माया तुम बदली नहीं

नदियों और ऋचाओं की बातें छोड़ो न। बस अब थोड़े ही देर में सब रुखसत हो जायेगा। तुम भी तो छोड़ जाओगी मुझे। कैसे रहूंगी तुम्हारे बिना। तुम्हारे साथ बिताये ये एक महीने, मेरी ज़िन्दगी के सबसे खूबसूरत पल थे। अरे रुको न, हाँ बालों को ऐसे ही खुला छोड़ दो, रात को शैम्पू कर लेना, डीप कंडीशन भी कर लेना, एक एक रेशा सुलझ जाएगा। वैसे भी तुम कभी कंघी तो करती नहीं। बस जी लो यहाँ मेरे साथ। और हाँ, देखो न भूल गयी कहना। ओवर एनालाइज न करो। लीन स्ट्रीट पर घंटों चलना, ईस्ट ब्रॉड स्ट्रीट पे बस यूँ ही मुड़ कर चलते जाना। हील्स पहनने की आदत नहीं थी तुम्हारी। और उसने कहा था हमेशा चप्पल बैग में अख़बार के फोल्ड्स बीच रख कर चलना। उन्हें निकालती, हील्स को वापस बैग में डालती, बैग को झोले की तरह या तो कंधे पे हाथ के सहारे पीठ पर झुलाती चलती या पापा जैसे सब्जी लेकर आते थे वैसे लेकर चलती। ओह, कितना अच्छा था सिर्फ तुम्हारे साथ बातें करना। तुम बदल क्यों गयी, माया? इतनी चुप क्यों हो गयी? बदली या पता नहीं चला कि बदल गयी। खैर, वैसी ही हो। बस चुप हो थोड़ा। शायद शांत हो गयी हो। न न, दरअसल अकेली लग रही हो मुझे, अकेली हो गयी हो। सब कुछ है, पर अंदर से सूख गयी हो, क्लांत हो, सूनी हो गयी हो तुम। क्यों माया? और अगर हो भी, तो मैं क्यों सहूँ? तुम्हें मैंने तो नहीं छोड़ा! मैं तो चार साल पहले भी साथ थी, आज भी हूँ। पर तुम मुझसे तक रूठ गयी? चलो जेनीज़ से आइस क्रीम खाते हैं! 'एक डार्क चॉकलेट और एक लेमन बटरमिल्क का स्कूप दे दीजिये भइया' उसके चेहरे पर असमंजस का भाव देखकर हंस पड़ी थी तुम। कितनी प्यारी लग रही थी। कॉरपोरेट जैसे बंधे सधे बाल, कपड़ों पर एक भी क्रीज़ नहीं, और हंस पड़ी। उस वेश भूषा में इतनी तेज़ हंसी माया कि तुमने स्कूल जाने वाले बच्चों को भी मात दे दी। फिर सँभालते हुए, फोन से नज़रें हटाकर, फ़ोन को पर्स में डालकर कहा, "मे आए हैव अ स्कूप ऑफ़ डार्क चॉकलेट एंड वन लेमन बटरमिल्क, प्लीज" ऐसी मुस्कुराहट, माशा अल्लाह! उस लड़के ने काउंटर के पीछे से कंधे उचकाकर कहा, "श्योर!" और फिर हाथ में कार्ड, बिल, आइसक्रीम, चमच्च और टिश्यू पकड़ाते हुए कहा, "यू हैव डार्क, मिस्ट्रीयसली ब्राउन, ब्यूटीफुल आईज" कैसे अवाक् हो गयी थी तुम! यार माया, यू एस है! यहाँ कोई भाग कर पीछा नहीं करेगा तुम्हारा। और वो क्यूट भी हुआ न तो भी लाइन नहीं मार रहा। कैज़ुअल हैं यहाँ सब। "इंडियन आईज आर ब्यूटीफुल, मैकी। वेल, थैंक यू फॉर द आइसक्रीम एंड विल थैंक माय पेरेंट्स फॉर द जीन्स।" अरे यार माया, क्या बोला तुमने यार! मैं तो चौंक गयी तुम्हे देखकर। चुप हो गयी हो, पर कॉन्फिडेंट और भी हो गयी हो यार। क्या हुआ इतने दिनों में? कॉलेज में तो इत्ते से कॉम्प्लीमेंट में खुद की, दोस्तों की नींद ख़राब कर देती थी ये पूछ पूछ कर कि "मुझसे कोई गलती हुई क्या? कहीं ऐसा तो नहीं कि मैं अनजाने में 'कम हिट ऑन मी' वाले सिग्नल्स देती हूँ? बदल गयी हो माया। पर अच्छा है। पहले वाली दोस्त को मिस किया मैंने तुमसे मिलकर, पर अच्छा लगा। तुम अब खुलकर हंसती नहीं, केवल काम में मशगूल रहती हो। हमेशा कुछ न कुछ नया करती रहती हो। क्यों माया? इसलिए कि अकेली हो गयी हो? घर के कोलाहल की जगह काम में कोलाहल ढूंढती हो? खुश हो न? तुम अब समय पर खाती नहीं, केवल दिन में दो बार कुछ कुछ पेट में डाल लेती हो। इसलिए न कि कोई पूछता नहीं कि क्या खाया? क्या बनाया? कि घर से कोई कॉल आना बंद हो गया। वो पूछता है, फिर भी नहीं खाती माया! कितना कहकर भेजा था कि ये वो फलां योगर्ट ट्राए करना वगैरह वगैरह पर तुमने केवल एक महीने दुःख में, काम में गुजार दिए माया। तुम्हारा घर भी तो हो जायेगा न वो माया। क्यों सोचती हो इतना। खैर, अब मैं एनालाइज करने लग गयी। सुनो, तुम बहुत बहुत अच्छी हो! किसी के नाजायज़ नाराज़ होने पे शकल न बनाओ। किसी का दिल नहीं दुखाया तुमने, किसी से कोई शिकायत नहीं की। अपनी बदौलत, अपनी मेहनत और अपने संघर्ष से अपने फैसले लिए। तो दुखी मत हो। लीन स्ट्रीट के बाद, वेस्टमिनिस्टर घूमना, अल्बेमरले स्ट्रीट घूमना। और घूमना और और खूब काम करना। तुम्हारा काम तुम्हारी पहचान है। तुम्हारी लेखनी तुम्हारे घर का वरदान - वो जोड़े रखेगी तुम्हे उन सबसे जो रूठ गए हैं। और तुम शांत नहीं हुई, माया, तुमने अपनी सारी चुलबुलाहट, सारी ऊर्जा, सारा सारांश अपने भीतर जज़्ब कर लिया है। तुम बदली नहीं, तुम्हारी दुनिया तुमसे अपनी शांति न पाकर बदल गयी है। वो खुश है। उसे कोई और माया मिल जायेगी। मिल ही गयी है। तुम हील्स उतार कर, बैग हाथ में लेकर, कॉफ़ी या चॉकलेट आइसक्रीम लेकर खूब चलो। कॉफ़ी हॉउस के बाहर बैठ कर खूब लिखो और घर जाकर खूब काम करो।

Nationalism for JNU

When they scrub your fingers with anti bacterial, alcoholic hand sanitizer and press your fingers on a lit up screen from below, when you - like that machine - look and flash a smile at the foreign camera and walk away with an air of feigned confidence dithering inside about the uncertainty when you know inside that THAT name on your visa that stamp from YOUR embassy that signature from YOU in confirmation that need to be believed to be trusted certified marked responded to - - that's when you know why Your nation exists beyond shadow lines beyond denial. That's when you know how you exist as an Indian over and above anything and any politics.

To JNU - with love

Later in the night -

sins of the day wash off

strange whispers murmur

slogans echo

Microphone thrust in
stained by political passion

clandestine combine

managed media

idiotic idiomatic ideologies

purposeless politics

nihilist narratives
introduced by innocence
wrapped in curls
contrived corridors

layered lies -

Deception.

Incarceration. Asphyxiation.

a Malda burnt

a Kerala simmered

a Margherita wept

a woman student thrown out.

Transesterification.

Azadi.

Hum kya chatey – Azadi

Hum lad ke lenge azadi

Hum mit ke lenge azadi

Hum til til ke lenge azadi

Hai haq hamara azadi

Imaan hamari azadi

Fitrat hamari azadi

Samvidhan hamara

Hum Leke rahenge azadi.

Bloody salaam!

rebellion ?

anti-establishment ?

pro-poor ?

Borrowed.

Loaned.

Leased.

Duties waived off.

Moth burns itself –

Always.

Love is it?.....Part 7

They knew it would not last.

She let her hair be as they were the last night - scattered on his broad shoulders, half smooth, half tangled. The balmy air from the sea kissed the entire room and swept it clean of the musk odor. He was still in bed, trying to make sense of what was happening between this woman and him.

She will not be hers. He knew it. But she was completely his while they lay together. In the same bed – sometimes in hotel rooms, sometimes in her house, sometimes on his bed. Mostly in dreams and always in unfulfilled realities.

After months she saw him. They kissed. Soft, lingering – as if tasting every sliver of time that had licked the gap between them, painting all those moments of separation with passion. The moonlight washed her house in a pastel yellow. The color of love. From outside, the neem tree waved its branches on the white freshly painted wall. The mirror on the wall had a beautiful patina – of lost love.

They exchanged wine – mouth to mouth. She said she had read it somewhere, in one of her collections. Balancing her in his arms, toppling the Kafka and Marquez that lay on the brown table and gave her company while he was away, he claimed her – in that short moment of nostalgic togetherness.

She cooked. He rolled for them. She slept. He watched her over. He worked. She read her poetry. Together, they had built a dream of sand that they knew would not last.

Last night on Goa. It was a blissful reinvention of herself. On the orange moon kissed beach – no sound but that of the sea. Bearing witness to the last night of silence and quiet assurance – that was to be clipped short soon.

They made love when back in the room. Crazy, teary love.  Every time he would take her in, she cried. She felt as if the world was about to crash. She felt strangely claimed and discarded. She felt complete but empty. And he kissed her deeply, crying out her name each time they finished. All the while, tears kept soaking and matting her hair. She didn’t want to cry. But each time they made love, she ended up filled with emotions – longing, fulfillment, separation, submission, claim, loss; lot more that words can not explain.

The last drag of Black. Spicy, sweet, fragrant. It reminded her of loss. Of belonging. Of being forgotten. Of the hills. Of him.

On the fort, above the din of the cities and lives they left, the wind blew in abundance. The first time they went, they sat. Quiet. Not a word between them. Only the story of the kids in the car played on the radio.

It was the story of two children. Neighbours. One boy and one girl. The boy’s dad was transferred to another city and he had come to bid goodbye to his friend. As kids are, they discussed in innocence how nice it was to be together, to share and care. How she will miss him and he will miss her. Both curious to know if they would ever meet again.  The boy wanting to know more. The girl eager to make him understand the practicality of fading memories and time. The boy at once overcome with emotions, the girl pacifying him with words. Tables reversing. The girl, amidst all the maturity, shuns it all at once. Tells him they might never meet. The boy breaks down too. Perhaps they hug. Perhaps they just wailed. Who knows what’s the end, anyway.

They had reached the hotel. She did not know the rest of the story. He, did not bother to discuss with her. But the story stayed. Perhaps too long than it should have.

He never said why he loved her. She never fell short of explanations. Once while reading that paperback edition of poetry, she felt a tear roll down her eyes. Her cheeks at once red. She rose. Lit a cigarette. Blew out the smoke drag after drag. They would never meet again.

But they did. And each time, it was, it was with an urgency that time was running short. That they needed to hurry up. But once in each other’s arms, time ceased. Moments waited. It was as if everything stood still.

She was diagnosed with blood cancer. Doctors said, it ran in her family. She wanted to meet him once before she left. And talk to him like the children did. But she chose not to.

Alone, frail yet determined at 40, she left. In her own obituary, she dedicated these words to him:

“I wish I could fight for me, against me.”

He came to know from the newspaper clipping.

It was dusk in Lonavala, night in Goa, day in Mumbai and gloominess in Delhi. He rolled down the window and frantically searched for the last book she gave him – tucked between the pages were the poems she wrote – the last one she wrote for him - while they were together.  On the cigarette paper, she had scribbled, her tears smearing the ink.

He looked vacant – at the sea, at the sky, at the memories that lay behind him - splattered on the green hills, soaked in the rain. Just as she had spread herself – in the sun, amidst the air.

Winter, memories...

I like winter nights – dark, foggy, windy and quiet – as if life is overwhelming in its shades, rubbing off its energy in memories that come flooding. Yes, you are right. I am lonely and vacant – with no work at 10 35 pm. The day’s spoils fulfilled, commitments met. This month’s shortages filled to the brim with essentials. That’s what you called my skin, no?

Vacant, erased of any marks, clear, shining, golden in that perfunctory greenish yellow light and the light of the heating rod.

How you melted in the darkness and shone with each sliver of heat and light corroding your skin just as I seeped into you, rusting your life into meaningless meanings. And perhaps calm. Homely is what you called the house – my house. The pronoun ‘my’. How cosy, and warm and home-like and quiet!

You know I like winter nights. Especially in the balcony. With just the outside white light of the CFL glowing with a switch. Click, snap. Cut and open. Clank, swish. At once illuminated and within a nano second pale. With just the streetlamps, lending grace to the shadows of trees dancing on the walls opposite the expanse of the city. Cold, graceful silhouettes. My visage on the wall too. Interrupting the straight and linear progression of the dance of lights on those walls. Mirrored and washed. In memories.

I like winter nights in the balcony. They are calm, quiet, serene peaceful. No one claims any share in the space of the night. While warm quilts embrace the day soaked skins and winter heaters and hot blowers wash away the ruins of tiredness from sleep deprived number punching fingers and data crunching minds, I stand outside smoking.

How else will I push you away than by defying you? Removing you, carefully, craftily erasing you bit by bit each day by doing what you said not to do. Black. Clove flavored. Leaving a sweet aftertaste on the lips. Smearing the tears with those minty memories of fresh assault.

Yes, assault. Violence. Terrible molestation. Forced conversion. Of slipping between one sheet to the other. And each time being raped of the last hit of memory.

I like winter nights when you are not around. Cold. Chill. Chilled.  Chilling to the bones. At once adjective. At other noun. At the other tense. Past. Gone. And the very next moment present. Chilling. Present continuous. Still fresh. Still assaulting. Still tormenting. Still not gone. Still in the process of leaving, coming back, hugging, tightly fixing. Leaving again. This time slowly. Surreptitiously. Watching over me. Intently. Time. You. All observe. Watch. Letting destiny, karma play its role.

I love winter nights when I can smoke outside in the open air. Breeze wafting through loosened hair. Dropping that one hair clutch, or band or whatever it is called carelessly – somewhere. Never to be found elsewhere. Anywhere in fact. Hair, wind, muffler soaking in the skin around the neck, throat, ears, head. Fingers melting with desire. To hold you once more. One last time. Enwrapping you for that last moment of ‘being together.’

Shhhh. Let me listen. To the barking dogs. Barking with each rustle of dry, half wet with dew leaves. Detached from that tree in the park. Just as perhaps you detached, or clutched out free. From THIS – whatever it is called.

I like winter nights in the balcony, with you – now only in slivers of memory which come not as an epic narrative beginning in media res or perhaps a tragedy - with a beginning, middle and an end but as punctuated prose. Like Woolf’s. Unarranged. Random, Chaotic. Like my mind. Like whatever THIS is or is it THAT was yet?

The final ash flicked. The final drag inhaled. Seeped in. Exhaled. The butt, consumed and absorbed of its contents completely. Lost. Thrown carefully down. So that no trace remains. Not even a whiff.

The balcony doors shut. Noises of the road, of the rustling leaves, the barking dogs, the sometime crashing whoosh of aeroplanes, the accidental announcement of car horns – clanked shut. With that final bolt.

An evening without you. A night of your absence awaits.

Memories...

My meaning

invaded by those lips of silent leaves

staring at the infinite possibilities

within finite limits

of time, space, continuum.

My flesh into you

yours into mine.

Meaning  -

at once revealed

at once gone.

You won’t come back

i won't return

while i will relive

each of those moments

those whispers

those beautiful pure times,

in ecstasy

Love

Surrender

Control

Passion

Calm

Nights

Death – of time

a possibility

an infinite hope

of togetherness

and perhaps

Love. 

Will you dream too? 

will you remember too? 

Conservation, preservation, invention..

rescue vocabularies 

develop a new grammar 

for the aphorism of time 

will not let you articulate 

punctuations are important 

just as conjuctions are 

breaking and forging new identities 

lost in the conundrum of civilizational wars 

they say globalization 

and mean unabashed consumption 

subsuming of the whole in a powerful part 

they say culture 

and mean a monolith 

they say america 

and mean the whole of United States 

they say India 

and mean all - 

kashmir, north east 

(forget that there are 7 different states -they themselves identified

dots of new, fresh, organic tastes - 

they celebrated one in Nagi pokhri) 

telangana

hyderbad

nostalic over Bombay 

and Calcutta 

and Cawnpore 

therefore 

we need language 

rather languages 

to chronicle each hurt 

each flesh pinched 

each nipple bit 

each breast manhandled 

each bread snatched 

each dog killed 

each dream shattered 

and each moment lived. 

Rescue words 

save vocabulary 

build new architecture

invent new syntax

we need it 

i need it 

you need it 

caese the fleeting time

the chasing, fast erasing memories

moments frozen in skinny details.