Mayfly.

Sun-kissed nights,  run wild and sure

mornings, shrouded in grey walk slow, 

noons burn high, and so do the hearts.

like dawns I linger, like dusk shall I go.

Poetic reimaginings 1

Dear Mr. Yeats,

There is no turning, or widening gyre,
All the falcons hear the falconer ,
Things have been set in time and space,
And yet the center cannot hold...

#deewrites
#poetry

STRANGERS

We meet, everyday.
On way to office, way back home.
Sometimes we share a cab too. Odd.
We frequent the same cafes and kitchens.
Albiet, our orders have nothing in common.

We also stare at each other, longingly often.
I know your name, but I don't seem to remember it.

And when we touch,
Odd brushes of fleeting human centuries,
Seem cold to me. They are accidental. The centuries.
Like they were never meant to be.
Oddily enough they were willed into being.
I overheard you one day, talking to somebody
In a place far away.
You seemed to be looking for an organic machine.
Alas! I wish you knew.
There are no hearts.
Just CLAMS.

I am Sorry!

Koi kissa kahani nahi kehna chahti,

Roohein roz bikti hain yahan,

Aur humne outraged ho kar khoob dekhein hain tamashe yun hi.

Mai khud bhi ek tamashbeen hi hun.

Har raat dinner par News channels par fikre kasti hun.

Outraged hoti hun media par, society par, religion par.

I get outraged on myself for I do nothing.

Nothing to stop cities becoming game scapes,

Where they hunt down dreams, and hopes,

Pick one after another to put a claim, no, no

Stick it at us, that they have won.

Wo jeet gaye hain ye batane mein ki,

Ek ladki ka jab rape hota hai, use maar diya jata hai,

To ek msg jata hai desh bhar ki un ladkiyon k naam,

Agli tum ho sakti ho. Kabhi bhi, Kahin bhi.

BUT; When daughters are raped, and they are killed,

The message is for the whole society.

WE HAVE FAILED.

OUR PSYCHE IS CORRUPT.

SOMETHING IS TERRIBLY WRONG WITH LAW AND ORDER.

WE NEED TO WAKE UP.

Kyonki kisi beti ka rape, uska murder.

Ye batane k liye nahi hona chahiye ki kaun taqatwar hai.

Who has the power to wield authority over the essence of being alive?

Who is setting the rules of the game, and just like always…

Which religion is better than the other?

Aur kisi ma ko, baap ko, bhai ko ye nahi lagna chahiye ki…

Meru beti hui hai… Maar dun use nahi toh koi aur maar dega,

Maarne se pehle use nauch khayega,

Fir use sabke aage tamashe k liye chhod jayega…

Its high time we stop getting outraged

And start saying sorry.

I am sorry.

Zindagi.

Ek panne se dusre panne k beech ka faasla ho
 shyaad,
Bistar ki khamosh silwaton me chupi karwatein ya fir,
Darwaaze par lagi doorbell se aati Teri dastak shayad,
Intezaar ki tick tock me guzarte hon lamhe 

ya fir.
Adhuri nazmon ke beech atki hui guftugu Hai shayd,
Gazal k intezaar me bhatakti ho koi mausiki 

ya fir.
Benoor seher me ho qaid roshan mehtaab

 shayad,
Khaali kandeel dhoondta ho roshan falak 

ya fir.
Aus ki boondein timtimaati hon sitaaron par shyad,
Band lafzon me jhilmilaate hon lakhon ashq 

ya fir.

Teri saans se bandhi Hai ye uljhi girah shayad,
Ishq Hai, junoon Hai, Hai ye Zindagi ya fir.

Dialect.

DIALECT.

left to time, it withered,
like a dead corpse hung from wall,
after the sentence.
no poems to defend, no stories to tell,
no anecdotes to share.
waiting, for someone to give her a name,

for someone to claim,
someone who would speak, her.
She, is always there.

Deepti.

SCHOOL.


and the rats nibble and nibble,
and scribble and scribble.
the endless fates,
of hungry futures and parched pasts.
gums bleeding ink.
poisoning the paper.
mediocrity stacked high at the altar,
where screams rumble into silences,
and gongs are heard,
for things undone.

Sita.

Ram, why did you kill Ravana,
I was dishonored in your palaces by thee.

Forced out of the womb, I yearned for a home
Janak made me a princess whilst I wanted to roam,
I learnt and unlearnt to belong, to be;
Before I understood myself I was married to thee.

With a heavy heart and moist eyes, I left behind,
A home not my own, new places to find.
We came to Ayodhya and I was lost to all,
Till I wowed to find home in your banishment as goal.

Forests frightened yet gave me a calm I never had,
Each day brought me near to myself, I was glad.
My home was now all earth, skies and sea,
You were dutiful to me, I learned to love thee.

While you kept busy fighting demons as they say,
I became me, happy and free, I must say.
Till the he came, took me away, and ran,
Imprisoned me in his gardens to avenge his clan.

Fates decreed, he fell in love with me,
But I had forever bound myself to thee.
He pined for me, I pined for thee,
You worried for your honor of the palace not me.

You won me back or did he loose me,
I was dishonored, not by him, but thee.
Had it not been for him I wouldn’t have known,
I was sacred, yet scared, yet strong when alone.

Banished, broken, betrayed I trudged,
The same forests and it was him I grudged.
The flowers wilted, the leaves all dried,
The trees all bent down with me and cried.

Clouds pregnant with water, earth ready to receive,
My birth as a mother and a woman who grieves.
Birds fed me water and grain I survived,
Wrapped in my grief day and night I cried.

I knew not why, what agonized me more,
If it was you or him or myself I am unsure.
In life, after death, he marked me with his name,
Sacred made by his love and not by your fame.

Oh Ram, why did you kill Ravana…

You loved honor of the kingdom you owned,
Where I was dishonored and shamed and scorned,
He owned my honor and you my shame,
Neither of you could ever own my name.

To ban or not to ban; this is not the question.

Wasn’t long back that Wendy Doniger’s book The Hindus; An Alternative History was withdrawn by The Penguin, forcing people to talk turkey. Strong opinions, exasperated comments, inflated egoistic remarks; everyone has something to dish out. The out of court settlement with the right wing lobby, high talk on religious sentiments has had all of us involved in a bull’s session. However, what is the real question? Is it, how important it was to ban her book or how the book is detrimental to our society? Is it about author’s scholarship, quality of work or the colonial hangover she might have carried, if any. One may also question the attacks on the book, the rightist attitude towards condemning anything slightly negative towards religion.

At the same time, it is also important to question ourselves? Are we as Indians being pseudo secular banning away books which are non-normative? Whether it is Satanic Verses (1988) or A.K Ramanujan’s (Three Hundred Ramayanas: Five examples and three thoughts on translation) in 2011 or The true Furqan by Al Saffee and Al Mahdee in 2005 to cite a few.

It is also important to question our modernity, for it is us, who stand united, up in arms, against Valentines Day celebration; condemn girls wearing jeans to college and resort to legitimizing Kangaroo courts in the name of preserving culture.

Also important is to question the neo liberal agenda which feeds us scraps of cultural leftovers from feasts enjoyed by right wing politics, corporate and sponsored media; leaving us to enjoy a simulated holy war against an invisible threat, deliberately constructed in our psyche.

It is also important to question the world of glittering voyeuristic pleasure we revel in. Addiction to Yo Yo honey Singh brand of songs or applauding the flamboyant display of performances replete with double entendres, sexually obscene gestures and suggestive body language. It is important to question an audience that watches its own younger generation sinking its teeth deep into voyeuristic pleasure and devouring it with delight.

We, the biggest democracy of the world, with ancient religions dating thousands of years should perhaps also question the formation of such a collective; with fragmented identities and hollow value system trapped in a state of perpetual unrest and discord within. The intoxicating celebrations of our neo-liberal world are marked by a ruthless display of ‘symbolic and cultural capital’ one has amassed; recreating and ‘reproducing’ stereotypes.

It is important to question the pervasive hypocrisy of our society rendering it susceptible to violence as is experienced by a Nirbhaya everyday or when a new Mujaffar Nagar is destroyed every once in a while.

It seems that religion is such a frail entity that any little investigation will lead to its downfall and destruction. This obsession with sanctity and a fortified conservative attitude towards the sacred is bewildering. This insecurity to preserve rectitude is confusing. Academic work of any kind, if at all ruffle some feathers; should be taken in the right spirit and religion should be able to defend itself for its believers.

Though I haven’t read the book myself like many others condemning it; I still want to defend the author’s freedom of expression as much I want to defend the religion’s inherent strength to answer back to its detractors.

It is important to question, Why are we afraid and of what?

Religions are not weak, nor are human beings foolish. If we have a society which has grown up to be able to deal with Honey Singh and the likes; the potential damage such lyrics may cause to society; an academic article can cause no harm. Should a religious entity not be able to hold fast in the wake of such dissent voices?

In fact, such a parallel discourse must exist, so as to provide a chance to the believer to rediscover the strengths of her religion and eliminate its weaknesses. Our religions are not in need of rightwing bail-outs. Wendy Doniger’s book should not be seen as an offensive limitation. 

It is time, to look within, and lift some bans off our soul than ban questions which do not have easy answers.

गुलाब

ये कौन हैं ख्याल जो मेज़बान हो गए,
क्यों अपने ही घर में हम मेहमान हो गए.

मैं देखूँ मेरे जिस्म के बँटते हुए टुकड़े,
कब मज़ार बने कब महफ़िल कब दुकान हो गए.

ये कैसी है सलीब, उठाये हर कंधा है जिसे,
ये कब खुदा बने, कब मसीहा, कब शैतान हो गए.

ये हक इश्क का सांझा, ये प्रीत तुझसे क्यों मेरी,
अदब तेरा, हुनर तेरा, क्यों मेरे गुमान हो गए.

अभी तो रूह जलती है, अभी तो मौत बाकी है,
कि इस महफ़िल में साकी, सभी अन्जान हो गए.

मोहब्बत मेरी ‘मिराज’, राख, कच्चा कोयला,
पाक माहताब पर दाग खुदाई के निशान हो गए.

ताल्लुक !

इस यतीम रात को मैं कौन सा एक नाम दूँ,

क्या राख़ में लपेट कर,

इस पाक, कोरे चाँद को,

रख दूँ तेरी याद की, गिरह में कहीं.

या सुर्ख इस लहु से मैं ,

इस ख्वाब के इश्तिहार पर,

चंद लफ्ज़ तेरी गुफ्तगू के, मुज्तरिब, उकेरून कोई.

या बर्फाब तेरी आवाज़ को,

इस दिल के सहराओं में,

हर कुतबे पर कर सजदा मैं, खामोशियाँ ढूंढूं कहीं.

या लम्स कोई तेरी याद का,

क़दीम वक़्त की गिरफ्त से,

हयात कर रुखसारों पर, मैं रोशन तुझे करूँ यहीं…

तुझे नाम मैं न दूं कोई…

एक गुफ़्तगू

खला मुक़द्दस है, और ख्वाब पाक़ सलीब मेरे मौला,

ये तजस्सुम भी क्या क़यामत के रोज़ तक्मील होगी…

वक़्त से कैसी शिकायत, कैसा शिक्वा मेरे मौला,

दर्द रवायत है, आह, इल्म में तब्दील होगी…

सर झुकाया है जरूर, घुटने टेके नहीं मौला,

मेरे किरदार का इम्तेहां क्या सिर्फ अन्जील होगी...

इस दामन के ये दाग भी हैं पाक मेरे मौला,

गुनाहों की फैरिस्त में सवाल, और जुस्तजू ज़लील होगी…

तू वाकिफ़ न हो मेरी रूह से ये मुमकिन नहीं मौला,

नशेमन की तलाश में बशारत शायद तहलील होगी…

मुम्किन है कुछ सब्र होगा मुझमें तेरा ‘मौला’

कुछ आतिश “मिराज” की तुझमें भी तख्मील होगी.

एक गुफ्तगू ...

खला मुक़द्दस है, और ख्वाब पाक़ सलीब मेरे मौला,

ये तजस्सुम भी क्या क़यामत के रोज़ तकमील होगी…

वक़्त से कैसी शिकायत, कैसा शिक्वा मेरे मौला,

दर्द रवायत है, आह, इल्म में तब्दील होगी…

सर झुकाया है जरूर, घुटने टेके नहीं मौला,

मेरे किरदार का इम्तेहाँ क्या सिर्फ अन्जील होगी...

इस दामन के ये दाग भी हैं पाक़ मेरे मौला,

गुनाहों की फैरिस्त में सवाल, और जुस्तजू ज़लील होगी…

तू वाकिफ़ न हो मेरी रूह से ये मुमकिन नहीं मौला,

नशेमन की तलाश में बशारत शायद तहलील होगी…

मुमकिन है कुछ सब्र होगा मुझमे तेरा ‘मौला’,

कुछ आतिश “मिराज” की तुझमे भी तख्मील होगी.

बहाने...

यूँ तो हमें मुस्कुराने के बहाने मिल ही जाते हैं,

इस शहर को भी चाहने के कुछ माने मिल ही जाते हैं।

क्यों फ़िक्र रुसवाई की हो, दामन छुपा के यूँ चले,

हर शक्स को भूल जाने को अफ़साने मिल ही जाते हैं।

न छेड़ो जुगनुओं को आज रात काफी हसीन है,

हर महफ़िल रोशन करने को परवाने मिल ही जाते हैं।

ये जश्न-ए-मोहब्बत देखो, जाम ख्वाइशों के नाम,

दिल और दर्द को ‘साकी’ दवाखाने मिल ही जाते हैं।

ज़मीन से फ़लक तक , तलाश बाकी है अभी,

कब्रिस्तान में हजारों को आशियाने मिल ही जाते हैं।

तावीज़ से बंधी , मिर्ची से उडी, नज़र हटाने,

ओ अहमक पुर्जे अनजाने मिल ही जाते हैं ।

कच्चे हैं ख्वाब रेत, बहते , मिलते हैं खो जाते हैं,

ये रिश्ते नाज़ुक हैं बहुत , आज़माने मिल ही जाते हैं।

खुदा नहीं जो कहता कभी, शैतैन को नामंज़ूर हुई,

वो दास्ताँ कहने वाले सनम दीवाने मिल ही जाते हैं।

दिल धड़कता नहीं ‘मिराज’, जुबां गुम सी हो गयी कहीं,

ग़ज़ल कहते हुए फिर भी यहाँ, कारखाने मिल ही जाते हैं.

यूँ ही (२)

वो क्यों आज कलम फिर पुरानी ढूँढ़ते हैं ,

वक़्त में ठहरी हुई कोई निशानी ढूँढ़ते हैं।

पैरों से तेज़ चलते इन रास्तों में क्यों,

वो मंज़िल्लों के किस्से कहानी ढूँढ़ते हैं।

नए रंग रौनक की दुनिया से जुदा,

वो ज़ख्मों में दर्द जुबानी ढूँढ़ते हैं।

कोई ग़ज़ल, कोई कता, न रुबाई की तड़प,

वो महफ़िल यूँ रुसवा बेगानी ढूँढ़ते हैं।

गोया रोशन ही न हो ये दिन और न रात,

वो दौ-पहर में शमा अन्जानी ढूँढ़ते है।

तारीख ने जो लहू से कई आयतें लिखी,

हर लफ्ज़ में वो सिफ़र बेमानी ढूँढ़ते हैं।

मिट्टी है, यादें हैं, जो यहाँ भी वहां भी,

क्यों करबला में ही वो कुर्बानी ढूँढ़ते हैं।

साँस चलती है, दिल भी धड़कता है “मिराज"

फिर कहाँ सब बेसबब जिंदगानी ढूँढ़ते हैं।