the bullet

(a prolonged passing thought, while passing through the Delhi metro tunnel... ignore the jerks!!)


i feed on death.

Death shall guide me.

i aim your heart out, entering its deepest to quench my thirst. evading my way though the multiple layers of nerves, tissues and the exhilarating blood.
i must reach the unattainable depths of heart and see the lover complain.
i shall leave the nozzle of my beholder,one by one dispelling me like a tree sheds its yellow and so does a man.
Dispel me, a waste. but i am no yellow of thine nasty human or overgrown tree. i am a work of art, they, my protectors(dispensers) believe.
the giver of my birth is no female. there cant be any "she". i am the collective of all the history drowned in hatred. i pop in you and guaranteed salvation shall knock at the gates of your consciousness.

A BIRTHDAY

Dedicated to my dearest friend Prateek on his birthday, 22nd Nov 2008.


A BIRTHDAY.

you were born,
a bundle of joy.
fingers stubby
and cheeks chubby!
not in a manger,
but in my heart
Oh! but...
how would you have known.

you were born,
a reckless freak.
gay and merry,
in a world so bleak!
in dreams, not just thine
but also mine.
Oh! but...
how could you have known.

you were born,
a sturdy soldier.
"was a mishap"
you thought bolder!
i stood with open arms,
if only you were here.
Oh! but...
how could you have known.

you were born,
a milder man.
ever being so thoughtful,
not all of us can!
with abundant newness,
today you are born again.
Oh! but...
you always knew that.

MY BROKEN CRADLE

Kasheer, the cradle of
My happiest days which
Alas! I cannot summon.
Not even a trace,
Not even a figment
Can I recall.

A leaf of the springtime,
Fresh and tender to touch,
So I was told,
Fell off its branch,
Well before its time.
Fell into the autumnal drain
And swam with the current
Towards the sewer of this world.

The season was different
And the wind, ruthless,
So I was told,
which took all away,
All that its might could.
It shunted the leaf, still unripe.
Braced for the drudgery, but
not the loss of its hue,
It refused to shed its green, the
Emerald of a crown.
Refused to dry into pathetic despair.

Time passed,
The hue remained but
The delicate scent was lost.
Bereft, its longing grew.
The twig it belonged to
Had withheld its fragrance.
Memories deceive this leaf.
But resounding facts
Unleash the history that
Rendered the leaf its texture.

Beneath the surface,
The bruise is fresh
But when concealed,
Left unseen in worldly mesh.
A perception indebted with
Blood laden facts,
Gave way to a melodious rustle,
The blowing wind bound to
indelible pacts.

Separated by time and distance,
It pledged to return one day,
Flutter back to that
Spring of the Valley where
Once dwelled the Heaven.

It vowed to bloom someday
from its own ashes of dismay,
as a phoenix shimmering its light
as bright as gay,
to act upon the vengeance
and make them cower and pray.
At last, it broke the shackles and tangles
of the woeful plight,
The heaven showered the spring
and nature swore to sing,
the beauty that was lost has come back
as a blissful omen to dispel the prodigal past.

MAINE USSE JAATE DEKHA HAI ...

Maine use jaate dekha hai, us maasoom ko, kayin baras pehle, wo naa lautne ka waada karke gaya …fir bhi mein kabse usse in khilauno mein khojti rahi …par wo na aaya… Wo rooth ke gaya…. Yun waqt se pehle… ki fir na aaya… mera wo andekha bachpan. Jo kuch yaadein thi…yakeen maaniye yunhi khaas na thi…kuch yahan, kuch wahan ka rona de gaya. Us chutpan ka har aansoo fir bhi yaad mujhe hai…zehen ke dayre mein kam se kam ye sanjo sake, kaafi hai.

Par jawaani us bin bulaye mehmaan si lagti hai jo anjaane kisi maasoom ke maatam mein gumsum shareeq ho.
To wo phool kaise khile…
Kaise wo ujala ho,
Wo seher ho…?
Jawaan dhadkan ki zid koi to pehchaane,
Maine us maasoom ko jaate dekha hai….

WHEN THINGS FORGOTTEN RESURFACE.

(2006)
A visit to Greetika’s house turned out to be an eye opener for me. First, the décor of her home was remarkable with generous input of daylight to adorn every ornate object. Second one of the rooms of her house that been exclusively dedicated to numerous books collected over the years by her dad. Of course, I complimented her for both attractions but my pride was shattered by the latter. I was there barely for 20 minutes and underneath I felt so petite, rather awestruck, throughout. I took such pleasure to tell people about the modest collection of books on art, literature and philosophy which I own. But which would amount to only one-tenth of her assortment.
Recently I asked Mom to describe my Dad’s study room in Kashmir. She told me one could find various prized books and paintings by my Dad treasured in one of the rooms of our grand house. I also bear in mind her telling me that the night before we all migrated from Kashmir, my Dad had bought a sack-full of books which regrettably he never could read. Later it was known that the house was burnt down to ashes and so the nest was ruined by the vultures.
All this made me stop envy Greetika’s wealth and I started pondering over how it feels to part with one’s own creation and the object of affection. My dad being an artiste adores his paintings and shares a relation with each one of them. It is similar to giving birth to a child whose separation a mother cannot stand. The very decision of a creator to abandon his creation perturbs me. I then tried to envisage in my mind the anguish my dad must have gone through. Indeed, I cannot imagine myself in such a turbulent state of affairs. I find myself unable to traverse through and start all over again from a scratch. As always, I was full of admiration for my Father for his ability to break free from his past, steer clear and float up triumphant. But this episode with its flash-back going way back to Kashmir drew me in a contemplative state of mind. I could distinguish on my mother’s face all those expressions emerging ‘when things forgotten resurface’…

WANT ORIGINAL ??

WANT ORIGINAL?

How original can original be?

Go declare, if u can be like me.

I surrender, none can copy thee!

Original is not what we always see.

How original can original be??



You ask for it in your plea,

And all I do is pee…

But form this situation I cannot flee.

Prey, tell me silly,

How original can original be??

TO, MY TORMENTOR WHO DISOWNED ME.

You coax me into
Forgetfulness,
But promise me –
You won’t ever haunt
My dreams.
Give me your word –
I will never occupy
That same corner
And weep again.
That u will never
Be the reason of my
Reminiscence.


I never claimed to
Share your solitude.
It was too precious
That I knew!
Why then did you
Bloom like a heavenly
Lotus on which I sat
Like a solitary muse?
Why then did you
Forge the chain and
Bind my heart as
you fancy.


Never did I seek
Any answers.
I am well aware
of your incapacity.
But yes, there was
Something of yours
That I sought,
The knowledge of
my capabilities, those
were but few, waiting
For your assistance.


Carefully wrapped, you
Covered your wishes.
Denying every intrusion
Into Realms of Desire.
You left me assuming,
Bewildered without surety.
Guilt ridden, I
Plead my case
And coax myself
Into forgetfulness.
Again!

VISIBLE DARKNESS.

The generous electric bulb
Of this room
And its luminous extravagance,
Under both I feel naked.
Its cruelty I dislike
And so its suicidal penetration
Into lives.
Shall there be no companion
to darkness?
Shall there tread none
The path which is but dark?
This flooding white of the bulb
Renders me blind
While it slaughters the
Darkness around.
Rather,
I am in love with
An intruder,
Who partly hides behind
The unfurled curtains.
It is his shyness that I adore.
Seeps slowly through the window
And scatters all over.
It shimmers through my
unkempt hair
while still hidden,
oh, that curtain!
His ways –
Too lucid and careless,
Sometimes intoxicating
At others contemplating.
Easily, he demarcates
The space of our togetherness.
But never once in conflict
With the darkness
That I harbor,
Within and Without.

DESERTED

deserted

the desert is dead
desire not to arouse it.
the sand will blow
and blur my sight.
but u let the air in
and ruffle the silence,
stir my peace.
the sand dunes that
had settled over
the years are now lost,
lost in this hurricane.
this desert will not
cease to exist,
dare not forget,
by these frivolous winds
but restless, it pleads
with all its might
to let the breeze in
that softens these
fine sand grains.
and smoothens
the desert that is dead.

FROM THE KITCHEN TO THE BOARDROOM- THE INDIAN WOMAN TODAY.

Indira nooyi, naina lal kidwai, kiran bedi and Sonia Gandhi-few number of prominent women u can easily count on ur fingertips. Is this meager number enough to represent the whole bulk of the fair sex of our nation?
We, the people, live in the times of egalitarian values. Our women are no longer caged. They are now free to flee and conquer the world. They are striving hard to make their presence felt and have left no sphere untouched. They are not just home makers but have now become potential nation builders.
“Our Women”- who do u think are these beings we so rightfully lay our claims to? “The woman of today”-what does this notion represent? Friends, here I would go by the saying-“all those glitters is not gold”. I hope the audience present here is taken aback for I am here not just to voice my opinion or elaborate on my views but to raise questions and doubts about this relatively abstract status of women in India. The credit to this abstraction may rightfully be given to the enormous class divide in our society. Here it becomes inevitable what the Marxist philosophy states. Marxism traces its roots of women subordination to the growth of class division in society. The first division of labour as Engels described “between man and woman was for child breeding”. Socialism, nevertheless, puts all blame of patriarchy on the capitalist structure of state. Capitalism by employing women in large scale industries broke the cycle of isolation and dependence they suffered from during feudal times. But at the same time the conditions under which women work supposedly as free worker remain unequal. The glaring visibility of the urban elite woman who is responsible to have shrunk this vast concept of Indian woman can not be dispelled in a discourse such as this. Meanwhile the rural woman was lost somewhere and forgotten all along. However, we also can not disregard the fact the Indian woman wherever bestowed an opportunity fought to break free of her fetters. Her journey from kitchen to the board room has not been an easy one. Her emancipation which still is in the process of wide spread acceptance came at the cost of a struggle. She had to prove her mettle at every step even in this land of Goddess worshipers. Mahatma Gandhi once said true India resides in its villages, and the women of our villages have been unarguably neglected. She still meets her fate in the dungeons her home. Sadly enough the fruits of women emancipation failed to trickle down to the grass root level of our society which is basically an amalgamation of various caste classes and divisions. Rather I must add that this infiltration of development has been very slow.

We are a developing nation and such a nation has its share of its negative and positive features. Purposeful plans and steps have been undertaken to bring women out of the largely looming metaphorical pardha. Literacy rates have steered uphill drastically since independence. According to the world economic forum 2007, in a study aimed to establish a yardstick to measure the improvement in women’s position in society it found most progress was made in health care and education, with economic and political improvement sectors showing a slow but steady rates of equality. While India is experiencing unprecedented levels of economic growth its women continue to be marginalized with respect to economic participation in contrast with country’s performance in political empowerment for women, an area in which it has traditionally well. To strengthen her economic front that is promoting entrepreneurship among them, an exemplary step in this regard has been taken. A rural B-school for women, Mann Deshi Udyogini, formed by a rural women’s cooperative bank in association with an international bank, is a business school aims to empower women with the knowledge of how to run small scale enterprises. Vanita Jalinder Pise is one such woman and the winner of Prime Ministers National 2006 Woman Exemplar Award.
Having said all, entrepreneurship among women has been a recent concern. Women have become aware of their rights, their existence and their work situation. However, women of the Great Indian Middle Class aren’t too eager to alter their role in fear of social backlash. The progress is more evident in upper class families in urban cities. Here at this point, I am reminded of a survey done a year or two ago among the women from the age group of 18-25 which concluded that docile Delhi girls tend to be most vulnerable in terms of making choices regarding their careers. They, reportedly, left these issues to their fathers or husbands. It also found that compared to men women were less concerned with making money and often chose business proprietorship as a result of career dissatisfaction. However, the factors that initiate a woman to take the plunge are usually circumstantial for instance failure of husband’s business, sudden death of the father in a woman only household etc.
But with the spread of education and awareness, women have shifted from the kitchen, handicrafts and traditional cottage industries to non traditional higher levels of activities. They had to cross major thresholds and enter an unknown land where survival of the fittest was the sole mantra. They not only survived but rocked the scene. They gave birth to the ultra modern concept of ‘super mom’, multi-tasking her way through all odds, juggling between her career and her family. At this juncture I am obliged to throw light at the plight she faces physically, socially and psychologically. She has more problems like insomnia, depression and impulsiveness. She is under constant pressure to suppress her femininity and be on her toes all round the clock. Strong familial ties are weakening day by day. Motherhood is the last thing on her mind. Please understand that through this point I am not trying to portray the urban working woman as a vamp as mostly depicted in our favourite K-sops. Prominent studies relate opting late motherhood to cancers of various types. In her pursuit to achieve her position today she has deliberately killed the divine essence of Mother Nature in herself. Feminism was never about churning out males out of women. It always advocated equal incentives to both the sexes so that basic human rights aren’t violated.

Another concept called consumerism, the brain child of globalization and westernization has been rightfully blamed for the commoditization of women. Most urban women(who have since long never been into their kitchens) have become slave to this trend. Do we then consider this positive women emancipation?
Women need to ask themselves whether they are aspiring for a job, a career or a higher calling in life, since leaders are motivated from inside out.
Eventually, putting my opinions in a nutshell, I find it apt to say that the ‘go-getter” attitude of women today needs a tremendous change. Its we, the privileged of the lot, who must rethink before we dive deep into this rat race. The effort has to be collective including the women of the masses. Otherwise people like Shashi Tharoor will always find an opportunity to call our country “a land where paradoxes reign supreme”.

exploring masculinity

EXPLORING MASCULINTY: CAN MEN CHANGE?


Here is one of my favourite stories, which gives me hope that men can change!
It was 1942 and Gandhi ji was addressing a press conference at his Ashram in Wardha. After every few moments he would say, “excuse me, gentlemen, I must go in for a few minutes.” He would then go into his hut and return after 8-10 minutes. After he did this for the third time, an irritated journalist asked why he was wasting their time-why couldn’t he finish the press conference and go in once and for all? Gandhi ji gently replied that he did so because his wife Kasturba was suffering from acute diarrhea and was too weak to go to the toilet.

As this story shows, Gandhi ji tried to strike the right chord between his mothering instincts and public duties. For him serving Ba, cleaning the Ashram toilets, spinning yarn was as important as leading the Nationalist Struggle against colonialism. Looking after and the upkeep of the essentials of his ill wife was in no means derogatory to the status of any man. Rather this is how Gandhi ji identified with the spirit of Mother Nature present in every human (read: man also). It is that very essence of “ardhanarishwara” which needs to usher in this world of He-Gods. And in the final analysis, it is those men who are able to balance their inner “man” and “woman” become great and immortal. Strong, macho, power-wielding men might be feared but they are not revered.

AN ODE TO THE INJURED LIP

They say there is a pair
For each pair of lips.
And it were yours
Those adorned mine
On that beautiful day
When it rained pearls
From the heavens, through
The foliage of clouds,
On the green grassy
Carpet on which we stood.

Those very pearls
Landed on my forehead,
Slid from the slant
Of my nose and
Perched themselves
On my lips which then
Shone like the
Red of a Ruby.
That crimson luster
I again saw,
On the previous night,
But more red in color,
For it is
Blood which bruises
Always draw.

Last night,
As I recall,
The lower of the pair
Hurt itself, ignorant
And unaware.
This pair of mine,
Once blessed with
A kiss from yours,
Had its lower one
Drenched in blood.

As if overwhelmed
With sensuality,
The volcano eject
Molten lava.
As if every prick of a thorn
Devotedly oozes blood
Out of my skin
And nourishes
The insatiable Red rose.

It was then that the
Dawn of a smile broke
Heavy on those lips
The same injured lip.
Not a sign of any pain
But a throbbing tribute
To Thee,
The ornament of my lips.

MY NIGHT LIFE
_____________
i sit through the night
without a trace of any pre-occupation,
and my mind wanders in
a nomadic disposition.

i try to reflect over the
speculations that were
but in the past
long -forgotten.

i like to encircle myself
with the mess borne and brought up
by me,just like a mother.

i enjoy the music of the clock
ticking away but wonder if
time could halt and jive to
these beats of click-cluck.

i do sometimes feel like cleaning up
but this ignorant pen stealthily creeps
in my hands and i start scribbling this.

i exclaim,
with a sigh of relief,
"PARADOX IS MY
SECOND NAME".

we blame emotions...blame them for the crimes we commit...for the overflow....fr the broken dam....
this poem is a product of my heleplessness...as i surrender myself to the might and whims of...
UNTAMED EMOTIONS







UNTAMED EMOTIONS

Hopelessly, I sob and weep.
Haplessly, I cry and sleep.

Watchfully, I gaze at time.
Wistfully, I glare at the tide.

Doomed, I behold sanity.
Denied, I search acceptance.

Wanton, I lust after chastity.
Forsaken, I disown my destiny.

Willing, I cling to life.
Living, I cross the line.

Meandering, I fathom my reach.
Grueling, I predict my halt.

Solitude, I find in chaos.
Serenity, in the jostle within.

Ecstasy billowing inside my corpse.
Delirious joy brewing my spirits.

Liberation, I seek in confinement.
A discharge, through the cleft amidst.

Passions, I yearn to tame its storm.
Detain its marauding ways.

Failure, though I unearth eventually.
A void dwells in me as residue.

Mightier, it grows with each encounter.
Gallant, whenever it seizes my being.

Glorious, I never could become
Volatile, my tears befall.

Pitiful, alas! I am tamed instead.
Timid even in isolation.

Incessant, is the clash within
The saga, eternal and reverberate.