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Showing posts from 2015

The Blooming Oleander

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Close to the city of Paithan, in a small village called Sauviragram, which lay along the banks of the great river Godavari, lived a woman named Ilaa. Being cotton farmers, her family was well to do, but not among the richest in their area. It was the harvest season, and cotton had to be picked from the plants. The wholesalers and traders from Paithan would be arriving in just a few weeks, carrying gold and goods for barter. They would exchange what they carried for the cotton that the farmers grew. The bales of cotton had to be ready in time! Work was at its peak!
But Ilaa was not to be found in the fields. She wasn't working. Instead, she was sitting by the banks of the great river Godavari.
'I am sick of this!' she grunted loudly. Her thoughts were still lost in the conversation that she overheard last night. Two strangers had sought help to spend a night at her house. Illaa’s brother was more than happy to welcome the guests. Illaa’s father was well known herbal practitio…

A tiny drop

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A tiny lone drop falls on windshield.

Allured by gravity, the drop starts trickling down. The child in me could not resist the temptation
to trace the path of the drop. Slowly I am about to catch the running drop when one another drop fell.

Some more follow.

It starts raining. Wipers get work. They have not worked in last  few months. Long summer, Rain
is most welcome. Opposite to what normally people do, I roll down my window glass. These days Cars
come with power window. Press a button and done. I remember my childhood, rolling down glass in the good old Ambassdor was a work and a 6 year old child, like me,  loved this responsibility.

Window is down. Strong breeze greets me.

My hair is fighting a lost war against mighty wind. Actually, I am not at all worried about my hairstyle. It's liberating. Somehow this hair reminds me of my train journey when I used to cry for the window seats. My hair is used to fight the wind since then.I start singing the bengali-hindi song which dep…

अँधेरी रात का चाँद

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अँधेरे से भी  अँधेरी रात का चाँद  , डरते हुए  तारों से फुसफुसाया, वो काले बादल मुझे  ढक लेंगे क्या ?

चाँद, ना डर तू बादल से,
बादल तो आएंगे जायेंगे, कुछ पल तुम्हे छुपाएंगे। 
चन्दा रे, छिप जा थोड़ी देर बादल में, लोग तुम्हे बुलाएँगे, मनाएंगे, तेरी याद में कहानियाँ सुनाएंगे। 

बादल के झुरमुट में, धरती के लोग तुझे ढूढेंगे, देखते ही तुझे आई-पाइस  और धप्पा बोलेंगे।

बादल तो आएंगे जायेंगे, धन्यवाद कर तू बादल का, क्यूंकि वो, लोगों को तेरी याद दिलाएंगे।  


 image source: http://blog.thomaslaupstad.com/2008/10/18/picture-of-moon-rising-over-treetops-and-shining-clouds-in-southern-norway/


एक खूबसूरत कविता : http://universeinaglassjar.blogspot.in/2014/12/blog-post.html

कभी जो

कभी जो ऐसा हो, स्टेशन के कोलाहल में, तुम सामने खड़े हो। 

लजाते, शरमाते और डरते, मैं जो तुमसे पूछूं, बताओ ज़रा "कैसी हो ?"

अचंभित जो तुम मुझे देखो, भीड़ में खोयी तुम, गलती से ना कह देना "कौन हो तुम ?"

शब्द पड़ेंगे कम, पढ़ना न तुम आखों को,
चाहूंगा जो मैं सब छुपाना

कालचक्र का पहिया घूमेगा, खो न जाऊँ उन में मैं, कह देना,"जाना होगा, ट्रेन आ गयी"

Weird Ideas - I

I was walking to my home. The loudspeaker at the mosque crackled and the familiar voice of the muazzin called for the prayer. The long Arabic diction was in progress when the bell of the nearby temple rang. The sound of the bell was adding music to the ongoing muazzin's call. I love the diversity of my country. This was yet another day of my life. At that time of the day, I generally fight the existential crisis everyday. Like Edward Norton feels in his every second movie.

Well, Almost everyday. They told me things come to me easily. That's why I am not able to appreciate their value. Oh wait, what if things don't come to me easily? What if I have to fight for it? What if I get things come to me after several futile attempts? Will I feel existing with a purpose in the world? Good going Edward; Think more.

The day was Saturday, the day of Lord Hanuman. That explained the long queue at temple. People come to God when they have to ask for something, then they come back to t…

angrezi paper; Nandan, Champak and Nanhe Samrat

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One big event of my childhood was train journey. And long journey was more appreciated. We used to visit our native village during our summer vacation. We were more excited for train journey than visiting the village. Typical train journey in my childhood would start with buying a hindi kid's magazine for me. And this made an image of my mind that one buys books/magazines only during travel to kill time. There were plenty of them; Nandan, Champak, Nanhe Samrat were most popular ones. Each one has a particular class of stories. You can listen to a story from any book and you can guess without much difficulty weather the story is from Champak, Nandan or Nanhe Samrat. It was easy. If the story has animal characters, It must be from Champak. choo choo chuha, Jambo Haathi, Sher Singh, Chatur Chita were present in almost all stories. Champak had nice cartoons. It was colorful and attractive though stories were short. I used to complete it soon. If the story has characters from ancient …

खुश हूँ

दुखी नहीं है,
आखों में प्यार था,
शब्द नहीं है,
धन्यवाद छोटा शब्द है.

भूले नहीं है,
लबों पर हँसी थी,
दिल परेशान था,
बेचैन मन भी बेचैन था.

पल तो थामना था,
दो-चार पल और मांगने थे,
कहना था अच्छे हो,
कुछ कदम और साथ चलना था.

खुश हूँ आज कल,
देखना कभी मेरी खिलखिलाहट,
 देख भी नहीं सकते,
लगा की ना रोऊंगा फिर,

लिख रहा हूँ ये,
आसूँ ने आज धोखा दिया,
पता नहीं कैसे,
खिलखिलाहट के पीछे एक बाँध है.

कोई बात नहीं,
अंत ऐसा होता है,
सुनो एक बार फिर,
 अच्छा छोड़ो, जाओ. 

I write

Today I shall write for none,
I lost my story that you loved,
One with a king and a queen,
Living happily in the world of hate.

I shall write not to be understood,
For you don't know the source of story,
Petty you! You swim in river,
without knowing the source.

I heard you complaining,
About color of water and the dirt,
Never you wanted to know,
What made the river dirty?

With the heart full of love and compassion,
King was loved and respected,
Slowly he was poisoned with the divide of class,
Like river hugs the dirt of city.

Enough said the King,
Love and compassion dried,
He started playing on path to hatred,
King assimilated in the mass.

Night after night of darkness,
King rode on the forbidden,
And popular path; Until,
A voice called upon from behind.

You are what you are,
Not by the face and clothes,
But by the thought you generate,
Ride on, But people loved that King.

That King, who still warns the people,
At the gate of the path where this king rides,
Morning is about to c…