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.