An Encounter with Death

 (among the scraps which I have carried over  through the transition to "the new life", there was this vestige from "the old life" - something which I had written when I was just about 26yr old, on May 6th, 1981, to be precise)

When I returned from the office, the postcard with a torn corner was lying on the floor. "It is with deep sorrow that we inform you of the sad and untimely demise of Mr Ashutosh Kumar…" it read in an impersonal bureaucratic tone. As if the message deliberately aimed as dissociating any personal meaning from the words.

I sat down, numb and uncertain. When you are middle-aged and an old friend dies, the feelings are mixed and confused. Emotions rushed forth within me and tripped over each other. A sense of triumph for having outlived him, a feeling of guilt for feeling so, for being alive while he was dead, a sense of despair, of time and life slipping away from between the fingers, of one's own mortality - all these combined and prepared a curious blend of crooked emotions.

Ashutosh was an old friend since the hide-and-seek and marble days. We had grown up together and learned the strategies of living through common experience. Though time and adulthood had drifted us away into different compartments of life, the bond of a common past had somehow lingered through occasional new year and birthday cards. And now he was dead and it felt unreal.

Death makes so many things unreal. There were so many irrelevant, yet magically significant experiences Ashutosh and I had shared with each other. Somehow, this commonality of our memories made me feel my past as more real, more concrete, more secure. As if I found a comforting validation of my life in his memories. But now, those memories were gone, irrevocably lost, with Ashutosh, and along with them, the objectivity they rendered to my past. My memories could well have been my autistic fantasies.

Mechanically, I got up, mixed myself a drink and lit a cigarette. I was awed by the change in the meaning of death over time. When my father had died, and that was nearly twenty years back, I had accepted his death as natural, as the logical conclusion of a life lived. I had acted like a realist, had accepting the inevitable, and had efficiently managed the rituals of his last rites, the bank account, policies and the certificate. I had felt myself grown up and his death had been my passing test into the adult world and maturity.

But now Ashutosh was dead and what I felt was an empty hole in my life-space. Death, after all, I reflected, is not the conclusion of life. It dogs through the every step of life and takes one by surprise. It had struck me now, but I will go on living. A little less, perhaps, for a portion of my life was dead with Ashutosh. Perhaps, that is why we mourn death, because a part of us dies with others - just as it had lived with others. I wondered if life - my life - was only a summation of its pieces that lived and would die with others…

My eyes looked through the windows. The sun had gone down and sky looked gray and dusky. In a few moments it would be dark. I looked toward the approaching night and tried to accept its inevitability…

 

 

****

of thresholds and passing of a season...

 

Last 3 decades or so, this was the time of the year when I used to be finalizing course schedule, readings, making session plans and note, etc…. and in more recent years, also posting pics such as these on FB to curse the students to spoil my idyllic life and to warn them.

This year too, the session is starting mid-June. But I had my last class @ XL on Dec 17^th, ’21, and so this year there is nothing to post (except this) … and now it is sort of sinking in that this 30yr old seasonal cycle is coming to an end
(I am still with XL till end of June when  hang the boots)

…mixed feelings

an eventful day, 44yrs back.... when a journey began

 44years back, it was an eventful day…. Excerpts from the diary:

--
On the5th, everything worked out according to the plan....I went for a walk and saw Geeta's rickshaw on Mandir Marg - that was the last hurdle...

...Papa had left for office, and only my brother, bhabhi and Amma are at home. I called Amma and asked her to sit down. "कुछ बताना है"

“तुम जब ये कहते हो तो घबराहट होती है”, she joked, “you say quite serious things in a casual tone like you may say that you and Geeta are going to get married.”

“That is exactly what I am going to tell you”

 “Where?” Amma was suddenly serious.

“That doesn’t matter. I am leaving and we are getting married.”

.....Her initial reaction was “ये ना करो”. But I explained…. Once the point was driven home, Amma accepted. She asked me to wait, went to her almarah, took out and gave me an अंगूठी” and ‘सिन्दूर’ (which we didn’t used) for Geeta. I then told them the venue of the marriage, invited them, gave a note for Papa, and left…

---

My parents/ family could make it to the venue – as did many of our IITK friends… Geeta's parents could not, which now I feel was such a loss - but Uncle had already gone to work and finding a taxi between Lucknow and Kanpur on a short notice was not so easy during those days
...but so a journey began...

This was our "status update" that night

PS: looking back, we were such 22-23yr old kids then, but it worked out fine till it lasted...

नहीं, ये रात अँधेरी तो नहीं है इतनी...

इसमें सूरज भी पिघल जाता है पानी कि तरह
चाँद भी ढल के दुबक जाता है धीरे धीर
दूर हो जाते हैं, खो देते हैं कुछ अपनों को
मगर, ये रात अँधेरी तो नहीं है इतनी...

इसकी कालिख में छुपे रहते हैं अब भी तारे
काली चादर के उधड़ते हुए किनारों में
टिमकते रहते हैं; रोशनी कम है मगर बाकी है
अभी, ये रात अँधेरी तो नहीं है इतनी...

जुगनुओं की चमक अभी भी बाकी है
भोर होगी, सुबह अभी भी बाकी है...

एक चित्रकार की मौत - Death of an Artist

 In my mid-late teens, I wanted to be an author (as many of us do), and used to write stories. Many of those scribbling  are still with me in the old notebooks. Looking at the notebook, I think this was written around '70-'72.
----

उसने तूलिका रखी और दोबारा कैनवास को देखा|

अधूरी! अभी भी अधूरी| कुछ कमी है, पर क्या? वो समझ नहीं पा रहा था|

एक बार फिर उसने अपनी कृति को तराशा| थोड़ी झुकी हुयी पलकें, खोये से नयन, छोटे अधर, उड़ते से रेशमी बाल... थोड़े में कहें तो वो कैनवास पर रंगों से लिखी हुई एक कविता थी| लेकिन अपने कवि के लिए अभी भी अधूरी! उसे अपनी रचना से संतुष्टि नहीं हो रही थी – स्वाभाविक भी है| ईश्वर भी तो मानव से असंतुष्ट ही रहता है; इसीलिए तो उसे बनाता है, मिटाता है और फिर से नए रूप देता है|

स्टूडियो की खिड़की से बाहर दूर क्षितिज पर घुलते सूरज का अंतिम लय चित्रकार की कल्पना के गीतों में समाता जा रहा था| अपनी आराम कुर्सी पर लेटे हुए वो उसी गीत में  डूबता जा रहा था – और उसके सामने कैनवास में  बंद उसका अपना गीत अपने रचनाकार में घुल जाने के लिये अपनी बेड़ियाँ काटने के प्रयत्न कर रहा था|

ख़ामोशी के शब्द नहीं होते लेकिन वो अपने आप में एक कविता होती है| उसमे ध्वनि नहीं होती लेकिन वो स्वयं एक स्वर-स्तोत्र होती है| ऐसी ही ख़ामोशी स्टूडियो में एक खेल रचा रही थी| अँधियारा बढ़ता जा रहा था... ये भी ख़ामोशी की तरह ही होता है| यदि देख सकें तो इसमें भी एक रंगीन संसार होता है; अगर नहीं, तो एक मात्र काली  चादर जिसमें हम स्वयं को खो देते हैं|

कितनी स्थिरता!!

चित्रकार को भी आज इसका अहसास हुआ था – पहली बार| उसके संसार में आज एक नया रंग था – एक ऐसा रंग जिसे उसकी तूलिका ने पहले कभी नहीं छुआ था|

उसके लिए यथार्थ और कल्पना जगत एक ही थे| जीवन उसके लिए एक स्वप्न मात्र था, उसके स्वप्न ही उसका जीवन थे| और आज जब इस नई अनुभूति में उसने अपने को ढूंढना चाहा तो वो ये भी नहीं समझ पा रहा था कि ये स्वप्न है या यथार्थ|

अनोखा जगत था| न अंधकार था, न ही कोई रौशनी; न स्वर थे और न ही स्तब्धता – सब कुछ होते हुए भी नहीं था| यदि थी तो स्थिरता! कर्कश, पैनी स्थिरता – लेकिन मृदु और मधुर भी| एक शांत स्थिरता...

“सुनो!”, उसने मुड़ कर देखा|

उसकी कल्पना उसके सामने थी| कैनवास के बंधन टूट गए थे, और उसमें छिपी हुई सजीविता स्पष्ट हो आई थी|

“क्या मैं अपूर्ण हूँ?” उसका स्वर करुण था|

चित्रकार ने उसे तराशा, “हाँ, शायद|”

फिर से ख़ामोशी – वही स्थिरता!

चित्रकार समझ नहीं पा रहा था| उसके सामने उसकी कृति पूर्ण खड़ी थी, लेकिन उसके मन की आखें उसे अपूर्ण बता रही थीं| उसके अधर फिर हिले, “नहीं! तुम अभी भी अपूर्ण हो|”

“क्यों?” कविता सिहर उठी|

“क्यों कि...” चित्रकार रुक गया, “... क्यों कि तुम केवल एक कल्पना हो|”

सरगम के स्वर गूँज उठे, “और तुम?”

वो स्तब्ध था| इतना बड़ा प्रश्न, “मैं क्या हूँ?”

एक ही उत्तर था – केवल एक कल्पना, एक कोरी अधूरी कल्पना!

कितना बड़ा व्यंग, कितनी बड़ी विडंबना! कर्ता स्वयं एक कृति था, अधूरी|

कल्पना विहंस उठी, “जब हम दोनों ही अपूर्ण कल्पना हैं, तो तुम्हारा मुझ पर क्या अधिकार? तुमने मुझ पर बंधन डाल रखे हैं, और शायद केवल मेरे अधूरेपन के कारण मुझे मिटा भी दोगे| लेकिन क्या तुम स्वयं एक अपूर्ण कल्पना नहीं हो?”

“हाँ... मैं भी अपूर्ण हूँ,” चित्रकार को अपनी लघुता का अहसास हो रहा था, “लेकिन – लेकिन, मैं कर ही क्या सकता हूँ?”

कल्पना की आँखों में प्रेम की सुरुभि थी| वो चित्रकार को देख रही थी जैसे माँ अपने शिशु को देख रही हो, जैसे प्रेयसी अपने प्रेमी को देखती हो, “हमारा बंधन ही हमारी अपूर्णता है, हमारा अधूरापन है| आओ हम दोनों मुक्त हो जाएँ, पूर्ण हो जाएँ...”

चित्रकार एक मासूम बच्चे की तरह उसके नयनों में अपने आप को निहार रहा था| कविता ने अपना हाथ बढ़ाया, और अनजाने ही उसने अपना हाथ उसके हाथों में दे दिया|

----

सुबह के सूरज की पहली किरण स्टूडियो में तैरने लगी थी| बंधन टूट गए थे| चित्रकार का हाथ अपने हाथ में लिए, उसकी कल्पना आराम कुर्सी पर पड़े उसके निढाल, मृत शरीर को निहार रही थी| दोनों की छायाएं स्टैंड पर लगे सादे कैनवस मिल कर एक हो गयीं थीं|

 ...जैसे दो कल्पनाएँ मिल गयीं हों – दोनों मुक्त थीं, दोनों सम्पूर्ण थीं, दोनों एक थीं|

 ***

 

My 3 Learning from the Old Man

Some years back, I had taken this screenshot from an article written by my grandfather, Pt. Ram Chandra Shukla, from a link in Google Books which I can't find now - It was published in an issue of The Theosophist 

He, "Babuji" to us, was a Hindi teacher/ scholar and shared his name with the famous Hindi poet (in fact, one of his poems was attributed to the poet). He started his teaching career as the personal tutor for JK Singhanias, which he left due to ideological/ego issues... perhaps this ran in the family during that time, since my dad had started his career as the personal physician of Gujar Mal Modi in 40s in Modi Nagar in West UP, the founder of Modi Enterprises and had quit overnight due to similar issues (he found that one of his allowances was deducted since he had sent the aspirin tablet fever/ headache through the orderly and had not gone personally to administer it).

At some point in his early life, Pt Ram Chandra Shukla came in touch with Annie Besant, got inspired/ influenced by her and joined the Theosophical Society... and later became the the Principal of the Besant Theosophical School, Kamaccha (Varanasi). Theosophy and the Society remained an internal and external anchors for him through out his life. I remember Radha Burnier, who at that time was the General Secretary of the Theosophical Society coming home to meet him in Lucknow...

I came to know him as person later in his life when I was growing up as a kid and a teen during the 60s till mid-70s. My grandmother, Kamla Devi, had expired in '63, and he came to live with us as my dad (who had joined the UP Medical and Health Services) got posted across Bulandshahr, Faizabad, Shahjahanpur and then in Lucknow.

By late 60s, when he was 80yrs old, he had lost his eyesight. There couldn't have been a bigger misfortune for a person whose life revolved around, and connected to the world through, books and printed words. But he picked up the threads, and to fill up the gap in some ways, I became his "personal secretary".

Looking back, that "personal secretary-ship" during those 8-9years during my teens, was also a sort of apprenticeship-to-life for me.

I used to read and write his letters (and he would receive many during a week), which kept him connected with people and  the world. I would also read books/ novels to him; By then he had developed a taste for Perry Mason and PG Wodehouse - besides the writings of Annie Besant, Helana Blavatsky and many others... that there is a space and diversity, ranging from the mundane to the sublime, in the entirety of a life to be lived was the first learning which I owe to him.

The other medium which kept him connected with life was his "transistor radio" through which he learned new things, and would talk about them... As a teenager, I learned some agriculture, the complicated scoring of 10-30-40 scoring of Wimbledon, different shots and placing of cricket (short-cut, mid-off, gully, google, etc.) from a blind person in his 80s who had ‘seen’ but never seen these things.... that was another learning - learning how to re-learn, change gears during the ups-and-downs of the life's sojourn - which I inadvertently picked from him.

I still remember that at some point in time in Jan-Feb ;'76, for some reasons, there were no letters for him. He would enquire and I had to tell him 'no, none today'. One day I asked him if he would like to dictate any letters and he said something like (not exactly these words, but this was the gist) "I think people have there own lives to live, I have lived mine. It is time to go". There was no sadness, rancour, resentfulness when he said that...it was like "this is it".

After that day, he sort of withdrew into himself, declined my attempts/ offers to read books or write letters and his health also started deteriorating.... He departed on April 2nd '76.

That was the last, and most precious subliminal learning for me: when it is over, it is over - there is time to go, gracefully - and to let go...

PS: I have one regret, though.
During his last days, during our MA days, Geeta would often come to our house in Mahanagar, Lucknow. Once when she was there, "Babu ji" called  me for something, and I told him that I will come later since I have a "friend"... it just didn't occur to me that I could have introduced her to him - I should have. Some years later when we were married, Geeta told me she would have loved to meet him and that perhaps I did not want to introduce her... I should/ could have done that, and that would have been wonderful!! - but that moment/ opportunity just went away - dumbo me!
... 'life happens and perfect closures don't happen in life' was my last learning

Muddling through the question: "What is your "Teaching Philosophy?""

Somehow, this question: “What is you Teaching Philosophy?” does not feature in the educational institutions – in the recruitment interviews for teachers, in the conversations among colleagues, in one’s introduction with the students….

And it is also not a question, to which one can come up with a ready-made answer.

Actually, it is an unfair question, since one doesn't start with any such "philosophy".... One learns, realizes, develops and internalizes what this whole business of “teaching” is all about, as one grapples through it - the classes, courses, and individual lives and their contexts - and makes sense of it for oneself.

Nevertheless, this is a question worth asking oneself - or so I felt!... The answer(s) kept on changing, evolving, taking shape/ making sense...  At the fag-end of my teaching career (I retired last week), I think I have been able to make some sense of what I have been doing since last 3-4 decades – captured and expressed by people who have tread this path earlier... so here goes

"In learning you will teach, and in teaching you will learn."
- Phil Collins 

*
"A very great musician came and stayed in our house. He made one big mistake… (he was) determined to teach me music, and consequently no learning took place. Nevertheless, I did casually pick up from him a certain amount of stolen knowledge."
- Rabindranath Tagore
*
"A good teacher, like a good entertainer first must hold his audience’s attention; then he can teach his lesson."
- John Henrik Clarke
*
"Anyone who tries to make a distinction between education and entertainment doesn’t know the first thing about either."
- Marshall McLuhan
*
"Good teaching is one-fourth preparation and three-fourths pure theatre."
- Gail Godwin
*
"Good stories surprise us. They make us think and feel. They stick in our minds and help us remember ideas and concepts in a way that a PowerPoint crammed with bar graphs never can."
- Joe Lazauskas and Shane Snow
*
"You know, Adolph, I have now reached the age where I know that being remembered for books and theories is not enough. One does not make a difference unless it is a difference in the lives of people. "
- Joseph Schumpeter

 Amen…

...तो अच्छा होता

जब कभी दहलीज पर खड़ा होता
या कोई वाकिया गुज़रता है
तब कभी ये ख्याल आता है
साथ होते तो अच्छा होता....

अगर होते तो अच्छा होता,

नहीं हो तो भी अच्छा ही है,
एक पतवार से भी नाव चलती है
दूसरी होती तो अच्छा होता...

Unfinished Tales -1 (A Fruitless Existence)

(written sometime during 1980-82, Bhopal)
On Saturdays, the office gets over after lunch. Today is Saturday, and there is still almost half a day left before I can hit the soft oblivion of the bed. I dread these afternoons for their unstructured-ness. Sundays are somewhat more tolerable; I can always find a list of things to do to keep myself busy and useful, like washing clothes, stitching buttons, rearranging my room (and how many arrangements can you make out of a bed, two chairs, a table and an iron trunk), shopping for the necessities. But Saturday afternoons are different and dull. They place me with a large chunk of time at my disposal, and I am forced to take a decision about it.

I am one of the senior clerks in the office. If you go by my personnel file, I have twenty years of experience working this organization. The way I look at it is that I have one month of experience, which I have repeated two hundred and forty times. Two hundred and thirty eight to be exact. It is like the myth of Eternal Recurrence: every week I spend five and a half days in the office, and fumble around with the remaining one and a half. For the last two decades, this pattern has remained much the same, except for a few times when I had fallen ill, and once when I had gone to my native village to cremate my dead mother, the last of my roots. Of course, there have been changes. Nowadays, there are better photocopying machines, more educated peons, more frustrated bosses, more indifferent colleagues, and more arrogant customers. Over the years, the prices and disillusionment have increased, and contentment and intimacy have gone down. But these are only minor fluctuations in the looming background of my personal anonymity, which has remained perennial like some cosmic principle.

I loiter towards the Coffee House. A piece of sunlight is leaning against its door, ogling at the pedestrians like some street-side loafer. I push the door, and it falls flat on the carpeted floor. I enter, trampling over it, triumphant and privately delighted about my delinquency. Inside, it is dark, and a soft ubiquitous murmur pervades the room. I grope my way to a corner table, gradually getting accustomed to the darkness.

The room is littered with countless human islands, each characterized by its peculiar fauna.  There are islands of the literary people, engaged in their private battle of words and wits; of the city-bred intellectuals, gauging the trend of the contemporary world; of the disillusioned unemployed, struggling with their common sense of futility; of the young college-goers, enthusiastic about their frivolous exploits; of the young lovers, wooing each other in soft murmured tones. Beneath this heterogeneity of motives and directions, I feel there is a common striving for one's life and future. Probably, that is why I find this place so comforting, its involvement with life so very consoling. If so many people can be serious about it, then, apparently there must be something more to life than a series of ineffectual events bounded within the paradigm of periodicity.

The waiter passes by my table three times, feigning a busy indifference to my presence. I feel an affinity towards him and his indulgence in his contrived sense of purpose and importance. Since I am in no hurry, I abandon my fruitless efforts to attract his attention, and start scanning the room once again…

As usual, my eyes move towards the table at the far end of the room, just next to the window with the glazed brown glass. I realize that it has been so many years since I have sat there…

उम्र जलवों में हमेशा तो बसर होती नहीं...

मैंने जज़्बात के ज़रिये ही दुनिया देखी....
उम्र ढलती रही औ’ रास्ते गुज़रते गए
एक माज़ी - वो आँखें जो मुझे देखती हैं
उनका गुनहगार तो हूँ मैं फिर भी
मैं कहूँगा कि मैं भटकता रहा, लेकिन फिर भी
मैंने उजड़े हुए मंज़र, भटकी हुईं गलियां देखीं...
उम्र जलवों में हमेशा तो बसर होती नहीं...
मैंने जज़्बात के ज़रिये ही दुनिया देखी....

ढूंढते रह गए कुछ ख्वाब जो अपनी मंजिल
ख्वामखाह जीने की कुछ रस्में निभाते रहे
हाँ, सही है कि कुछ ले के चले, भूल गए
मगर ये पगडंडियों कहाँ से चलीं, और अब कहाँ लाईं
इनकी सोहबत में मरुस्थल में भी कलियाँ देखीं...
उम्र जलवों में हमेशा तो बसर होती नहीं...
मैंने जज़्बात के ज़रिये ही दुनिया देखी....

इक समन्दर की लहर जैसी ये दिल की हलचल
क्या पता किस भंवर में एक दिन सम जायेगी
फिर भी कोशिश तो करी थी उछल के छूने की
आसमां को - मगर न बाँध सके आँधियों को पर फिर भी  
उन चंद लम्हों में छिपी सी कई सदियाँ देखीं...
उम्र जलवों में हमेशा तो बसर होती नहीं...

- Jamshedpur (Jan-March, 2014) 

...the magic of those yesterdays

those were the days (more than four decades back) when we in our late-teens were struggling to find/ guess what the life would be like... term like 'career', 'job', 'life-style', 'salary', etc, had not entered the lingua-franca in conversations with parents and among peers in that era
....

one of the co-travellers had written these blank-verses, which make much more sense now than they did then (or perhaps they did - and that's why I had preserved them)...



"When I go into the library of my life,
And see rows and rows of yesterdays
Neatly arranged in shelves
Yearwise - catalogued,
I always pick from just one shelf;
Oh, those volumes are all thumbed now
and there isn't a single experience
that I haven't lived each night...
And yet
Such is the magic of those yesterdays..
...that I come out
A wiser man!"

- Amitabh Lal

मगर ये साल गलत लगता है...

मगर ये साल गलत लगता है...

मार्च आया, पर बंयाइन की बाँहों से
आज भी पसीने की गंध आई नहीं
मेरी खिड़की के परे आज भी बादल बरसे
ढूंढ कर गरम मोज़े मैंने पहन लिए
लग रहा है कि धरा ने बदल ली करवट
लग रहा है कि मौसम बदलने लगे
... मैं चला जाऊँगा कहीं कुछ चंद सालों में'
छोड़ जाऊँगा जहाँ मेरी गलतियाँ भी थीं

शायद इसीलिए...
ये 'रोमांटिक' मौसम  कचोटता है
 

सोचता हूँ एक दिन ऐसा भी होगा...

सोचता हूँ एक दिन ऐसा भी होगा
खुद से मैं कह सकूँगा डूबती सी यादों में
अब न इंतजार, न मंजिल की तलाश
ज़िन्दगी गूंजती है कायनातों में...

और सोलह साल बीते जा रहे हैं...

और सोलह साल बीते जा रहे हैं...

जानता था, समझता, झुटला रहा था
एक परदा गिर रहा था, धुंध जैसा
और मैं सहमा हुआ सा, याद करता...  
एक पगडंडी जहाँ हम-तुम चले थे
साथ थे, पर तुम्हारी राह अपनी...

और मैं चलता चला आया यहाँ तक
जानता, इस दौर में मेरे कदम भी

एक दिन मिल जायेंगे वहीँ पे ...

पर मैं ये भी समझता हूँ... कि हमसब बुलबुले हैं
कारवां आते रहे, जाते रहे हैं...

उजाले अपनी यादों के, हमारे साथ रहने दो....

many, many years back, this couplet (don't even know/remember who wrote this) had a very different 'romantic' meaning in my then "life-in-progress" (as it is now), when one didn't know how life will unfold:

उजाले अपनी यादों के, हमारे साथ रहने दो
न जाने किस गली में ज़िन्दगी कि शाम हो जाये

..and December comes and the random disconnected images of Dec 1997 keep on cropping up...

hmmm... life happens! so be it!

मेरी बालकनी के नीचे से... हर साल एक कारवां गज़र जाता है

मेरी बालकनी के नीचे से
हर साल एक कारवां गज़र जाता है...

चहकती हंसी, उम्मीदों भरी बातें
थिरकते पैरों में बनती कई यादें
जो ज़िन्दगी भर इन मुसाफिर को
हंसांएगी, रुलायेंगी - कुछ बातें, कुछ यादें...

...

सोचता हूँ, इक दिन मिलूं तो पूछूँगा
कहाँ किया है दफ्न सपनों को
ये पत्थरों का शहर कैसा है
जहाँ  शीशे में सब बंध जाता है..

तुम्हारी अपनी दास्ताँ भले ही सही
ग़र बता दो कि ये  कैसे किया
रूह से फैसला वो ख्वाबों का
जो उभरने से पहले बीत गए...

ये दास्ताँ भले तुम्हारी है
मगर...
मेरी बालकनी के नीचे से
हर साल एक कारवां गज़र जाता है...

...for these handful of dreams

When you told me
without knowing
that…
there is no home!
…not for me.

I looked at you
trying to read your eyes....
They were sincere
understanding
and frank…

I was not surprised.

I had this feeling

…that
Home is a myth
created by the frightened cavemen…
…that
it is the ideology of
of the lost traveller…
…that it is the dream
of a crippled child….

And I had also known…
…that a part of me
is frightened, crippled and lost…

maybe...
I need a home more than you…
maybe...
I can also afford not to need it…

So
let us, my dream,
face together
this dreamless world…

...even if,
to face it
I have to crush my dreams…

Maybe
it is for these handful of dreams
that
I want to defy the world.

- Sept 29th, 1976 (Lucknow/ Kanpur)

आदि-अंत सब भूल चूका हूँ, ये कैसी उर-गति पहचानी ?...

आज अधूरी वही कहानी
यदि अनन्त यति मिटा सके तो
हर युग नें दोहराया जिसको
बात सुना दे वही पुरानी....

स्वर यदि जब बैरी बन जाए
मौन नयन ही कह उठते हैं
उर को जो है कथा सुनानी...

उर रोता तो नयन भीगते
बन जाती अभिव्यक्ति स्वयं ही
लिख देता आँखों का पानी...

नहीं कहीं दीपक की झिलमिल
भटक-भटक कर बना रहा हूँ
खोयी, अदिश, राह अनजानी...

ये पुकार किसकी आती है
आदि-अंत सब भूल चूका हूँ
ये कैसी उर-गति पहचानी ?...

- Dec 8th, 1973 (Lucknow)
***

एक दोहरी ज़िन्दगी जीते रहे....

एक सुलझी डोर से दिखते रहे
एक उलझी सी कहानी बन गए
एक दोहरी ज़िन्दगी जीते रहे....

हाथ बढ़ते ज़िन्दगी छूने लिए

पर सहमते, रास्तों के मोड़ पर
ठिठकते पग ख्वाब की दहलीज पर
दो कदम आगे बढ़े, फिर मुड़ गए
एक दोहरी ज़िन्दगी जीते रहे....

एक अंतर में धधकती आग थी

ज़िन्दगी में उलझने की चाह थी
मगर वो किरदार जो अपना लगे
दास्ताँ में खोजते ही रह गए
एक दोहरी ज़िन्दगी जीते रहे....

एक मुझमें ही कोई था अजनबी

कभी अपना था, पराया था कभी
कभी मिलता, फिर चला जाता कहीं
खुद को उसमें ढूंढते ही रह गए
एक दोहरी ज़िन्दगी जीते रहे....

इक कहानी जो सुनानी थी हमें

अपनी ख़ामोशी के खंडहर में कहीं
ज़िन्दगी के हाशिये पर, लफ्ज़ कुछ
बनके बस आधी लकीरें रह गए
एक दोहरी ज़िन्दगी जीते रहे....

जानता मुझमें खुदा, हैवान भी

ज़िन्दगी की सांस भी, शमशान भी
महज़ इक कतरा मैं, औ’ ये कायनात
इसमें हम बहते रहे, बहते गए
एक दोहरी ज़िन्दगी जीते रहे....

... और तू बेवजह भटकता रहा, चलता रहा

हमने सोचा था कि दो-चार कदम चल लेंगे
और ये  दास्ताँ कहाँ से चली
मोड़ के रास्तों की भटकन में
ढूंढती-ढूंढती कहाँ लायी..

ये वो  मंजिल नहीं, जहाँ के लिए
हमने सौदा किया था साहिल से
मगर वो बांवरी सी कुछ लहरें
हमें फुसला के फिर यहाँ लायीं ...

कभी लगता है कि ये ही मंजिल है
कभी लगता कि ये पड़ाव के क्षण
एक दिन रूह फिर बताएगी
मैं यहीं थी, यहाँ आई

... और तू बेवजह भटकता रहा, चलता रहा