शरीफ़ दुकानदार की शराफ़त का क़िस्सा

दो आँखों वाला अँधा ग्राहक: (किताबों से भरी दुकान में घुसकर) यहाँ पर बटन मिलते हैं भैय्या?
शरीफ दुकानदार: (बा-तहज़ीब) नही मैडम।*
दो आँखों वाला अँधा ग्राहक: (थोडी देर इधर-उधर देखने के बाद फिर काउंटर पे आकर) पर पहले तो रखा करते थे न आप भैय्या?
शरीफ दुकानदार: (मुँह बनाते हुए) नही मैडम। कभी भी नही रखा करते थे।



*शरीफ दुकानदार के ज़हन में आए अनकहे ख़याल:

शरीफ दुकानदार: ये बटन की दुकान दिख रही हैं आपको? मैं क्या कोई दर्ज़ियो का धागे-बटन का सप्प्लायर दिख रहा हूँ आपको? आपके सर में दिमाग़ हैं या सड़ा हुआ पपीता? पूरी दुकान किताबों से भरी हैं और आप मेरे सामने आ के पूछती हैं के क्या यहाँ पे बटन मिलेंगे? आप क्या डेरी की दुकान जा कर पेट्रोल भरवाती हैं? आप क्या बर्तन की दुकान जा कर बन्दूक माँगती हैं? आप क्या चिडिया-घर जा कर पिंजरे में डायनोसौर देखने की सिफ़ारिश करती हैं? तो फिर यहाँ किताबो की दुकान में आकर बटन क्यों माँग रही हैं? अपनी अक़्ल की नुमाइश बंद कीजिये और दफ़ा हो जाइए यहाँ से।


शरीफ दुकानदार के अनकहे ख़याल मगर ता-उम्र अनकहे ही रहेंगे। हाय ये दुनिया।

Desultory Bullshit

I cannot get over all the writings I lost in that XP to Vista deal. I’m reminded, every day, of what all I wrote, and then the very next thought that shadows my mind is that I will never be able to write all that again. It's not that I've lost precious literary gems, but I still want it all back. I feel like picking up the chair besides the study table in my room and banging it on the wall till the time the chair, the wall and all the bones in my hand break and I start crying like maniacs do in mental institutions.

I hate porn. They’re all stupid and nauseating – yes, I know they’re not supposed to be smart and heavenly, but they’re infuriatingly stupid and nauseating anyway. I wish I could be invisible and go in people’s bedrooms and see them fuck each other. Porn is unimaginative and unreal and choreographed-fucking. And it is stupid and nauseating.

I am scared about my exams in June. I have reasons to feel that way – I haven’t attended a single bloody class of the whole bloody course. And there are five bloody laws – three of them considered amongst the most complicated laws in the whole legislature – in the bloody curriculum. If I fail, it’d be a bloody disaster.

I hated that night; the night when I went to La Omni to one my friend’s brother’s wedding. I hated it because it was a wedding party and I hate all wedding parties. I hated it because it was a lavish wedding party where dozens of people were waiting besides the ‘stage’ to pay, in Ganeshji envelopes, for the food they gorged (and wasted) and get themselves photographed to mark a permanent proof of their presence. I hated it because some of my CA friends were viciously cursing me for what a liar I’ve been. I had told them I was going to fail in the CA exams and I didn’t – and I was not lying; it was the truth I lived with every moment till the results were announced. The ones who were cursing the most were the ones who failed.

I cannot sleep. All night I keep staring at things. At the ceiling. At the rotating fan. At the chair besides the study table. At my brother sleeping peacefully. At my dead cellphone. At the blue-black gloom of the night. And sometimes – no, I am lying because people are going to read it; it happens mostly, every night – I stare at things that cannot be and talk to people that do not exist.

Insomnia is such a curse.

I hate this world. The place makes me sick.

And life’s so fucking fragile.

Nazm: Likh De Aasmaan Par

I wrote this last night as a free-writing exercise. The Nazm written here was written at one go and has been published verbatim without any editing. I reminded myself of how the progressive Urdu poets, during the Indian independence struggle, wrote Nazms to invoke feelings of patriotism amongst the countrymen. Hence, I started with the aim of writing something with a socio-political theme, something that drives the countrymen to get out of their apathy shells and do something pretty simple: vote.

What really surprised me is how naturally the thoughts and rhyming came to me and that I, somehow, managed a difficult meter in the process almost effortlessly. It's not really a Nazm (it can well be a Hindi Kavita) I can be proud of, but yes, I did enjoy writing it. It made me realize why all the Urdu poets in the 50s and 60s wrote awesome Hindustani-zabaan songs: it was easier, much easier for them to write those.

I generally prefer writing Aazaad Nazms (Free/Blank Verses) since I'm more comfortable with them and I can be more honest with my expression in them. So I hope this one makes some sense.

नज़्म: लिख दे आसमान पर


लिख दे हर मकान पर,
लिख दे हर दुकान पर,
ढोल दे स्याही धरती पर और,
लिख दे आसमान पर।

लिख दे कितने चिंदे जोड़ के तूने कपड़े पहने हैं,
लिख दे तेरी माँ के पास कम क्यूँ चांदी के गहने हैं,
लिख दे फाके होते हैं फसलो के पहले गाँवों में,
लिख दे स्कूल बिल्डिंग के बदले लगते पेड़ की छाँवो में,

लिख दे बंजर खेतो में और,
लिख दे बंद करखान पर,
ढोल दे स्याही धरती पर और,
लिख दे आसमान पर।

लिख दे हर ऊँची बिल्डिंग के सामने झोपड़-पट्टी हैं,
लिख दे हर बरसात में सर पर गिरती काली मिट्टी हैं,
लिख दे नसों में दौड़ रहा हैं धुँआ बाइक और कारो का,
लिख दे शीश का महल हुआ हैं हाल सभी बाजारों का,

लिख दे बजते फ़ोन पे और,
लिख दे हर विमान पर,
ढोल दे स्याही धरती पर और,
लिख दे आसमान पर।

लिख दे कैसे व्यापारो को ढंग बदलते देखा हैं,
लिख दे कैसे नेताओ को रंग बदलते देखा हैं,
लिख दे तूने लाशे देखी हैं बच्चो और माँओ की,
लिख दे तू आवाज़े सुनता रहता हैं बचाओं की,

लिख दे सब की लाशो पे और,
लिख दे क़ब्रिस्तान पर,
ढोल दे स्याही खून की अब और,
लिख दे आसमान पर।



Nazm: Likh De Aasmaan Par


Likh de har makaan par,
Likh de har dukaan par,
Dhol de syaahi dharti par aur,
Likh de aasmaan par.

Likh de kitne chinde jod ke tune kapde pahne hain,
Likh de teri maa ke paas kam kyun chaandi ke gahne hain,
Likh de faake hote hain faslo ke pehle gaavo mein,
Likh de school building ke badle lagte ped ki chhavo mein,

Likh de banjar kheto mein aur,
Likh de band karkhaan par,
Dhol de syaahi dharti par aur,
Likh de aasmaan par.

Likh de har oonchi building ke saamne jhopad-patti hain,
Laikh de har barsaat mein sar par girti kaali mitti hain,
Likh de naso mein daud raha hain dhuaan bike aur caaro ka,
Likh de sheesh ka mahal hua hain haal sabhi baazaaro ka,

Likh de bajte phone pe aur,
Likh de har vimaan par,
Dhol de syaahi dharti par aur,
Likh de aasmaan par.

Likh de kaise vyaapaaro ko dhang badalte dekha hain,
Likh de kaise netaao ko rang badalte dekha hain,
Likh de tune laashe dekhi hain bachho aur maao ki,
Likh de tu aawaaze sunta rahta hain bachao ki,

Likh de sab ki laasho pe aur,
Likh de kabristaan par,
Dhol de syaahi khoon ki ab aur,
Likh de aasmaan par.

A Small Observation

I can go on and on talking or writing about A.R. Rahman’s music. As far as talking goes, I never restrain myself if I know the listener is interested and/or can contribute to the conversation as well as I can. The references, the observations excite me no end. However, when it comes to writing about it, I hold myself back.

The first reason is that neither do I listen to a wide variety of world music nor do I have a strong formal training in music – so I can never say what Raaga mixes with what genre of music: something that happens a lot in case of Rahman’s songs. I get an instinctual feel of it, I know exactly what has worked in case of his songs, but I can’t state it down in words. The second is that I know absolutely nothing about sound engineering and sound mixing, which I think, contributes as much to a good ‘Rahman song’ as the basic vocal rendition from the basic tune. The third is I am sometimes unable to recognize the (hundreds of) kinds of instruments that he plays – which is a very poor deficiency I’d say, since a lot of people on the blogosphere, who write about his music, have a bloody good idea.

Hence, pardon me if I go about using words like ‘Lala O Lala’ to describe tunes and verbs like ‘scurrying’ or adjectives like ‘thick’ to describe percussion. It is a fundamental shortcoming that I cannot overcome.

Now that I have digressed to the uppermost limits of my satisfaction (and perhaps even your tolerance), I would make the small observation I made a few days ago in two of Rahman’s songs – something that this post is about. :P

In these particular songs, there is a certain tune that’s played – sung without words – thrice in the song. What I found interesting were these things (for the sake of brevity I’d call that tune as Tune A): 1) The first time the singer sings Tune A, it is at the very start of the song, the second time is after the first antara, and the third time being in the very end of the song; 2) He plays Tune A three times, but all the three times, they end up sounding different due to three different backgrounds/renditions to the same tune.

Let me tell you the songs in which I observed this.


Sunta Hain Mera Khuda (Pukar)
The song starts with a female voice, Rehana’s, singing ‘HeHeyHeHeyyy…HeyyyHeyyyHey’, which sounds quite melancholic and Arabic-like to me. Now there are two things that I like about this tune coming thrice in the song. Firstly, it hasn’t been recorded once and played three times: each time it has been recorded with slight differences. And secondly, all the three times, it has been played with a completely different orchestration that fits seamlessly with the song’s ongoing orchestration at that point of time (the two can be said about Masakali’s example as well). The first time the tune is sung, the percussion (drum-sound is what I mean here) is slightly ‘thicker’, ‘western’ – and it goes on till the end of the mukhda; the second time the drum beats are slightly quicker and ‘scurrying’; and the third time it comes out with the beats of sticks and dhol.


Masakali (Delhi-6)
The same pattern repeats in this song too. The first time Mohit Chauhan sings ‘Lo re rere rere…Lalalaa Lalalaa’ his voice is almost unaccompanied by the accordion in the background; the second time, when the song has already pushed the listener’s auditory adrenaline (whatever that’s supposed to mean!), it is accompanied with the ongoing percussion, accordion, and a hushing beat/sound; the third time, the beats are fairly uncomplicated but played along with a more audible accordion in the background. (Random Trivia: As far as I can remember, the last time Rahman played the accordion as the primary background instrument was in Aye Hairat-e-Aashiqui of Guru.)



Now the only thing that I’m wondering is if there are any more Rahman songs like that.

Noodle O Noodle

I don’t know if this is a serious enough psychological problem. From the last one month or so, I’m having this intense craving of eating Hakka Noodles: all the time.

In the morning, when my Mother gives me a glass of milk for breakfast, I don’t feel like drinking a drop of it: I want Noodles. During lunchtime, I keep staring at the sabzi and daal and achaar and Roti on my plate and don’t find it worth a bite: I crave for Noodles. In the evening, I keep thinking about leaving my shop secretly and going to a Chinese stall and having a full plate to myself. At dinnertime, I’m starving because I haven’t eaten properly all day, but I still don’t eat more than a Roti: my growling stomach yearns for Noodles. It is only when I have a full plate of chicken noodles the next day that my hunger and craving comes to an end.

Do I have a Chinese soul? Or is there a cryptic Chinese consciousness in my Indian soul that I have unlocked after a momentous forkful of spicy Hakka Noodles? Can somebody call upon a fatwa on my name simply because I eat too much Noodles? After eating a certain quantity of Noodles will my complexion turn to a pale yellow? Can a lot of Soya sauce and vinegar harm my eyes so much that they will squint infinitely and disappear and then only my eyebrows will be seen? Or, has somebody made a Chinaman voodoo to harm me? All these frightening questions are threatening my existence at the moment.

To summarize my sorrows, I have also written a poem. [1]

And I've written it completely in English (I’m doing this for the first time in my life!) Simply because: English is the language of the Americans who are now my only hope against the Chinese invading my soul.

A Noodle Love Poem


Noodle noodle O dear noodle,
I’m not a bulldog; I’m not a poodle,
I’m a human-being with a simple taste,
I eat like a bird, not a grain goes waste

I do not have a yellow skin,
I’m not a Chinese;
In fact I am an Indian and,
I just love Mughalese.

But dear noodle from a lot of days,
I think of you like it’s a craze,
My dreams now drip of Soya sauce,
I eat even roti with fork and chops.

I want it with fish fry or chicken,
Sprinkled with capsicum-onion,
Hakka it seems is my favourite,
Half wouldn’t suffice, I need full plate.

I unlearn cubism and draw your doodles,
I want to swim in a sea of noodles,
Noodle O noodle, I dream of thou,
Morning and noon and night and how!

P.S. When I wrote this poem on my cell phone – and subsequently read it – I thought I’d gone completely, irreversibly nuts. :-D

[1] I’m telling you, when someone writes poetry for something, one really feels it. However bad, Vogon-ish the poetry maybe, but you have to agree to it that one really feels it.