Thursday, July 28, 2011


क्या देख रहे हो?

अच्छा! फोटो खीचने आये हो?

फोटो सिर्फ मोडल और मुरदो के खिचो, पैसे मिलेंगे तुमको|

ये कुदरत तुम्हारी नहीं सुनेगी, और न तूम उसकी सुनोगे!

क्या तुम्हे लगता है की कुदरत तुम्हारी राह देखती हुई, बन-थन कर बैठी रहती है?

"कब मेरा फोतुग्रफार आएगा, और मेरे हरे भरे वादियों की फोटो खीच कर छापेगा"?

क्या देख रहे हो?

मोडल को दिल दे बैठे हो क्या? या सपनो में मुरदो के चेहरे नज़र आते है

या फिर कुदरत ने धोखा दिया?

अच्छा चलो मेरा फोटो खिचो ज़रा|

अरे क्या देख रहे हो?


अरे वाह! तुम भी लिख रहे हो क्या आज कल?

क्या बात है?

लगता है लिखने से सब कुछ मिल जायेगा?

गुस्सा हो?

लिख कर क्या क्या मिलेगा? क्या मिलता है लिखने के बाद?

लिखना और अपना नाम छापना: काला अक्षर भैंस बराबर भी होता है? भूल गये क्या?

अनपढ़ भी समझ लेगा तुम क्या कहना चाहते हो लिख के|

चौराहे पर लिखता हुआ आदमी नंगा है क्या?

मुझे पता है वो नंगा ही होगा. खुद नंगा होके दूसरो को भी नंगा करता है!

और अपने नंगेपन तो इन काले अथवा रंग बिरंगी अक्षरों से छुपाने की भी कोशिश करता है|

तुम भी लिखो और अपने आप को नंगा करो सबके सामने!

Friday, July 22, 2011

I might be a plant,
seeding the need to be born again.
I might be a meteor's fading tail,
following your cosmic trail.

Yes, you heard it right
how can we write poems
When words were so scare,
and ink-pastels so rare?

So we thought of songs
to calm the streets,
bearing your weight all day long,
and yes, you heard it right.

But I might just be a little plant,
hoping to become a tree,
or just a pebble burning,
above the city sky.

Tuesday, July 05, 2011


Newsflash: "On an average
seventy five percent of the daily eggs
survive the wrath of failing hands,
this means that
hands fail occasionally."

You can turn the soil with your own hands,
with a sublime resolve,
and wait for the rain,
wait for the avian visitors,
wait for the decay and rebirth,
"Insects may have laid eggs on the corn cobs."

My hands were quiet that day,
they did not write,
did not persuade,
witnessing the weeping clouds,
for they hang in shame,
Not a single word from the thunder,
Not a lightning strike,
I stood transfixed with my hurricane lamp.

The dramatist's hands failed to record
the sound of the failing thunder,
of the crackling of the burning leaves,
The records were filled with muffled cries,
The barking watchdog's warning:
"You've never heard the thunder sing."

And then it rained,
It rained because she could not sleep,
Her longing for rain corresponded
with her dried bathroom taps.
She may have conjured the clouds to weep again,
She might have been a poet
perhaps locked in a metaphor,
Silent as if
she whispered to the soundless walls,
Because the Walls were her witness in longing.

"You could have cried, you know,
at least, she should have cried,"
remarked a loudmouth on her expressionlessness,
still curious, it asks:
"How can that be?
How did she censure her loneliness?"
She basks at their new found attentiveness
for her, and then she masks:
"They were just field observations,"
she thought, "I just refused to acknowledge
the presence of bees."

Her eyes whispered again to the walls:
"That some eyes perform surgery,
bend the rules for a harddisk memory,
willing to record this self-knowledge,
attesting worth to self-probity,
It might have been a small memory stick
testimonials of the voyeur's fantasies,
watching a mute screen,
of images of constricting torsos
of demi-humans,
their faces obscured,
feminine chests in surviving the plastic bloom,
with a tagline; 'waiting to be devoured'.
The police, therefore, in their most poetic retort,
wrote: 'Nude bust, voyeur arrested'.

Just how limiting is this nudity,
when my hands remain empty,
and when my underarms become your
object of affection,
My souls was still stuck in a wire mesh,
Didn't you know?", she posed.

The walls betrayed, but
they whispered her secrets to the other walls
witnessing other secrets,
The walls blamed:
"The hands never failed to exchange
notes of sadness,
for a certain poem lives under a paperweight,
and others sieze a moment from thee."

(Graffiti of the parrot and the smiley is from CEPT University, Ahmedabad, India)