An ode to a lost friend..

Like the wispy mist that lingers

amongst the dark dense foliage

even though the sun shines bright..

Like dawn's strong steady fingers

sifting through the cloudy plumage

to pry open the doors of  night...

Like the lone star that flickers

uncowering, undaunted its courage

long after darkness has taken flight..

Like spring's last flowering asters

upright in their sprightly carriage

haunting the mind's eye with delight...

Like the raindrop that glitters

before surrender to earth's bondage

moving the soul; its destined plight...

memory within me glimmers

of every soul that left the harborage;

a beacon in my heart ever alight..

namanzuri..

जब कुर्ब का अंजाम बस कर्ब ही हो

तो खिल्वते ग़म  ही मंज़ूर रहे 

जिस की बज़्म में हर नज़्म महरूम हो

उस से बस फासलये हिज्र ही रहे

जिस उनवान में तारीक़ तमाम हो

ऐसी इब्तदा को तिश्नगी ही नसीब रहे

जब इबादत का खुदा बस संग ही हो

तो रुस्वते काफिर ही मंज़ूर रहे

जिसकी आश्नाई में इश्क बस मुन्तजिर ही हो

उस मरासिम को तुर्बत ही मंज़ूर रहे

जिस  मंजिल का  रास्ता  ही गुम हो
उस पर काफिले क्यूँ कर गुज़र रहे
जब मुक़द्दर लकीरों  में ही सिमटा हो
ऐसी किस्मत को दोज़ख ही मंज़ूर रहे
जो जज़्बात सुखन की कफस में ही हो
अब उसे वजूदे सराब ही मंज़ूर रहे




(कुर्ब = closeness, कर्ब = sorrow, खिलवाते ग़म = sorrow of seperation, उनवान = beginning,
संग = stone, मुन्तजिर = in waiting, तुर्बत = grave, सुखन = thoughts, कफस = prison, सराब = mirage)

racing..

F-1 has been the flavour of the season in the Indian Subcontinent this year. Everyone who is or seeks to be someone was out there, looking for a piece of the action. I can understand the presence of celebrities; it provides them with a huge canvas to market their product i.e. themselves. Then there are the car lovers who, with all their passion for the machines, would just be as happy to gape at them sans the race or the smell of burning rubber or the sound of screeching tyres. But what of the common lot, clueless about the make of the car or the driver within, the nuances of the race and the history thereof? Was it just the adrenalin rush that drove them in hordes to the track, to cough up whatever their pockets could and maybe not even get a glimpse up close of the race or the racers?

As I see it, arent we at a micro level doing exactly that in our lives; racing around tracks all our lives. Maybe it is the identification to this subconscious admittance that drives us to the races. The difference of course lies in the fact that, in a car race as this, we can be observers and derive our thrills from the dangers , the twists and turns being undertaken by others. Wouldnt it , however, be equally exciting if we could learn to do that in the race of life that most of us are a part of? The perils and risks then wouldn't threaten us so and we would be free to just watch from  a detached vantage point and laud at the finishing line instead of dreading it or ruing the outcome. This race would then have no losers at all...

....

When there is nothing and no one else, there is Silence. The one companion who is but a thought away. In the midst of every strife, in all of one's traumas or the most peaceful or joyful times, the moment I cherish most is when I am able to step away from it all, with just silence besides and inside of me and feel the intensity right down to my soul. If  I were to assign imagery to silence, to give it a form, I would think of it as a cloud. A warm, billowing, soothing , downy cloud that envelops and gathers one in its midst. It cushions the heart and heals from all hurt and malice, it protects, providing an armour against deception and betrayal and it moistens the calcification in one's soul, built by the vagaries of human temperaments and transactions. 

In the evergrowing aural tempo of the world, I have found it increasingly difficult to commune with Silence. The ethereal silence of each breaking dawn which is like a remnant of divinity is fragmented by the ringing of bells in temples, the chanting of mantras, the singing of bhajans etc. ; all supposed means of salvation or the source of finding the fount of eternal peace! A Silent person per se is looked at askance; there is either an aura of mystery, aloofness or lack of intelligence attached. A common question when someone is silent - "Is everything OK?" . It is beyond my comprehension how one can not be 'Okay' in wilful silence. If silence is to be a by-product of solitude, I would willingly choose to isolate myself from the trappings of a world so enchanted by oral acoustics and retreat to a place where there is  a minimised need for empty words.

However, since there are acts to perform, duties to fulfil and roles to confirm to, this option is not easily available. So I have built an alternate world inside of me, a kind of parallel reality and while the functional part of me dwells in the so called 'real' world, the real 'ME' lives in that world of my creation. And it is here that I can retreat to, at any time, any place, from any situation. I can view, from the vantage point of the everlasting Silence that exists there, all that happens with me in the real world. I have learnt to step outside of myself  and be an observer to my own life from my alternate reality, accompanied by faithful Silence to calm and engulf me with its reassuring presence. All of the cosmic manifestations then seem to be in unison with a greater whole and Silence is the door that shall lead me through, to the other side...

qaid..

ज़िन्दगी का एक अँधेरा कमरा है

वहां है मेरा कुछ खोया हुआ सामान भी

पैबंद लगी वक़्त की चादर से ढका है

हिफाज़त से छुपा हुआ सब, अब भी

इक टूटी हुई तिरछी सी अलमारी है

जिसका कोई भी खाना ख़ाली नहीं

हर पिंजरे में क़ैद कोई कहानी है

अरसों हुए बीत गयी,अब तक गुजरी नहीं

इक घुटी हुई सिसकती सी आवाज़ है

चंद ज़ख्म, कुछ नासूर, हमलावार खंजर भी

आँखों से टपका लाचार सा एक मोती है

रिश्तों की डोरें, उनमे पड़ी सब गिरहें भी

इक बिखरा बचपन कहीं उदास बैठा है

लिए सवाल कई, हासिल जिसको जवाब नहीं

आवारा सी भटकती बेचैन जवानी है

हर मोड़ पर गुमराह, मिली जिसे मंजिल नहीं

किसी का उधार का एक खिलौना है

एक पुरानी किताब, कोरे औराक़ अब भी

बेलगाम उडी थी, ऐसी बेबस कटी पतंग है

चुभते हुए कुछ खर हैं, गुल के इंतज़ार में अब भी

आईने की दरारों में एक अन्जान शक्ल है

कुछ क़दमों के निशाँ, मंजिल तक जो पहुंचे नहीं

किसी कोने में सहमा हुआ मेरा इक ख्वाब है

सायों से वो मरासिम,जिनके थे कोई वजूद नहीं

जाने क्यूँ आज इस देहलीज़ पर नज़र पड़ी है

ज़माना हुआ पर दस्तक-इ-इंतज़ार में है अब भी

अन्दर कहीं एक दहकता हुआ दिल भी है

कुर्बत की चाह में पर तगाफुल-इ-नसीब अब भी

firaaq

तुमने भी इस अफ़साने को अजब सा मोड़ दिया है

ऐतबार से हमारा कुछ इस तरह रिश्ता तोड़ दिया है

जाने वाले तो चले ही जाते हैं मगर

तुमने सरे आम एक मरासिम को नीलाम किया है

हमने कब मजबूरियों का तुम्हारी हिसाब किया है

हर शर्ते वफ़ा की गिरफ्त से तुम्हे आज़ाद किया है

गर्दिशे अय्याम समझते रहे मगर

तुमने तो उल्फत की हर रस्म को उजाड़ दिया है

वस्ल से अब हमें इस हद तक बेज़ार कर दिया है

फ़िराक़ का ताउम्र हमें यूँ  मोमन कर दिया है

राहे निजात मिल भी जाये मगर

तुमने राह बदलते रहने में दानाई का सबक दिया है

Interludes etc.

In some symphonies, like in plays, there are interludes. Their beauty lies in the fact that they are and still are not, a part of the composition but help the audience to cross over to the other half. In the canvas of an artist's creation, what the onlooker beholds is the subject or object of the creation. But there lies a backdrop, a motif or pattern which enhances the value of the subject. This is the beauty often overlooked by many. When the autumn leaves fall away they evoke a sense of nostalgia, like the parting of a dear friend because in that  last resplendent raiment of the trees, one senses that though new ones will come back, those that were, never will. When two ships pass at sea, they dip their beacons in a kind of  salute and move on. If you have stood on the deck and watched, it isn't just about a ship that sailed away, it sometimes feel like a friend lost forever in the vast expanse. I have a home on the hills and when I stand on the mountaintop, under the clear star bedecked sky, I feel as if I could reach out and catch the stars and keep them in a box by my bed to twinkle through the night for me. And yet there is one star one could never hold or reach out to; the shooting star. You see it fall and then look around to see where it could be but you can never relive that moment again. And the shooting star remains for us as enigmatic as it always was. When it rains one can feel , smell and sense the satiation of the earth and feel nourished by it in turn. And yet what charms us most on a rainy day is that multi splendoured bow that springs up across the sky and beckons with its warmth and glow.
There is an underlying pattern to all these feelings. It is our sense of reverence for that which is evanescent. It is the nostalgia evoked by whatever is fleeting. Our most poignant thoughts are then not attached with permanence but with the transient. This could be an extension of our realisation that in the master plan we are as ephemereal and infinitesimal as a shooting star, a rainbow or a ship that sails by. And yet we are happy to strive all our lives to convert everything into a state of permanence...
Sameness brings a semblance of security to most souls. In that process, every moment of every day , which is unique by itself loses its individuality and is adorned by the garb of routine or rote. So also for relationships; all supposedly meaningful relationships must confirm to a pattern and be governed by set of dos and donts. And then we lament the demise of the spontaneity or the initial euphoria...
Wouldn't it be better to sometimes just step away from it all and be the beholder- to see the beauty of the backdrop rather than dwell on the subject, to remember the multicolored hues that were and retain the sense of nostalgia and wonder, to hold the memory in one's heart rather than to tie another down with stereotypes and mores..