Say Nice

My sister has taken up art in her school
and brings all her paintings home.
She roams around in the house
with those coloured sheets in her hands
and sweetly nags everyone in the family
to look at it and say nice things.

I wish I could write a small poem someday
and do that.

Quicksand of Wordlessness

I wonder what true sadness is.

Writing the saddest of poetry?
Or not being able to express sadness at all?

Is it not better
to not have a pen
than having one in a wordless hand?

Our lives are a blank sheet of
virgin paper:
the first drop of ink
tears the hymen apart.
And then, there is no stopping.
There's a reason we have the blood-ink metaphor.

The only true sorrow is silence.
And I feel empty inside.

Sadness is a quicksand of wordlessness.
Every word that you write
makes you sink deeper.

Failed Flautist

I make sure I smoke in front of
Black Walls
so that I can see the White smoke
and the Red ring at the tips of my fingers
clearly.

Black may remind you
of tuxedos
of elegance
of power
It reminds me
of darkness
of snakes
of void
of sleepless moonless nights that leaves its scars beneath my eyes.

Red may remind you
of wines
of courage
of flying flags
It reminds me
of blood
of the sinking sun
of the light that reveals faces of murderers in a dark room.

White may remind you
of the fur of a rabbit
of the flight of peace-pigeons
of the beachside clouds.
White reminds me
of smoke
of sharks
of a beautiful girl wearing a White Salwar Suit.

Black and Red
are the colours of my insanity.
White,
of my agony.

The second one
gets me high.
I stare brutally at the upright breasts of
the young woman that passes by.
I stare like a maniac
at the couple sitting glued to each other in the autorickshaw.
I want to pull that guy's eyelashes with my fingers
and stub a cigarette in his eyes.
But I stand quietly in front of the Paan shop
like a stray dog outside a temple.

I smoke in front of Black walls
and make sure I inhale really deep
so that when I exhale
the smoke is very, very white
and I can see its vague clouds clearly.
My throat, my lungs
are absorbing soot
breath by breath
and becoming Black walls inside.

Flautists should not smoke,
I know.
I smoke because I am a Flautist that
failed.

Silver Spoons

While I'm writing meaningless poems on my blog
and thinking that poetry is almost a part of my life
I am also, on another Firefox window
staring at dozens of your wife's pics
in low-neck tees and hot pants
and thinking that
she must've been a beautiful honeymoon fuck in a foreign land.


Spoilt Brat,
I hated you when you talked rudely
to my favourite teachers in School.
I never liked your voice
and your handwriting sucked.
I scoffed when you
bowled wides, scored ducks, dropped catches.
I winced when you
yelled curses in Hindi in the classroom.
I thought you were Good For Nothing.
I thought you deserved everything Bad.


But School,
as I now realize,
was the "television set that made us believe
that we'd all be millionaires, movie gods and rock stars"
someday.

Spoilt Brat,
Your spoons were made of silver and
your bathroom taps were golden.
We used to eat with our hands in those days
and the brass taps in our flats leaked.
And this is all that's made the difference.

I am still staring at your wife's wonderful thighs
and fantasizing how she looks naked.
I'm wondering if she knows that she's
neither the first of your fucks
nor the last.

I'm happy you've given me something to write about
-- I still know this is all so bloody meaningless --
but I just want to pull out this sher
stuck like a knife in my throat:
"Khada hoon aaj bhi rotee ke chaar harf liye,
Sawaal ye hain kitaabo ne kya diyaa mujhko."

Nazm: Bemaani

नज़्म: बेमानी

पतंगो की तरह
हवाओं के ज़ोर पर
बे-सम्त उड़ता रहता।
परवानो की तरह
शमा के ख़ुलूस पर
ता-उम्र जलता रहता।
बे-सबब मुसाफ़िरी का क़ायल होता,
मील के पत्थरो का हिसाब
पैरो के काँटो से रहता।

ये दरिया
पहाड़ो की बर्फ़ से पिघलता
और समंदर में जा मिलता --
किसी घाट पर मंदिर न सजते।
ये परिंदा
शाम से पहले घर लौट आता --
ना दाने बँटते, न नशेमन बनते।

दरिया से भाप बन के उठता
अब्रो से बारिश बन के बरस जाता --
पानी-सी बेमानी ज़िन्दगी होती।
चरखे की तरह रात-दिन घूमता रहता
लम्हों के तागे बुनता-उलझाता रहता।

अच्छा ही होता गर
बेमानी में मानी न ढूँढता।
अच्छा होता गर समझता
के ढूँढा तो खोये हुए को जाता हैं,
बे-वजूद को कहा ढूँढा जाता हैं?


Nazm: Bemaani

Patango ki tarah
Hawaaon ke zor par
Be-samt udta rahta.
Parwaano ki tarah
Shamaa ke khuloos par
Taa-umra jalta rahta.
Be-sabab musaafiri ka qaayal hota
Meel ke pattharo ka hisaab
Pairo ke kaanto se rahta.

Ye dariya
Pahaado ki barf se pighalta
Aur samandar mein ja milta --
Kisi ghaat par mandir na sajte.
Ye parinda
Shaam se pahle ghar laut aata --
Naa daane batte, na nasheman bante.

Dariya se bhaap ban ke uthta
Abro se baarish ban ke baras jaata --
Paani-si bemaani zindagi hoti.
Charkhe ki tarah raat-din ghoomta rahta
Lamho ke taage bunta-uljhaata rahta.

Achchha hi hota gar
bemaani mein maani na dhoondhta.
Achchha hota gar samajhta
Ke dhoondha to khoye hue ko jaata hain,
Be-wajood ko kaha dhoondha jaata hain?

Nazm: Mizaaj

नज़्म: मिज़ाज

मिज़ाज कैसा हैं?

मिज़ाज मानिन्दे-चराग़ हैं।

जलता हैं तो रात भर मुसलसल जलता रहता हैं
रौशनी से आशना रहता हैं तो मुस्कुराता रहता हैं
देर तलक उजाला रहता हैं।

बुझता हैं तो एक पल में शमा फौत हो जाती हैं
तीरगी दिल में उतरती हैं नसों में समा जाती हैं
बुझता हैं तो रौशनी से बदगुमाँ रहता हैं
बुझता हैं तो बहुत देर धुआं रहता हैं।


Nazm: Mizaaj

Mizaaj kaisa hain?

Mizaaj maaninde-charaag hain bas.

Jalta hain to raat bhar musalsal jalta rahta hain
Raushni se aashna rahta hain to muskurata rahta hain
Door tak ujaala rahta hain.

Bujhta hain to ek pal me shamaa faut ho jaati hain
Teerghi dil mein utarti hain naso me sama jaati hain

Bujhta hain to raushni se badgumaan rahta hain
Bujhta hain to bahut der dhuaan rahta hain.

Throwing Stones

The way a child throws stones in a dry well
and waits for the sound
of the pebble hitting the ground,
I used to test the depths of my insanity
by filling the dark abyss in my heart
with alcohol bottles and cigarette buds.

These days
I just take a sleeping pill
and wait for the pain
to get over.

Sleep is a transparent journey:
an endless road with white sand
and no footprints to follow.
Sleep is flying in a huge umbilical cord,
floating between life and death.
Sleep is being hypnotized by the demons
you pretend to fight when you’re awake.
Sleep is drinking eternity
dewdrop by dewdrop.
Sleep is drowning in a shallow pool of time.
Sleep is not a mode of rest;
sleep is suspension.

These days I throw pill-stones
in the murky abyss of my heart
and wait for the sound
of the pebble hitting the ground.
But the stones hit the evil creatures
hiding in the pits.
The ones that are named
nightmares.

ATM Story

I went into the ATM and shut the stubborn door behind me because I was sweating and I wanted to feel the chill of the conditioned air on my skin. Just when I entered the amount, Rs. 2,900, and waited for the machine to spit the cash, a middle-aged lady and his 12-13-year old son came into the ATM. The lady was wearing a cheap, old saaree and seemed new in Bombay. The boy looked like a son of a poor farmer.

"Humko isme jamaa dekhna hain, bhaiyya. Isme kitne paise hain pata karna hain," said the lady, showing an SBI ATM card to me.

"Ek minute ruko, main paise nikaal ke aapko batata hoon," I said.

Now the ATM machine gave me twenty-nine, brand new hundred-rupee notes. I was slightly embarrassed to count the whole stack, so I just stuffed it as it is in my pocket.

I took their card, put it in the machine and asked the boy to press the buttons according to the instructions written in Hindi. Her mother gave him the PIN after looking into her battered cell phone. The machine, thankfully, did not display the balance on the screen and generated a slip.

I asked the boy to pick up the slip and read it. He and her mother curiously looked at the back side of the slip and looked confused. I took the slip from his hands, turned it around and gave it back to him and then asked him to read it. Both of them were still unable to read it.

I finally took the slip and read out the balance to them. Rs. 73.

They had an expression that probably said is-that-it-shouldn't-there-be-more. Or probably it-was-there-last-night-did-he-take-it-all-out-today. Or perhaps what-do-we-do-now. I had an expression of what-do-I-do-now.

I gave them the slip and went out. After walking for a while, when I turned back, they were just coming out of the ATM and the lady was still looking at the slip.

I had walked quite a considerable distance when I realized I should've given them a couple of hundred rupee notes then and there. I should've just given it to them. I did not have the courage to do it at that moment because she did not ask for it, because she did not look like she would've taken it even if I would've asked for it, because she looked like a dignified woman of a village.

I called up A and told him the whole story just to get it out of my system. But it did not go away. For all the time when I was with my relatives, when they were giving gifts and lifaafaas to my uncle and aunt going for Haj, I just wanted to go back and give the lady a few notes. Or just slip the notes in the boy's hands and tell him to use it well. I don't know if giving the money would've been correct or not, I do not even care. I just wanted to help them out in the way I could easily have.

For Amadeus

Mozart,
Amadeus you are, they say.
Amadeus you are, I know.
The prayers of my lonely nights
beg for the magic that your fingers have,
the tunes that your heartbeats play.

You are a charmer, Mozart.
Your scores flow in the air
like the sliding of a snake:
beautiful, swift and vicious.

But, Mozart, don't mock
the songs I write my with sweaty fingers
and rewrite them with that brilliant pen of yours.

I am a lesser charmer, I know.
But I still want the Emperor to be mine.

Nazm: Lajawaab Sawaal

नज़्म: लाजवाब सवाल


मैं कई बार घर आकर
अलमारी से चिपके आईनों से बातें किया करता हूँ,
खुद ही से पूछ लेता हूँ :
“दिन कैसा बीता तुम्हारा?”

सवाल गूँजते हैं दीवारों के बीच,
और गूँज के मर जाते हैं।
लफ्ज़ उड़ते हैं कमरे की सूखी हवाओं में और,
खुश्क फूलो की तरह गिर के बिखर जाते हैं।
मेरे हर बोल पे अब सांस टूटती हैं और
मेरे हर ख़याल के मिसरों के बहर जाते हैं।

मैं कई बार घर आकर
अलमारी से चिपके आईनों से बातें किया करता हूँ।

शमा फ़रेब थी ये देर से समझ आया
ये रात उम्र भर चलेगी ऐसा लगता हैं,
जो शख्स आईने के सामने हैं मैं हूँ पर
जो अक्स आईने में हैं न जाने किसका हैं।

मैं कई बार नाकामियों की गर्द में लिपटा हुआ,
तन्हाई के सहराओं में भटका हुआ,
तूफानों को सीने में समेटा हुआ,
ज़िन्दगी के हर लम्हे का क़त्ल कर,
मुंह पर अपने माज़ी का खून पोत कर,
आँखों में बेरंग मोती पिरो कर,
आईने से हर रात मुख़ातिब होता हूँ,
और खुद ही से पूछ लिया करता हूँ :

“खाना खाया?”
“किसी ने कुछ कहा क्या तुमसे?”
“दिन कैसा बीता तुम्हारा?”


Nazm: Lajawaab Sawaal


Main kayi baar ghar aakar
Almaari se chipke aaeeno se baatein kiya karta hoon.
Khud hi se poochh leta hoon:
“Din kaisa beeta tumhara?”

Sawaal goonjte hain deewaro ke beech,
Aur goonj ke mar jaate hain.
Lafz uddte hain kamre ki sookhi hawaao mein aur,
Khushq phoolo ki tarah gir ke bikhar jaate hain.
Mere har bol pe ab saans toot’ti hain aur
Mere har khyaal ke misro ke bahar jaate hain.

Main kayi baar ghar aakar
Almaari se chipke aaeeno se baatein kiya karta hoon.

Shama fareb thi ye der se samajh aaya
Ye raat umra bhar chalegi aisa lagta hain
Jo shakhs aaeene ke saamne hain main hoon par
Jo aks aaeene mein hain na jaane kiska hain.

Main kayi baar naakaamiyon ki gard mein lipta hua,
Tanhaai ke sahraao mein bhatka hua,
Toofaano ko seene mein sameta hua,
Zindagi ke har lamhe ka qatl kar,
Munh par apne maazi ka khoon pot kar,
Aankho mein berang moti piro kar,
Aaeene se har raat mukhatib hota hoon,
Aur khud hi se poochh liya karta hoon:

“Khaana khaaya?”
“Kisi ne kuch kaha kya tumse?”
“Din kaisa beeta tumhara?”