'a short piece about death'

Dazzling through the lights that
surround me like vultures
eating and tearing apart
the parts of my flesh,
a burst of pain rushing through
my nerves
forbidding the
string of thoughts arriving at my destination,
I yell with pain
And cry for help
Then suddenly
Something strikes me from inside
And it all gets over.
A truth
A philosophy
Whatever it may be
The next moment is going to take
All away
And there will be no more pain
And no more cry.
The end of my struggle
The meaning of my existence
All have an answer in one.
Whatever I do
Let it be right or wrong
It doesn’t even matter
if I win or lose
the winner is already
knocking at my door
I fear to open
I tremble to answer
It has always been there
Mocking at me
when I dress like a hero
feeling sorry for me
when I try to break it open
it has pushed me
several times
and asked me subconsciously
the answer has always been the same.
There is no escape
I know
But this pain is too addictive
Its all going to end in a fiasco
But still I want to be the soldier
The time will come
May be it has already come
The question is ready
This time
it will not wait for my answer
The door has been broken
but the task is still undone.

“are you ready?”
It asks for the last time
And carries me far away….

'BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU'

'कुछ नहीं हो सकता, शायद इस देश का कुछ भी नहीं हो सकता'
हाथ जल रहा है। कब से आग में हरपल सुलगते देख रहा हूँ। धीरे धीरे अपाहिज होता जा रहा हूँ। पीड़ा तो है पर चेहरे पे लाते डरता हूँ। एक चीख अन्दर ही अन्दर दब कर दम तोड़ने वाली है। आग बुझाने का साहस जुटाने लगता हूँ तो और कई हाथ जलते दिखाई देते हैं। मेज़ पर टूटी हुई कलम,बिखरी हुई सिहाई और सफ़ेद कागज़ पर अंकित कुछ अधूरे शब्द कोस रहे हैं। सब लोग इंतजार कर रहे हैं । एक दूसरे के अंत का , शायद राख हो जाने का । सब मज़ा लेरहे हैं । एक दूसरे की बेबसी का। शायद लाचार आशाओं और सपनों की मौत का। अब तो यह पीड़ा अपनी सी लगने लगी है या कहना चाहिए आदत पड़ चुकी है - सहने की ,बेबस बने रहने की ,हर किसी को जलते भस्म होते देखने की। बस इंतजार है की कौन किस्से पहले दम तोड़ता है।

'कुछ नहीं हो सकता ,शायद इस देश का कुछ भी नहीं हो सकता।'
कुछ रेंग रहा है। बिस्तर पर लेटा हुआ घडियाँ गिन रहा हूँ। पूरे कमरे में धुआं ही धुआं है। पता नहीं कहाँ आग लगी हुई है। अजीब सा शोर है, कौतुहल सा मचा हुआ है । किसी की चीख तो किसी का रोना। आवाजें जानी पहचानी हैं पर पता नहीं किस किस की। पैर का ज़ख्म तंग कर रहा है। कुछ रेंगता हुआ सा अन्दर ही अन्दर खोखला करता जारहा है। हाथ पहुँचने की कोशिश करना चाहता हूँ पर डरता हूँ। दौड़ कर जानी पहचानी आवाजों के पास पहुंचना चाहता हूँ पर यह भी जानता हूँ कि पहुँचने से पहले ही ख़त्म कर दिया जाऊँगा। मंजिल का रास्ता जानता हूँ, पैरों की हिम्मत का अंदाजा है, पर आदत पड़ चुकी है लेटे रहने की, शोर सुन्ने की, ज़ख्म गहरा होते देखने की। बस इंतजार है कि कब यह सुस्ती मौत में बदल जायेगी।

' कुछ नहीं हो सकता शायद इस देश का कुछ भी नहीं हो सकता'
लब सिले हुए हैं। पर मन में शब्दों का ढेर है, शिकायतों का बाज़ार है। कहने को संविधान मुझे बोलने का अधिकार देता है पर फिर भी चुप रहना भाता है। घुटते रहना अच्छा लगता है। हरपल चंद शब्दों को दम तोड़ता देख रहा हूँ।एक अजीब सी शान्ति है। शब्दों का बोझ तो कम हो रहा है पर चुप रहने का गुनाह अन्दर ही अन्दर खाता जा रहा है। ज़्यादा सोचना नहीं पड़ता, अब। सिकुड़ती हुई सोच यातना की तंग गलियों से गुज़रती हुई हिम्मत बंधाती है, थोड़ा और सहते रहने के लिए साहस का इंतजाम करती है। सोच के कन्धों पर शब्दों की लाशों का अम्बार है। समय गुज़रता है तो शब्दों की अर्थी टूटी हुई मिलती है। बेजान शब्दों के टुकड़े बिखरे पड़े हैं। लाशें सड़ रहीं हैं। जिंदा लोगों को अजीब सी शक्लें बनाए नाक पे हाथ रखे, कीमती कपड़ों को बचाते, पास से गुज़रता हुआ देखता हूँ तो शर्म के मारे आँखें झुक जाती हैं। रोना चाहता हूँ , चीखना चाहता हूँ, अपने आप को जिंदा कहने वाले लोगों पर हँसना चाहताहूँ। पर न तो आंखों से आंसू टपकते हैं, न गले से आवाज़ और न ही चेहरे पे हँसी आती है। सब निर्जीव हो चुका है।बस इंतजार है कि कब शब्दों के अवशेष मिट्टी में दफन हो जायेंगे ।

' कुछ नहीं हो सकता, शायद इस देश का कुछ भी नहीं हो सकता'
सामने नाटक चल रहा है। पात्र मैं हूँ, कहानी भी मैं, कहानी में मरने वाले भी मेरे ही लोग और तालियाँ बजाने वाला भी मैं। मेरी ही जिंदगी को, मेरे ही पैसों से, मेरे सामने दोहराकर, मुझे ही दिखाया जा रहा है। मैं आराम से बैठा तालियाँ मार रहा हूँ। मुर्दा सपनों का नंगा नाच, अधूरे शब्दों के संवाद, जानी पहचानी पर अनजान चीखों का गायन आनंदित कर रहे हैं। आसपास नज़र घुमाता हूँ तो अपने ही जैसे हज़ारों लोगों को देखता हूँ। वही बेबस सा चेहरा, वही हैरान कर देने वाली चुप्पी, वही घुटन, वही जलता हुआ हाथ, पैर का ज़ख्म, और सिले हुए होंठ। ऐसा लगता है की आसपास हजारों आइनों का बाज़ार लगा है। ढूंढ रहा हूँ इक ऐसे चेहरे को जो मेरे जैसा नहीं बल्कि मेरा ख़ुद का हो। इंतज़ार है तो बस बाकी सब आइनों के तहस नहस हो जाने का।

गुस्सा आता है ज़रूर आता है । दफ्तरों पे बढ़ते हुए फाइलों के ढेर, सालों से कोर्ट के चक्कर लगाते बेटे की मौत में इन्साफ की उम्मीद लगाये बूढा बाप, अस्पतालों की सीढियों पे मरते हुए गरीब लोग, चाए की दुकानों पर बरतन साफ़ करते ८ साल के बच्चे , सालों से बनती हुई बिल्डिंग और बिल्डिंग के कूडे में दफ्न मज़दूर, लाखों रुपये की डोनेशन लेते प्राइवेट स्कूल, जलती हुई दुल्हनें , धर्म को बाप की जागीर समझने वाले पंडित और मौलवी, बूथ कैप्तुरिंग, जाली डिग्रियां, लोकतंत्र का मजाक उड़ाते भ्रष्ट नेता, समाचार पत्रों के पेज ३ की हस्तियाँ, डिब्बे में बंद साहित्य, सिकुड़ती हुई सोच, मरते हुए शब्द, सब देखकर गुस्सा आता है, ज़रूर आता है। पर अन्दर ही अन्दर दम तोड़ देता है। न तो क्रान्ति बन पाता है, न ही चीख, न ही नया सिद्धांत। बनता है तो सिर्फ़ शाम की चाए के साथ दो घंटे की गपशप का सामान। कुछ नहीं हो सकता , शायद इस देश का सचमुच कुछ भी नहीं हो सकता। गालियाँ निकालने में सबको मज़ा आता है और जिम्मेदारी उठाने के समय सब कदम थाम कर घर लौट जाते हैं। बंद कमरे में घुटकर जीवन के ६०-७० साल निकाल देते हैं। सबको बेबसी और लाचारी सहने की आदत पड़ चुकी है। हिम्मत है, जोश है, कदम मज़बूत हैं, हाथों में शक्ति है, मन में साँस लेती एक सोच भी है, पर इन सबको क्रान्ति बनाने से सब डरते हैं। चलता है सब चलता है। कुछ नहीं बदलेगा। जैसा चलता है चलता रहेगा। आवाज़ उठायेंगे तो मार दिए जायेंगे। GEORGE ORWELL के उपन्यास 1984 का BIG BROTHER देख रहा है , हरपल ताक में है। हर नई सोच को कुचलने और बचे हुए शब्दों को लाश बनने के प्रयास में। हर भावना, हर क्रान्ति को असफल बनाने के प्रयास में। हर सच को झूठ और हर इतिहास को मिटाता जा रहा है और उसके प्रयासों को सफल बनाने में ज़िम्मेदार हैं तो हम सब। अपनी लाचारी के लिए जिम्मेदार हैं तो हम और सर्फ हम।

जलते हुए हाथों से टूटी हुई कलम को बिखरी हुई सिहाई में डाल कर सफ़ेद कागज़ पर अंकित अधूरे शब्द अब भी पूरे किए जा सकते हैं। ज़ख्मी पैरों से मंजिलें अब भी तय की जा सकती हैं। बचे हुए शब्दों से अब भी एक नए साहित्य की रचना की जा सकती है। ज़रूरत है तो बस अपने गुस्से को क्रान्ति में परिवर्तित करने की। ज़रूरत है तो बस ज़िम्मेदारी उठाने की।

this is the end...

the words stare at me
motionless;
the thoughts wait for freedom
helpless.

white pages lie ruffled on
the road;
dead corpses get crampled
and cold.

the sense is burning
in the fire of more;
the race has long started
with a purpose to explore .

the vision is scarred
the inspiration too marred;
yet a desire to conquer
survives the war.

we don't know our enemies
nor the reason to be so sore;
we don't see the light
that shines through the door.

the throats don't creak
as the swords touch the bone;
the blood doesn't gush
when the ego gets a stone.

the clock stands still
with hour hand at thirteen;
the ink has dried up and
the words have lost their sheen.

the mud is dark
and the light too dim;
the trench is deep
and the hope so thin.

morrison says that this is the end
but the story ended long ago;
the sun always shines for us
but the truth remains
that we died long before...

द्वंद्व

लहरों पे चलने की कोशिश करती एक कश्ती
और दो किनारों का अंतर्द्वंद्व l
हर पल हरदम हिम्मत जुटाता अकेला माझी
कश्ती पार लगाने को
और अभिमान में जलते दो किनारों का अंतर्द्वंद्व l
कभी कश्ती को डुबाता एक किनारा तो
कभी सहारा देता दूसरे का हाथ l
एक पल ठोकरें खाता माझी तो
दूसरे पल हवा के साथ बातें करता उसका होंसला l
कभी लहरों के ऊफान की विजय तो
कभी शांत पानी में डूबते सूरज का सौन्दर्य l
उसी तरह
मन में हर पल हरदम चलता एक संघर्ष
और मुश्किल से साँस लेती
उभरती हुई कविता की कश्मकश l
कभी कुछ शब्दों की तलाश तो
कभी लुप्त होता कविता का सार l
चाहता हूँ समेटना अगर स्वछन्द बचपन तो
दिखाई देता है हर पल अस्त होता जीवन भी l
एक ओर बुझता हुआ आस्था का दीपक तो
दूसरी ओर रोशन होती क्रांति की मशाल l
कभी झुंड में खो जाने का डर तो
कभी चोटी पर दिखाई देता अकेला खड़ा मेरा प्रतिबिम्ब l
इस कौतुहल में बनती हुई कविता ढूंढ रही है
अपना लक्ष्य
पर कविता अभी भी फंसी हुई है ...

web of memories

I close my eyes. I saw her standing near the gate waiting for me with utmost desperation. Her eyes are full of hope. Her lips are silently moving in prayer for my well being. I try hard to wake up since it cannot be a reality anymore. The more I try the more it’s difficult. Suddenly I see myself in the scene. I am dressed as a school boy. Lost in my world of fantasies being totally innocent about her affection. She embraces me in her arms. Her face lightens up and lips utter words of adoration. The rest is nothing but a sweet lullaby. Everything seems to be like a lost world. I wake up from my sleep and get occupied within no time. No time to think no time to cherish the dream. A mad race in a mad struggle. It’s hard to imagine how it happened so fast. I cannot even think about the precise moment when the innocence gave way to materialism and vanished from my life like it was never there to begin with. I have no idea when I took a turn and got on a different road. Not even the slightest hint at all. But the realty is, it happened. I remember, as a child, I used to stare at the clock for hours together just to catch the moment when minute hand of the clock changed its direction. But I could never seize that moment. The world changes in a blink. Thousands of moments get lost in a blink and you keep staring at the dichotomy of time.

I close my eyes again. I see my friends. I see my brothers and sisters. I smile how they used to be so stupid and illogical as a child. Those little pranks lie buried in the garden somewhere. I remember when I departed from my friends after 10th class. We promised to write letters to each other every week. It seemed to be so easy at that time. I still remember the promise but have no time to make it true. Moreover who the hell write letters in 2008? Everybody has a crush in his school life on a teacher. I too had. I used to like my biology teacher a lot. These little and innocent memories lie hidden in some part of my head. Sometimes they seem to be like a web. Already its impossible to live and they make the life even more difficult.

But I do want to live the life of my memories once again. I want to stare at the clock with the same innocence once again to catch hold of the moment lost in the blink. I want to dig those pranks from the garden in the backyard. I want to say goodbye to my friends once again with a promise to write letters every week. I want to wear my school uniform and get received with same hope and affection. I want to yell I want to cry as a child. I want my innocence back. But I know I can’t go back. I also know that it’s not possible because the woman in the dream is no more…

'IDIOTS'

Sometimes honesty gives you big surprises. I saw a wonderful movie today. An honest movie by an honest team of filmmakers and actors called ‘idiots’. The movie, I would say, is not only an eye opener but an insight into the inside of the people which is full of filth and hypocrisy. This is the first film made under the label of Dogma, a Scandinavian film group inspired by the Danish director ‘Lars von Trier’, which insists that their new manifesto on how to make films, be adhered to by those who make films under their label.

This dogma consists of improvised acting and hand-held camera work, among other dogmas the film must adhere to. There are several rules which have to be followed for making ‘dogma’ film. The film is made by a hand held camera using natural light and sound effects. The use of artificial light and sound amplifications is strictly prohibited throughout the film. All this gives the film a realistic look. In short these films promise to stay away from all the clichés of commercial Hollywood cinema. And in a way the films made under this category are anti-film films.

‘Idiots’ has a bunch of middle-class cult groupies living together in a rich private house that one of their relatives gave them, as the group members seem to be either in their late teens or their 20s, whose repulsive purpose is to freak out in public and display a show of insanity and sometimes do it when together in the privacy of their house. The purpose is to bring out the inner idiot out of them. To spasse, is a Danish term, which refers to those who act like idiots even though they are not. These episodes of spassing give this film an odd look that is guaranteed to turn off a lot people and anger many, especially those who expect more conventional ways of looking at the problems young people face in society.

This blog should not be considered a film review or something like that because I am definitely in not that mood. Rather the article is a confession and declaration that I am nothing but a fucking hypocritic poser and a pseudo intellectual kind of a personality. The movie distinguishes between two kinds of people; those who pose to be different or insane or idiots but can’t do so in real crisis and life time situations and those who really are insane or different but don’t pose for the sake of proving it. And I am certainly the former one. Since I have realized what sort of a person I am, I want to apologize to all those who have been generous enough in reading my articles and give me a moral boost through their honest comments, for being fake in trying to establish my insanity when in reality I don’t have the courage to bring it out as and when the need arises. I have written a lot about insanity and at one point of time I started believing myself to be the master of this concept. But after watching the movie I feel that I am merely a beginner to this concept. There are several aspects which have to be dealt with thoroughly and viewed from a different perspective. To feel like insane and being one are two different issues which need to be considered. And the latter is more difficult. Insanity, in my view, is a weapon which has the potential to change the things and revolutionize the fucking strangulating systems; be it our fucking strangulating family systems or the ever existing demeaning political systems. To write about insanity and hope for a change would not necessarily solve the issue. It needs a hell lot of courage to be insane and fuck the society or the systems at the point where it hurts a lot. Insanity needs to be brought in everyday practice of being a human being and being among those who want to bring about a change. Only then we can hope for a generation which is not only free in its thought process but also in converting it’s thought into a viable expression.

transitory existence

It’s hard to give meaning to the thoughts which come for a moment and leave an everlasting impression.
It’s hard to pen down the images which flash for a second but remain etched in the memory forever.
It’s hard to find words when everything seems so blank.
And it’s really not easy to do justice with the words when their meaning won’t ever find a refuge.
I know that everything is transitory.
Realizing this makes it even more difficult.
It seems worthless to try when I see my transitory existence surrounded by the vultures all around.
They won’t leave me no matter how hard I try.
They won’t ever let the things change for once and for all.
But how can I be deceitful to the immortal soul?
How can I pretend knowing that I am a human being?
My thoughts define my existence.
My words stare at me for expression.
They don’t really know about my being helpless and all alone.
I try hard to hide.
But it’s really getting too complicated.
The pigs are growing day by day.
And the dogs have all always been too faithful to their masters.
And then there is always a flock of sheep to suffer and whimper.
There is no place for me in this farm.
I am merely a spectator at my own funeral.

Hypocrisy – an epidemic / insanity - a crime

During the most intimate moments of my day in the quietest of surroundings, at the height of explosion I masturbated in my room. This time I raped the girl living in the house next to me and had the most satisfying orgasm of my life. She was distracting my thought since morning and making me feel restless. I was postponing the act for a long time but then it became simply impossible to manage and at last I had to do it. I don’t feel guilty because it was inevitable and necessary for the satisfaction of my hidden yet ever existing and omnipotent desire. I don’t think it would be difficult to face her the next time. On the contrary it would be much easier considering the psychological turmoil I used to come across on meeting her before. I may be guilty and criminal from inside but according to the society I am innocent. Somebody may call me a hypocrite but its better than to be labeled as a rapist. I would continue living my life in a similar way as I have been living before. Same old work same old food same old frustration but a new girl every day on my bed during the most intimate moments of the day. This is how I have existed till now. This is how I will continue for the rest of my life. And I am sure this is how millions of other boys or girls of my age exist in the world today and have existed before.

He was a friend of mine. We used to have a very good time. Then he betrayed me for no reason and made my life a living hell. I don’t want to see his face again. I wish a miserable life for him everyday in my prayers. I have killed him a thousand times in my dreams. But he is still there to remind me of those days and the worse he has done to my life. It’s illegal to kill and it’s too humiliating to be labeled as a murderer. I am a very respectable person of my society. Everybody pay respect to my position and my personality. I can’t take law in my hands. Only thing I can continue to do is to continue killing him in my dreams for the rest of my life and try to make life as miserable as I can for my friend. This way I can continue living my life as before and still be respected and admired without wearing the badge of a criminal.

It’s too easy to be a hypocrite and still be sane and loved by the society. But it’s too difficult to break the law and be called as an insane or a criminal. A very thin line exists between hypocrisy and insanity. If we visualize closely it would not be difficult to find rapists or murderers in our own family or friend circle. But still we love them because they haven’t done crime according to the prescribed definitions of law and society. In other words hypocrisy is a widely accepted phenomenon. We may look at hypocrisy in a negative way but in reality we all are hypocrites to a certain extent. We all live in this veil of hypocrisy. Those who come out of it are called insane; those who continue are called civilized citizens of the society. It will not be wrong to say that hypocrisy is an epidemic. But nobody is really interested in curing it. On the other hand society has defined punishments for those who cross the line. Emotions distinguish man from animals but also have made him the most hypocrite being existing in the world. In other words animals are not hypocrites. Sometimes it’s difficult to decide what is right and what exactly is not. If rape is a crime then is it right to rape a girl in thoughts and masturbate? Sex is a taboo in the Indian context. The young boys and girls are literally starved for sex for a very long time. It will not be wrong to say that millions of girls are living a life of mental prostitution in India and outside. Then why does society consider prostitution a crime when prostitution is so rampant in the minds of the youth in reality? Is there a space for this kind of promiscuity if the society is so moral and religious? Society has made everything to its advantage. It has defined everything so intelligently so that the ones who question it would always be proved out rightly wrong and be readily eliminated from the system without even their traces left behind.

Do we need to revise our definitions and prescribe new ones which would be as controversial and at the same time as wrong as the existing ones? Is it necessary to distinguish right and wrong when one can be proved the other in some other or the same context or the difference in reality is actually very superficial? Isn’t it right to say that we being the most intelligent beings are also the ones who are spiritually the poorest and the weakest?

It’s not possible to be insane and at the same time hope for a stable system everywhere. In other words some amount of hypocrisy is required for survival. But it’s also necessary to define our zone of insanity and work on it extensively to fill the loopholes in the systems around us. All we can do is to be a less hypocrite and try to view the things from a different perspective.

मेरी आज़ादी का अनुभव

मैं पिंजरे की बंद चिडिया हूँ
आजाद होना चाहती हूँ
उड़ना चाहती हूँ
एक दिन पिंजरे का मालिक पिंजरा
खोल देता है
अब आजाद हूँ
उड़ना सीख रही हूँ
पंख फैला रही हूँ
पर अब बहुत हुआ
मैंने अपने पंख काट दिए
वापस पिंजरे में बंद हूँ
सपने बहुत जी चुकी
आज़ादी बहुत जी चुकी
अब आराम करना चाहती हूँ
अब भी खुश हूँ
क्या बुरा है पिंजरे की ज़िंदगी में?

the silence speaks...

There’s silence that exits
Within the walls,
Tormented and petrified
Howling secretly in the dark
Caverns of laughter,
It burns in the fire
So profound,
Yet it survives the nights
Of frustration
Sighing gently for its freedom
Every second,
It feeds on the crumbs
Of everlasting desires,
It dreams for the day
That seems far away from
Its boundary,
It longs for the sun
That shines for its enemy.
Hiding the tears
Of disaster
Waiting for the rains
To surrender,
It craves for the high
That exists beyond the
Rigmaroles of reason,
Parched lips cry for water
Words roll from the door
Too often
Hopes get crumpled in the search
For a corner
Echoes wander
Far and wide
Waves reach the lines
So dry
A story waiting to be told
A secret about to unfold
An innocent confession
Of seasons
Whimper in the winds
To shatter
The day seems to be closer
A puff of change will
Make a difference
A splash of colors and
The roar of a thunder
It’s a transformation
That happened never before
The truth is here
It’s not a secret anymore
Because
There’s no more silence
There’re no more walls…

DISTANT LANDS

distant lands

walking through the desert
crying over the sand
i saw the similar faces
laughing on the distant land.
tattered and shattered
i manage to see the shore
through the holes in my wounded hands.
they're calling me every minute
shining the broken pieces
of my colors of dreams,
they're talking to one another
about the stones
in my babel of screams,
distorted visions and the beads of red
glittering on the highway
storming my head,
i am trying to keep pace
with the vanishing lights
dying to survive
in the clatter of trivial delights.
i know i can
decipher the code of horizon
embrace the darkness
and laugh at the shining crimson.
crossin the dividing lines
i have come much closer
i can now stand
to spit at the victorious losers.
coming so far
from the abondoned sands
i see them disappearing
from their conquered lands.
no matter how hard you try
to break my legs and make me cry
my insanity will always beat the flock of sheep
kick them in their graves and soak their spirits dry.

my wall...