• Hindi Poetry | कविताएँ

    कश्मीर

    रौनक़ लगाते रौशन गली गलियारे
     सजते थे सूखे चिनार के पत्ते सड़क किनारे
    
     बर्फ़ की सफ़ेद चादर ओढ़े होते सर्द सवेरे
     फ़िरन तले गरमी देते कांगड़ी के नर्म अंगारे
    
     सिराज बाग़ में सजे लाखों फूल वो प्यारे
     दल पे हौले सरकते छोटे बड़े सुंदर शिकारे
    
     हरी हरी वादी के यादगार लुभावने नज़ारे
     सैर सपाटे शांत बहते जहलम किनारे
    
     हुस्न जिसका हर मौसम अलग निखारे
     यूँ ही नहीं कहते थे इसे लोग जन्नत सारे
    
     फिर मौसम बदला गूँजने लगे नारे
     बिखरे अचानक ख़्वाब जो संवारे
    
     मुट्ठी भर की ज़िद ने हज़ारों मारे
     खेल खेलने लगे सियासतदाँ हमारे
    
     पहचान हमारी जो है हमें झमूरियत पुकारे
     ज़रूरी है के जब देश जीते कश्मीरियत ना हारे
  • Musings & Short Stories

    Roots

    How important is it to have a town that you could call yours?

    Someplace which would always be home…

    You can’t always explain this feeling but one does get attached to places..more often than not these are places where you grew up..despite all their shortcomings some corner of your heart always craves and wishes that you could find your way back.

    The point I’m trying to make is that it’s not just about the house you lived in..there’s so much more associated with a hometown…it is what lies beneath the surface..the people you know, the kids you played with and those you went to school with, the evening hangouts and the neighbourhood store…those quaint places..streets and corners with anecdotes associated with them… always knowing the best place to find most any thing that you could think of..food, shopping for clothes, you name it. I guess this is what constitutes your roots.

    You might spend half your life away from your hometown but it’s always a special feeling when you are back. And no it’s not something that lasts a day or two I’ve noticed that it continues even after you leave..of course with knowledge of the fact that you’ll be back again. But what if you knew that the next time you are back there would be no place you could call home?? If you had to stay overnight in a hotel or at a friend’s or relatives place?

    The word that closest describes that feeling is uprooted!!!

    And to close a few lines from this classic by Jerry Lewis

     The old hometown looks the same
     As I step down from the train....
     ....It's good to touch the green, green grass of home.
     The old house is still standing
     Though the paint is cracked and dry
     And there's that old oak tree
     that I used to play on
     Down the lane I'd walk ...
     It's good to touch the green, green grass of home.
     ...Then I awake and look around me
     At the gray walls that surround me
     And I realized that I was only dreaming.. 
  • Musings & Short Stories

    Unforgettable

    Have you ever felt guilty for having forgotten something? Something that in normal course would never ever have escaped you.

    Perhaps forgotten is not the apt word, perhaps not even the right word but in a strange sort of a way it is the word that you’ll use to chide yourself.

    It is an uncanny feeling when you know that there is something brimming underneath the surface but its not front and centre as far as your conscious mind is concerned. All day, you try figuring it out but you can’t.

    And then, like a bolt from the blue it hits you; BAD!! The realisation is like a ton of bricks crashing down on you.

    Question is; what is your reality?

    The fact that you knew something was coming, you thought about it, yet when it actually came you were not even conscious to it.

    So does that mean that our conscious mind builds these memorials and in a foolish sort of a way holds on to feelings of pain and angst whilst our sub-conscious mind takes a more practical approach and treats these occasions more matter-of-factly?

    I reckon there is merit to the argument that if time is the best healer of wounds and if, with passage of time you reach a stage where the only memories that remain are the happy ones, then, not remembering an occasion in effect is a part of the healing since the reason you primarily wanted to remember the occasion was an unhappy one.

    There is no point building memorials, they never are happy places. Sometimes its just good to forget. Its our minds way of telling us that we have indeed moved on.

    All that is required is perhaps a remembrance and it comes in that fleeting moment of quiet acknowledgement. The real deal is mustering up courage to embrace reality.

    So here’s to our sub-conscious mind doing its bit for keeping our “Happiness Quotient” up. 

    Fact of the matter, there are somethings you don’t need to remember, invariably they are also the things you cannot forget.

    To end, in good old fashion a few lines from a song made popular by Nat King Cole

    Unforgettable, that’s what you are

    Unforgettable though near or far

    Like a song of love that clings to me

    How the thought of you does things to me

    Never before has someone been more

    ……Unforgettable in every way

    And forever more, that’s how you’ll stay…

  • Musings & Short Stories

    Ek re-take milega kya?

    It was a friends anniversary a few weeks back.  It was also a day spent reminiscing. It was a day spent wondering what it would have been like.

    How many times have you come across people with the capability to live in the moment…no matter what..? More often than not these people have the capability to inject that bit of enthusiasm into dullards like yours truly.

    The words “Chal, kuch kartein hain…” (come, let’s do something) keep ringing in my ears time and again. How do you not think about a person who has pretty much been a part of the start of everything in your life…sport, eating out, partying, rock music….love. The chal kuch kartein hain has been responsible for many a thing and more often than not getting us into trouble!!

    Shakespeare famously said and I quote


    “All the world’s a stage,
    And all the men and women merely players:
    They have their exits and their entrances;
    And one man in his time plays many parts,
    His acts being seven ages…”

    Feel as though the script went horribly wrong somewhere. The curtains came down much earlier.

    Just one thought though…”Ek re-take milega kya??

  • Musings & Short Stories

    The Thin Line

    Emotions like everything else in life are a part of a continuum. They do not appear in discrete packets. There is an intermediary stage before irritation turns to anger, a smile turns into a laughter, between pulling someones leg and being mean and when assertiveness becomes stubbornness. Most of these observations, if I may add, are from the perspective of the watcher than the do-ee (I picked this from Everybody Loves Raymond)

    So the question now is whether there’s a thin line separating these stages, how many degrees separate these stages and who owns the line? My guess is, its most always the watcher.

    Brings me back to the fact that everything that we say or do today is driven by perceptions (good or bad, right or wrong). Though we’ve made great advances in Communication Technology what has taken a beating is the Inter-personal communication. We are too shy or too proud to go ask people what they think about what we are doing, have done or plan to do. Resultantly, we assume a reaction of a certain kind and go ahead with whatever we wanted to do…”I ate the entire chocolate because I thought you did not want it” or “We went and watched the play..didn’t think you’d be interested” There are of course zillion such examples.

    Coming back to the thin line…. Is there a way to set the bar? Can we actually define words like anger and come to one common understanding on what it means and when it actually sets in?? If we actually did, I bet we’d wipe out the entire man-woman poking around gig. On second thoughts, life then wouldn’t be too much fun either.

    Guess the only way to get around this is, that as an individual, much like an umpire in cricket we have to display consistency in our interpretation of the rule and call that delivery a wide or a no-ball at exactly the same point every time and regardless of who.

    As the saying goes in cricket “The line belongs to the umpire!”

  • Musings & Short Stories

    A Long Dark Night

    I have been around for over a hundred years now.  Architecturally speaking that would make me middle aged.  A lot has changed around me since.  For starters, there weren’t as many buildings around me.  Back in the day, people would come riding on bullock carts from villages far and near. 

    Not all would get to spend time with me though. I was meant for the elite! Only the gora sahibs. Sometimes the wealthy zamindaar or the nawabs entourage.  I used to be under lock and key for most part.

    I was spacious. I had two large cushioned couch sets that faced each other across a heavy wooden center table. They were leather! The sahibs wouldn’t have settled for less. A tasteful engraved wooden screen separated the seating area from the sleeping area – a gift from the nawab

    There was provision for ten people to sleep.   Four independent beds and three bunker beds lining the opposite wall.   I have two windows, one right between Bed No. 2 & Bed No. 3 and a larger one on the perpendicular wall.  It used to face the fields that stretched all the way upto the river.  The moist evening breeze would kiss the crops and make them sway almost as though choreographed.  A great view.

    Attached to me are a small pantry, a wash & changing room and a storage area.  All in all a self-sufficient unit.

    My interiors have undergone some changes.  The drapes, the upholstery, the beds, the bunkers and the couches all have got changed multiple times now.  Few things have remained as is though. Most important amongst them; the engraved wooden screen. The clock that hangs on the wall facing the main entrance! Oh yes and the picture frames adorning the walls, of course the pictures inside them have changed like seasons. Only one picture however, has been around for half a century now. It’s a picture of a dark man with round-rimmed spectacles and a bare torso with what seems like a loin cloth wrapped around.  A Sanskrit phrase is printed under the picture reads “Ahimsa Paramo Dharma”.

    Talking of pictures; isn’t lifetime just a picture wall with special moments hung on it? How many such moments does one really have? How many are really vivid? How many pictures really find their way on to the wall? But a few. The ones that do, are the ones living the lifetime for!

    Like anyone else I have seen a range of emotion in my lifetime.  Anger and calmness, friendship and enmity, fear and courage, shame and shamelessness, benevolence and cruelty, pity, indignation, envy and of course love and hatred.  But all of them in one night! Bound to be an unforgettable night.

    It was a long dark night. Dark in more ways than one could imagine. The night though had begun in the morning itself.

    The man, his wife, his younger brother and his five year old son had moved in a few days earlier.  They obviously had bribed the caretaker.  I heard the man being chided by his younger brother for having brought along the wife and son.

    “Anything can happen,” he had said. “Who knows…”

    “We have come here to do The Almighty’s bidding. He will take care of us. Just hope the caretaker doesn’t get greedy and keeps his mouth shut,” the man told his younger brother.

     “Your Bhaabi doesn’t have any clue about the real reason for us being here. She thinks this is pilgrimage. Let’s keep it that way. Plus they make for a good cover” the man continued.

    “When are we supposed to leave?” the younger one asked.

    “The night we finish the work we have come here for is the night we leave.  There’s a train from here that leaves at two-fifteen past midnight.”

    “The caretaker shall get the angeethi in a while. We will go and get the rations. Come Chotu,” the man told the wife as he picked his son up. The three of them stepped out.

    Bhabi, bolt the door behind us. The caretaker said no one else is expected to come.” The woman complied.

    Over the next two days I watched as the woman turned me into their home.  She would cook, clean, wash, feed her son and sing him a lullaby. She would steal glimpses of herself in the bathroom mirror each time adjusting her bindi or her nose-ring. 

    She was very excited. This was the first time she was stepping out.  When her husband had mentioned about a ‘business’ trip with his brother, she had insisted that she would join.  He hadn’t said no. They hadn’t been married long when they had their son. Ten months that’s it.  She had longed for some time away from the daily chores. Not that she wasn’t doing the regular chores here but any time away from her overbearing mother-in-law and nosy sister-in-law was welcome.  The brother-in-law was the same age as her and friendly.  He was just like her brother and would help her around house.  Her husband had to assume responsibility for the clan after the untimely death of his father. He was a man of few words. She loved him and she knew he loved her too.  Why else would he make sure that she wasn’t troubled by his mother or sister when he was around? Matters were different though when the brothers would step out for work or leave town. She had never really asked questions regarding the nature of this ‘business’ trip. She though it better not to lest the husband changed his mind!

    She needed someone to speak to and that someone was her son.  The woman had told her tale to her son while he slept in her lap.  She had really enjoyed herself the previous day. Though the darshan of the actual sanctorum had not been possible they had all taken a dip in the holy waters. She felt blessed. She kissed her son on the forehead and thought of catching a few winks before the men returned.

    ~

    They had left at the crack of dawn.  The men had talked amongst themselves that this was an important day.

    There was a knock. The woman opened the door to find the caretaker standing with an elderly gentleman. Behind them were two women and a man holding a boy no more than five in his arms.

    “They won’t be staying long.” The caretaker said almost barging in. 

    “But….” the woman said hesitantly, “My husband said you had promised we would have the whole place to ourselves.”

    “Things change,” the caretaker said curtly without even looking at her.

    “Please make yourselves comfortable,” the caretaker was now addressing the elderly gentleman. “You can place all your luggage in the storage area and…..”

    “Is this your child behen? How old is he?” one of the women asked her looking at her son who was still sleeping.  She sounded young, but there was no way of telling. Her face could barely be seen behind the burkha.

    Before she could even respond the other lady asked her, “Which are the beds you have occupied?” She put up her veil.  She was an old woman, perhaps in her fifties.

    “I am sorry, where are my manners,” the old lady continued. “I am Zohra, this is my daughter-in-law Saira.  That young man is my son, Salim and that,” she said pointing in the direction of the elderly gentleman, “is my husband.” She did not take his name.

    “I….I am Parvati.”  She was confused and scared that her husband would come and reprimand her.

    The caretaker took the elderly gentleman’s leave and left.

    “We are using these two beds,” she said pointing towards two of the independent beds.  Chotu and his Chacha sleep there,” she pointed in the direction of the bunker beds.

    “What a coincidence, we call our little one Chotu too,” Saira re-joined the conversation.

    “So it’s settled then.”  The older woman continued. “The four men can take the beds, while we ladies take the bunker beds.  The kids can figure it out for themselves,” she pronounced.

    “Where is your husband beta? And your brother-in-law? What time is your train?” the elderly gentleman asked Parvati.  He was seated on the couch across the wooden partition.

    “They left early this morning they had some work in the neighbouring town.

    “Oh! You better pray that they return early,” the old man said. “There’s trouble brewing in that town.”

    The blood drained from Parvati’s face.

    ~

     Chotu woke up bawling. The other family had settled down in the meanwhile. Parvati had prepared some dal and chawal.  She had asked them out of courtesy.  The ladies had both jumped at her offer.  There was just sufficient ration to cook a meal for all of them. 

    Parvati’s mind had not been on the meal she had prepared.  A knock on the door raised her hope.

    It was the caretaker again. The clock on the wall showed ten minutes past four.

    Salim, the old man and the caretaker spoke in hushed tones.  Parvati strained her ears to catch a few words from behind the wooden screen. Their discussion over the caretaker left.

    Humnein theek kaha tha begum, qayamat aa hi gayi. Jo nahin hona tha woh ho gaya”, the old man spoke in Urdu. “They razed it to the ground, the mob went berserk. The caretaker says it’s a battlefield outside.”

    There was a knock on the door again.  Parvati was in the pantry. It was Salim who opened the door.

    “Who are you and what are you doing here?” It was Parvati’s husband.  There was anger in his voice.

    Parvati reached the door just in time to prevent an argument from breaking out. 

    “They are staying here too, they came in this morning. They will leave tonight,” she said.

    Hearing her Salim eased his grip on the door.  He was standing with his armed stretched across the door guarding it.

    “Did you not tell the caretaker that the deal clearly was – No one else,” the husband said still simmering. “How could he betray us, that too for these people!”  Though he was not loud he made no attempt to be discreet either.  The obvious reference was to the other family and their faith. The body language of the young men was still belligerent.  More so, her husband and brother-in-law. They just didn’t seem like the same men who had left in the morning.

    “How is the mahaul outside beta?” The old man had been watching the young men bare their fangs. He was wise enough to know nothing would come out of it. “What happened is rather unfortunate,” he said.  Salim nodded but he was still smarting underneath.

    “Unfortunate?!” the younger brother exclaimed as he flexed the muscles of his bared arm suggestively. “It should have happened years ago,” he continued.

    The older brother put his hand up signaling him to stop, “It’s over Lakshman. It’s done.”

    Ji Ram bhaiya,” Lakshman retreated.

    The old man too held back Salim. 

    The tension in the room was palpable.  The ladies in the meanwhile were cowering behind the screen not knowing what to make of the turn of events.  The two boys were playing on the bunker beds, oblivious.

    ~

    “We brought down the structure bhaiya, we can take them down too.  They are no match for us. The old man will be out in one blow and the younger one is… ”

    Ram put his hand on his lips and shushed Lakshman.

    They were in the storage area, packing their bags.

    “Yes we can. We have achieved what we had come here to do. No need to attract unnecessary attention,” Ram said.  “We take the two-fifteen train….. and we will be ready lest they try anything funny,” he said patting the Rampuri in his kurta pocket.

    The two brothers, shook hands.  They were ready!

    The two families had kept to themselves post the conversation with the old man.  There had been a lot of staring at each other between Lakshman and Salim.

    ~

    They could hear noises in the distance.  They were closing in.  At first it was not clear what was happening. They grew louder as though building up to a crescendo.  They could make out the screaming and sloganeering punctuated with pleas of mercy and angst. 

    The two families had formed separate huddles in the room. It was now dark.  There was no electricity.

    The mob was in the vicinity now.  Through the closed windows they could see the glow of the torches or had something been set ablaze? They couldn’t tell.

    Suddenly, the chant was loud and decipherable.

    In the darkness they could make out the silhouette of the old man approach. Lakshman, firmed his grip on the Rampuri inside his pocket as did Ram. 

    They heard the old man say, “Quick! Take off your kurtas and wear these caps.”

    Lakshman sprung up ready to attack. The words that the old man had said just about sank in. He paused.

    The old man was holding out two prayer caps. He turned around and instructed the women to hand Parvati a burkha.

    “It’s an angry mob outside, take it beta. Jaan hai to jahaan hai.” It was the old lady.

    Parvati reached out and took the burkha. Ram and Lakshman followed suit. They followed the old man’s instructions.

    One couldn’t see them very clearly in the darkness.  But it was the only way Ram and Lakshman could hide the shame they felt.

    ~

    It was inevitable.  The mob found their way to them.  They were now banging on the doors. The noise was deafening.  A stone shattered the glass on the window at the far end of the room. A torch was dropped in.  Ram doused it with a bucket of water. They had anticipated it but there was no way they could hold fort for a long time.

    “Open up!” An angry voice on the other side of the door said. “Open up or we will burn this place down!!” The chant followed. They were banging on the door pushing it with all their might from the outside.

    It was a split second in which the old man opened the door, the mob threw it wide open. They were inside!

    “Leave my family alone!” The old man screamed at the top of his voice. 

    The leader of the mob the held his hand up.

    “Who are you? Who are all these people?” he questioned the old man.

    “This is my family,” the old man repeated. “My name is Syed Masoom Reza, this my wife, my three sons, their wives and my grandsons.”

    ~

    Those were the last words to be spoken that night. The train to Begusarai came in late. The brothers and Parvati bid the old man and his family farewell in silence. They touched his feet as they left.

    I am the waiting room at the Faizabad Railway station and this is my lasting memory.

  • Musings & Short Stories

    कुछ पैसे उधार

    धीरज और उमा की कहानी भी किसी हिंदी फिल्म से कम नहीं. पहली नज़र का पहला प्यार, छेड़ छाड़, दो खानदानों की तकरार यानी की पूरी मसालेदार पिक्चर. यारों दोस्तों में धीरज और उमा के प्यार की मिसाल दी जाती है. लेकिन ये कहानी उनके प्यार से ज्यादा उनकी गृहस्ती के शुरुआत की है.

     उन्नीस सौ नवासी या नब्बे की बात होगी शायद. हमारे धीरज साहब थे तो B.Sc. IIIrd year के स्टूडेंट लेकिन ख्वाब वह शायर बनने के देखा करते थे. पिताजी से बोलने की हिम्मत तो कभी हुई नहीं इस लिए छुप छुप के लिखा करते. उन दिनों में जामिया मिलिया के हॉस्टल में शेरों शायरी करने वालों की महफ़िलें सजा करती थी जहाँ शमा-ऐ-महफिल का किरदार एक किंग साइज़ सिगरेट निभाया करती थी. धीरज की शायरी का ज़िक्र इन महफ़िलो से निकल जामिया के कैंटीन और वहाँ से संगीत कला अकादमी के मंच तक में होने लगा था. धीरज का तख़ल्लुस था गाफ़िल.

    उमा ने लेडी श्रीराम से अपना BA Journalism बस ख़तम किया था और जामिया में Mass Communication कोर्स में दाखिला लिया ही था. गुजरे चंद महीनों में गाफ़िल और उनकी शायरी दोनों उमा के दिल में घर कर चुके थे. अरे भाई कहा न कहानी थोड़ी फ़िल्मी है.

    बैरहाल, मियाँ गाफ़िल उर्फ़ धीरज सिंह की नज़रें उमा पार्थसारथी से पहली बार DTC की U-Special में मिली थीं. धीरज कालकाजी DDA फ्लैट के बस-स्टैंड से चढ़े और उमा तारा अपार्टमेन्ट से. रूट के पहले और दुसरे स्टॉप थे ये. पहले दो साल तक तो धीरज की हिम्मत भी नहीं हुई. लेकिन अब जब उमा जामिया आ पहुंची तो रोज़ देखते, बस की सीट पे रखे शायरी भरे खातों और अपने स्टॉप पहले उतरते उतरते दोनों में प्यार हो ही गया.

    महीने सालों में बदल गए, धीरज दिल्ली में ही एक छोटे थिएटर ग्रुप का हिस्सा बन गया और उमा ने एक टीवी न्यूज़ चैनल में नौकरी कर ली. किस्मतन दोनों के दफ्तर Connaught Place में ही थे. उनकी की मुलाकातें अब रोज़ लंच पे कॉफ़ी हाउस में होने लगी.

    धीरज और उमा दोनों के घर वाले उनके इस प्यार से नाखुश थे. एक ओर जहाँ उमा के पिता धीरज के North-Indian होने पर, उम्र में उमा से छोटे होने और इस सबसे ज़्यादा उसकी न के बराबर आमदनी से नाराज़ थे वहीँ दूसरी ओर धीरज के माँ बाप प्यार के ही खिलाफ थे. सिर्फ उमा की माँ थी जो कुछ हद तक इस रिश्ते से सहमत थी. “ये नाटक वाटक छोड़ के कोई सीधी सादी नौकरी कर ले बेटा शायद तब उमा के अप्पा मान जायें” कह के वह छुप हो जाती.


    उमा और धीरज को अब काफ़ी हाउस के कैशियर और सभी बैरा पहचानते थे. उनका स्टैण्डर्ड एक वेज कटलेट, एक प्लेट इडली, एक मसाला डोसा और दो कॉफ़ी का आर्डर केशियर रामपाल यादव को राटा हुआ था. अब तो धीरज को देख के ही वह पर्ची निकाल देते और उमा के पहुँचने से पहले टेबल पे आर्डर भेज भी दिया जाता. मनो जैसे काफी हाउस सारा धीरज और उमा की उस आधे घंटे की मुलाकात की राह देखता ख़ास तौर से रामपाल जी.

    रोज़ उमा और धीरज मिलते और कभी अपने काम तो कभी अपने घर वालों के उनको अलग करवाने के पैंतरों के बारे में बात करते.

    लेकिन जनवरी का वह दिन अलग था. उमा और धीरज रोज़ की जल्दी में नहीं थे और आज दोनों साथ भी आये थे.

    धीरज आते ही बोला “रामपाल जी आज ३ प्लेट गुलाब जामुन भी लगा दीजिये, आज आप लोगों का मुंह मीठा कराना है”. दोनों के चेहरे ख़ुशी से चमक रहे थे.

    रामपाल जी बोले “क्यों शायर आज क्या ख़ास है?”

    “चाचा हम दोनों बस कोर्ट से आ रहे हैं, हमने शादी कर ली”

    घर वालों को इस बात की अभी खबर नहीं थी और दोनों फिर से रोज़ की तरह जीने और मिलने लगे. फिर एक दिन आया जब उमा को अपने पिता को यह बात बतानी ही पड़ी.

    धीरज फ़ौरन एक घर की तलाश में जुट गया. वक़्त बहुत कम था और उमा के घर में तनाव बहुत बढ़ चुका था.

    “किराया ३००० है और मकान मालिक ३ महीने की पगड़ी भी मांग रहा है” धीरज की आवाज़ में फ़िक्र और बेबसी दोनों छलक रहीं थी. “मेरे पास १५००० हैं बैंक में” उमा ने होंसला देते हुआ कहा. “घर छोटा है but I love it” उमा बोली “दोनों के लिए पटेल नगर से CP convenient भी रहेगा”

    अगले कुछ दिनों में दोनों तिनका तिनका जोड़ अपना आशियाँ सजाने लगे. कॉफ़ी हाउस में लंच करने का रिवाज़ जारी रहा. कुछ महीने और बीत गए.

    “मैंने panchkuian रोड पे बहुत सुन्दर सोफ़ा-सेट देखा है” अपनी इडली खाते हुए उमा बोली.

    “अच्छा! कितने का है?” धीरज बोला “मैंने एजेंसी के लिए कुछ जिंगल्स लिखे हैं कुछ पैसे मिलेंगे उसके”

    “देखा है बस लेने की बात थोड़ी कर रही हूँ” उमा ने कहा.

    “फिर भी” धीरज बोला. “अच्छा कम से कम इतना दो बताओ कौन सी दुकान में देखा, मैं भी देखूं ज़रा”

    अगले दिन जब रोज़ की तरह जब धीरज कैश काउंटर पर पहुंचा तो रामपाल जी बोले “बेटे कुछ पैसे उधार…” धीरज बीच में ही बोल पड़ा “रामपाल जी आप ही के काउंटर पे बोर्ड लगा है आज नकद कल उधार का और आप ही….” रामपाल ने बात को आगे नहीं बढ़ाया.

    उमा और धीरज ने लंच ख़त्म किया और चले गए.

    उमा और धीरज जब श्याम को घर पहुंचे तो अपने नुक्कड़ की दुकान के सामने खड़े एक रिक्शा को देख उमा उछल पड़ी और बोली “धीरू देखो! That’s the one! मैं इसी सोफ़ा के बारे में बोल रही थी”

    “यार है तो वाकई में है तो सुन्दर” बोलते बोलते दोनों घर की सीढ़ियाँ चढ़ने लगे. उमा ने चाय का पानी गैस पे रखा ही था के घंटी बजी.

    हाथ में एक पर्ची लिए खड़ा एक आदमी नीचे रिक्शा में रखे सोफ़ा की और इशारा करते हुआ बोला “सामान आया है आपका” उमा झट से पलटी और धीरज से लिपटते हुए बोली “बड़े गंदे हो तुम, surprise देना चाहते थे. बताया भी नहीं के जिंगल वाले पैसे मिल गए हैं”

    धीरज एक मिनट को सहम गया “मैंने तो सिर्फ दाम पुछा था और किश्तों में लेने की बात कही थी” दरवाज़े पे खड़े आदमी से बोला “ आप गलत पते पे आ गए हो, ये हमारा नहीं है”

    “साहब धीरज तो आप का ही नाम है ना, मैंने नुक्कड़ वाली दुकान में पुछा तो उसने यही घर बताया. रात बहुत हो चली है और मुझे भाड़ा एक तरफ का ही मिला है. या तो आप वापसी का भाड़ा दी दीजिये मैं सामान ले जाता हूँ”

    धीरज ने उमा की तरफ देखा वह सोफे को ही निहार रही थी.

    “अच्छा छोड़ जाओ फर्नीचर वाली दुकान जा के कल मैं बात कर लेता हूँ” ये बोल धीरज ने रिक्शे वाले को रुखसत किया.

    उमा से रहा नहीं गया और बोली “कल उसे थोडा एडवांस दे देते हैं बाकी किश्तों की बात कर लेंगे”

    अगले दिन लंच टाइम में दोनों काफ़ी हाउस छोड़ वढेरा फर्नीचर हाउस पहुँच गए.

    “जी पेमेंट तो हो गयी” दुकानदार बोला “एक सज्जन आये थे, उन्होंने बाहर रखा सोफ़ा देखा, दाम पुछा, काश पेमेंट करी और इस पते पे डिलीवरी करने को कहा” अपनी डायरी दिखाते हुए वह बोला.

    “कहीं अप्पा तो नहीं” उमा ने कहा “अम्मा से टेलीफोन पे बात हुई थी कुछ दिन पहले”

    “चलो बाहर बूथ से फोन लगा के पूछ लेते हैं” धीरज बोला “ उनसे कह देना की मैं धीरे धीरे करके लौटा दूंगा सारे पैसे”

    “Hello अप्पा. Thank you. I knew you would come around one day.” ये कहते उमा के आँखों में आँसू आ गये. इस से पहले की वह कुछ और कह पाती अप्पा ने “Wrong number” कह फ़ोन काट दिया.

    धीरज उमा की हालत समझते हुए बोला “Half day कर लेते हैं, काफ़ी हाउस में कुछ खा कर सीधे घर चलते हैं”

    “आज रामपाल जी नहीं आये क्या” काउंटर पे बैठे एक नए सज्जन से धीरज ने पुछा. “जी वह तो अब नहीं रहे, आप उन्हें जानते थे क्या” उसने कहा.

    उमा भी साथ ही थी और बोल पड़ी “क्या!! कैसे??”

    “जी परसों श्याम को कुछ छः, सवा-छः बजे. वह panchkuian रोड पर सड़क पार कर रहे थे की तेज़ आती एक गाड़ी ने उन्हें मार दिया. ठीक वढेरा फर्नीचर हाउस की लाल बत्ती पे”

    बीस साल हो चलें हैं अब दोनों की शादी को, दो बेटियां भी हैं. धीरज एक ऐड एजेंसी में क्रिएटिव डायरेक्टर है और उमा उसी न्यूज़ चैनल में एडिटर. आज भी वह सोफ़ा-सेट और उसके पीछे दीवार पे लगी रामपाल जी की तस्वीर उनके घर की शान हैं.

    बस इतनी सी थी यह कहानी.

  • Musings & Short Stories

    sedition, lies & video clips: where has objectivity gone?

    I am your average Joe or should I say Janardhan. The middle-aged, middle-class guy who pays his taxes on time, spends hours stuck in traffic jams, generally apolitical, opinionated a few times and an optimist who believes that the larger good is good enough to prevail.

    I write this since I am pained by the narrative of doom that seems to be enveloping this country’s psyche. Most people like me have a voice courtesy social media. Be it tweets, posts on Facebook or discussions in WhatsApp group my ilk has taken to expressing socio-political beliefs and views on events & happenings like fish to water. There are views, counter-views, opinions that get aired, debated and exchanged at the speed of thought.

    It’s private yet public or vice-versa. These expressions often contain elements of pride or prejudice or angst; as misplaced or genuine as they may be. Those of us who have shunned social platforms and look at those who participate on them as souls needing redemption may just be having a quiet laugh. Let me assure you there is no escaping it. If it already hasn’t it will make way to your drawing room discussions. All of us are connected to “friends” in the real world too aren’t we?Question therefore is where the voices of reason are, is there really no middle-ground or is taking sides the new fad? I believe that at a subliminal level the sense of objectivity seems to be diminishing and that is my concern.A tsunami of communication on every issue seems to be drowning an individual’s capability to assimilate and formulate rational opinions. Today the long tail of communication means someone somewhere is still consuming it for the first time and should he/she choose to react to it socially it multiplies someone else’s consumption of the same communication. The result therefore is this continuum in which any fresh piece of communication or opinion just adds to the snowballing of what is already there. Then there is this auto-classification of people into Bhakts, AAPtards and a host of hash-tagged labels that get coined every second day to contend with.I for one do not want to fall prey to it and shall try my best to retain my sanity. Doesn’t mean I shall become a social media recluse, I am no ostrich.The World T20 is round the corner. Here’s a ball by ball account of my metro-social existence; my super-over of the events past 20 odd months and the way I played it:-

    • BALL 1: The Acchey-Din Blitzkrieg: Sucker for it. Are we there yet? Hell no! But willing to wait.
    • BALL 2: AAP ki Sarkar: Believer turned sceptic. Again, willing to wait.
    • BALL 3: Modi the Globe-trotter: Reaching out much needed. So many of them, maybe not.
    • BALL 4: My plate of food: Lay off! What I eat (or don’t eat) is my business.
    • BALL 5: Rahul: Jaane bhi do yaaron
    • BALL 6: Nationalism/Universities debate:
      •  Hyderabad University Suicide – Unfortunate. Abettors if any and whosoever must be tried and punished.
      • Anti-India sloganeering at JNU- Unacceptable. Does it tantamount to sedition? Not sure about the law, its applicability or interpretation. That said, some exemplary punishment necessary.

    That there is my humble take for all who care to know about what I (and I use that term as a collective here) think. And for those who don’t care good for you! So, here’s to objectivity and a balanced idea of India – one that is both yours and mine.

  • Hindi Poetry | कविताएँ

    एक किताब की कहानी

    क्या बेवजह बढ़ रहें हैं ये क़ाफ़िले
     कौन सी है वो मंज़िल चल पड़े जिस रास्ते
     कुछ तो होगा मसला-ए-जुनून
     छिड़ गया है इंक़लाब जिस के वास्ते
     कितना और रुकें के जब होगी वो सुबह
     छीनी आज़ादी जिस लिए फ़िरंगी हाथ से
     रंजिशें तो तब भी उबल के उभरी थीं
     क़ीमत तो चुकायी लेकिन क्या सीखा सरहदें बाँट के
     सिकती रही है बिकती भी रहेगी सियासी रोटी
     थकते नहीं ये ले ले कर भूखे मज़्लूमों के नाम
     बनती भी हैं और गिराई भी जाती हैं सरकारें
     आज़माती है हक़-ए-जम्हूरियत जब अवाम
     हर कोई कहे मैं सही हूँ और वो ग़लत
     फ़िर दूर दूर खड़े हैं लोग आईन लिए हाथ में
     देर आयेगी पर समझ आयेगी ये बात यक़ीनन
     पन्ने बस अलहदा हैं लेकिन हैं उसी किताब के
  • English Poetry

    The Elixir

    The memories of my past are fast fading
     Idols of my childhood years are disappearing
     Takes a moment for me to realise age has caught up
     Decades have passed since, that mid-life has struck
     The question I ask, is it living in denial?
     Some persistent experimentation or obstinate trial
     Or an inexplicable belief that there’s time left on the clock
     That the ship of life is setting sail not readying to dock
     Such is and fortunately so, the journey of life
     We hang on to the joys to help us tide the strife
     What better time than youth, times of unfettered existence
     High on life, dreams in our eyes, oh! that exuberance
     Wish one could order some of those days “to go”
     Our little perk up snack when life hits a low
     Then you look up and find that helping hand
     The party pack you did carry, your friend!