभी … मेरी  खिड़की  में  बैठो …

कुछ  कहो …

या फिर कहने दो खामोशियों को…

*****

Fallen Leaf … Standing Trees

Seeing life through the lens of a fallen leaf,

Or through the scope of standing trees…

I stand at the far end in fog and mist,

Line of sight is straight, frames freeze;

A moment is caught in the standing trees,

A lifetime is captured by a fallen leaf…

Moment is momentous, monumental is minute,

Does it matter…big small long or brief;

Fallen… colour may be faded fawn,

Standing… shade is gallant green…

Life is seasons of myriad hues,

Faded, Gallant… many more and in-between.

Fallen Leaf Pic: William Smith

There Was A Tree, There Was An Island

I am the Tree, I am the Island…

In air, In water, and on ground,

I am in, I am out, I am within…

Real or Reflection, seen or unseen;

My leaves sway, shimmer, and seek…

My roots soak, sink, and surrender,

Longing to merge, melt, and meet…

Some will soothe, others shock, stab, and shatter;

Insides surface as outsides submerge…

In tight embraces, truths emerge,

The tree in me is shaken…

The island in me is broken,

Soil of memories clings to roots that now rot…

Waves gnaw, chip away every bit and mote;

Soon my sap seeps and saps…

I dissolve – I am particles, I am pieces,

Yes, there was a tree, there was an island…

Nothing ever remains except reminiscences.

Tree Island

pic: Gavin Hard castle

Middle Muddle

I never meddle, but plight of the middle needles.

Mind-boggling, if not maddening. Amidst motley of ‘mids’, it’s a medley of ‘middles’.

Malady or melody…depends:

It is a mystery why the mid-wife is a wife only in the mid;

It is an enigma whether ‘midnight’s children’ are born on this or ‘the other side of midnight’;

Even if it is a wily woman lurking in the shadows, behind every shady deal is a sinister ‘middle-man’;

While one end devours and the other discards, the middle alone fights battle-of-the-bulge;

Facts: It is always the mid-riff which is reported bare on a bike; Middle names are lost like middle-ages; Medium-spicy always turns out to be low-bland, like mid-day meals;

Having lost youth’s charm, and lacking wisdom of the old, the misfit middle-aged try to be both, and land up in no man’s/woman’s land;

Caught in the middle, like pendulums they perpetually swing from end to end, as if caught between ‘goodbye’ and ‘I love you’;

The moment we mingle middle with class, we assign it to the mundane; sensing the mood, even Modi has abandoned it;

Glory is of the elder, love is with the younger, and leftovers of both for the mere middle;

The middle-of-the-road always gets it – hook from the ‘left’, hit from the ‘right’;

A hit is a hit, but it is amazing over the mid-wicket; Out is out, but it stumps when ball hits the middle;

The mean is never mean, the median adheres to the median, and the mode is always a model, yet the central tendency of being in the middle is scoffed at;

No one wants them (even though they have their advantages): middle seat in airlines, middle berth in trains, a puncture in the middle of the journey, a slap in the middle of the road; the notable exception being a fiendish fart in the middle of a politician’s lecture;

Even though it is the longest, you can’t raise the poor middle finger, lest you are booked for being illegal or immoral;

Whereas the mad flings with mids* or maidens cause the mid-air collisions, the ‘midsummer night’s dream’ becomes a midwinter nightmare for the jilted;

The middle-east today is so west, it has none of the middle and little of the east; And in that County why is it only Middlesex, even if no one is counting?;

Don’t come running to me with your mid-life crisis when I am in the middle of nowhere.  My signboard is succinct:

“Don’t disturb, I am in the middle of something” (read- I am enjoying ‘nothing’ more than I had enjoyed ‘anything’)

*weeds

Disclaimer: I have written this in good humour, not to ridicule anyone. I believe we can laugh at ourselves.

Pic: Gabriela Pala, pexels.com

girl in forest

SUSHANT SINGH RAJPUT… An Ephemeral Creature Of Transient Times…

Sushant Singh Rajput… A brilliant star in quest of stars, now in a galaxy faraway. 

His last thoughts (?) in my words:

An ephemeral creature of transient times…

I lived in the world of soulful quiet;

Firefly of the future, my soul found wings…

In life lost and stars-kissed light.

                 Words echoing from my deepest depths…

                 I owe to those who took my breath away;

                Living now, now dead…

                Neither regret, nor rejoice, nothing to say.

 Nothing like forever old and forever new…

For not in moments, in memories I live;

Born to die and born yet again…

Nothing to forget, yet nothing to believe.

              Past a beautiful lie, Present was existential angst…

              Future but an agonized quest;

             Scorched soul sitting on pierced wings…

             Flies me to distant shores- dark, day, or twilight.

 Nano particle in the void of time n space…

Infinity ensconced in a fleeting second;

Effervescent, enchanting, exhilarating…

Yet, in palm, are life n times ever held?

              An ephemeral creature of transient times…

             I lived in the world of soulful quiet;

            Firefly of the future, my soul found wings…

            In life lost and stars-kissed light.

Note: I wrote this poem in January this year. Didn’t know my words will echo the life and times of Sushant- a brilliant star, his astronomical quests, and perhaps his thoughts and emotions just before his journey to the faraway galaxy.