Silence

My silence, Her anger
Her silence, My agony

Barber's advice

A small kid awaiting his turn at the barber shop, started laughing when I enquired for directions to the loo. The usual hairdresser is a boy in his twenties who is fond of experimenting his skills on my diminishing hairline. He warns me to hold my pressure valves, doubting the tolerance of other customers. The queue was long and I had already waited for my turn.

         But its hard to control when you have had three glasses of water in a tiny room equipped with a powerful air conditioner. Taking a deep breathe, I enthusiastically picked up a beauty magazine, flipping over the pages here and there, only to look at models with slim figures, while ensuring that my little endeavour went unnoticed by a bald man sitting beside me. And perhaps, the joy of reading beauty magazines indeed lies not in the text but quality pictures, just as the bald man portrayed. He seemed ecstatic to find an almost nude picture of a supermodel advertising for a luxury bath decor.

I did not hesitate to steal a peek, however, little signals from my brain taking a hint from the bath décor re-enforced me to relieve my body from the heaviness.

         My hairdresser friend advised me to visit the open field near the Patel building.

‘Sir. Very near Sir. Just opposite,’ he explained in an algorithmic seven steps procedure, pointing me towards the only place in the vicinity.

‘You walk down.’

‘You see the truck there.’

‘You go behind.’

‘You locate the patel building.’

‘You see the open area beside it.’

‘You stand.’

‘You pee.’

‘You come back.’

(I never imagined it to be a such 7 stop long process.)

“I will save your seat right here.” He ensured satisfactorily. 

I did not mind using the open field, so, following the step-by-step guidelines of my stylist, I reached the landmark (patel building) and saw a pile of dump placed in the corner. It took me no to time to recognize the site and there I was doing my thing.

But just after a quick moment of pleasure.

I heard a roaring sound in a crowning pitch from somewhere behind.

"Oyyyyy, ki karto" (please pardon my marathi)

I instantaneously realized my mistake. It was the dutiful watchman of the patel building.

“Sorry Watchmen Sahib! Sorry! Sorry!” I exclaimed hurryingly in my most embarrassing tone, and, soon before the tired bones of the watchman could hang me by my collar, I finished my business and ran towards the barber shop.

The stylist awaiting my turn was happy to see me back. The kid was about to leave (looking even younger after the haircut) with his uncle (apparently - the bald man), who seemed quite disappointed to leave the magazine behind.

In between our casual conversation, the barber regretfully pointed how sanitation was a big problem in the area.

“We have no option but to use the open field,” he added. “People here needs to pee, don’t they?”

“The government should address this issue urgently.”

I nodded in agreement.

“But Sir, beware of the street dogs when you use the open field.” he finished.

I took a long pause and replied in an upset voice, “Well, the dogs are okay, but beware of that cruel watchman of the patel building.” 

The man on the footpath

A man on the footpath re-arranges his merchandise kept on the floor, while SK and I walk down the road. I have enjoyed these thought provoking discussions (in my mind), rather small chats (in reality) with SK who in-spite of complaining about not having an ideal career growth is always optimistic about the future. His eagerness and desire to do something worthy in life has always motivated me, and so, my thoughts handed me over the key to a small but bizarre fantasy drawer in my mind-space. I think about that something worthy for me. I know being a published writer someday is one of them.

The man on the footpath now looks at me with sheer desperateness and his eyes tell me that business has not been good for him. His torn clothes re-affirms the fact. But I pay no attention to his sorrow, as I am in no urgent need of a notebook or a calendar.

Having reached home we both get back to our lives; SK indulges himself with his favorite soap, where as, I turn back to the leftover page of the book which is kept upside down on the study.

‘I need to write more frequently’, I tell myself with the same desperateness as the man.

I indeed need his notebook and calendar as much as he wanted me to have them.  The universe has its way of silently warning you.

Papa

कुछ पंख मुरझा जाते हैं

कुछ नाज़ुक हो जाते हैं

वक़्त का सितम

इतना आसान नहीं होता

धन की बुनियाद पर बनते हैं रिश्ते

पर साथ देता हैं मेरा

आज भी वो दोस्त

जैसे पुराना कोई क़र्ज़ चुका रहा हो

जो बिना अपनी जेब टटोले

सीना थामे

उड़ने देता हैं

आशा की एक किरण

और मेरे कई हज़ार सपने

और छू लेता हैं

दिल का हर एक हिस्सा

जो खिलखिला उठता हूँ

में ये सोच कर

की फ़िक्र न कर

एक फरिश्ता है तेरा हाँथ थामे

Aandhi

Lafz

कुछ कहना ही है मेरे यार

तो बोल वो लफ्ज़

जो मेरी मांगी हुई दुआ बन जाएँ

चुप रहना ही है मेरे यार

तो ले चल वहां

जहाँ मेरी दुआ कुबूल हो जाये

तू गुज़री है बहुत पास से मेरे
तुझे खोने से जी डरता है

यूँ तो सुनाती है दास्ताँ-ए-ज़िन्दगी तू
तेरी आँखों की ख़ामोशी से जी डरता है

आ गयी इस शाम की सुबह भी चलते चलते
अब तेरे रूबरू न होने से जी डरता है

Desert Walk

Sometimes

The world dances with you

Praises you

Loves you

But sometimes

You walk all alone

On a dark long path

Full of thornes

No one to hold your hand

And say - it's gonna be alright son

And you question yourself

What wrong have I done?

Your body aches

And there is only fear

No shoulder to cry on

No love, no care

Your sorrows

They multiply

But the road

It doesn't simplify

Should I give up?

And just go home?

I am no hero in my life

I am all alone!

But I can't give up

Not so soon

My dark nights

Sure have a moon

I walk

And I walk

My mind

Ceases to stop

May be my destiny is far

And peace a forgotten affair

But I won't give up

Not unless I am there

धड़कने दे मुझे
तेरी आदत से पहले
कहीं होना तेरा
लाज़िम न हो जाये
ऐसे तो नाकारा था ही मैं
तेरे जाने से कहीं
मेरा अक्स भी पराया न हो जाये 

The dark side of the moon

In your silent mystique

And strange mysteries

I saw a fanatic dream

Resembling, a morning beam

Reflections mounting night and day

Like strong breeze by the bay

Pushing you towards the edge by noon

Into the dark side of the moon

The Boy

It was the boy that I first noticed, when I visited K’s house. His apartment located at the White Church Colony, was at arm’s length from the lush green campus of government colony, making it one of the most desirable housing locations in the city.

The boy stood near the stairs, when I first walked in with my suitcase - his presence so minimal that I nearly overlooked him even in the clean white background of the walls. His short hair, innocent face and torn cloths caught my attention only later in the day when I saw him standing in the alley. By his appearance, he must have been about eight years old but I wouldn’t say that he looked as adorable as the kids of his age. He was a thin child with a body structure made only of bones, as if molten liquid skin was poured on a skeleton and dried neatly enough to form a human child. He wore a pale red thread on his right arm (which must have been faded with frequent contact to water), a black circular lace around his neck, a faded t-shirt on his chest and a torn denim on his tiny legs which in itself seemed short for his size.

K and his family, made my stay as comfortable as possible. P (K’s wife), a lovely and polite lady was delightful to talk to and we became friends in no time. She and didi (K’s sister) made sure I was fed well and K with his amazing sense of humor ensured right dosage of laughter at the dining table and thereafter. Uncle (K’s father) did not keep well those days, but the family looked after him with immense care and patience. By the evening, I felt myself at home.

At night, we went out to attend a wedding and I saw the boy again standing quietly in the dark near the parking area. I wondered if K and P noticed him. In that small glance when we passed by, I smiled at him but the boy ignored my gesture. I wanted to talk to him and inquire his whereabouts but we hurried into the car amidst an interesting conversation.

Mornings and evenings went by, and I saw the boy time and again, but he never made a sound and kept himself dissolved in the background. I wondered if people of the building knew he existed, I wondered if K and P knew him.

Before I could make any inquiries, it was time for me to leave the city. I was neither fanatic nor I cared much about the boy, but I knew he was lonely and, loneliness at this young age was not what he deserved. Nevertheless I thought that some attention will bring him no harm.

The boy was absent when I left K’s house, but I felt his presence as I greeted K and P goodbye. I knew he was watching us from somewhere behind the cars.

I reached Mumbai the next morning, life caught its pace and before I could realize I was lost in the obscurities of the Metro again. I could see time pass through me as if I was an invisible object in its course, just like the boy who was invisible to many. Maybe we all share the same loneliness at some level or within our own inner space when our soul aches for the right person.

It was late at night when I received a call from K, after our exquisite chat I could no longer hold myself from asking him about the boy in his building. K was unaware of any such boy. He checked with his wife when I intruded further but even P responded indifferently to my inquire. I was in a state of great dilemma - How can a young boy remain unnoticed by the residents of the building, when an outsider like me remember him so distinctively.

With this puzzle in mind, I went downstairs for usual night walk. The sight of a child standing behind the cars in the parking area at such late hour surprised me. I went closer to have a look. The same boy from K’s building stood in front of me. Smiling and grinning at me with energy! But he made no sound. My heart went thumping by this sight and I ran outside with fear to call the watchman. Hearing my helpless scream, two watchmen came running for help. I took them behind the cars but the boy had disappeared.

Within a minute I rang K, and asked him about the boy again, this time specifically describing his appearance. Hearing the description K answered, “Yes, there was a young eight year old boy in our building who died in a car accident last year. How do you know him?”

Cortege on the road

Saw a cortege today while driving to work, a rare sight on the Mumbai Highways.
Couldn't see the face buried in marigold garland but the body rapped with a bright shiny piece of white cloth, stood out, in the rally of people marching together. The son, barefooted, held a small pot of fire in his strong hands took confidant steps.

Traffic in charge made all efforts to make a way but the cars kept moving. Naturally, why give way to a dead man in this busy life, for he has already reached his destination.

Uncertainty

The uncertainty of life knocked my door today. A 30 seconds phone call that a distant relative passed away, and that was it – a medical problem.

How simply and quietly a word 'passed-away' washes away an individual from your life creating a void that can only be filled with gentle blessings of time. The gates of memory open only to flood your imagination with disheartening thoughts. This loss, this tragic loss of life - can it ever be unimpaired?

Noting can fill the hollow that you feel - no sympathies, no words of wisdom, even the best of memories with that individual will turn their back against you and turn into a sad remembering. The mind goes into a limbo touching the deepest part of your brain and flashes you with events from the past.

No matter how miserable you feel, the departed will never come back. You can only addle your mind, but in these times you don’t want to feel better and submerge yourself into a deep void of emptiness.

Someplace, deep inside me, I am conscious of the thought that life is short and precious, and I would like to think that my tiny drop like existence in this ocean is dream life for many - a loving and caring family, good friends, education, enjoyable workplace, good food, hobbies, music, books are some of the things that have space in my life which many in this country starve for.

I am a happy and content man; I realize it now even more. But, I am determined - to be more humble and simple, to take more chances, to travel more, to respect and love, and most of all to be healthy and fit.

RIP! My distant relative.

D23

उथल पुथल सी हो रही हैं धड़कने
अंगारे उगल रही हैं करवटें
अब तेरी नज़रों की छाव में ही
नींद की वो पलक झपकेगी  

Hope

टिक टिक कर 

निगलती जा रही ज़िन्गदी मुझे 

जैसे प्यासी घूंट  

निगलता है मुसाफिर कोई 

इल्तेजा है इतनी 

रात के उन अँधेरे सन्नाटों में 

एक-आधा चाँद मेरा भी झलक जाये 

Phir Ye Sanjh

आज फिर ये साँझ
एक चादर ओढ़ आयी

जिसकी हलकी छाव में
छुप गए हम तुम

आसमा देखो
ललचा रहा जैसे

वक़्त देखो
इतरा रहा जैसे

चुपके से
हो गयी रात

जिसका बहाना लिए
चले गए तुम

और छोड़ गए हमें
तनहा अकेले

उस चाँद की
रौशनी में

जो खुद तुमसे
शीतलता चुराता है

Khamoshi

उनकी ख़ामोशी

एक सैलाब सी

हम जान

मुसाकत कर बैठे

टटोल कर जेब

कुछ पुरानी यादों को

आज़ादी की

रकम बना बैठे

Bittu

Bittu came with two bags full of cloths and plenty of hopes to make his internship a success. His athletic build and thick eyebrows surely do injustice to his shy and simple personality, but his voice and smile will win over your heart.

With most of the space occupied by my large bed, study and the keyboard, he adjusted quite well in my small room within the little leftover space, trying not to discomfort me in anyway.

Seeing him uneasy while moving stuff from his bags multiple times reminded me of the hard time when I had to live in my suitcase. So, I offered him to create some space in the cupboards and managed to clear two racks for his day-to-day movements.

Today, when I came back home in the evening, I was surprised to see that within the limited space I provided him, he kept one-forth of the space occupied with a beautiful picture of Lord Ganesha, while adjusting his stuff in the remaining part.

Makes me think – It doesn’t matter how grand your life is . . . but what matters is, who you share it with, no matter how ordinary it may be!

Annoying Monday

This Monday afternoon is not the usual as it should have been, had it not been a long weekend. This one does not seem to run away like a normal holiday, as a matter of fact it’s quite slow and lazy.

The house is asleep in the midst of this discomforting Mumbai heat which is increasing exponentially day by day. AC’s are yet to be installed, so our hope relies completely on the ceiling fans, which seems to have slowed down in anguish of not being offered a break.

While heat is a matter of discomfort, I am more turned down by the loud snoring noise made by my flatmate, shrouding our living room with his vibrations. Stand near him for 2 minutes while he is asleep and I guarantee that any normal person will get alarmed and high.

‘How can he sleep in this heat?’ - I question him, while talking to myself and as I decide to lie down for a nap, the volume of his snoring goes up a level. Disgusted and eventually giving up I turn towards my cell phone and record his cruelty, which I propose to be used in the Himalayan forest against wild animals. Why hurt them, when you can annoy them?

Arziyan

खवाजा गरीब नवाज़ 

अर्ज़ियाँ थोड़ी सी 

मन्नतें अधूरी सी 

फरियादें हलकी सी 

रंग दे मेरे यार की भी 

तेरे हरे रंग से 

याद

गहरे पानी में
आग बन
रह गयी
वो याद,
जब
लाख की कोशिश
भुलाने की -
एक बूँद
प्यास बन
रह गयी
वो याद  

Cortege

The sound of dhol from the street filled the empty house as I opened my eyes to see Maa rushing towards the window. It was not celebration but a cortege (shav-yatra) of an old lady who passed away the night before. 

By the sound of dhol, it can be tricky to distinguish cortege with celebrations especially around the marriage season, but I made no mistake for I have registered these beats time and again. The man with the dhol belongs to a family which have been performing these ceremonies from generations to generations. However in spite of how good he plays, he will never be called to participate during a happy occasion.

Maa stood quietly at the window, and with her saddened eyes she looked at the crowd taking the lady to the crematory. She may miss a grand Baraat or a fancy Rath-yatra during the Durga Pooja but she never misses a cortege for her own reasons. 

The dead body while wrapped in a new red saari is coved with a clean white sheet; a layer of fresh marigold flowers are spread casually on the bier carried by four family members each holding one corner. Her face looked as peaceful as it could get, but the wrinkles were touched up with gulal makeup which made her look a bit scary. Coins and flowers thrown on the body as the crowd made their way towards the crematory crying,"Ram Naam Satya Hai!" - the name of Ram is the truth. The elder son leading the way with a piece of burning wood in his hand to complete the formality of giving fire to the body; the younger lad walking by the side as a moral support to his brother during the last journey of their beloved mother.

That morning standing at the window, a sharp shiver ran through my body, giving me a feeling of detachment from everyday life. Why worry for no reason? Why not live in peace and harmony? Why complicate this thread called life when its one end so deceptive and uncertain, whereas the other so truthful and simple? Why not find love in small things? Why not do something incredible worth leaving behind? 

As someone rightly quoted - “When you die, all things soft and beautiful would be buried with you and your life will be placed in the memory of the living!”