Mein nikla satya ke sandhan mein

मैं निकला सत्य के
संधान में |

दिन दहाड़े , डायोजिनिज के लालटेन ले के
राजधानी के राजपथ पर,
सत्ता के गलियों में,
कलाकारों के रंग मंच में,
मंदिर , मस्जिद और गिरिजाघरों में |
ढ़ूँढ़ता रहा
वो सच्च जो कबका खो गया है,
या सुलाया गया है,
राजनेताओं के सफाई , आरोप
और प्रत्यारोप में,
पत्रकारों के हल्ला में,
क्रांतिकारियों के हल्लाबोल में,
धर्म गुरूओं के शास्त्रार्थ में,
बाबूओं के फाइलों के नोटिंगस् में
विचारपत्तियों के लम्बी – लम्बी
आदेशों में |
सभी ने एक साथ बोला
सच्च का पता लगा तो
गजब हो जाएगा,
देश बरबाद हो जाएगा,
आखिर लोग भी तो अभी कच्चे हैं
सच्च को छूपाने में
है हमारी समझदारी
और हमारी जिम्म्दारी भी
फिर कोई एक मुझे चुपके से कहा
” आखिर दूकान भी तो चलाना है ” !!!

 

Mein nikla satya ke sandhan mein

Din dahade, Diogenes ke laltan leke

Rajdhani ke rajpath par

Satta ke galiyon mein

Kalakaron ke rangmanch mein

Mandir, Maszid aur Girja gharon mein

Dhundta raha

Who sach jo kabka kho gaya hai

Ya sulaya gaya hai

Rajnetaoon ke safai, aarop aur pratyarop  mein

Patrakaron ke halla mein

Krantikarion ke hallabol mein

Dharmaguruyon ke Sastraarth mein

Babuon ke filon ke notings mein

Bicharpatiyon ke lambi lambi adeshon mein

Sabhine ek saath bola

Sach ka pata laga to gazab ho jayega

Desh barbad ho jayega

Aakhir log bhi to abhi kache hai

Sach ko chhupane mein hai hamar samajhdari hai

Aur hamari jimmedari bhi

Phir koi ek mujhe chup ke se kaha

‘Akhir Dukaan bhi to chalana hai’

 

(The words came in Hindi. So I let them be. Thanks my friend Ms. Nilima  Kanth for helping me put it in Devnagari Script)

In response to Indispire #191

when love spoke to me for the first time

comet

When love spoke to me for the first time

I failed to record it

If I remember faintly

A comet crossed our path

A comet of good repute

For whom no one sang a headline or

Or broke any news.

 

Till there was this little quiver of voice

I had forgotten

I had ever spoken to her

The sun went down carrying along

The languid flavours of spring flowers

 

The comet comes now and then

With no curtain raisers

Lightening the load of the

The school girl returning home

Happy to be home

In spite of layers of sweat

 

The remnants of a lost city

Get ready for revival

Swelling with sea waves of hope

Rising again

to fall.

it was a great show

trapeze.jpg

Six hours of circus-

As usual the politician inaugurated it

And slept throughout the show

To wake up in the last hour

To proclaim

In words impeccable  and rehashed

The situation is under control

The guilty will not go scot free

And the victims will be compensated

 

The trapeze men thought they were

Fighting  a just cause

Going up and down without a safety net

So thought the green and yellow foot soldiers

Going up and down and down

 

Three dozen died

A few heads rolled

(Do we know their names?)

Some cried and

Some cried foul.

 

Far away

In another planet

Faces lit up

‘It was a great show’

They chuckled

And took a break.

points of time

point of time

It could have started at midday as well.
But, midnight is a scary point of time
And romantic.
A night as dark as Krisna

Is there a point where time deflects
Or takes a U turn?
But there was no such U turn
When my mother died.

Are there cycles of time
So that nothing is novel, new or unique?
Or, is it a hell lot of forgetting
Before the turning?

four micro poems to mark my centum post

To mark my 100th post, I am releasing four micro poems that have been gathering dust in my arsenal quite for some time.

post100.jpg

The sand artist

Neither will our deeds last

Nor shall we

But, look at the sand artist

How excited is he

 

Perfection

The perfect are entombed

Or, adorn the shrines

Those little bits of imperfection

are your sex appeal

 

Immortality

She held back her favours

For life after life

All I asked was a moment

To soak in immortality

 

The oldest profession

Preaching is the oldest profession

Not prostitution

Divine displays hide vulgarity

And vice versa

 

 

let there be no light

 

my star weeps for me

to a telepathic feel

for missing me

I too can’t see her tears

it is not light years

but lights that separates us

 

a long lost romance

with diffused blessings

of dying grass

a  tiny boy looks up

to the canopy of tiny stars

 

to talk to them

to count, to wonder

and feel a vastness inside

a tiny pot.

 

lights lights everywhere

so much are we afraid of

the star lit dreamy openness

to gather light years

of  darkness inside.

 

lights lights every where

all kind of lights

neon shining flickering

of all colours

bathing the cities  in lights

to purge it of all darkness

the darkness that is outside

 

 

the stars of flesh and blood

suck all spotlight

while our guiding stars

feeble and faltering

move a thousand light years

away

 

for once you wish

let there be no light.

starry city.jpg
image source: pinterest

 

[In response to Indispire Edition #164. Topic suggested by Shantanu Ashima Gaur .

Despite the light around us in cities, we cannot see the most beautiful wonders of all- A glittered night sky. What are your views on light pollution, and memories of those wonderful starry nights? #DarknessForStars ]

 

War, Peace and a Trade Secret

war and peace

The war is not over.

The meek fight to inherit the earth

Over airy base of war ruined castles

Nations, creeds, everything yours and mine –

Wrapped in golden words,

The word that was an invention.

Dreams of either or may make you shiver.

You take up the gauntlet for a just cause

While the merchants of war have the last laugh.

Peace, violence, death, life and foolishness

Are  means to an end, to someone’s end.

Crowds gather for enslavement

To spiced up stories, to invent

Another just cause to die for.

The meek, the nobles and the kings

Meanwhile profess peace.

For you, me and the whole of humanity.

Welcome the meek with blood,

the noble with inventions,

and the king with approval.

Ssssss….. a trade secret.


Indian Bloggers

Shravanabelagola

shravanabelagola

The majestic statue
high on the hill
invites us
for a rendezvous
of bliss and innocence.

It is fashionable
To come here
To be selfied and uploaded
And arouse  a little jealousy
“Look where we camped last weekend”.

A lone devotee infirm and old
Climbs up panting and chanting
To touch at least some height
Before her death.

Tiny flowers without leaves
Pop up from the hard rock
What  a humble offering
To the huge bare Bahubali
Standing tall on the bare hill,
With relics and  writings as ambiguous
as his silence!

How do they proclaim peace
in words of war -
The scholars fight it out.

The sun follows us inch by inch
As we limp up slowly
To rise above the world
And its maya.

 

(A detailed account of my visit to Shravanabelagola, Belur, Halebid and Shringeri can be read here :  Journey Through Karnataka’s Heritage Sites )

Indian Bloggers

Out of home can be at home

Out of home can be at home. 
A picnicker on the hospital lawn 
talks to someone on phone.
The ambulance has just arrived
to offload a body.

He hears a good news, 
and misses the tears
and the gossip 
and the relief 
as they mourn home 
just another body
in just another van, 
an anonymous group of mourners
in this city of multitudes.
The man was something 
to someone, somewhere.

He was a hoarder
they said.
He built a hundred homes
but never had a home to himself.
He died after a long illness.
Maybe, that is the reason
they had such a sense of relief.

Indian Bloggers

On Her Departure

Full of foliage
the gulmohur is on the verge
to deliver a message of condolence.

The lake of monsoon has begun to swell
to herald the Great Deluge
sparing only me and my melancholy.

Sunny days have gone out of stock
not to be replenished for a millennia.
But life would continue

to exist as a curse forever.
Now that no one knows her whereabouts
there remains this glimmer of hope.

Heaven is a politician’s promise
for a better tomorrow – a myth.
But hell is not.

Dreams and memories
are the only privileges
that remain untouched.

(After writing the poem I was reminded of the famous classic Bollywood number: chalo ek baar phir se ajnabi ban jaye hum dono.)  

indispire