Retro Posts

नाज़ खैलवी की शायरी: तुम एक गोरखधन्दा हो

2007-04-22T12:02:00.000-04:00

आज मैं आप को ले चलता हूँ, नाज़ खैलवी की दिल को छू लेने वाली शायरी में। ‘तुम एक गोरखधन्दा हो’ में उनके लिखे हुए हर्फ़ और नुसरत फ़तेह अली खाँ साहब की बेशकीमती आवाज़ में गायी हुई यह कव्वाली हम सब को भगवान से पूछने पर मजबूर कर देती है कि या अल्लाह, आप कौन हैं, कहाँ हैं, कैसे हैं…और अनेकों सवाल्।

मैने यह कव्वाली बहुत बार सुनी पर जब कभी भी अपने मित्रों के साथ इस उम्दा शायरी को बाँटना चाहा, उर्दू ज़ुबान की सीमित जानकारी आड़े आ गयी। मैं खुद भी उर्दू का जानकार नहीं हूँ। पर इतना ज़रूर समझता हूँ कि दुनिया की सुनहरी शायरी में से बहुत सारी, उर्दु ज़ुबान में है। इस लिये ‘कोमल वाणी’ के इस प्रसंग में मेरी कोशिश है कि मैं खैलवी साहब कि इस कव्वाली का अपेक्षाक्रित आसान शब्दों में तरजुमा प्रस्तुत करूँ, न सिर्फ़ अपने लिये बल्कि अपने उन सब मित्रों के लिये जो, उर्दु की सीमित जानकारी की वजह से इतनी गहरी और खूबसूरत शायरी से महरूम हैं। क्यों कि मैं खुद उर्दू नहीं जानता, इस लिये ज़ाहिर है कि कहीं कहीं चूक हो जाये। इस के लिये मैं उर्दू ज़ुबान के जानकारों से माफ़ी चाहता हूँ और विनती करता हूँ कि मेरा भूल-सुधार करें।

*

कभी यहाँ तुम्हें ढूँढा, कभी वहाँ पहुँचा,
तुम्हारी दीद (glimpse) की ख़ातिर कहाँ-कहाँ पहुँचा
ग़रीब मिट गये, पामाल (vanish) हो गये,
लेकिन किसी तलक न तेरा आज तक निशाँ पहुँचा।

हो भी नहीं और हर जा (place) हो,
तुम एक गोरखधन्दा (puzzle) हो

हर ज़र्रे (every speck) में किस शान से तू जलवानुमा (present with splendour) है,
हैरान है मगर अक्ल कि कैसा है तू क्या है,
तुम एक गोरखधन्दा (puzzle) हो

तुझे दैरो-हरम (places of worship) में ढँढा, तू नहीं मिलता,
मगर तशरीफ़-फ़र्मा (present) तुझे अपने दिल में देखा है
तुम एक गोरखधन्दा (puzzle) हो

ढूँढे नहीं मिले हो, न ढूँढे से कहीं तुम,
और फ़िर यह तमाशा है, जहाँ हम हैं वहीं तुम
तुम एक गोरखधन्दा (puzzle) हो

जब बाजू तेरे कोई दूसरा नहीं मौजूद,
फ़िर समझ में नहीं आता तेरा परदा करना
तुम एक गोरखधन्दा (puzzle) हो

हरमो-दैर में है जलवा-ए-पुरफ़न तेरा
(Your splendour [वैभव] is manifest in all houses of worship)
दो घरों में है, चराग-ए-कुर्खे रौशन तेरा
(Both worlds are radiant with your light)

जो उल्फ़त में तुम्हारी खो गया है, उसी खोये हुए को कुछ मिला है
न बुत-ख़ाने (house of statues), न काबे में मिला है, मगर टूटे हुए दिल में मिला है
अदम (non-existence) बन कर कहीं तू छुप गया है, कभी तू हस्त (existence) बन कर आ गया है
नहीं है तू तो फ़िर इनकार कैसा? नफ़ी (negation) भी तेरे होने का पता है
मैं जिस को कह रहा हूँ अपनी हस्ती, अगर वो तू नहीं तो और क्या है?
नहीं आया ख़यालों में अगर तू, तो फ़िर मैं कैसे समझा तू ख़ुदा है?
तुम एक गोरखधन्दा (puzzle) हो

हैरान हूँ इस बात पे: तुम कौन हो, क्या हो?
हाथ आओ तो बुत, हाथ न आओ तो खुदा हो
(trick of the mind: if one gets Him, He is just a statue, if one doesn’t get, then He is God)
तुम एक गोरखधन्दा (puzzle) हो

अक्ल में जो घिर गया ला-इन्तहा क्योंकर हुआ
(that which can be captured by reason, can not be infinite)
जो समझ में आ गया, फिर वो ख़ुदा क्योंकर हुआ
(that which can be understood by intellect, can not be God)
तुम एक गोरखधन्दा हो

फ़ल्सफ़ी (philosopher) को बहस के अँदर ख़ुदा मिलता नहीं
डोर को सुलझा रहा है, और सिरा मिलता नहीं
तुम एक गोरखधन्दा (puzzle) हो

पता यूँ तो बता देते हो सब को ला-मकाँ (homelessness) अपना
ताज्जुब है मगर रहते हो टूटे हुए दिल में
तुम एक गोरखधन्दा (puzzle) हो

जब कि तुझ बिन कोई नहीं मौजूद, फ़िर ये हँगामा ऐ ख़ुदा क्या है?
तुम एक गोरखधन्दा (puzzle) हो

छुपते नहीं हो, सामने आते नहीं हो तुम, जलवा दिखा के जलवा दिखाते नहीं हो तुम
दैरो-हरम (worship places) के झगड़े मिटाते नहीं हो तुम,
जो अस्ल बात है वो बताते नहीं हो तुम
हैरान हूँ मेरे दिल में समाये हो किस तरह, हालाँकि दो जहाँ में समाते नहीं हो तुम
ये मा-बदो-हरम, ये कलीसा-ओ-दैर (Worship places) क्यों,
हरजाई (unfaithful) हो, तभी तो बताते नहीं हो तुम
तुम एक गोरखधन्दा (puzzle) हो

दिल पे हैरत ने अजब रँग जमा रखा है
(Astonishment has taken a strange possession of my heart)
एक उलझी हुई तस्वीर बना रखा है
कुछ समझ में नहीं आता कि ये चक्कर क्या है
खेल क्या तुम ने अज़्ल से (since the beginning) ये रचा रख है
रूह को जिस्म के पिंजरे का बना कर कैदी, उस पर मौत का पहरा भी बिठा रखा है
दे के तदबीर (self-will) के पँछी को उड़ानें तूने,
दाम-ए-तदबीर में हर सम्त बिछा रखा है
(yet you have spread the net of fate as the price for exercsing free-will)
कर के अर्श-ए-कोनैन की बरसों तूने, ख़्त्म करने का भी मँसूबा बना रखा है
(For years you have decorated this world, yet you have planned its destruction)

ला-मकानी (homelessness) का बहरहाल है दावा भी तुम्हें,
(Though you claim to be homeless)
नहल-ओ-अकरब का भी पैग़ाम सुना रखा है
(yet you have preached home, kith and kin)
ये बुराई, वो भलाई, ये जहन्नुम (hell), वो बहिश्त (heaven/paradise),
इस उलट-फेर में फ़रमाओ तो क्या रखा है?
जुर्म आदम नें किया और सज़ा बेटों को, अद्ल-ओ-इन्साफ़ का मियार भी क्या रखा है!
(For Adam’s crime, his son’s are being punished, what a criteria for your justice!!)
दे के इन्सान को दुनियाँ में ख़िलाफ़त अपनी, इक तमाशा सा ज़माने में बना रखा है
(by appointing man as your deputy on earth, you have made it a spectacle)
अपनी पहचान की ख़ातिर है बनाया सब को, सब की नज़रों से मगर ख़ुद को छुपा रखा है
तुम एक गोरखधन्दा हो

नित नये नख़्श बनाते हो, मिटा देते हो, जाने किस जुर्मे-तमन्ना (sin of desire) की सज़ा देते हो
कभी कँकड़ को बना देते हो हीरे की कनी, कभी हीरों को भी मिट्टी में मिला देते हो
ज़िंदगी कितने ही मुर्दों को अता (bestow) की जिसने, वो मसीहा भी सलीबों (cross) पे सजा देते हो
ख़्वाहिशे-दीद (desire to behold) जो कर बैठे सिरे-तूर (top of Mount Sinai) कोई
(if anyone wishes to behold you on Mount Sinai)
तूर ही बर्के-तज्जली (lightning of manifestation) से जला देते हो
(you turn Mount Sinai into ashes with your manifestation)
नाले नमरूद में डलवाते हो कुदरत ना ख़लीक, ख़ुद ही फिर नार को गुलज़ार बना देते हो
[In Arab tradition there is the story of Abraham. Nimrud tries to burn him to death, but on account of Abraham's faith, the fire becomes a means of safety for Abraham]
चाहे किन आन में फेंको, कभी माह किन्नान,
(Sometimes you throw a Canaanite into a wall of Canaanites)
[Canaan is an ancient term for a region approximating to present-day Israel and the West Bank and Gaza, plus adjoining coastal lands and parts of Lebanon and Syria. Today, Canaanite can describe anything pertaining to Canaan, especially its culture, its languages and its inhabitants. The languages of ancient Ammon and Moab in modern Jordan can be called eastern dialects of Canaanite, although these ethnic groups were not considered Canaanite by the Hebrews.]
नूर याकूब की आँखो का भी बुझा देते हो
(you deprive Jacob of his eye-sight)
दे के युसुफ़ को मिस्र के बाज़ारों में, आख़िरे-कार शाहे-मिस्र बना देते हो
(you put Joseph into Egypt’s slave-mart and then make him the King of Egypt too)

जज़्बो-मस्ती की जो मन्ज़िल पे पहुँचता है कोई,
(when someone arrives at the destination of spirituality)
बैठ कर दिल में अनल-हक़ (I am that) की सदा देते हो
(you sit in his heart and tell him: I am God, I am that)
ख़ुद ही लगवाते हो फिर कुफ़्र (infidelity) के फ़तवे (verdicts) उस पर,
ख़ुद ही मँसूर को सूली पे चढ़ा देते हो
[Mansoor was executed in Baghdad in 309 AH, because he claimed to be a prophet, then he went further and said that he was God. He used to say, “I am Allaah,”]

अपनी हस्ती भी वो इक रोज़ गँवा बैठता है, अपने दर्शन की लगन जिस को लगा देते हो
कोई राँझा जो कभी खोज में निकले तेरी, तुम उसे झँग (a place in Doaba, Punjab) के बेले (charity) में रुला देते हो
जुस्तजू (quest) ले के तुम्हारी जो चले क़ैस कोई, उस को मजनू किसी लैला का बना देते हो
जोत सस्सी के अगर मन में तुम्हारी जागे, तुम उसे तपते हुए थल (desert) में जला देते हो
सोहनी अगर तुम को महिवाल तस्सवुर (imagine) कर ले, उस को बिफ़री हुई लहरों (strong currents) में बहा देते हो
ख़ुद जो चाहो तो सरे-अर्श बुला कर मह्बूब, एक ही रात में मेराज करा देते हो
(and if you wish, you yourself summon and in a single night, make a prophet ascend to the heaven)

आप ही अपना परदा हो,
तुम एक गोरखधन्दा हो

जो कहता हूँ, माना वो तुम को लगता है बुरा सा
फिर भी है मुझे तुम से, बहरहाल (nevertheless) ग़िला (complaint) सा
चुप-चाप रहे देखते तुम अर्शे-बरीं (throne) पर, तपते हुए करबल (the desert of Karbala) में मुहम्मद का नवासा
किस तरह पिलाता था वो लहू अपना वफ़ा को, ख़ुद तीन दिनों से अगरचे था प्यासा
(how he was giving his blood for your love, even though he was thirsty for three days)
दुश्मन तो बहरहाल थे दुश्मन मगर अफसोस, तुमने भी फ़रहम (provide) न किया पानी ज़रा सा

हर ज़ुल्म की तौफ़ीक़ (favourable result) है ज़ालिम की विरासत
(the good results of every oppression have been inherited by the cruel)
मज़लूम (oppressed) के हिस्से में तसल्ली न दिलासा
कल ताज सजा देखा था जिस शख़्स के सर पर, है आज उसी शख़्स के हाथ में हिक्कासा (begging bowl)
यह क्या है, अगर पूछो तो कहते हो जवाबन (in answer):
इस राज़ से हो सकता नहीं कोई शनासा (acquainted)

तुम एक गोरखधन्दा हो

हैरत की इक दुनिया हो,
तुम एक गोरखधन्दा हो

हर इक जाँ (every place) पे हो, लेकिन पता नहीं मालूम
तुम्हारा नाम सुना है, निशाँ नहीं मालूम
तुम एक गोरखधन्दा हो

दिल से अरमान जो निकल जाये तो जुगनू हो जाये,
और आँखों में सिमट आये तो आँसू हो जाये
जापे (to recite) याहू का जो भी करे, हू में खो कर
(whosoever recites the name of God with spiritual love)
उस को सुलतानियाँ मिल जायें, वो बहू (a famous poet) हो जाये

बाल बींका न किसी का हो छुरी के नीचे,
हल्के-अश्गर में कभी तीर तराज़ू हो जाये
(yet an arrow in an infant’s throat becomes the scale of justice)
तुम एक गोरखधन्दा हो

किस क़दर बे-नियाज़ हो तुम भी,
(how care-free you are)
दास्ताने-नियाज़ हो तुम भी
(such a long story you are)
तुम एक गोरखधन्दा हो

राहे तहक़ीक (on the road to inquiry) में हर क़दम पे उलझन देखूँ,
वो ही हालातो-ख़यालातों में अनबन देखूँ
(I see a discord between thought and deed)
बन के रह जाता हूँ तस्वीर परेशानी की, ग़ौर से जब भी कभी दुनियाँ का दर्पण देखूँ
एक ही ख़ाक़ पे फ़ितरत के तजादत इतने,
(there are so many contradictions in a single eye)
इतने हिस्सों में बँटा एक ही आँगन देखूँ
कहीं ज़हमत (hardship) की सुलगती हुई पतझड़ का समाँ,
कहीं रहमत (blessings) के बरसते हुए सावन देखूँ
कहीं फ़ुँकारते दरिया, कभी खामोश पहाड़, कभी जंगल, कहीं सहरा (desert), कहीं गुलशन देखूँ
खूँ रुलाता है ये तकसीम (division) का अंदाज़ मुझे, कोई धनवान यहाँ पर, कोई निर्धन देखूँ
दिन के हाथों में फ़कत (only) एक सुलगता सूरज, रात की मांग सितारों से मुज़्ज़यन (studded with) देखूँ
कहीं मुरझाये हुए फूल हैं सच्चाई के, और कहीं झूठ के काँटों पर भी यौवन देखूँ
शम्स की ख़ाल कहीं खिंचती नज़र आती है, कहीं सरमद की उतरती हुई गर्दन देखूँ
रात क्या है, ये सवेरा क्या है?
ये उजाला, ये अंधेरा क्या है?
मैं भी नाइब (deputy) हूँ तुम्हारा आख़िर,
क्यों ये कहते हो कि तेरा क्या है?
तुम एक गोरखधन्दा हो

देखने वाला तुझे क्या देखता, तूने हर रँग से परदा किया
तुम एक गोरखधन्दा हो

मस्जिद, मंदिर, ये महखाने,
कोई ये माने, कोई वो माने
इक होने का तेरे क़लील है,
(someone is convinced of your oneness)
इन्कार पे कोई माईल है
(another one leans towards negation)
इक ख़लक़ में शामिल करता है
(someone includes you with creation)
इक सब से अकेला रहता है
(someone stays aloof)
हैं दोनो तेरे मस्ताने (devotees),
कोई ये माने, कोई वो माने

सब हैं जब आशिक़ तुम्हारे नाम के,
क्यूँ ये झगड़े हैं रही्मो-राम के

तुम एक गोरखधन्दा हो

दैर में तू, हरम में तू,
(you are in every house of worship)
अर्श पे तू, ज़मीँ पे तू,
(you are in both worlds)
जिस की पहुँच जहाँ तक,
उसके लिये वहीं पर तू

तुम एक गोरखधन्दा हो

हर इक रँग में यकता हो
(you are manifest in all colours)
हर इक रँग में यकता हो,
तुम एक गोरखधन्दा हो

मरकज़े जुस्तजू, आलम-ए-रँग-ओ-बू
(you are omnipresent)
दम-ब-दम जलवागर, तू ही तू चार सू
(each moment is filled with your splendour, you are everywhere)
हू के माहोल में, कुछ नहीं इल्लाह हू
तुम बहुत दिलरूबा, तुम बहुत खूबरू
(you are the beloved, you are handsome)
अर्श की अज़मतें, फ़र्श की आबरू
(you are the glory of heavens and honour of the world)
तुम हो कोनैन का हासिल-ए-आरज़ू
(you are the fruit of the longing for two worlds)
आँख ने कर लिया, आँसुओं से वाज़ु
(our eyes are cleanse with the tears you gave)
अब तो कर दो अता, दीद का इक सबू
(at least now bestow us with your divine glimpse)
आओ पर्दे से तुम, आँख के रुबरू
(come out of the veil and in front of my eyes)
चन्द लम्हें मिलन, दो घड़ी गुफ़्तगू
(for a short meeting and a conversation)
नाज़ जपता फिरे, जो बजा कू-बा-कू
(Naaz will tell his beads from place to place, street to street)
वाहदाहू, वाहदाहू, ल-शरीक़ा लहू
(Allah is one, He has no partner)

अल्लाह हू, अल्लाह हू, अल्लाह हू
अल्लाह हू, अल्लाह हू, अल्लाह हू…………

(Allahu, Allahu, Allahu……)

Love, Relationships and Surrender

2007-03-29T08:28:00.000-04:00

The other day someone said, “In order to keep a drowning relationship afloat, one has to pay through surrender.”

Well, the surrender is not the price tag. Surrendering is beautiful as long as it is natural. If it is natural, you will not even notice it. The fact that we notice our surrenders indicates that we are being made to give up something under some stress or threat or an emotional influence. We may then glorify the phenomena and put ourselves on a pedestal because surrender usually means a sacrifice and who would not like to be praised for a sacrifice. It is considered to be such a great virtue and one of the greatest means of boosting the ego. We feel special. Don’t we? We say that we do not look for anyone to reciprocate to our sacrifice. Rather, a mere acknowledgement would be enough. Aren’t we trying to get it through the back door? We are clever. Isn’t acknowledgment a way to be reciprocated? It is the same thing. We wish to be acknowledged and commended for the surrender. The ego feels good and nourished then. In fact, many of us begin to love misery. It makes us special, noticeable. It can draw others’ attention. Without attention, can we survive? If our surrender is considered a usual way of living and no one says, “Bravo”, can we be at ease with ourselves or will we begin to feel restless and victimized?

No one can pay through surrender. It is not a price to be paid for something. There is nothing business-like about a real surrender. Yes, pseudo-surrenders can be priced because we demand compensation. A nod of approval too is compensation. Adulation and songs of glory need not qualify true surrender. It comes with no strings attached. It just happens. A forced surrender is pseudo-surrender. Then, deep inside, a discontent keeps simmering and eats away at the roots of all that is valuable.

We must remember that we cannot surrender. Man is born with all the primal instincts of an animal. By birth, every child is selfish. Haven’t you seen children not wanting to share their candy and toys? They have to be taught to share, and with time, some may learn to cover up their grabbing habits. The more civilized we get, the more ‘tolerating’ we become. We can make-believe that we are very giving and charitable but observe carefully and you will realize that we give to get back. Don’t we? Does this mean that we should remain uncivilized? No, the social structure is needed to educate us that remaining close-fisted will keep us in the animal kingdom and to evolve we must understand our instincts. If the instincts are bestowed upon us, so is the power of understanding and the capacity to know and realize. No animal has that. The value-system that the society needs to reinforce should be that of self-observation and natural growth. If one is conscious, it becomes difficult to hurt any one. Try it. But if we remain unconscious and mechanical, we will be susceptible to spates of anger and greed and lust. The animal in us is always there. Is he meant to be killed? Is he meant to be tamed? Or is he meant to be transformed.

Have you looked at an animal? Try viewing a National Geographic program on wild life carefully next time. See, the amount of energy exuded by the beast. We have the same beast in us. We must have. Without it, life would be cold. The difference is that the animal does not know about his energy and we can choose to know it, understand it and understanding is transformation. Passion can become compassion and lust can become love. And in compassion and in love, one surrenders spontaneously. Surrender is a natural outcome of love and compassion. It cannot be practiced. It is not a means to an end. It is the end itself. If you notice that you have surrendered something, then you must know that your surrender is not true. If you notice your surrender, then there is still that mental distinction between your happiness and my happiness. Distinctions always create misery. Synthesis, unity is the road to authentic joy.

When you have a divided mind, then your surrender will be fake and will carry a price tag, for sure. Then, you will be a victim to the arithmetic of give and take. Then, the moment you feel that the other does not acknowledge your surrender, the relationship will crack. And the price for keeping such a relationship afloat is not surrender. In fact, it is the lack of surrender and love that creates the rift. The price… is a life of lies. You feel something else and you pretend to be someone else. A split life is the price.

That’s it.

A Day...Replayed

2006-07-24T16:53:00.000-04:00

Trinidad

July 24, 2006
11.38 a.m.

It is very hot here and with the AC not functioning, it gets terrible. The room is designed for air-conditioning. There is no cross-ventilation otherwise and if one opens the solitary window, one can look towards the east….and homewards. Other than that, it is an open invitation to hordes of big, black Caribbean mosquitoes. I used Odomos and the odor instantly catapulted me into an undated past of hot nights on the rooftop, folding beds, water bottles, mosquito songs....

I dreamt of her last night. We seemed to be walking on water and after a while I saw that she had wings and had begun to fly.....Then I woke up and the first thing I seemed to remember was that while traveling now, I have begun to feel extremely giddy and my eyes and ears hurt during takeoffs and landings. Then I fell asleep again and dreamt that I was standing on the shoreline. There were big waves crashing on the rocks. It was twilight and I was alone.

I wanted to eat black-chana today. But I think I put less water, so they stuck to the base of the cooker. I don't like to cook. It is a boring activity.

4.14 p.m.

It is now 4.14 pm and I have again begun to feel the speed of wind. It is very windy and cloudy outside. In the morning it was raining. There is some distance between the car-park and office entrance and one has to walk through that open area.

This morning, I had to wait in the car before I could walk because the rain was sharp. I was fidgety as I was getting delayed but had to resign myself to the rain which teasingly hung in the air like 'ropes of water' falling from the obscurity of a strange bluish-black sky.For few moments, I watched how the rain pelted down. Sometimes, it seemed to dance and play around in the wind and sometimes it seemed as if it is going to crash through the car-roof and remove the barrier between man and nature. Then my attention shifted to the wind-shield of the car. With the engine and wipers shut off, I could see how the water shot down from the top and meandered downwards towards the bottom of the glass like some panic-stricken water-snakes. In a mad competition of speed, they would often intersect the others cutting each other in different sized pieces and a few seconds later they had all perished at the bottom while fresh ones raced to meet similar fates.

In a total of twelve minutes, the sun was out again and I walked to the office in gleaming sunshine.

My Best Girl Friend

2002-04-18T19:29:00.000-04:00

April 18, 2002
6.15 a.m.

Another wheezy night has passed. The breath neither begins…nor is it all over yet. I half-sit-half-lie and attend to the rapid, strained movements of my diaphragm as the lungs try to avariciously suck in the dust-sand-pollen ridden air of mid-April. With closed eyes, I go on observing and a picture of my mother ambles across, followed by a brisk torrent of more images from her youth, middle age…and now of the beginning of wrinkles on her hand.

6.30 a.m.

The alarm breaks my trance. I grope for my inhaler, pump in some Salbutamol into my air-pathways as my feet search for my slippers somewhere on the floor. It is time to wake up my daughter, brush her teeth, give her a bath, mix some ice in her milk and get her dressed up for school. After that, I will shave, bathe and get ready to meet another hazily sunlit day.

7.25 a.m.

The school-van has just left. Dhanvi waved absent-mindedly as she boarded it and I was reminded of the ABBA number, Slipping through my fingers.

The sky is as it has been for the past few days…glutted with suspended grains of fine dust that settles not only on the furniture but also on the mood.

9.35 a.m.

The current has failed again and a drop of perspiration insists on falling into my breakfast plate. I hurriedly finish my toast and tea, wipe my forehead and back of the ears and try to relax. But the rush hour has begun inside much before it will appear on the road to my office. I begin to write again.

I again meet my mom and she looks at me with such love and compassion that all else fades away into insignificance. I realize that I am still a child needing his mother when sick. There she is…smiling unconditionally at me. She is not concerned with my money or lack of it, my status or no status, my relationships with other people that keep waxing and waning forever….She is just there….ever-ready through the years….to accept me and love me for whatever I was or am may continue to become.

The corners of the eyes feel a bit moist as I see her doing so many chores for me since my childhood. A strange ugly feeling dawns upon me. As I look at the feeling, I realize how I have always taken her presence and service for granted. I feel apologetic and thankful.

10.15 a.m.

I have to leave for office now. But there is no desire to work or meet people. So, I let the pen flow and continue to look inwards. Other people have raised their voices and demand attention…I mean absolute attention. And I think to myself: What poor people!!! They hardly have anything to share and they are all so miserly. I am no different. Our entire lives are based on how to receive more than we can offer. All of us trapped in the mirage of dependence, erroneously believing it to be love. How painful it is when the mirage dissolves and we are left high and dry with never ending blames on each other for being responsible for our agony.

It happens daily with almost all our relationships. There is a consistently choking feeling about them. As soon as we enter into a relationship with someone, we begin to possess and the moment there is a lapse in attention or time, someone or the other feels neglected and cheated.

Observe the pranks that follow: get irritated, withdraw, remain passive, stop sharing. We mostly advocate freedom and get sad and lonely when someone other than you exercises it. Hey, hey, hey. Funny. We do not want to be the bad guy too. We are too manipulative, too political. O boy!!! Layers and layers of false impressions about our own selves and others.

We are continuously looking….sometimes consciously, sometimes subconsciously…towards some X or Y or Z for friendship and love, knocking at so many doors, ending up meeting people that resemble us. They were also waiting for someone to knock at their doors. Both parties are empty handed, hoping for a fulfillment from the other: a fulfillment that means exclusive ownership of a whole person….his time, his thoughts, his secrets, his privacy…hardly realizing that love can not be exclusive. It has to be inclusive. It has to allow freedom and in that freedom if someone chooses to be with us, those are the moments to be cherished. And in that very freedom if you are not the chosen one, the other can not be responsible. It is not someone’s obligation to love you forever.

11.15 a.m.

My mother’s picture again hovers in the mind. She is a source of freedom for me. Whatever I do, wherever I go, with whomsoever I get related or fall out with, she has been there always…standing at the front gate…waiting for me. She is the only one who has ever loved me, it seems. From enormous distances in thought and deed at times, that love has brought me back home again and again….and again.

I have been angry and irritated and have misbehaved at times but unlike any other person, who will stick to my angry words and react immediately (or slowly) with a grimace or harsh words or withdrawal, her love has continued to flow. It does not depend on what I do. My behaviour is my problem, my responsibility. Her love is her own personal matter, untouched and unaffected by what I am. It stays unwavering. It is amazing. I begin to feel ashamed at times……many times.

11.52 a.m.

I realize. I understand today. It took very long to recognize my true….my best girl-friend ever. Thanks mom. I will miss you so much when you are gone.

I Do Not Know. Do I ?

2002-04-09T23:55:00.000-04:00

4.42 pm

I have reached the cyber cafe'. Now I will tell you a story. But first let me settle down.

What a relief to be indoors these days. These days...full of dust and heat. Inside it is cool and comfortable...with the curtains drawn and the AC humming away to coolness.

I am smiling. Why? I can not say. Maybe because I am back to my solitude...where I can be just myself. I can smile or make faces or cry or hum a tune or read or spread my legs or fold them or yawn or stretch or simply doze off.

Can I? Or the mind will take me to places? It surely will. They say...that peace will flow when there is inner silence...a state of supreme rest...a mindless state. But I do not know how to reach there. I can't be there unless I stop wanting. And I want...not to want. That too is a want!!! What am I writing? Does it make sense? I do not know.

I have so many enquiries to make. Really.

4.57 pm

I come back to the present...the now, as my breath begins to deteriorate once again. Since morning, till this moment, I was not aware that I am breathing. But now, as each breath goes in and hits deep in the chest somewhere, I become intensely conscious of the fact that I am living. It is time to unwrap the silver foil and take out hired breaths in pill form.

The air conditioning is helping a bit now. The breathing is relatively easier. And as the body gets relaxed, my connection with moment snaps off and the mind beginsT to loiter.

Thought 1:

There are still 4 uncovered notebooks left. Till late last night, I was busy with the wrapping apparatus...brown paper, scissors, adhesive tape...The instructions from the school are strict these days. There were more than a dozen books and note books of my daughter which were to be covered with brown paper and labeled. My back was aching due to respiratory stress but work is work. So, I went on till the paper was finished leaving 4 books as bare as they were, when printed.

Thought 2:

I wonder how a man's subconscious mind functions. What a mischief it is really!!! Doesn't let go in sleep too. I was again dreaming for the 'n' th time about my maternal relatives who have died long ago. And also of the maternal house. I was a young child again. And then I grew up suddenly and was asking my dead uncle, "Where have you gone?". He was sitting comfortably next to me. He said," I have come back now. Will you play marbles with me?". And I went on dreaming.

Funny how layers and layers of information in the mind is culled out and so many versatile and fluid descriptions are conjured up......absurd, clear, striking, dull, colorful, bland...pickled up in an unimaginable fashion...extending to all the three dimensions of time. No no...there is no sense of time really. It is a timeless state. You may be a child but the wife is of the same age. You may be going to office but living in a house of 20 years ago. Yes, timelessness is a definite feature of a dream. One goes beyond time and in to all kinds of possibilities.

5.18 pm

There is some quarrel going on somewhere. A family quarrel maybe. And from the gap between the curtains, I can see a he-dog and a she-dog....making love. Few children have gathered around to see the act. Man in quarrel...animals in love???!!!!!! And an insult would be perceived instantly, if someone were to be called a dog. The dog couple at the moment seems to be much better off...oblivious of the heat and flowing with love.

Thought 3:

Love it should be. It has to be. With man...it could be...mostly is...lust. Is it? Isn't it?
I am perplexed at the downfall of man. I know his depreciation. Why it has been so? That I fail to grasp. Equipped with so much intelligence and the sense to discriminate between right and wrong, why is it that a family is quarreling and animals are making love. Maybe...it is freedom misused. Maybe...it is repression. There is no end to 'maybes'.

The evening newspaper has come......again. Some spicy stories......some accidents...some political and religious manipulations... some thefts... some pornographic pictures...some insipid jokes...Yes, there is a small corner for the thought of the day. Small corner......that's all. The entire remaining space is quite 'newsy'. So much information......little knowledge.

Thought 4:

I am reminded of the old professor who came to the university a few days and said the same. Old people are really refreshing. Aren't they? One longs to see a genuinely old person these days...a person who has gracefully accepted the ageing, is full of narratives and you can huddle up close to him and listen and learn, to stick to the basics of life once again. In the blinding speed of today, one has lost touch with what one is. The parables, the fairy tales, the mythological tales, the 'story' in a story...all contained so much wisdom.

I miss them for two reasons. First, they remind me of my childhood...late night stories of my grandmother about a king and his parrot, about planet Saturn, about the witch with false teeth, the fairy with the magic wand, Krishna and Shiva and Rama. Second, they remind me what and what not to do.

They contain so much wisdom (or knowledge?). And more than that......much more than that, my insatiable questions related to the validity of the various tailor-made interpretations of that wisdom (knowledge?).

5.50 pm

Oh!Oh!!Oh!!! I had to tell you a story. Isn't it? Where have I gone? I do not quite know why I spread into so many directions. And then I begin to find my way back...and lose track again. Some memory will pull. Some anxiety will push. Some passion will dominate. Some boring philosophy will take over and make me feel as if I know the world. Then the current would fail and I will be irritated. Someone will push my button and I will be angry and not know what to do with the rascal. Breath will go bad....and I will feel like a heap of trash...just a mammoth wastage....and so on.

Where is the time for stories? The reality is already too much to account for. And there are so many versions of reality......so many perceptions really. The more I know, the more I know that I don't know. It is a fearful realization.......to concede to oneself that one is ignorant. Where is the time for stories gentlemen and ladies? And who knows which story is meaningful or meaningless? I long to know.

Thought 5:

Is the very quest for meaning baseless? Is it that the very quest, the very effort prevents us from recognizing the meaning? Is it that the meaning is here-now and the quest is future oriented, goal motivated and missing whatever is obvious?

No use of stories anymore. Though one would love to remain a child and to listen to stories and enjoy and feel protected, it doesn't quite happen, for to remain childish means to abort all possibilities of growth. And when one does not grow up, old stories begin to lose charm. Isn't it? They get stale.

What to write? There is a traffic jam inside. Infinite roads, infinite travelers...no policemen.

Thought 6:

Policemen? Policemen.....are needed? Or the infinity really is meant to be traveled towards? But who will travel? A teacher, a husband, a father, a son, a brother, a friend, a colleague...Who? Too many travelers? And all come to cross roads one time or the other. They pull each other's legs...drag each other back.

This entire script is so inconsistent. Different sentences do not combine well. No continuity. What is all this?

Whether there is something to write about or there is nothing to write about, the gravest concern of a man will ultimately show up.One starts by wanting to tell a story that is known but ends up at a place which is so unfamiliar...unknown...challenging....... scary...opaque...groping and stumbling and making too much noise but the light does not come on. Yes, there is a total alienation.

6.48 pm

No Thought:

...I am reminded of nothing now. Not my concerns even. All I know is the keyboard and the screen and the alphabets popping up there with each successive push of the keys. Only the screen now.... only the screen. Don't know what am I typing. Should better stop. I feel scared. It happens sometimes. You get too much into yourself and you begin to lose touch with the external environment. ................................................................................................................no...can't write anymore......expression is becoming difficult.

7.03 pm

...Beep...beep...beep. The mobile phone is ringing. That's all for the day.

...While She Slept

2002-03-25T17:37:00.000-04:00

March 24, 2002
11.45 p.m.

……I am hearing her snore as I open the first page of a new diary. Another write-up has been born.

Outside, the breeze has picked up and the clouds seem to rumble in the distance. I had been lying quietly for the last one hour and realized that one can not try to be asleep. The more you try, the more elusive it becomes. So, either you are asleep or you are awake. There is no such fact as trying.

Lying idly, I turned my attention inwards and looked at my thoughts. The mind tires you. It continues to run off to so many places…people…events. Things get hazy and mixed up. I, as an observer, am tired now by the un-reigned naughtiness of it. It reminds of the title of a movie “Flubber”. I find that the mind does not even settle down properly into a particular thought for long enough to observe it. And many thoughts run parallel so that nothing well defined can be seen.

The mind is tricky and one feels like an old parent trying to keep pace with the young child. It runs ahead and beckons innocently and no matter how tired one is, it is difficult, if not impossible, to give up the chase.

The mind is really like a child….innocent, vibrant, elusive…and always trying to keep the parent engaged….in the pursuit of joy…towards vindicating one’s stand…towards justifying one’s cause. It runs (can run) to all the three dimensions of time towards an infinite goal.

From within the boundary lines within which we have placed ourselves, we can not propel ourselves towards anything infinite. And once the infinite becomes a goal, its non-achievement can create only deep frustration. Every defeated goal does that. The mind…creates goals, chooses to brood over the ones that are not achieved and refuses to be happy with the ones that are.

*

It is hard now to stand apart and watch what goes on inside the head. I am tired but sleepless still. Something deep beneath the eyes has begun to hurt and I can feel the pulsation at the temples.

The glory of the night goes on as usual. Each small sound is audible…the hum of the fan, the ticking of the time piece, the rustle of the curtains, the first hesitant rain drops, the night insects, the traffic on the main road, the intermittent turning on and off of the refrigerator…..

The peculiar scent of the night is carried by the breeze, which is dying down now. It is 25 minutes past midnight and I have begun to feel the pangs of a belated hunger. Let me check out the kitchen…

*

March 25, 2002
12.40 a.m.

The p.m. has changed to a.m. once again. I feel an urge to smoke. There is a psychological concussion. Too many thoughts…all entangled…have jammed the mind and I observe that they have an associative property:

Fact: A dog barks outside

Thoughts triggered:
The dog we used to have in childhood. He was all white.
When he died, I was very sad.
There was a girl upstairs. We both used to play with the dog.
We also went cycling.
I got my first bicycle from my maternal aunt.
She works at Lucknow.
I did not have too many good experiences at Lucknow……

Now, let me light up the solitary cigarette….

*

12.55 a.m.

Some dogs are fighting in a far off street. The night watchman’s whistle is piercing through the stillness of the night. Anjanee turns a side uneasily. My insomnia continues as I look at her sleep with a longing.

At the moment, I can feel a longing by looking at any sleeping person. Perhaps everyone is asleep. All those who care are asleep. All those who do not are also asleep. Night…and sleep have a strange quality….they restore parity. Individual identities are submerged in sleep. Boundaries dissolve. All sleeping persons appear alike.

…And I remain awake to write about them. I will quit writing now and move out to the terrace to let the breeze play with my artificially coloured black hair.

Insomnia

2000-06-22T11:22:00.000-04:00

June 21, 2000
5.40 p.m.

Many people come to this cyber café due to reduced rates.

I come here for its location…just adjoining the railway track. There is nothing to boast about the beauty of the place but there is that wonderful sound when a train rattles past…and the whole place vibrates with the power of speed for a brief span of time.

*

June 22, 2000
3.20 a.m.

I am writing on a white sheet and have to try to keep my sentences look straight. Left to themselves, they tend to levitate.

One of my sleepless nights is about to end in a few hours’ time. I have been wandering here and there…from one room to the other, then out in the open, on the roof….

Music has not made much sense all this while.

I have watched the moon travel slowly on its westward journey across a hazy summer sky.

The breeze has been lovely all through the night, seeming to come somewhere from the beyond.

About an hour ago, I was talking to the night-watchman. He was pleasantly surprised to find someone to talk to at that hour. We chatted for a while and he told me about his life and family back in Nepal. I smoked a “Beedi” with him, much to his delight. It left an awful taste in my mouth and I have had to chew a few cookies after that.

The TV was not worth watching. I could not focus on any news. Most soaps are always new to me. MTV showed half-nude women and I realized that just before morning, when the night is very deep, the mind loses the attribute to respond to lesser instincts.

At 3.00 a.m., I opened my book-shelf and came across a very old book, published by UNESCO in 1958. It is entitled, “All Men are Brothers” and contains the life and thoughts of Mahatma Gandhi. Flipping through it, a couple of paragraphs held my attention. It was as if I could identify myself with what was written:

“I am not at all concerned with appearing to be consistent. In my pursuit after truth, I have discarded many ideas and learnt many new things. Older as I am in age, I have no feeling that I have ceased to grow inwardly or that my growth will stop with the dissolution of the flesh. What I am concerned with is my readiness to obey the call of truth…from moment to moment.

At the time of writing, I never think of what I have said before. My aim is not to be consistent with my previous statements on a given question, but to be consistent with truth, as it may present itself to me at a given moment. The result has been that I have grown from truth to truth….and what’s more, whenever I have been obliged to compare my writing of even fifty years ago with latest, I have discovered no inconsistency between the two. But friends who observe inconsistency will do well to take the meaning which my latest writing may yield, unless of course, they prefer the old. But before making the choice, they should try to see if there is not an underlying and abiding consistency between the two seeming inconsistencies.”

*

3.50 a.m.

My eyes strain a bit and I do not feel too focused….as if de-minded. Like many times before, I have turned to talk to myself and who knows, later I may see myself in my dream: spread out on the bed, writing on loose sheets, struggling to write straight sentences while the sheets refuse to stay put in the circular air currents created by the ceiling fan.

4.00 a.m.

The room is hot and stuffy. I will close the writing and go out in the lawn and if the mosquitoes succeed in baffling me, I will climb my way up the stairs again and watch the last few strides of the sinking moon.

For Dhanvi...

2000-02-02T03:49:00.000-04:00

February 1, 2000
11.20 p.m.

I was looking very beautiful today. I had shaven after so many days and had shampooed my hair. My face looks thinner than before giving an illusion of youth. The black-cream jersey made my complexion look fairer and a few people complimented me. It was a nice feeling to see that I still caught a few people’s attention on the road. It was an exceptional day. Some of the old glory flashed for some time. Many images of the past came floating by and I could not help smiling at them. In thought, there are no barriers of time and age and circumstance.

*

Dhanvi insisted for a story and tonight was the cap-seller’s turn……

In a small town in the foothills of the Shivaliks, there lives a man with his small child. He earns his livelihood by making caps – small caps, big caps, woolen caps, cotton caps, sun caps, monkey caps….and many more caps.

During the night, his daughter cuts and stitches the caps and the cap-seller goes to the town during the day, to sell them. The town is a long way off from their small and beautiful home and to cover the distance as soon as possible, the cap-seller usually takes a short-cut through the forest. He wades his way through the bushes and shrubs with a bag of multi-colored caps on one shoulder and a bag containing his Tiffin and water-bottle on the other….

Yesterday, the weather was slightly hot. The cap-seller had been trudging along for a fairly long time. When he felt tired due to heat, he decided to rest under a shady tree. After catching his breath and drying the perspiration, he opened his bag and drank some water from his water-bottle. In the cool shade, he started feeling hungry. So, he opened his Tiffin to see what his daughter had packed for him. His eyes lit up when he saw Maggi noodles (fast to cook – good to eat) and he ate them happily. His belly was full now and soon he fell asleep.

Many monkeys used to live on the big, green tree under which the cap-seller was sleeping – small monkeys, big monkeys, fat monkeys, lean monkeys, young monkeys, old monkeys….many monkeys indeed. They had been watching the cap-seller from various branches. As soon as the cap-seller started snoring, all of them came jumping down, tumbling over one another. Since the Tiffin was finished, they opened the other bag and took away all the caps. Some of them put on pink caps, others wore green caps and yet others wore other colors – yellow, blue, orange, purple, red….They all were happy and climbed up the tree.

When the cap-seller woke up, he was very sad to see all his caps stolen. All the monkeys teased and danced in front of him, making funny faces. The cap-seller began to weep but the monkeys did not relent.

Then it so happened that the ‘wise lady’ of the jungle came passing by. She saw the cap-seller crying and on hearing the whole story, she said, “Monkeys imitate everyone. So, I will tell you a trick. You throw down the cap you are wearing and see what happens”. The cap-seller did likewise and the monkeys followed suit. The cap-seller and the wise lady quickly collected all caps and put them back in the bag. The naughty monkeys had to cut a sorry figure.

The cap-seller thanked the wise lady and went to the town where he sold the caps and bought many gifts for his lovely, little daughter.

On his way back, he saw the wise lady again. She told him that all the miscreant monkeys had been sent to the zoo and he and his daughter could visit the zoo and enjoy their show. She wished the cap-seller good luck and he walked back home.

His daughter was very happy to see all the gifts. They ate a delicious dinner. The next day was Sunday and the cap-seller and his daughter stayed awake for long. The cap-seller told her the complete story of the day and they both fell asleep in the small hours of the morning, dreaming about monkeys and the kind wise lady.

*

It was little after the story time and I had begun to fall into the oblivion of sleep. I was brought back to consciousness by a slap to realize that Dhanvi was perhaps seeing an action-packed monkey dream and it seemed that she had just slapped a miscreant one. Now, her tiny hand is in my left hand and her small, cold feet are hidden between my legs. Her face is calm and beautiful…and envious.

The whole day, this girl is after me….Why are the trees green, where does the moon go in the day, from where does the breeze come, where do the kittens go to read.....

Today, she must have seen a wedding scene in the TV and wanted to get married. I asked her, “Where is the groom?” She said, “I will marry you, papa” and blushed. She knows that one is supposed to be shy while talking of marriage!!! She wanted to have all the shining clothes and make-up and lip-stick. I asked her, “Why do you want to marry me?” She said, she will wash my handkerchiefs and press my forehead when it aches. Yes, she loves the only man in her small, little life so far – me.

I wonder if she will love me when she grows up and really has a new family. Or will I be too old and out-of-date by that time……See, the mind has jumped ahead. It…is the biggest monkey of all. Maybe I need the wise lady of the jungle. I think of Cliff Richard, the Butterfly Kisses and settle into a smiling sleep once more.

The Cozy Cold

2000-01-14T11:47:00.000-04:00

14-01-2000
11.36 a.m.

.... Yesterday was Lohri, the festival of fire. I was at a friend's place and we kept awake till about midnight; talking and munching peanuts and rewaris around a warm ring of fire, from which yellow-blue tounges of flames would leap up at us. My friend's wife narrated the story of Nachiketa, a character from the mythology. It was a fabulous evening, full of laughter, song and dance, ending with noodles and coffee.....

.... and today is a lovely day, as though all that was good last evening has been carried forward to the morning.The day is more than bright with clear blue skies and a gentle breeze.The universiy has declared a holiday for sankrant and I am at a cyber station close to my place, wishing to write about my joy.

But I will quit writing hoping that the coziness of the day seeps deep into my mind and body. I have felt really chilled and out of sorts in the last few days. I will walk on a sunlit road now.....to surrender myself to light and warmth.... and then I am going to go to my house and lie down on a folding bed on the rooftop to listen to the breeze as it brushes past and look at the deep blue infinity of the sky and the long, stable flights of the eagles across it....

The Cold Sunday

2000-01-09T04:46:00.000-04:00

January 09, 2000
11.38 pm

…The sun finally broke through today for a little while. A piece of land in front of my house, which is called the ‘park’ suddenly came to life. Many elderly men and women could be seen looking up at the heavens and a couple of them sat on the dry, brown and wilted remnants of the grass, relishing the hesitant, lukewarm sunshine, with their eyes closed.

There was a chirpy group of boys too, at another corner of the park. They were eager to get on with their unfinished game of cricket, which they had perhaps been carrying forward for the last six days now, in the hope of a sunny Sunday.

Overlooking the park is a row of houses. From my window, I could see many ladies with their maid servants. They all seemed to be agitated about something and whatever I could make out from their fervent gestures indicated that they were keen to finish off as much of their pending laundry while the sun still shone. Some cloth-lines and balcony walls were already adorned with dripping clothes…

*

It was about mid-day and I decided to change to a semi-formal wear. My brother had come over for the weekend in connection with his doctoral work. He seemed a bit sad to be leaving now. But the train leaves at 12.30 p.m. and there was no choice but to get ready and march. Tomorrow is Monday. Everyone must get back to one’s place of work…fit and ready, or at least looking that way. So I changed and both of us walked out in the driveway.

The car’s engine complained of cold for some time but eventually gave in to repeated self-start attempts. As I looked at the sky, the sun seemed to be moving amongst the clouds and I was reminded o a film that they are going to screen at the forthcoming International Film Festival: “Only the clouds move the stars”.

*

When I got back from the railway station, the sun had already been defeated. Much had changed during the last hour. The westerly was stinging like a thousand nails being driven into your face and the sky was authentic grey. The ‘park’ looked more ‘original’ – A dusty, barren piece of land surrounded by a rusty grill installed by the ‘Urban Development Authority’. There were four lamp-posts that functioned only on important public meetings, or an inspection day.

*

The direction and location of my house do not allow the sunlight to come through for very long. If the fog permits, it nervously peeps through for a brief duration in the first half of the day, in the rear courtyard. During the second half, the sunshine plays naughtily over the boundary wall, which is common with the neighbours. For a few minutes during that time, it comes tantalizingly close to where a chair can be kept. But then it tapers off…just out of reach…till it recedes into someone else’s house…and then gone altogether.

*

In the evening, I opened the autograph book. One of my outgoing students had given it for me to scribble something in it. I thought I would write a brief poem. I started thus:

You sit
in front of me
embraced by
a quiet sobriety
and I
look at you
for perhaps the last time
in my life.

A familiar feeling
of being left behind
dawns upon me
as you silently move
an autograph book
across the table.

I think of
a lot of wishes
that I can make for you
and many heartfelt blessings
come to my mind too………..

But then the thought process was aborted for some reason. No more words and rhyme came to mind and the poem was never finished. So, I just closed the autograph book with a bland signature.

I read and re-read the poem and hoped that something will jump-start but to no avail. There was just a nagging irritation, like the one you feel when the current suddenly snaps off in the midst of an intriguing TV program, depriving you from knowing the end.