2011......A wish for all

Something surely loves a nest
that bees still feed their drones
that ants sweat and heave and carry
and beauty dwells with crones.

Why else will the squirrels steal
and dads come back to dine
unless it is to hug a son
and proudly say `he's mine'

For , long the clouds may wander
and forever they may roam
the showers strangely, always pause
to let the birds get home....

Beyond The Pale

And then I met my other self
looking ,and strangely, doing well
slowly sowing shrivelled crocuses
in the Hadian fields of asphodel

He smiled a-pace, then wryly smirked
"in that world of inverted norms,
how often did you plant the posies
and the upshot was a clutch of thorns ?

You looked up to, to be looked down upon
by the ones you thought were yours to be
now hail the fates for broken illusions
and thank the Devil that you can `see'

Thrice welcome , then , to the city of Dis
where I am sowing some blossoms dead
perhaps here , at last, in a visiting spring
I will reap some roses red................"

A heart that was.......

And were you fain , my cloistered heart,
with the unsaid, unheard and ungained ,
when the world embraced, kissed ,and said it
was'nt your silence the string that pained ?
Can we sever the cord that binds,
and will we set that wish on fire
when in a pulsing, stand-still moment
you'll be the `longing' and me `desire' ??

Love-Chess

The instant that they pop the question
and the moment that we say `yes'
gods say` let the sport begin'
that goddamned game of chess.

It's not that we do not try
to decline the queen's gambit
the `move' is by then too, too strong
to let us out of ambit .

We lose our pawns , we lose our rooks
unaware, benighted yet unseen
we thrust and parry and still we are
lanced a-back by the wily queen .

In this bootless game of you and me
I am just the feckless king
itemised, numbered ,by myself
forlorn, and waiting in the wing .

Am castled in that darkened corner
so vulnerable to the shiny knight
unlaced ,stripped , without an armour
A Lear , abandoned in the night.

I full well know how it ends
sooner ,or maybe, a little late
I'll be toppled, usurped ,uncrowned
sheepish ,silent , in my mate.......

Gravity's Rainbow

Too long, too long
that I've dwelt
in the half way house
of the could have been
tethered to the ah-may be
baulked by the should have been.
Be it that I'll ever touch
an assuring blush of being;
and be it that I'll ever reach
that softened glow of seeing ?
A naiad will then sooth my brow
and no more will I pine
coz she'll quietly lend her words
when I am done with mine .
May be that'll make me float
unchained ,unshackled, far above ,
gathered for sure by tender arms
in the zero-pull of total love...

The Thorn birds....revisited

Methought I chose the longest thorn
and had my heart in rips
what came out was just a croak
a wail of broken relatoinships

The world went on and no one turned
to hear that fractured song
maybe I did'nt bleed enough
or the legend is all wrong

Let's then change the rules
by which this game we play
you gotta have two untrue lips
to have love come your way

Maybe then the hearts won't bleed
and the phoenix be on wing
maybe then the birds will pause
to hear a true man sing

You......

And, I had seen
the world's fetish with the `I '
with`mine ', `me' and `my '
what ignominy !
I almost said `bye-bye '
I thought I had SEEN IT
I thought I was through,
till I saw eternity's amazement
at the `you ness 'of you.....

उन्वान अब और नहीं हैं ........

करता हूँ मोहब्बत इक तस्वीर के साथ
हैं ख्वाब खफा जब से ताबीर के साथ

दिल-शाद अदा उनकी और मासूम तकल्लुम
लगता है कि करते हैं बड़ी तदबीर के साथ

मेरी रातों को चरागों का गुमां हो गुज़रा
वोह मुझ से मिला था इस तनवीर के साथ

आज़ाद शाम के धुन्दलकों ने क्यूँ कहा मुझ से
कितने रोशन  थे तुम  उस   ज़ंजीर के साथ

मेरी नज्में तो मेरी तख्लियत कि हामिल हैं
किसने पाई है मोहब्बत फकत तहरीर के साथ

हाँ ,वोह चले गए लेकिन,मुस्का के तो गए
कोई गिला नहीं है अब तकदीर के साथ

रस्म-ए-शहर-ए- हुस्न

ना डूबे हैं सफीने न लहरों में गहराई
क्या खाक मज़ा लेंगे साहिल के तमाशाई

इक दिन की मोहब्बत का मज़ा  देखते हैं
बे-रंग-ओ-वफ़ा निकली उमरों की शनासाई

अच्छा है  इस हयात के काबिल तो हुए
दिल में कोई उमंग है न क़दमों में तवानाई

घबरा के अंधेरों का पता पूछते रहे
उनको डराती रही उन्ही की परछाई

कब नसीब होगा हमें रंग-ओ-राज़-ओ -नियाज़
किस दिन कता करेंगे वोह गैर से रमज़ाई

तुम ही कहो ...

तुम को देखूँ कि खुद से बात करूँ
इस हसीं दिन को कैसे रात करूँ

क़त्ल हो जाऊं और दम भी न निकले
तुम्ही कहो यह कैसे करामात करूँ

जिस में तू बा-वफ़ा निकले
अब तामीर वो कायनात करूँ

क्यूँ खुद को खुदा समझता था
ना-खुदा से कुछ सवालात करूँ

तुम साथ दो तो फिर क्यूँ ना
इसी  सफर को असल-ए-हयात करूँ

जब उस हसीं से खेल ली बाज़ी
दिल कहे खुद ही अपनी मात करूँ

शराब-ए-कोहना

उनकी हया से पूछें कि उनके हिजाब से
कर लें क्या मोहब्बत अब हम जनाब से

आँखों में आँखें आपकी फिर क्यूँ न डाल दें
बनती नहीं है बात कुछ जानम शराब से

लोग उनकी पहेली को अलग बूझते रहे
खड़े हम भी थे परेशां इस इंतखाब से

कहने लगे के दिन में न होना रु -ब -रु
ज़ायदा  हसीन लगते हो अपने ही ख्वाब से

देखें क्या करेंगे वोह हम से अब सवाल
कुछ कांप से गए हैं मेरे पहले जवाब से

पूछती है अपने ही माहताब से किरण
यह कौन निकल आया दिन में नकाब से

जुर्म-ए -उल्फत

इश्क कि बाज़ी थी खेली और हार दी
हमसे अब न कहना कि यूँ ही गुज़ार दी

वोह इश्क में करते रहे कुछ एसी तजारत
इक उम्र के बदले में मोहब्बत उधार दी

इन तारीकियों में शायद खुद को मिल ही जाएँ
कैसे हसीं गुमां में वो जुल्फें संवार दी

वोह छुप के दरीचों से हमें देखते रहे
हमने भी उस गली में सदा बार बार दी

मुद्दत के बाद उनको हम यूँ हसीं लगे
इक नज़र में उसने नज़र ही उतार दी

कमबख्त मेरी गज़ल के मायने बदल गया
जब मेरी सबा के एवज अपनी बहार दी

जिंदगी

देखा इक मकाम पर
इस मोड से कुछ दूर
जलवा-ए जिस्म से
गोशा गोशा रोशन ,
बे-पनाह हुस्न पे इतराती हुई
इक महबूब कि मानिंद ,
दिल में इक राज़ लिए
खुद पे मुस्कुराती हुई,
इक हसीना जो बस इस
इंतज़ार में थी,
फलक के लाख सितारे
बा-सजदा होंगे अभी....
मगर इस कदर वोह
बदगुमाँ शाम ढली
लौटा ,के फिर  देखूं वो हसीन फज़ा
पर न वो रंग,वो नूर ,वो इतराना
न वो मेरी कही बात पे शर्मना
न वो ज़ुल्फ़ , न ख़म ,न काजल को लकीर
इक सियाही बरपा थी रूखे -रोशन पर
गर्द-ए-राहे सफर ही थी जूं नसीब उसका .....

मैं उस से पूछने ही वाला था कि कौन है तू
नज़र झुका के वोह बोली कि जिंदगी हूँ मैं .....

यह कैसी उम्मीद ??

दिन गुज़र चुका उस हसीन बात के बाद
नयी सदी उठेगी अब इस रात के बाद

जो गुज़रनी थी  हम पर  , गुज़र है चुकी
क्या होगी कयामत इन हालात के बाद

हमसे पहले खेलते इश्क की बाज़ी
क्या लुत्फ़ रहेगा अब मेरी मात के बाद

रोएँ तो ,जाएँ तो ,यार के काँधे पर
और क्या मांगना इस सौगात के बाद

इस अदा से झटकते हैं वोह ज़ुल्फ़ से पानी
कई मौसम बदल गए इस बरसात के बाद

मासूम सनम ......

 अपनी शब से तलिस्समों को मिटाना होगा
उनको सुबह के छलावों से मिलाना होगा

सर पे बोझ जफ़ाओं का लिए फिरते हैं
जो समझते थे कि क़दमों में ज़माना होगा

कितने भोले हैं सनम ,रकीबों से कहा करते हैं
हमें इक वादा -ए - वफ़ा भी तो निभाना होगा

शबे - फुर्क़त की हकीकत ने जगाया है जिसे
उसको ख्वाबों के दरीचों में बुलाना होगा

इस लुटे दर पे भला आज यह दस्तक क्यूँ है
उठ के देखूं , यह वही चोर पुराना होगा

SHE....

Why, oh why, I never told her
it was so good to hold her;
when I am beyond all seeing,
and an eternity touches my being ;
A phantasm assails my learned art
touching the inner lining of my heart ;
when the walls close in on me,
and there is only emptiness to see ;
Then , a little bird whispers  ,somehow,
it'll be better to hold her now.....

तुझे याद रहे .......

वफ़ा की राह पे तू शाद -ओ -आबाद रहे
पर तुझे अपनी जफ़ाओं का सफर याद रहे

शाम -ए -वस्ल  मुबारक, ए  बिछड़े सनम
कैसे   बिखरा था नशेमन मगर याद रहे

साथ जब यार चलें ,ज़िक्र मोहब्बत के रहें
बस   किसी  घर की वीरान डगर याद रहे

कैसे करते हैं चुपके से दिलों के टुकड़े
खुदा करे तुझे  यह ही हुनर याद रहे

जब किसी  गैर  के चहरे पे झुकाना पलकें
अपने आँगन का तन्हा सा शजर याद रहे

वैसे तूफां में सफीने की  फिकर क्यूँकर हो
मन की मौजों को  अगर दिल की लहर याद रहे

इक़ बार फिर...

वह कहने लगे, आ जाना वहीं
इस बार तुम्ही हो सनम मेरे
हम गए, मगर अब क्या बोलें
के कितने सब्र से काम लिया

था इल्म हमे साकी है वहीं
और वहीं हमारा क़ातिल है;
लुटने की चाहत में हमने
उन्हीं से दोबारा जाम लिया

जब तर्के-वफ़ा का ज़िक्र चला
जब बात निभाने पर ठहरी,
हम तब भी मगर कुछ कह न सके
गो सब ने तुम्हारा नाम लिया

कुछ दश्त-ऐ-सफर की तारीकी
कुछ तन्हाई ,कुछ बेचैनी;
हाथ बढा कर तब हमने
खुद अपना बाजू थाम लिया

है चाक-गिरेबां मुद्दत से
सब बंद-ए- कबा हैं बिखरे हुए;
नये दौर की लैला से हमने,
वही पहले सा ईनाम लिया

Men's Misadventures

This little tale is for my son Angad who once told me "pops, why don't you write a story about Men's Misadventures "?

Ranbir was awakened by the familiar prattle of birds at 5'oclock on a Sunday morning.He could make out ,by the gentle tip-tap on his window that it was starting to drizzle a bit.Generally he was an avid riser--ready to face the day--but, today, he wanted somebody to sing him a lullaby and "hush-a -bye-baby"him back to sleep.The walls seemed to close in on him, making his loneliness verge on the claustrophobic. A silent tear rolled down his eyes and into the pillow, making a wet spot that kept on getting bigger and bigger. He watched it with a growing sense of fore-boding.

It had been a year since he had lost his wife to breast cancer.The struggle through four years of chemotherapy, of hope and despair, of financial ruin, of a tattered self-respect due to frequent borrowings from friends had left him deeply scarred and a little unsure of himself. He had become  a loner, almost a hermit, totally detached from what was around him.He would have probably gone to pieces had it not  been for the two little rainbows of his heart.

He turned his eyes to his two sons sleeping beside him. Though there was always a lingering question in their eyes, Arnav and Ayan; both aged seven; had never brought up the  topic of their mother  in front of their father.With a wisdom which is perhaps the divine inheritance of the deprived,they had never made their dad uncomfortable by their queries.It was, as if,God had already given them the answers.As a supreme act of "giving"He had also made them the `children of light'.They had light brown hair,twinkling blue eyes and a laughter that could stop a robin-redbreast in it's tracks. Looking at them, he was truly amazed by life's strange ironies and stranger compensations.

There was a sudden scream of delight as Ayan took a running jump over Arnav and landed on Ranbir's chest.It was Sunday,time for their weekly game of cricket with the boys of the locality.They were very fond of watching their pops systematically decimate all the bowlers of the neighbourhood and win countless bottles of Pepsi for them which were offered as bets.They hurriedly put on their tracksuits and reached the park. Today; however,Ayan's first shot landed slam-bang in the centre of a bee-hive. Their  sprint back home could have made Bolt hang his head in shame,their laughter resonating `mid the silent walls.

But to come back to Ranbir. Ranbir....not the kind of man one would meet often. The rat-race had made him a part of the so called `corporate-culture' but he had an aversion to it which bordered on the pathological.
He hated the breaking down of barriers, hated the flitting butterflies who passed for women, hated their single-minded propensity to get 'fixed-up' and climb the ladder of success `man-by-man', as he jokingly put it.His work buddies had many a time tried to take him up the "path of lillies", bring him up to date with men's misadventures but he had always steered clear of it all, his psyche having been imprinted by an archetype called `sanctity' of relationships.His colleagues, in exasperation, had dubbed him `Jurassic Park'

Fed up with the blandishments of his friends , Ranbir had married Nazneen, a shy muslim girl.He had figured that being more orthodox than the girls from other communities, Nazneen would be a home-maker,would cook his meals, look after his his children,.give him the `Aashiyaana' he always wanted That the dude up there always has an alternative to the best laid plans of men became clear to him before the week was out.

Nazneen threw off her demure look and , in front of his eyes, metamorphosed into another body-waxing, made-up doll who was a step ahead of any other woman about town. She loved to party and the invitations were many.She loved to twirl around the dance floor with all men, to the shame-faced consternation of Ranbir.A number of times , he had  pulled her off the dance floor, to return home. She would come, dutifully, as it were,and sit in the car, a faint derisive smile playing on her glossy lips, as if she, too, thought him to be a fossil from pre-historic times, On one such party in a big hotel,she had even managed to send him to a room, apparently to fetch something.Ranbir had opened the door .After that the only thing he remembered was a sudden embrace,his tearing himself away, and a dash down the stairs, He had collapsed on the sofa where Nazneen was sitting, his face blanched, devoid of all colour.Nazneen was smiling, gloating over her hold on him .

Then, suddenly, there were the boys , the joys, and, then, the tears.And a year back it had ended, the futile struggle with the dreaded crab.

Today, watcing the boys surf the net with wonder-waiting eyes, Ranbir became conscious of a gnawing at his heart.Soon, very soon,Arnav and Ayan would grow up, date their own girls, go their own way. Their dad would be only a loving remembrance in their hearts,to be wished on birthdays,to be met occasionally,leave permitting, time allowing, wife agreeing.....And his heart was full..of emptiness.

It was then, in a sudden apocalyptic moment, that a phrase from his past flashed in his mind : men's misadventures. Ranbir was thinking. "This won't be a misadventure any more. would it be ?Would it be an insult to the memory of someone ? Would it be a negation of what I am? But he was desperate. No , not with desire, but with a craving for a loving hand, a warm touch, a caress on the forehead :a long-forgotten wistfulness tearing at his innards.

He called his best friend Satya who promised to be discreet and very quiet.As the weekend approached, Ranbir's heart was all aflutter, going like a trip hammer. He had told his sons that he was going for official work, their trust and his lie ripping his heart to shreds. He had arranged a governess for them,and the guilt was killing him, he had walked out in the dusk, averting his face, and that was almost the death of him."What am I doing?Ranbir was screaming silently to himself.

As the yacht started to sail towards Goa,Ranbir came face to face with a woman who looked like having descended from the stars. Ranbir was flabbergasted. She was looking at him in an enigmatic way, trying to sort him out, figuring, perhaps, a way to handle him.Under her scrutiny,  already unsure of himself, Ranbir panicked. Ignoring the fact the yacht was already gathering speed, Ranbir dove head-first into water. He swam to the shore as if a shark was chasing him.

He leapt into the first available cab. He was almost frothing at the mouth. He jumped out of the taxi in front of his house. He opened the door ,"Pops aap aa gaye?"said Arnav and Ayan in a chorus. Ranbir burst into tears.He looked up at the photograph of  Nazneen on the wall.

She was smiling slowly, faintly, derisively, as she always had done.....

Men's misadventures indeed....

Youssaf - Again....

Rajvir Sngh was a classic example of a misnomer He was so`far-out' of the meaning of his name that it was ridiculous Even his buddies had stopped teasing him .They did'nt think it was funny any more.
                                  Rajvir had grown up under the menacing shadow of his father By a queer quirk of fate, his father was born on the day of Hitler's suicide and, true to the Hindu doctrine of trasns migration of souls, had received most of Hitler's traits, with a few from Attila the Hun thrown in as an added bonus.He was therefore bereft of that indefinable something that separates men from the beasts How often he had seen his mother, cowering under his gaze,gathering her three children under her `pallu',shielding them from blows Compared to his house,a CIA detention centre  would have appeared as a play-way nursery, with `jingle bells'playing in the background.

 .His elder brother , quite naturally, had borne the brunt of this frontal attack on human dignity. Over the years, he had quietly submitted to all the invective, all the beatings and , slowly had become impervious to them, like the stoic comedian of a medieval morality play His sister-Nandu, a few years younger to him, however, was everyone's darling .Even Hitler lowered his voice when she was around She could pull his moustache, scatter rice in his beard and bounce playfully on his ample stomach. Rajvir adored her .In time,they had grown up together and had beome such soul-mates that sometimes they understood each other without saying a single word. It was uncanny.
Somewhere down the line, Rajvir had taken to reading.He devoured everything--from religious tomes to pornography; from Zen to Tintin; from Krisnamurthy to The Archies. He was fascinated by the endless and extra-ordinary variety of life--from the Bantus to the Maoris. However the one story that constantly remained in his heart was the ancient tale of Youssaf and Zulekha :how the handsome young man was bought in lieu of a wad of cotton,how  he had served the elderly woman with all his heart. Youssaf's rare code of loyalty had had an everlasting impact on his  tender mind He would often visualise himself as the Youssaf of yore.It gave him some sense of self;some faith in his own abilities.
How rudely his sense of self was to be shattered became clear to him when, at twenty years of age,he went to a big city for higher studies. It  was a co-educational institution and there were very few boys in his class.And Rajvir was the most handsome.He was tall,strongly built,with dark, wavy hair which flew all over his face even in the slightest of breezes.But it was  his eye-lashes-----an inch long------which fascinated all the giggly girls.Coupled with his blue eyes; an intense longing lurking in them, it made a deadly combination.The girls almost swooned, looking at him.For them he was a later-day Adonis ; if ever there was one. Once a girl had playfully pinched his cheek and called him Cupid. The name had stuck., to his great mortification.

But Rajvir was Rajvir. His tongue would stubbornly refuse to detatch itself from his palate whenever a girl addressed him With their bright capris and halters they appeared to him like so many fire-flies and so many will-o-wisps.In time however ,they had taken his silence as an affront to their opulent charms and had moved on to more responsive men; but not before giving him another sobriquet `:Bhondoo'.Rajvir was shattered. During the day, he would visualise himself frolicking with all the lovely girls, at exotic locales,in vales and hills,`mid mists and blossoms. During the night , he would curse his cloisterd up-bringing.His dreams were often wet -sometimes with tears.
It was with the same lurking trepidation that he went to work in a soft-ware company.He was diligent ,hardworking and very soon became the manager of that sub-office.He hired a small flat and began giving shape to his vision of a `good' life. He cooked his own meals and rode a bus to the office.Back home, he would relax with a book, watch some TV, would root for Sachin, Jensen Button and Rooney,and day-dream a lot. At twenty five years of age ,he was well content.
It was then that Maryada walked into his office.It was a rainy day and even his drab surroundings had acquired a washed look.She was the daughter of a post-man and had come to earn some money in her spare time to put her younger brother through college.Pretty in a petite sort of a way,to Rajvir she looked as if a `devi' had consented to step out of a shrine to unravel his convoluted life.Her eyes were shy, very shy , as if she thought the world too stark, too naked a place for her.It was a miracle of sorts. A Rajvir in feminine form.
They took to each other like the the twin hemispheres of the globe,They could sit quietly with each other for hours, just soaking up the joy of their togetherness--their conversation only rarely going beyond desultory business talk. To the other people in office it appeared abnormal; "in these times....this" they muttered under their breath.
Rajvir was ecstatic. He had invited Nandu over,to meet her.Maryada had cooked the simplest possible biryani.Standing in his kitchen,she looked to him as the living incarnation of The Blessed Damozel---straight out of a poem.And the biryani was delicious.Nandu was overjoyed.'Now my darling would be well looked after",she thought,thankful for life's little surprises.
The next morning ,as Rajvir was mulling over the happy possibilities of the previous evening,the door of his office flew open and a woman walked in."Hi, I am Natasha,daughter of Mr.Bhootlingam of Cerberus Computers.Natasha was around thirty, a  platinum blonde -her mother being an American--with afigure to put J-Lo to shame.She was so sure of herself that to Rajvir it looked like a crime against humanity, nothing short of blasphemy .But he could see that he had also made an instant impact on her,"men were never meant to be so damn handsome,goddammit,"she was saying to herself.Rajvir had as much chance against her as a snowball in hell.Not that he wanted to be saved anyway.Rajvir walked out of his office after her , and, in the evening, moved in with her.
Natasha's house---she lived alone--was a hedonist's delight.Water beds ,glass ceiling,a huge swimming pool, the works.She had so much money it made him sick But these thoughts were momentary. Natasha was heavenly as a companion, inventive ,and ,very, very naughty.The sheer eroticism of their togetherness was unimaginable
He started going with her to the parties.She would cling to his arm.To her innumerable socialite friends however it was clear that Rajvir was the arm-candy.They looked at Natasha with barely concealed jealousy.He dutifully danced with all of them, aghast at their brazen invitations.
After a few months they flew out to the West Indies.She taught him scuba-diving.Once,twety feet below ,she had pulled out his mouthpiece.He was already half-drowned as he sputtered and gasped to the surface.She was squealing in delight at his discomfiture.Another time ,she had taken him up in a plane,hooked him and herself in one parachute and had jumped out in a free-fall. She kissed him all the way down, pulling the cord at the last possible second.She laughed ,in deep exultation.Rajvir was frozen with terror.

Back home ,Rajvir would often stay awake,wondering at what had transpired.It had been three years since he had walked out of his office on that fateful day.He would often remember the story of Youssaf .The stark comparison ---and contrast--of his life with that of Youssaf left him breathless.'I am just a gigolo",he thought,his heart sinking.He got up and looked at himself in the mirror.The person who stared back at him was a stranger to him .And his eyes were blank,empty of all expression."What are we?"he despaired; "poor helpless human beings; always pining for what is not....Kya kahin  hai ik mukkamal jahan'?  kya kabhi milta hai kissi ko ?/"he thought,cadent tears streaming down his cheeks.
Today, as he was walking back to Natasha's house, he was sick to the core of his heart,longing to meet Nandu and Maryada. He knew he had betrayed both of them.As he opened the door of the plush house, he stopped dead in his tracks. Nandu was sitting in a chair, staring at Natasha. He could sense that they both had been crying.AsNandu started speaking, Rajvir was barely aware of what she was saying.Only that it was a ,little about a dream, something about Maryada and something about a certain way of life.And suddenly something in Rajvir clicked into place.He went to his room, packed his old pair of jeans,his old shirt and came back to the room.He could hear Natasha screaming.And he was thinking; money or poverty? company jet or a rickety bus? water-beds or bed-bugs? Caribbean cruises or just a walk to the India Gate?
He looked at Nandu.She nodded, slowly, almost imperceptibly.
Rajvir walked out.....
.........The next day he met Maryada.....
She had a one-year old son........

मेरे आँगन की कली....

आज फिर थी नुमाया वही सावन की कली...

  नई सहर के परिंदों के चेह्चहाने में
  उसी कोयल का मन मीत को बुलाने में ,
   मेरी दोस्त गिलैहरी के पास आने में
    रंगीन तितलयों की शोखिओं में छुपी
    मेरी ग़मगीन हंसी देख के वोह बोली कली ..

तेरा तो गम से जैसे उम्र भर का नाता है
मेरी शबनम हैं मेरे आंसूं आज तेरे लिए
तुझे पता था ना मैं वोह बेवफा सनम तो नहीं
कब्ल-ए-फसल -ए-बहारां जो नहीं आये कभी ,
तुझे पता था ना मैं इस बार लौट आऊंगी ..

 चल, मुझी से सीख ले जीने का चलन
  रवां है बादे -सबा, जा , ले ले सांस ज़रा,
  चलूँगी  थाम तेरा दामन आज आठों पहर
   होगा इक गीत मोहब्बत का जब लबों पे तेरे
   तेरे संग मैं भी हंस -हंस के गुनगुनाऊंगी

ज्यों ही देखी मेरे होटों पे तबस्सुम की लकीर
महक उठा मेरा आँगन जब इक उम्र के बाद ,
उसने हौले से खुद को दर -किनार किया
मुझे देखा ना जाने किस अजब सी चाहत से
सिमट के खुद में ,धीमे से फिर कहा मुझसे ..

 खुदा का शुक्र है निबाह सकी मैं कर्म अपना ,
  हो गयी शाम,  है वकत गुज़र जाने का
  मेरे दोस्त ,मेरे मोहसिन ,मेरे होने की ज़मीं
   तू जिगर रखना ,जगह रखना ,के अगले बरस
    इन्हीं बूंदों में नहाने मैं फिर से आऊंगी .........   




                    

दिले -जारे मसाफत....

लौट आया हूँ आज फिर इक दिन तमाम कर के
वही टूटे हुए सपने अब कल के नाम कर के

चंद लोग भी मिले थे ,कई ज़िक्र भी रहे थे
लज़्ज़त नयी ही पाई ,खुद से कलाम कर के

मीना भी सामने थी .साकी भी कुछ हसीं था
हम तशना रहे फिर क्यूँ बा -कफ यह जाम करके ?

क्या उनकी हैं अदाएं .क्या शोखी -ए -इबादत
करें गैर को वोह सज्दा ,हमको सलाम करके

सरे राह ही मिलें वोह,बस साथ साथ हो लें
लुत्फ़ उम्र भर का ले लूँ ,यूँ सहर को शाम करके ......

अंधेरों से उजालों के सफर.....

था रब्त उन्हें हमसे, ऐसे से गुमां हैं
माथे पे अभी तक कुछ होटों के निशां हैं

माना के रहे बेघर ,तेरे रोशन से शहर में
अंधेरों में सनम अपने दो -चार मकां हैं

रूह को सुकूं दे ना कभी जिस्म को राहत
इस दश्त में ऐसे ही चंद चारा -गरां हैं

अपनों की हकीकत नें जब पटखा है जमीं पर
कुछ ख्वाब अभी तक क्यूँ पलकों पे अयां हैं

अब यूँ ना समझना के तू ही है मेरा क़ातिल
इन ज़ख्मों से पुराने इन ज़ख्मों के निशां हैं

Nanhi------A Fairy Tale of These Times

Not once upon a time but barely a year ago , there lived a little girl in a big city. Though her full name was Kismat Srivastava, she was Nanhi to everyone around her. She was twenty years of age yet people always thought of her as a child-like elfin fairy to be dressed in dainty frocks, to be given soft toys, and pink ribbons for her piggy-tails. She had that braces-just-came-off freshness which constantly twinkled in her blue eyes; her complexion all peaches and cream. Playing with her pet chihuahua, she was everybody's cuddly little cutie-pie.
                                                 Her family was typically upper middle class. Her father was a businessman who had long back buried his sensitivity under loads of hosiery and thread. Instead, he had imbibed the idea that smiles were for nincompoops and that laughter belonged to the uncouth.Youngsters shied away from his constantly glowering presence.When he was in a foul mood, nobody dared approach him. Only rarely, when Nanhi made bold to call him Abbu, the veneer of toughness cracked a little and a wistful mile escaped through his forbidding exterior.
                                                   Her mother, quite expectedly, was a `response' to her husband. Meek , submissive, she was never expected to have an opinion, and ,she never did. But her eyes were wise, very wise; an intangible sorrow lurking deep inside them.
                                                   But it was her brother whom Nanhi found mildly irritating. Two years elder to her, his learning had stopped well short of what can be called education. He was brash, a Blackberry flaunting `geri' boy for whom nothing was sacred. He therefore indulged in all the inane crudities which rich boys of his age called `living the good life'. To top it all, he had a certain patronising attitude towards her.It made her sick. "Why is the world so askew; its values so warped "?she would often ask herself.
                                             To return to Nanhi, not many people knew that she had already had her share of heartbreaks. As a very young girl, she had had a crush on a boy who, as it turned out, was a `boy' after all. He had chickened out. Though Nanhi didn't go to pieces , a part of her had died inside her. Iron had entered her hitherto kindly and innocent soul.
                                                 She found her solace in writing. Thoughts came so naturally to her, so thick and fast, that she had trouble arranging them into any poetic pattern. They just remained written, a jumbled mosaic of musings, but devoid of form. But she knew what they meant. And she was content with what she knew.
              And then ,out of the blue, came the day when some family was to come to `see' her as match for their son. The entire household went into an overdrive, everyone was in a tizzy. During this brouhaha Nanhi could sense a nostalgic melancholy in her parents' eyes. Even more surprising was her brother's behaviour . Ostensibly, he was teasing her but Nanhi could see that he was re-living the shared times, the games, the jostling, the roughhousing, the screaming pillow fights, the tousled hair. He was looking at her bemused, unable to name his feeling. "Too late,too, too late, " thought Nanhi.
                  The Sharmas arrived in their gleaming Bentleys and Mercs. Though they were dressed impeccably, to Nanhi, they appeared as so many gold- plated morons. They were the richest family of the city. The boy, a matriculate, was of medium height and was only expanding, ever so slightly , around the middle. Throughout the evening, his glance kept returning to her. It was the hungry look of a hyena that had just espied a particularly tender rabbit. Nanhi kept her eyes averted. After the usual formalities, they left with a "yes from our side".
                  Nanhi said no. Pandemonium. Bedlam. Shouting to the left of her. Screaming to the right of her. The entire clan of masis, mamis, buas, tore their collective hair out.  For them the match was perfect. 'Aur kya chahiye?" was their wail.
                    Only her father was quiet. Nanhi stood looking at him.A very thin patina of moisture was shimmering at the corners of her eyes. "'Abbu ", she was pleading silently. He looked up at her. Her world had gone still around her .She could hear her heart beating, slowly, painfully, in her chest. Suddenly his eyes were full of understanding, and a deep love , as if saying to her with pride "That's my beti! That's my Nanhi".
           He picked up the phone and called Mr. Sharma "You see sir," said her Abbu to the richest man in town "My daughter wants to finish her  Masters in literature. And I plan to send her to London for her Ph.D. We are very very sorry .Hope you won't take it amiss".
                          As her Abbu put down the phone, Nanhi flew into his arms. He closed them tightly around her, as if unwilling to let go of a treasure. Her tears soaked his collar.

Nothing more was said that evening.......

पुनर्जन्म

दिल कहता है फिर से जन्म लूँ....,

मां के आँचल में छुप -छुप कर
जीवन  की कड़वाहट से बचता
चंचल मन से खिल -खिल हँसता
बहन को अपने साये में ढक कर
भाई का उतरा कुर्ता पहने
नन्हे हाथ में पहली कलम लूँ

दिल कहता है फिर से जन्म लूँ

इस बार ऐसे स्कूल में जाऊं
जहाँ पढूँ इक पाठ नया सा
भूल जाऊं इस A और B को
जीवन का शऊर सीख कर
हर रंजिश से मुक्त ह्रदय ले
रस्ते को ही समझ के मंजिल
हँसता गाता आगे बढ़ लूँ

दिल कहता है फिर से जन्म लूँ


इक ऐसी महबूब मिले फिर
पाक ,अकीदत ,पूजा जैसी
हया  का दामन थाम सदा ही
हर सू बरपा दे उजिआरा;
रोशन ,नाज़ुक ,मोहसिन सी वो
बोझिल -बोझिल पलकें जिसकी
हौले से ,चुपके से ,ढक लूँ

दिल कहता है फिर से जन्म लूँ

 और फिर जब आ जाये बुलावा
बाकी कोई अरमां ना होगा
होटों पे ले गीत वफ़ा का
सृष्टि का संगीत समंझ कर
रून-झुन टपर -टुपुर सा दिल यह
बोल उठे गा अन्तर-मन से
"मौत ,देख,मैं तेरा सनम हूँ

दिल कहता है फिर से जन्म लूँ ....

नई कहकशां की तलाश ...

हसरत से निगाह डालता परिंदों के घरों पे
ढूँढता हूँ हर शाम इक अपना सा मकां

वोह मकां जिसमे ना जफ़ाओं का गुज़र हो
मुस्कुरा के ढले और जहाँ वस्ल की शाम

हर दम रहे करीब मेरी नाज़ुक सी वोह मोहसिन
वही शोख ही कभी दे मुझे महबूब का नाम

रूए -रोशन से उजाले हों जहाँ शाम -ओ -सहर
जुल्फों के अंधेरों में कटे उम्र तमाम

कभी मिला ही नहीं था अब ऐसा भी नहीं है
मैं ही गुज़र गया समझ के गैर का बाम

The Imminent

Jayanthi Ranganathan Mishra looked into the full length mirror in her bathroom and decided : not bad. Not bad at all. At 23, she had managed to side -step many of the `done things' which her peers at the college so gigglingly boasted of : she hadn't got a face job done, had never shot for 'a product-Ad', and had never succumbed to a full date, whatever that meant. Though not pretty by conventional standards---- she had that stubborn `Madrasi light tan---- which tube after tube of 'Fair and Lovely' had not been able to lighten----she had many things going for her. She was very tall, statuesque and had very dark curly hair. Her eyes had a very special way of merging and melting into each other whenever she felt shy, which, incidently, was quite often. Dark, inscrutable- she had all the boys doing mental somersaults to figure her out. On the cerebral side, she had a Masters in literature and had imbibed quite a few thing from her study of it : she would never sell herself short, would never use her charms to further her career, `would make her own destiny' and would go `the road less travelled by'. Add to it her filip repartee, and you could say that she had quite an `attitude'. It was a lethal combination."yeah, you are a bit of an OK, Janu", she told herself.
                                                               But today the usually unflappable Jayanthi was not so sure of herself, even though she had been waiting for this moment for long : fly the nest, `realise her full potential'----her favourite teacher's favourite line----forge her own identity and ,a few years down the line, marry for love and have her own little Jayanthis. Today she had got three `calls', through Naukri dot com from three multinational companies for interviews.The nature of the jobs offered was not very clear to her except that, in each case she was to report directly to the CEO. That's great, she thought, putting her nervousness aside.
'Life, here I come ", she sang to herself.
                                                                 Today was her first interview in her own Chennai. She put on her best `Maheshwari' cotton saree, even though  it was not the proper outfit for such an organisation. She took a cab and reached the daunting campus complex of Cerberus Computers. The waiting lounge was full of plush garish chairs.Ugly, thought Jayanthi. But not so the the stunning array of ah-so-modern girls sitting on them, But then when she was summoned, pleasantries exchanged, Jayanthi sat down and looked at the man. Her first thought was what Lil Red Riding Hood must have had after looking at the wolf. "SoMiss, ah, Jayathi",he began "My business involves extensive travelling, even abroad. Indeed an intelligent girl who can handle all the nitty gritty of office work, and also look after all my needs.There are no speciffic duty hours .We can be away for days on end But you will be very comfortable, we'll stay at the best hotels.Your yearly package would be rupees ten lakhs plus perks.Jayanthi's mind did a double take.She had never imagined that kind of money. But a warning bell jingled in her brain "All his needs", what did he mean? Then the answer hit her with the force of a juggernaut."You bet", she thought,"You crusty, miserable Cocker Spaniel, I will take care of your needs, with a kick on the seat of your infernal pants". Her idealism had taken a severe beating that day...
                     The next interview was in Bangalore. However, the scenario was almost the same except that the Boss was dressed in an Ivy-League suit, was urbane, suave, and was utterly Kool,"There's hope here", thought Jayanthi. As he started the interview, Jayanthi, Icarus-like, came crashing back to mother earth: travelling, .five-star hotels Salsa, late nights, the entire Page-3 works.Her heart sank. She walked out, wondering about this fetish for five- star hotels among the CEOs of this world.
                   It took Jayanthi a full week to steel herself for the next interview at Mumbai .During this period, she had often checked and rechecked her premises Everything she had believed in , till now, seemed utterly and horribly wrong. What did the Robert Frosts of this world know about this world anyway ? Dreamers all, worthless, misleading, benighted souls, she thought, tears streaming down her face. Once, she had even hidden her face in her Amma's pallu, crying, as if her heart would break. Her Amma had stroked her head, wiped a silent tear off her own cheek secretly and had said nothing. Jayanthi, slowly, under her Amma's knowing caresses, had calmed down.When she raised her head, her eyes were `washed'..clear and understanding.
                      She reached the office of `Udai Katoch International' in Mumbai in a better state of mind. She hadn't fully got rid of her lofty ideals but now, they were just there, like a dull ache that refuses to go away.She was dressed in the regulation short skirt and jacket. She had shortened and permed her hair and to put it mildly, looked ravishing, "Hello, I am Udai, just going out for lunch.Would you join me?" She agreed.
This was going to be different, she thought. Udai looked like a decent man, was dressed conservatively and in his own way, was kind of handsome.They reached The Taj, he pulled a chair back for her to sit and ordered for both of them.."You can call me Udai", he said, trying to put her at ease.
                      As one delicious course of meal disappeared after another, each accompanied by the right kind of wine which appeared as if by magic,Udai elaborated upon the nature of his business, his wife, his five-year old daughter,and how he got to spend very little time with his family since he had to travel a lot, Listening, jayanthi began to relax. A warm glow had begun to suffuse her face. Probably, it was the wine.Suddenly, he stopped and looked at her enquiringly,certain that she had understood the nature of her work.
                          "Oh damn it all to hell Udai",she blurted. "But I like quiet resorts in quaint little hill stations. Big hotels are just not my cup of tea,

Udai just grinned.
                

The Backdoor

Shantanu Ranganathan Mishra looked around.He was standing at the kerb of a busy street. Endless streaks of light zoomed from nowhere to nowhere. It was a scene straight out of a Stanley Kubrick film. Once he had,almost hypnotically,stepped into the lights. He was pulled back with a shout of anger.He did not even see his saviour.
                 He cursed. He was already sorry he had decided to leave the faceless familiarity of his small village to make a `life' for himself in the 'other world'. For wasn't he the only QUALIFIED young man in his village?And didn't he often watch `The Bold and the Beautiful' on his new Tata Sky ? But the invitation was there. Too, too tempting like a cobra under wraps. It promised the proverbial Pot of Gold and the Holy Grail : the mother of all jackpots.And he was unhappy where he was---- sick of the grime; the pond with its vile water, and sick of the ponderous, huge women who had come to resemble the buffaloes they scrubbed with devilish glee. Most of all, he was sick of the relentless yearning for female company. In his 22 years, he had never talked to one, let alone touch one. For him, an unhooked blouse was the closest anybody could come to paradise At nights phantasms assailed him.Often he would wake up, panting, and would curse his parents for begetting him in that abominable hole.
There was a wild uproar when he had broached the matter. His father, with his stony stare, his mother, with all the melodramatic blandishments verging on a typically Indian emotional blackmail ; his sister---- for him, the sun rose and set on her---- all teary eyed. For her, he had almost changed his mind-Almost. She had shaken her head, slammed the door of his small room, and had bolted the door from outside.
Shantanu escaped through the backdoor and here, he was. He walked five kilometers to the building which boldly proclaimed : Sigourney Weaver Enterprises. The name looked vaguely familiar to him, Stepping inside, he gingerly touched the heavy glass door. It seemed to open on it's own volition. As if in a dream, he crossed the reception the huge waiting room and knocked on the door which said 'Vice President Operations'. "Come in". He opened the door.
                                     The woman that he saw sitting on the far end of the desk didn't resemble any of the warty harridans that he had seen. There seemed to be a luminous halo about her. Just one look was all it took and, in the elegant phrase of his college days, he was "struck by a thunderbolt" She was looking at him too,queerly. Probably, she had never seen a man blushing before. That was enough for her.
       He became her slave - running errands, arranging her meetings, carrying her briefcase, trailing her with armfuls of shopping bags. Slowly, she reeled him in .Once she `allowed' him to apply enamel to her nails, watching his rapture with something like a long forgotten wistfulness.On one occasion, she even let him give her a foot massage : Seventh Heaven...
           And then, six months later, he had blurted it out..those dreadful words. They were in a hotel suite. They had gone to Bombay to attend a meeting of the entire India Inc. He stood waiting, a hang-dog look on his face, hope and despair playing `tag' in his eyes. He pleaded, he cajoled, he was on his knees. He bolted the door from inside and sat against it. She looked at him with a glance that he could NOW fathom. He lowered his eyes.
When he looked up, she was gone...
How could he know that seven star hotel suites have a backdoor too...?
Just like the one in his small house...

कतरे  कतरे में नया सागर ढूँढने के लिए
उसी सेहरा में मुझे लौट के जाना होगा
तेरी निगाह से उत्तरा हूं तो बतला दे
क्या तुझे फिर से रकीबों से चुराना होगा ???

क्यूँ ही कल ?

ना अब जफा का ज़िक्र कर
ना अब वफ़ा का जवाब दे
रोज़े -हशर तो अभी दूर है
ना हिसाब ले ना हिसाब दे

कई पा चुका हूँ मैं राहतें
अरमां भी कितने निकल चुके
ला फिर पढूँ ज़रा गौर से
मुझे हसरतों की किताब दे

फिर सीख लूँगा मैं भूलना
अभी और थोड़ी शराब दे
मदहोश रात का फरेब फिर
मेरे यार का मुझे ख्वाब दे .....

भूली दास्तां.......

बंद लबों पे हो जुंबिश, हो जुबां पे लरज़ ,
अश्क-ए -पा से छलक जाये गर आँख मेरी 
टपक ही जाए गर छाला राह-ए -उल्फत का ,
जान जाना तू , अजनबी दोस्त मेरी 
उसी काफ़िर ने फिर किया है याद मुझे ;
पर इस बार उसके दामन को तार -तार समझ ,
तर्क कर दूंगा उम्मीद दिल -नवाजी की ,
लौट आऊंगा उसी घर उसी दयार में 
किसी मज़ार में दफ़न है जहाँ मोहब्बत मेरी 
शुरू वहीं से हुई थी इक हसीं सी बात 
अब उस बात का आगाज़ तक भी याद नहीं
है कहाँ वोह कहाँ मैं ,कौन बर्बाद नहीं ...