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I have been away from this blog for some time. I moved to a new continent for work, and in that time, I ended up making a new art corner for my writings, poems, photography, and paintings. You can find it all on the new site.
Hope to see you there?
पिछली दफा आँखों में एक बेबसी थी, इस दफा प्यार है। पिछली दफा इंतज़ार था, इस दफा इकरार है। पिछली दफा एक हट थी, इस दफा एहसास है। पिछली दफा जीत की बेसब्री थी, इस दफा हार भी स्वीकार है। पिछली दफा एक कश्मकश थी, इस दफा सिर्फ एतबार है। पिछली दफा सिर्फ मंज़िल की चाहत थी, इस दफा सफर पे जान निसार है।
वो कहते हैं मोहब्बत का कोई धर्म नहीं होता, पर इंसानो का तो होता है। मैंने कतरा कतरा मोहब्बत को घुटते देखा है, मेरे शहर से तेरे शहर की दूरी इतनी भी न थी, पर फिर भी मेने खुद को रोका है, जो अगर दिल न टूटे, तो मोहब्बत को किसने देखा है।
ये जो रिश्तो की बंदिशे हैं, कहती है, ज़माने से ना भिड़, ना जाने यहाँ कितने ही गालिबों का दम घुटता है, मैंने रंग बदला, गलियां बदली, पर ये ना समझना की ये डर की सौगात है, जो खुद जलकर ज़माने को रोशन कर दे, मेरे तेरे इश्क़ की ऐसी फरियाद है।
मुझे खुदगर्ज़ न समझना पर मुझे बिखरने से डर लगता है| तेरा मुझपे इस कदर जान छिड़कना, मेरे तपते बदन को अपनी आँखों में महफूज़ रखना, सर्द रातों में मुझे खुदको पहनाना, मुझे पल भर देखने के लिए तेरा वक़्त से झगड़ना, मेरी परछाई छुपने तक तेरा धूप में पिघलना, मेरी ख़ामोशी से तेरा बातें करना, मेरे आँसुओं से खुदके दामन को भीगा देना, मेरी ख्वाहिशों के लिए अपनी ख्वाहिशों को भुला देना, मेरी पहली मोहब्बत के ज़ख्मों को अपने कंधे का सहारा देना, मुझे बचाने के लिए अपनी कश्ती से तेरा कूद जाना, मेरी ना में भी हाँ की तेरी तालाश, मेरे दिल में खुदको रंगने की तेरी बेबाक कोशिशें, मेरे हाथों में अपनी लकीरें खोजने की तेरी चाहतें, मेरी आँखों में खुदकी तस्वीर देखने की तेरी मन्नते, मेरे टूटने से पहले अपनी बाँहों में मुझे जकड़ने की तेरी साजिशें, सब जानकर भी अनजान बनकर, तुझे चाहकर भी तेरे दर पर मेहमान बनकर, रेत सा तेरे हाथों से बिखर जाना मंजूर है मुझे, क्योंकि इस दफा मुझे खोने का नहीं, पाने का डर है, उलझने का नहीं, सुलझने का डर है, नफरत का नहीं, मोहब्बत का डर है|
जो अगर तेरी बेदाग़ रूह को अपनी ओढ़ी हुई चादर से ढक दिया, तो खुदसे हारने लगूंगी, मेरी अधूरी मोहब्बत को तेरे अनछूहे मन से अगर पूरा किया, तो खुदसे भागने लगूंगी, तुझे दरिया में धकेल खुद को बचा लिया, तो मेरा दम निकल जायेगा, तेरे सच्चे इरादों के बेखौफ पैगाम से मेरा सब कुछ बिखर जायेगा, बिखरने से खौफ आता है मुझे, क्योंकि मुझे बिखरा हुआ देख , तू खुदको मिटा आएगा|
में तुझसे कभी नहीं कहूँगी की मेरे आंगन को मेने तेरे ईमान से रंग दिया है, दिन भर की मशक्कत के बाद जब तू अधूरे सपनो संग सोता है, तुझे पल भर निहारने के लिए मेने रातों को दिन में बदला है, कभी कभी तेरे हाथों में मेरी कलम से मेने कुछ लकीरों को उकेरा है, तेरी आहटों से मेरी धड़कने कुछ इस कदर बढ़ जाती हैं, उनकी आवाज़ों को तेरे बेक़रार कानों तक पहुँचने से रोकने के लिए मेने बहुत कुछ खोया है, रेज़ा रेज़ा मखमल पे तुझे बुनने लगी हूँ, फरिश्तों के बीच खुदा की नेमत जैसे तेरे ज़मीर को चुनने लगी हूँ, मेरे सुने पड़े नगमों को तेरी आस है, मरघटों पे जलती मेरी रूह अब तेरे पास है|
धीरे धीरे तू मेरी जन्नतों का हिस्सा बन रहा है, मेरी ज़िन्दगी की सलवटों को कम करने का ज़रिया बन रहा है, आजकल पन्नो के बीच लफ़्ज़ों को दबाने लगी हूँ, मेरे नज़्मों को ज़माने से छुपाने लगी हूँ, तेरी वफ़ाओं को पाने को जी चाहता है, चाहे पूरी कायनात चाँद को तकती रहे, उसकी चांदनी बनने का ख्वाब मेरी रातों को पी जाता है, जर्रा जर्रा तुझसे मिलके मेरी आबरू और भी पाक होगी, मेरे लड़खड़ाते क़दमों को जो अब तेरा सहारा मिल गया है, तो मेरी ज़िन्दगी की हर मुश्किल खाक होगी.
पर फिर भी बेदर्द होक में चलती रहूंगी, एक पल को भी मुड़के नहीं देखूंगी जब तू मेरी पनाह के लिए तड़प रहा होगा, कुछ इस कदर मेरी पहचान से तुझे नफरत करने पे मजबूर कर दूंगी, की मुझसे रुखसत होना ही तेरी नमाज़ होगी.
तुझे मझदार में छोड़ चले जाना मेरी मज़बूरी है, पर अगर तू मुझे संगमरमर समझता रहा तो शमा सा जल जायेगा, अपने वजूद को हर घड़ी बिसरायेगा, ऐसी बेईमान मोहब्बत मेरी हरगिज़ नहीं, मुझे भुला दे ऐसी तेरी हस्ती नहीं, तो क्यों न तुझे मयखानों के हवाले कर तेरे सामने में कालिख सा रंग जाऊँ, जो आंखें अब तक मेरे दीदार को तरसती थी, कहेंगी, ज़माने को क्या दोष दूँ, जब मेरा सनम ही बेवफा निकला.
अफ़सानो में जो मिल जाये मेरी तेरी मोहब्बत ऐसी आम नहीं,
अगर हर मुसाफिर को उसकी मंज़िल मिल जाये, तो सफर का कोई कद्रदाँ नहीं.
It is not necessary to bleed to bleed.
The girl who has been wailing the whole summer, she is not angry but bleeding. The boy who has been crying since the breaking of dawn, he is not sad but bleeding. People turning into wild bitches or hushed rabbits are bleeding without wounds.
Depression cuts slow and deep,
and it let’s no one see
the silent cries of help.
I often misunderstand people when their blabbering mouths are being shut by untimely silence, when they spit on mirrors, when they behave like a wounded lion and pounce on their family and friends, when they flow like mute rivers which carry dead fishes, plants and more, when they drink themselves into oblivion, when they stare at things and at people like there is a desire to swallow or embrace them left unsaid, when they hear music with deaf ears and dance to numb tones, when they deprive themselves of sensation; shiver in hot sun and loiter naked in deadly cold, when they refrain to look direct into eyes, when they stand straight and fall, all at once.
When this feeling slowly climbed up my nerves, all the shallow people suddenly leveled up in my eyes.
You need to cut yourself to understand that everyone bleeds the same color.
Finding reasons for depression is more depressing than the depression itself. Without reasons, solutions cease to exist. Seems like an infinite loop.
There is a chain; it fastens as we try to run away and loosen if we promise to stay. If someone else tries to cut through it, heartlessly it slays. But there ought to be a loophole to escape, there ought to be,
because,
infinite loops do come to an end; all we need to do is break away; maybe today or tomorrow. There is always a way.
“In between the third line and the first line, there is a world to conquer.”
I love to travel by train because of the people. New faces, fresh smiles, unique ways and often kids. I love kids. I once thought that I will have ten kids. Please don’t imagine them to come through normal biological process. Adoption is an option too.
When it comes to love, I have a list of things like family, friends, water bottle, eyeliner, chocolates, ice cream, paneer, ink pen, pizza, emerald and it goes on. These days ‘Badminton’ is on the top.
“I wish I had met you before. Love. Period.”
It all started when I was in second year of my college. Before that, I did not even know that badminton was an indoor sport. Joining the badminton team was mere luck because I was not worth the position, the then captain once told me that I was in the team because of determination. Fair enough. Nobody is born perfect, it is all about the hard work you put in.
Whilst I am writing this post, the kids in my coach are crying and laughing, troubling their dad, kissing their mom, enjoying life to the fullest. Growing up is the best and the worst part of life.
Within the first month I realised that badminton is one of the toughest games. Infinite speed and reflexes faster than one can ever imagine. I am one of the laziest person you will ever see so I was finding it impossible to even hit two shuttles in a row. But there is something called ‘responsibility’. The then captain told me that you have to play and win once I leave , you have to maintain the legacy. When there is a responsibility on your shoulders, only cowards give up before trying. I missed classes, missed gatherings, left clubs to play. I used to play during mid and end semester examinations. One day I realised that I have developed a cyst in the ovary about 3 cm large and therefore it bled for 20 days continuously. Mom asked me not play but I still went to the court. Yes, I lied to her because that feeling when you stand in the center of the court cannot be described in words. With every shuttle you pick, you learn to bow down, every time you stand after a dive you learn to rise after a fall. I can do anything for that feeling. A cyst is just too insignificant to even consider.
There are two kids in my compartment. A little girl, around 5 years old and her brother around 4 years old. The boy is slapping her for not sharing chips ( he finished his share quickly), for not letting him play on phone and the girl is politely asking him to wait. Her parents are asking her to not to cry and give the phone to her brother because she is a ‘good girl’, I think boys are dominant and obstinate and girls are trained to be submissive right from childhood. May be. No feminism intended.
In my second year I went to two tournaments because the then captain wanted all the new members to see how it works because after her we were supposed to develop the strategy, stamina, and the game.
The sound of racket hitting shuttle from the centre gives confidence. I love the way they both meet.
This semester ( third year) I was told that I will play the first singles. Now, please understand the intensity of these words. The hurricane they brought inside me, the ease with which these words fluctuated my heartbeats, worth a lifetime. I started experiencing sleepless nights and days full of dreams. No matter how hard I tried I was unable to concentrate during classes and labs. “A toss and then a drop. Cross net shots would also work. But my backhand is weak. I need to fix that. May be targeting opponent’s backhand is a good strategy”. Such thoughts filled my days and nights.
There is something really amazing about badminton.
It is 8:30 P.M. The kids left with their parents. My order arrived. Three chapatis and a bowl of vegetable. The train is air conditioned yet I am sweating, my scalp is all wet, all thanks to the flavours used in the vegetable. People say that I don’t behave like a Rajasthani because I cannot handle spices. May be.
Did I tell you that the new girls badminton team of NITH has some amazing players? They have been playing since childhood and they literally fly in the court. I wish I had met the shuttle before. Anyways, just before the match, our captain changed the sequence and now I was supposed to play the reverse singles. Let me tell you how it works. There are three matches and every match has three sets. A team needs to win two matches, in all four sets to qualify for following matches.
First singles, doubles and then reverse singles. There is a very little chance that the reverse player would play a match. I was, of course, a little sad because I had dreamt of this day like anything. But the decision was absolutely fair for I am still a learner and we have better players who should get the chance to play. But I still believe, that I should have been given a chance to prove myself. You never know. And if the order was changed after seeing my play, trust me, I would have been satisfied and happy.
Now I have some confessions to make. Even if they make you think that I am a bad person, it is okay.
I wanted to own the court. With every point our team scored, I was happy and sad at the same time. Happy because we were near the winning line and sad because it reduced my chances to play. I became so blind that I could not see anything between me and the court. It became impossible for me to hide my emotions and the watery eyes said it all. I perfectly know that no one is wrong, decisions must be made keeping in mind the team as a whole and I truly respect that, but I chose to not to suppress the tornado in me. Emotions are meant to be felt and not suppressed.
We secured second position and the reverse match never happened.
Three semesters, three tournaments and one dream. I have always dreamt of standing in between the third line and the second line, smashing the shuttle. It is good to dream but the more important thing is to make yourself worthy of it. I tried my best to make myself worthy of it but the hope is fading away. It won’t be okay if I try to guide the team according to my selfish motives. So I thought of taking a break.
There is no substitute for hardwork but what the world notices is the outcome. The journey is known to no one. Not every boat finds a shore. Some drown and die like they never existed. But in the end, what matters is that inside we are proud of ourselves for our true efforts.
When we give our everything to something or someone, it bleeds to see our future without the thing or person. The best way is to take a step back and rescue ourselves from the pain.
I don’t smile to see the runner up certificate because my contribution was nil. Effortless gold hurts, today or maybe someday.
It is 11:30. I reached home. Some new dreams await me.
I am tired of plucking violets,
tired of walking through the woods,
tired of swiping left and right,
tired of staring at the computer screen,
I need a world in between.
I always want to trip over roses, yet I usually stand aside to count the thorns, isn’t that the subtle art of living?
Time and again, I slither through the verses of Endymion, a poem by John Keats,
“a thing of beauty is a joy forever…..”
Indeed! A thing of beauty is a joy forever, but what if the thing of beauty is forever?
Whenever I travel alone, I remember the nights drenched with rain and love, the silent streets giving space to dry leaves which crumpled as mom and I celebrated the moonlight, whenever I return home, I rub my hands against the pages of the books; they always smell fresh, the books gifted to me by grandfather long before his embodiment as a star.
Would I be able to recognize the beauty of moments if they would have been eternal? We never realize what comes with life, but we always embrace what has left behind a demise.
I felt sad about leaving behind people who have given me millions of something, leaving behind places where I have a feeling of belongingness; nobody likes to play around with constants, only variables encourage, soon I realized the beauty of the collections; inside pages and my heart.
Words under the moon and melodies under the stars, paper cups and spilled coffee, lampposts and footpaths, yellow tables and green chairs, fireflies and waters of the canal, drenched bodies and whirling hair, long lost rains and floating clouds, salt and sugar, silence and people around, so much of lost and gained at the same time.
Like Keats, I too see nectar pouring from the heaven’s brink, sometimes it is all about rain and sometimes pain.
When Day Zero was declared in Cape Town, perhaps, diaries were written with blood; seeking one more chance to respect the plate when it will be full, people started counting for the day when death would slowly consume them; shattered dreams filled those spaces of the barren land, which dream of rain, and die of thirst, perhaps, that night was black.
Death is the only absolute truth, and humankind has realized it, for when the Cape Town crisis happened people in other parts of the world were already halfway through their predicted day of demise, they were and are preparing for it.
As a teenager, I had many things to care about, which has made a great difference in my life; updating the Facebook wall, choosing dresses for parties, keeping account of trending celebrities, ignoring the less considerable things; food, water, air and every fundamental entity that is the reason of my existence. Revelations, of course, are sudden, a small boy picking up food from litter made me question my existence, how false I have been all this while. Whilst I was learning to find my way through the plate, I had a brief conversation with one of the seniors of the college where I was enrolled in the summer internship program, Basil M. Varghese, a young man from Kerela working on a startup on virtual reality, who finds solace in nature. Contradictory, isn’t it?
From technology to nature, we touched upon every subject which influences humans and which humans influence (which is absurd since we do not make even an iota of difference in the cosmos). The mess at the college had a big container in which students were supposed to dispose of the leftovers. Though it was a significant measure to collect the waste, it somehow increased the waste.
It took away the embarrassment of keeping the plate in the basin with wasted food.
I discussed my opinion regarding this issue with the senior that made him recall a story about a man who left his job after seeing an under-nourished person eating his own excreta (I later realized that the man was Narayan Krishnan, selected as one of the top 10 in “CNN Heroes of 2010”).
Maybe a drop in the ocean won’t help but what if I become the ocean?
Only extreme conditions make us think and act; unless we have a price to pay, who cares? The world today is shrinking and expanding at the same time, it’s all grey. Perhaps, everybody is not meant to be Narayan Krishnan but at least everyone can play their part, even if the contribution does not matter to others, it does matter to you, so why not?
I now try to eat every bit of food; also the last piece of raw onion even if there is no daal to dip.
It was the first Saturday of the internship, three of us were red and blue, a little less because of the work but a little more because of the weather. At sharp 6’o clock we boarded the bus to the market; excited, yet a little tired. Sprinting trees, birds dancing on the surface of the water of ponds, workers chilling by the roadside after a hectic day, the clouds racing with us, little children staring the wheels as their eyes reflected some unsaid dreams; I had too much to savor that day.
We had two hours to explore Roopnagar, and I craved for Hamirpur, Roopnagar was less engaging than the underrated town of Hamirpur. Me and Komal Ma’am went straight to the salon, girls have so much to shed, tears and unwanted hair; sleeveless was the need of the hour. Shubhum sir went to the temple and I was jealous. Periods, huh!! There was more to come to make the child in me jealous.
The wax was hot, my skin turned red, swelled like it happens after an insect bite, the salon aunty stood still and I wonder why. She started explaining to me the address of a nearby skin specialist in pure Punjabi and I could just guess her words, well, it is so beautiful to feel for someone. The streets suffer vengeance, maybe because kindness is little shy to come outside, but it certainly resides in the world of ours.
It was 7:40 in the evening and the bus was about to arrive, as we were heading towards the bus stop, Shubham sir noticed a couple in their sixties, stooping, smiling, and I missed a beat. Their wrinkled skin was a canvas of memories speaking about the happy years of their love, their compatibility, indicating how love grows stronger with age, their abreast walk left a few more footprints which would not disappear even in the deadliest of storms for love has infinite power, permanence, I could not stop myself from parsing their togetherness (I was a little jealous and I don’t know why).
“You look great together”, I said. They smiled. “ Are you a student of IIT Ropar?”, the lady asked. We exchanged a few words, I discovered that the man graduated from a nearby college of which I have no idea. The bus arrived and I left, but I kept staring at them till they disappeared.
I left a part of me with them. The songs of love are not what I have written all this while, but the ones which I have been missing all this while.
I hold no grudges to anyone, I just hold impressions.
I am afraid. Yes, I am afraid. I fear to visit the mess, I fear to visit the court, I fear to visit the gym, I fear to visit the library, I fear the land, I fear the sky, yet nobody is at fault.
I fear men.
But fear should never be mistaken with weakness. Silence is a weapon.
A serious, geeky, nerd face with black-rimmed spectacles, a restricted smile and a constant gaze; a disapproval with a pen is me. I need time to fit in spaces, perhaps everybody needs time. I write not to impress people, but to accept myself, instill the inner fears, to speak without a voice, and if you are impressed, the following happiness, craving, attraction, infatuation, appreciation, should not become an obsession to sneak into my being.
I would try to be as kind with the words as I can be and even if I cross the limit, I won’t apologize.
Komal Ma’am, is in sync with me all this while because we both share sufferings.
I feel hungry three times a day; so I visit the mess, everyday; surprisingly one of the mess workers is highly trained in mathematics and physics, for to calculate the amount of food on my plate, to calculate my drifts and moment, speed and velocity is his favorite of thing, for which he needs to constantly monitor every piece of me and hence I hold no bitterness. I too like mathematics.
From childhood, we have been told to respect people because that’s what defines a true human being, and this trueness is so greatly followed in this temporary land of mine that I feel blessed. A few boys; red, black, blue, white and grey (I don’t even recognize them) are friends with the mess worker for the question here is respect. They look at me with all due respect (you know how it is) and then whisper in each other’s ear, for now, I own their world.
I now bath daily, twice a day since there are eyes to shed dirt on me. I go along with Shubham sir to most of the places, for I need a nightingale in between scavengers.
When he was confronted; to steal digits, which can ease their way to my phone, I felt guilty, for he suffered, once, twice, maybe thrice; standing in the sun selflessly.
Throw bikinis, judgments, character tags; denouncing the falsehood I carry; yet turn around because the inner god knows that these words are just a repercussion of frustration and not a mirror of my persona.
I now doubt my new friends, which happen to be men, I am sorry for experiences have overruled the reality.
We never say that the glass is half full, but the glass is half empty; here the glass has just a drop of water, I fail to recognize that sect of men with whom I can map the streets, or exchange glances and smiles. Every fresh face seems like a demon in disguise. I know I am mistaken, but I am made to believe this.
I don’t own these words, this ‘I’ contains every girl who has suffered and who would one day suffer because I fail to see a happy ending.
This fire would no more sustain till tomorrow, in which I burn ablaze tonight; trembling, quivering, life would once again walk on the usual track, but even the faces of time would not be able to fade away the impression that I now carry.
We all are walking in a fog, trying to figure out the next step; the destination is like an unknown fruit, the best way leads to the best; ironically, we know neither of them.
Engineering, like most of us, descended on me because the known options were less, because I could not realize my purpose of life, because I too suffered an existential crisis; I was too restless to hear the voice inside. Why Computer Science? Not because I knew that I would be able to savor it, but because I Knew I cannot handle any of the other trades. The first year was a pain, because it was generic, why do I need to study electrical when it is not my trade? Teachers are the most spontaneous, and amazing speakers; even the Environmental Science teacher had reasons for us to study the subject which were hard for me to comprehend.
Life was okay, when towards the end of second year everybody suddenly started talking about internships. Seniors, juniors, batch mates; so I too applied not because I was interested enough, but it seemed that it was necessary enough, that’s how I landed in Ropar.
I was accompanied by two lovely seniors, Komal ma’am, and Shubham sir who made me feel that there is nothing called seniority. They are indeed adorable. There is this myth that Rajasthani’s are adapted to heat, and they like spicy food (which may be true) but I cannot deal with any of the two. From 30 degrees, we shifted to 43 degrees, I felt sun walking besides me, my sweat glands activated as if they were succumbed under temperatures of Hamirpur.
The bus stopped in between the road, where the fences were broken, and that was the way towards the main campus, I felt disappointed, you know how IIT dreams are. We walked for 15 minutes and there it was, Transit Campus – 1, smaller than any of the departments of NITH, all this while I have done all sorts of comparisons, humans are the most unsatisfied creatures on Earth, initially I was unsatisfied with NITH and now with IITR. Suddenly I fell in deep love with NITH.
My skin started reacting, I developed rashes all over adding on to my frustration. One of our seniors from NITH, who is doing her PHD from Ropar welcomed us at the gate, trying to make us familiar with the rules and the environment. She was pretty amazing, wearing a constant smile. I liked her.
It was 2’o clock in the afternoon, all three of us went to meet our professors. I was more than happy to step into an air conditioned room, and then the interview began. Guns were fired at me. “How many lines of code have you written till now”, he said. “…… eeeiiiiggghht….”, I murmured something to which he said, “8000”. I felt reducing to a tiny dot at that moment. Then he realized that I am a second year student and hence he lowered his standards, I won’t be writing 8000 lines in my third year either, but I can write 8000 words.He referred me to his PHD student, Shipra Ma’am, who is the wife of the HOD of Computer Science department as told by Pratibha Ma, am (NITH senior), she warned me that Shipra Ma’am is too strict. I was scared.
I met Shipra Ma’am, and I somehow liked her. A woman of high intellect, even her gait reflected her spontaneity, she asked me to join from the next day and I left. IITR has two campuses, Transit Campus-1 and Transit Campus – 2, from both campuses, there are bus services after every 1.5 hours, our hostel was in TC 2 and it is around 10 KM from TC 1.
We reached TC2, settled in our burning rooms, but I was happy to be with such an amazing roommate; Komal Ma’am. The campus was too small, with four hostels, two for girls and two for boys, boys hostel was bigger for obvious reasons. We went out to explore the land, as big as one – sixth the size of NITH or maybe less. My only aim was to find the badminton court, rest everything was insignificant, effects of falling in love too late and too deep. And there it was, a beautiful wooden court. Some boys were playing, I felt shy to ask if I could join, but then it was about the court so I finally asked and they agreed. Badminton has always brought me closer to people, I started developing bonds here with a few seniors. Somehow, sports persons are always kind, people here sometimes teach me the game.
Life here is a bit monotonous, but what makes it a little pleasurable are the people. People are real treasures. The bond which I now share with Komal Ma’am and Shubham sir would never have been possible in NITH. The place is giving me relations for life and there are many more to come.
Brooding Secrets 