Thursday 15 August 2013

सपनों का सौदागर

I had written this poem ("The Old Man And His Troop")  in Hindi a long, long time back and then lost it completely...don't know how! Years later I translated my feelings into an English verse which can be read here.

As with all my other poems, this one also had collected dust with the passage of time but for a recent comment that I received on it. I had attached a hand-sketched photo of Bapuji along with the poem, which was available on Google, not knowing that it belonged to AS till she left a rather stilted comment about my trespass into her art world although completely unknowingly. I wrote back to her saying so and promising that I would leave a link to her post in my blog so that I am exonerated of all charges of cyber theft and all that. In doing so, I also realize how absolutely within her rights she is to have demanded an acknowledgment of her work, however easily accessible the same may be on the net, by all and sundry and howsoever naive she may have been not to know that anything on the net invariably loses exclusivity and becomes everyone's property. Least be said about yours truly whose lack of net-savviness ( if there be any word like that in the English lexicon) disallowed her to trace back the sketch to the artist's blog. However, having regained the dwindling grains of self esteem, I dedicate this post to my new-found artist-friend AS whose talent I openly admire. I had once written a short story which was influenced by my intense desire of becoming a painter alas in vain as I cannot even hold a pencil properly let alone paint something which may sensibly depict artistry of any sorts. Anyhow, leaving aside all the lame laments and poor excuses I have decided to publicise my naievety and my fellow-blogger's talent with the brush by putting up this post on http://indiblogger.in with the hope that this act of mine will assuage the pangs of guilt that I am now suffering from regarding the unintentional lifting of the sketch. Honouring my own decision, I also wanted to put up  the long-lost Hindi version of the poem, a shorter version and the vague recollection of the same that I have had in my memory. However, as I sit down to pen it I find my memory playing truant with me and much as I try I cannot bring out a word-to-word translation of the poem written in English ( Again, the English version was not a word-to-word translation of the original one written in Hindi). I suppose I must accept the fact that cadence once lost is lost forever and there is no point trying to dish out facsimiles of the same. Instead fresher thoughts invade and prevail...thoughts which are of this day and somewhat take over from where I had ended last...though whether it presents a grimmer picture is for the reader to decide. So, I give below my thoughts of the day. Hope you all will be able to relate to the same and enjoy AS' handiwork as well.
 
 
वह बूढ़ा सत्याग्रही सपनों का सौदागर
छोड़ गया पीछे एक भारत
पसीनों से तर्र, लडखडाता,
ज़िन्दगी से जूझता
बढती महंगाई , ट्रैफिक जैम,
और नेताओं के झूठे  वादों को बांछ्ता
अपने फ़टे कुचैले दामन से शर्मसार
गगनचुम्बी अट्टालिकाओं  के ओट
में सर रख के रोता बिलखता

और वो बूढ़ा  कहता था ,
"मैं दूंगा तुम्हें आज़ादी बिना रक्तपात"
आज पथराई आँखों से ढूँढता होगा
सपनों के लाश पर ओढने को कफन
"नहीं जिंदा है अभी , धुकपुक  धडकनों में  मची है, देखो
अब भी थोड़ी उम्मीद है बाक़ी "
कहता है वो हठीला
"अब ही  तो ढके थे मैंने कुछ नग्न देह
बाढ़ में बहते हुए, और खाना खिलाया  था
उन सालों से  भूखों को मुट्ठी  भर चावल
अभी सुलाया हैं क्रंदन शिशुओं का लोरी गाकर
और बढ़ के थामा है हाथ निर्भया की।
पर कुचल न पाया भुज दु:शासन का
चीड़  हरण रोक न पाया मैं, अफ़सोस !
किन्तु अभी भी कुछ नहीं बिगड़ा
अब भी हम है आज़ाद
सिर्फ दो क़दम की दूरी है सक्षमता से
मानो मेरी बात "

अर्सा पहले जो सत्य का आग्रह कर
खोजता था नयी दिशा आज शायद
सिंहासन का पैग़म्बर बनने की
ख्वाहिश में मृत ख्वाबों को सजा रहा है
बेच रहा है आस बेबसों को
ठिठुरते फुटपाथों में जो पड़े-पड़े
एक वक़्त की रोटी ढूँढ़ते है तारों में
और एक कम्बल सर्द हवाओं से बचने हेतु

स्वाधीनता का लालच दे रहे है उन्हें
जो सुख भोग रहे हैं गुलामी की

और उस दिन टीवी पर आ रहा था
"चमकता भारत" की तस्वीर
कुछ फ़िल्मी हस्तियाँ,  सफ़ेद पोशाक में
नामी  लीडर और गिने चुने व्यवसायी
जो दावा करते थे सुनामी से पीड़ित
दो चार गाँव बसाने का ..

अलसाई सी धुप में उबासी लेता
मोची बताता था, " इस बार भी
बह गए कई गाँव और मददगारों ने खूब
भरी अपनी झोली मदद के नाम पर… "

"… अब भी हम है आज़ाद
सिर्फ दो क़दम की दूरी है स्वनिर्भरता से.…"
दिनदहाड़े झुठलाया सच सत्य से भी
चमकीला लगता है ..

"अब भी कुछ नहीं बिगडा , अभी भी हम है आज़ाद
मानो मेरी बात…"

हाय .. !      
 

Friday 9 August 2013

A Feather Soft Dream

Remembering the child hood days...
 
I woke up in the middle of the night
Not in fright but with a happy smile
It was such a cute little dream
Of robust puppies and cozy home
Wherein cackled a golden fire
Spreading its warmth on comfy chairs
Covered in soft, colourful drapes
A thick, plush rug lay uncreased
On white marble floor with zig-zag shapes
The walls were of beige and gold
The counter panes a subdued shade
Of snuff and brown to match the sofas
inviting and warm and the dreamy dog
Lying around in lazy stance

Suddenly I pined for all my lost toys
The doll with the bushy hair and moving eyes
The smaller one with the long, thick braid
I remember I'd named her "Pony Tail"
The baby frocks and the kid boots
And the stuffed rabbit with polka dots
Stitched by my aunt with loving care
I wanted them all back on the bed
On the floor, on the sofa, every where
Even the plastic one with the lolling head,
The dirty, rubber cat with the blue ball
Tattered and torn but I wanted them all

Oh how I wanted to rush back in time
Erase my mistakes with zeal and zest
Seal my fate with good deeds and pride
Just then, my friend, sleep hazed
I mumbled under my breath perhaps
A prayer, a wish, a thought aloud
And turned drowsily to the other side
A little wistful, a little sad,
A little broken, a little mad
But spun my mind still for a while
Childhood yearns in feathery piles
 

Tuesday 6 August 2013

Life Has Never Been A Bed Of Roses, You See!!!



खैर कभी भी बहुत खुशनुमा तो नहीं थी ज़िन्दगी

इसलिये

आज गर ग़म से  बोझल है दिल तो कुछ नयी बात नहीं

यह एक  तसल्ली , एक बहलावा , एक ग़लत फहमी कह लिजीये जनाब
दरअसल यह नायाब सोच जीना आसान कर देती है

बस

इसलिए

गैर सी भी अगर लगती है कभी दिन, रात के  दायरे में बंधे
चौबीस घंटे

मना लेने में खुद को झिझक महसूस नहीं होती

क्यूँकि

खैर कभी भी बहुत खुशनुमा तो नहीं थी ज़िन्दगी






Life has never been a bed of roses
The thought perhaps not so pleasant
Has yet consoled the tears tripping over the lashes
And bestowed an illusion to the heathen nights
When sleep eluded my pillow
Overall a misnomer, you may say
A flawed presentation, a melancholic surrender
To what could have been way different   
But the note of acquiesce ingrained therein
Has made living so much easy
Even if the days and nights seemed alien
Belonging to someone else, as though
Just the thought of it has charmed away
The restiveness of resistance
And that is the reason why
I have more than often
Soothed myself with those inevitable submission
Let it be…
Life has after all never been a bed of roses
You see…




 

Thursday 1 August 2013

Just A Peep


 
As I peep out' the window
A network of cables assualts my eyes
A lamp post stands erect almost arrogant
Next to it is an old Neem tree
Elegantly stooping as its branches
Strong and brown spread heaven ward
Covered with thick bushy foliage
The leaves kissing the cables
And almost caressing the lamp
A bunch of squirrels scamper around
A few run on the cable in a smooth glide
One atop the street lamp
While the rest dance on the sturdy branches
I stand and watch
God's creation and human invention
Residing side by side
As the tiny fur balls romp over and around