I Am Who

The countdown has begun

By the end of this year

I hope to be a free bird

With wings flapping

Drawing an arch across

The vastness of the sky

However I am yet to learn

How to be light enough

To take off to the clouds

How to trash the pent up

Dark mass of unwanted 

Thoughts heavy on the 

Shoulders which slouch

My stance and sleep within

Me when I am awake and

Wakes up to torment when

I wish "good night" to night

The learnings are ancient

The unlearning sure is not easy

Forgetting the past baffles me

Forgiveness .....I am sorry!! What?

I am yet to empty the bin

And stop filling it up again

Time in hand is too short

To sort out the clutter

To weave a new song to coo

I have to begin from the very

Beginning of knowing

And unknowing I am who?

Shared withPoets and Storytellers United

सपनों का सौदागर

I had written this poem ("The Old Man And His Troop")  in Hindi a long, long time back and then lost it completely...don't know how! Years later I translated my feelings into an English verse which can be read here.

As with all my other poems, this one also had collected dust with the passage of time but for a recent comment that I received on it. I had attached a hand-sketched photo of Bapuji along with the poem, which was available on Google, not knowing that it belonged to AS till she left a rather stilted comment about my trespass into her art world although completely unknowingly. I wrote back to her saying so and promising that I would leave a link to her post in my blog so that I am exonerated of all charges of cyber theft and all that. In doing so, I also realize how absolutely within her rights she is to have demanded an acknowledgment of her work, however easily accessible the same may be on the net, by all and sundry and howsoever naive she may have been not to know that anything on the net invariably loses exclusivity and becomes everyone's property. Least be said about yours truly whose lack of net-savviness ( if there be any word like that in the English lexicon) disallowed her to trace back the sketch to the artist's blog. However, having regained the dwindling grains of self esteem, I dedicate this post to my new-found artist-friend AS whose talent I openly admire. I had once written a short story which was influenced by my intense desire of becoming a painter alas in vain as I cannot even hold a pencil properly let alone paint something which may sensibly depict artistry of any sorts. Anyhow, leaving aside all the lame laments and poor excuses I have decided to publicise my naievety and my fellow-blogger's talent with the brush by putting up this post on http://indiblogger.in with the hope that this act of mine will assuage the pangs of guilt that I am now suffering from regarding the unintentional lifting of the sketch. Honouring my own decision, I also wanted to put up  the long-lost Hindi version of the poem, a shorter version and the vague recollection of the same that I have had in my memory. However, as I sit down to pen it I find my memory playing truant with me and much as I try I cannot bring out a word-to-word translation of the poem written in English ( Again, the English version was not a word-to-word translation of the original one written in Hindi). I suppose I must accept the fact that cadence once lost is lost forever and there is no point trying to dish out facsimiles of the same. Instead fresher thoughts invade and prevail...thoughts which are of this day and somewhat take over from where I had ended last...though whether it presents a grimmer picture is for the reader to decide. So, I give below my thoughts of the day. Hope you all will be able to relate to the same and enjoy AS' handiwork as well.

 

 

वह बूढ़ा सत्याग्रही सपनों का सौदागर
छोड़ गया पीछे एक भारत
पसीनों से तर्र, लडखडाता,
ज़िन्दगी से जूझता
बढती महंगाई , ट्रैफिक जैम,
और नेताओं के झूठे  वादों को बांछ्ता
अपने फ़टे कुचैले दामन से शर्मसार
गगनचुम्बी अट्टालिकाओं  के ओट
में सर रख के रोता बिलखता

और वो बूढ़ा  कहता था ,
"मैं दूंगा तुम्हें आज़ादी बिना रक्तपात"
आज पथराई आँखों से ढूँढता होगा
सपनों के लाश पर ओढने को कफन
"नहीं जिंदा है अभी , धुकपुक  धडकनों में  मची है, देखो
अब भी थोड़ी उम्मीद है बाक़ी "
कहता है वो हठीला
"अब ही  तो ढके थे मैंने कुछ नग्न देह
बाढ़ में बहते हुए, और खाना खिलाया  था
उन सालों से  भूखों को मुट्ठी  भर चावल
अभी सुलाया हैं क्रंदन शिशुओं का लोरी गाकर
और बढ़ के थामा है हाथ निर्भया की।
पर कुचल न पाया भुज दु:शासन का
चीड़  हरण रोक न पाया मैं, अफ़सोस !
किन्तु अभी भी कुछ नहीं बिगड़ा
अब भी हम है आज़ाद
सिर्फ दो क़दम की दूरी है सक्षमता से
मानो मेरी बात "

अर्सा पहले जो सत्य का आग्रह कर
खोजता था नयी दिशा आज शायद
सिंहासन का पैग़म्बर बनने की
ख्वाहिश में मृत ख्वाबों को सजा रहा है
बेच रहा है आस बेबसों को
ठिठुरते फुटपाथों में जो पड़े-पड़े
एक वक़्त की रोटी ढूँढ़ते है तारों में
और एक कम्बल सर्द हवाओं से बचने हेतु

स्वाधीनता का लालच दे रहे है उन्हें
जो सुख भोग रहे हैं गुलामी की

और उस दिन टीवी पर आ रहा था
"चमकता भारत" की तस्वीर
कुछ फ़िल्मी हस्तियाँ,  सफ़ेद पोशाक में
नामी  लीडर और गिने चुने व्यवसायी
जो दावा करते थे सुनामी से पीड़ित
दो चार गाँव बसाने का ..

अलसाई सी धुप में उबासी लेता
मोची बताता था, " इस बार भी
बह गए कई गाँव और मददगारों ने खूब
भरी अपनी झोली मदद के नाम पर… "

"… अब भी हम है आज़ाद
सिर्फ दो क़दम की दूरी है स्वनिर्भरता से.…"
दिनदहाड़े झुठलाया सच सत्य से भी
चमकीला लगता है ..

"अब भी कुछ नहीं बिगडा , अभी भी हम है आज़ाद
मानो मेरी बात…"

हाय .. !      

 

Freedom

Bottom of Form

This is a short story in verse about a woman who suffered domestic violence for her daughter's sake year after year. But she stood strong in the face of adversities in the hope of freedom which she was endowed with after her daughter was married away. In the autumn of her life, she asked for a divorce from her husband.

______________________________________________________________

As the bonhomie of celebration
Subdued to a dull echo
It was time to take a deep breath
Sit and ruminate
On the past
Mending the broken heart
Over joyous whoops
Of regained strength
The tortuous days of
Bleeding by the prick of deadly thorns
Were over at last….

Days of soft caring fingers pasting a band-aid
With everlasting tenderness
She recalled with a wan smile on her lips

Two drops of tears
Welled up the brim of
The delicate rims
Frilled with dew shy lashes

She remembered the gashes
Too, the venomous slashes
Which love lashed on her
The parched throat
The choked heart
The thirsty eyes longing for
A lone dream
A single word
Glass thin
“Are you fine?”

No! Amidst the pall of gloom
Her sobs echoed with weird vibrations
Till there was nothing left
But an empty cocoon
A thin membrane
Stretched brutally across brittle bones
Tearing tissues, blocked arteries, seething veins

But she carried on…
Tied by an oath
For light years

Till the bells chimed
It was time to say good bye
To her dear heart
To those tender fingers
Which had wiped her tears
For three decades
Strangled by wedlock

Now as she felt the chains melt away
She rejoiced freedom
Today when moon shines in her hair
And sun has left its tan on her skin
She looks up to the sky and sings
“I am free”
Today she has signed on the dotted lines
And sealed the estrangement
Permanently with ink
And earned her breath back
Today she is free…