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First blog post
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This is the post excerpt.
This is your very first post. Click the Edit link to modify or delete it, or start a new post. If you like, use this post to tell readers why you started this blog and what you plan to do with it.
क्या कभी तुमने एकटक लेहरों को आते देखा है?
कभी गौर से उनके सांचे पर ध्यान देना। बिल्कुल किसी ओलिंपिक तैराक की तरह आख़िर में गोल्ड मेडल लेने के लिए उभरते हैं। बीच रास्ते में, कही समुंदर के अंदर गुम हो जाते हैं। हमारी तुम्हारी आंखों से ओझल।
शुरूआत में तो लगता है जैसे अभी भोर हुआ ही हो और देखते ही देखते सांझ संवर के आ जाती है- ठीक तुम्हारे पैरों पर।
टटोल कर अपना एहसास, अपने साथ वापस समुंदर में खींच ले जाते हैं। यहीं, यहीं तो इनका स्वभाव है।
ये लहरे जो लाती है, ले जाती है।
पैरों के नीचे से फिसलती रैत, अस्तित्व के ढीलेपन की एक छाप छोड़ देता है। और तुम्हारे पास रह जाता है तो बस, एक अनुभूति। जिसकी भिन्न-भिन्न आकृति बुन कर तुम अपने अंतर को दिलासा देते हो कि हां, तुम समय से आगे हो। यादों के पंखों पर।
आशय से देखो ज़रा, क्या तुम्हें नहीं लगता ये जो लहरें है, यही यादों के पंख है। आते-जाते तुम्हारे जीवन में अनुभवों की माला पिरो जाते हैं और तुम बस रह जाते हो- स्थिर, निश्चल- किसी किनारे पर। यादों का जत्था पकड़े हुए जिसे तुम प्रेम से ‘ज़िंदगी’ कह के पुकार रहे हो।
अपने तंग बदन से
9-5 वाले क़िरदार को उतार
दरवाज़े पर टाँग ही रहा था के
दौड़ती हुई आई और ले गिरी वो मुझे सपनों पर
गीली लटों से पुचकारते हुए
नज़रों से मेरे पसीनें सुखाने लगी
मेरे बंजर मन से उठने लगी
पहली बारिश की गीली मिट्टी सी खुशबू
धीरे से अपने हाथों में
उसके चेहरे को भरने लगा
और दफ़्तर के फाइलों कि
लिखावट भूल गया
सच! आदम होना याद नहीं आ रहा
उसके होंठ के तिल पर दबे हुए दाँत देख कर
कलाई तक उसकी उंगलियां दौड़ जाती है
और घड़ी के साथ मेरा तनाव उतर जाता है
मैं पलटता हूं उसे पुराने डायरी के पन्ने की तरह
और गरदन पे स्याह दाग दिखते हैं
पूछने जाता हूं तो रेडियो फटके रो देता है
“तू किसी रेल सी गुज़रती है
मैं किसी पुल सा थरथराता हूं”
च्युइंग गम की तरह ध्यान को खींच कर
टकटकी लगाए देखता रहता हूं
उसके ख़त को
लिखती हैं
“अगली बार तुम ठहर जाना
तो मैं भी रुक जाऊंगी”
उसी दिन अपने हाथों की बैटरी
निकाल फेंकी थी मैंने
पर आज तक उसके
नीले गरदन से ज़्यादा स्याह
मेरे घाव है
ख़ैर! उठकर खिड़की खोल देता हूं
शोर से कमी शायद थोड़ी कम हो जाये।
Tuesday, 6:25 P.M.
“Vroom, vroom”, she makes the tattered, old, red hot wheels race on the dripping, wet railing. She goes up and then come down, then repeat. A woman is heard shouting on top of her voice, “Look at her. Look at her reaction, will you? She doesn’t even care. Why is she so stubborn? Do we ask for things that are not good for her? She is…” Comes a calming voice of a man, “Calm down, Jenna. She is a child. Just 6. She doesn’t even recognize her behaviour. She hardly knows what is right and what is wrong.” “Yes, she is 6. She doesn’t know anything. Doesn’t care about anyone but him. I swear if I see that stupid kid around her again, I will…”, and they hear a loud thud. She slammed the door behind her and ran ahead in the rain. The hot wheels drop out of her pocket in the puddle but she kept up with her pace against the pouring. At last, neither her parents nor the rain could ruin her plans.
House No. 56B- she buzzed the bell. Mrs. Perkins answered the door. “Is Jesse home, Mrs. Perkins?”, asked Rita as water from her locks, drip down her trembling lips. Mrs. Perkins kept staring at that little wet-dressed girl, shivering yet standing up straight. The train whistled but she was still in search. She went through every coach, pushing or getting pushed by the passengers, but couldn’t find him. She had to get down then. It was pouring heavily. The workers were hurrying with the unloading as the train was about to catch its pace onward. She was standing there, dripping wet, thinking a lot many things that she shouldn’t have. So, she shut her eyes off. Blank. As the canvas fades, she sees Rita, still waiting by the door. Mrs. Perkins couldn’t utter anything. Gestured her to go upstairs. With wet-steps in and up, Rita left footprints all over the floor. “Jesse, will you play with me please?”, Mrs. Perkins heard a soft voice of Rita, asking Jesse. “Hi, Rita. I will but where’s your hot wheel?” replied her son. After a pause, she heard her saying, “Oh no Jesse, I dropped it on my way.” A distant faint voice of Jesse is heard, “You lost the hot wheels, Rita? Oh ho, leave it. We’ll play something else. Come.” And then Mrs. Perkins shifts her gaze from the stairs to the mop kept behind the door. Looking at the wet footprints, she tucked in her dress and held the mop up.
6:55 P.M.
It was still pouring outside and inside Mrs. Perkins’. Moping the floor was helping her get rid of the wet footprints but not her thoughts.
7:00 P.M.
The canvas fades in. It’s still pouring heavily on the platform.
Dear Calcutta
The train just left station, whistling away towards a new one. And I can still hear its whistle getting lost among the sound of hustle-bustle of the bazaar downstairs. Sacks of potatoes dropped down from lorries, the eager bicyclists passing by, some shutters coming down. Suddenly, my temporal lobes dim down and the occipital ones catch a sight. I see a crow. Not cawing aloud, just sitting on the lamp post against the burning sun. Observing. I have come to realise how crows are not beautiful to look at but great to observe. And being an onlooker myself, I am loving this feeling of observing an observer. So, I have come here to ‘caw’ all that I see, observe and look upon. So, there it goes- a note to myself. And I invite you all to look through my telescope i.e, this blog which can sometime (and that will be alot!) take a disguise of anything or anyone that comes across.
P.S.- to all who don’t just look but observe.
Ciao!