The life you have forgotten to live.

Whatever lies between
- the ocean and the desert -
- your jumping up and hitting the ground -
- between fear and love -
is calling you.

Go live it.

"साँस लेने की तेरे, वजह और भी हैं 

तेरी इस ज़मी पर,जहां और भी हैं 

तू जो जी रहा है,तू क्यों जी रहा है ?

पूछने आने वाले , इम्तेहां और भी हैं। "

photographed clicked at: Uttarkashi, India

The self which is bigger than the universe...

सब बदल सा गया, 

कागज़ के एक फ़र्द से।  

तू बड़ा है मगर, 

हाँ, तेरे दर्द से... 
picture source https://www.pinterest.com/pin/282530576595082308/

When its dark at home, go get some light...

It was dark at home.
and I went for a stroll.
Met these lights on my way,
and their stories.
I talked to one, it talked to me,
that night...
Like a ghost.
Mind to mind
eye to eye
light to light...

As I returned back,
I saw, the ghost came back home with me.
And, it lives right here,
in my mind.
In me.

Photo courtesy: Saurabh tupkar

Your words are like fairies...

The day YOU run out of words;
Trace these words, 
YOU once shared with ME here, backwards...
connecting all the dots,
and find Yourself back.

Your words are like fairies.
They guided ME.
They'll guide YOU back
Photograph source https://www.pinterest.com/pin/242842604883805066/

You do not die...

Dear Dr. Kalam,

I write this today, and I believe that wherever You are now, my words can reach you. I write this because I am not able to hold it. And I know those millions of children like me whose life you touched unknowingly, even without any physical or in some cases digital glimpse, would want to write to you something similar.

I just finished reading what your close aide  Mr. Srijan Pal Singh, who accompanied you in your travel wrote about you, remembering you, your worries about the nation and humanity at large. Well I never got a chance to know you by your revered presence. For me your presence lay in those books you wrote, the books I loved to read, and gifted many of them to my father on his birthdays. Because he is the one who had introduced you to me and my world. He would tell me about your struggles as a child, and how you went on to overcome them to become what you did.

And I still read them Sir, every time I fail, every time I am dejected. All those words of yours, about life , God and incessant effort are very much alive Sir. And you know why they can't ever die? Because you infused immortal life in them, by being what you said, by being that living example of incessant effort.

 "Failure can never overtake me, if my definition to succeed is strong enough", you once said. And when eventually they came- failures, you accepted them with all your humility, smiling through them and telling them, "you came because life wanted to stretch me to my fullest potential, of which I myself was not aware." You embraced them, took responsibility for them, and told them that they might have been big failures, but the human in you was bigger. And despite all this, the simplicity and humility you reflected made you even bigger.

Its said that love transcends all dimensions of space and time. Your love for students and our love for you, as a mentor and above it as that big yet humble human being you were, will transcend these ephemeral boundaries of life and death one day. 

I remember you once came to my college, and the hall was so full I couldn't get a glimpse of you. I came back thinking that someday I will. Yes.

The universe curves, time bends.

We'll meet there someday sir.

That day, I'll look in your eye, and tell you how much you have meant to me, and to millions of those like me, who never met you in this three dimensional world.

But before that there is work to be finished. There are dreams to be fulfilled. And as I do that, your inspiration lives on Sir.

It does not die. And it does not let me die either, no matter what. You do not die Sir.

Become the storm...

When its been enough, and you're dying,fading, and blue.
And storms engulf you from all sides,all dimensions,
bringing everything you ever feared true.

Don't fear the storms anymore
Become one.
Rise, burst, magnify..
And don't stop,till you are done.

photograph borrowed from https://www.pinterest.com/pin/407927678724862533/

The blackhole

Its gravity.
It pulls everything down.
People fall.

Its gravity. It pulls everything down.
Is that why YOU didn't stand up, and fight for me?
Is that why YOU gave up?

But I still try to forgive you,
telling myself each day,
that may be You lived on a blackhole.

Photograph borrowed from https://www.pinterest.com/pin/437623288767342925/

Fix me 2

When You try to simplify,

the complicated,

the simple becomes complicated.

I was simple.

I am becoming complicated.

How do I simplify?

Please fix me.

In continuation to Fix me
photograph borrowed from https://www.pinterest.com/pin/491525746807903528/

Fix me.

No, its not music.

Its my pieces who collide, 

tirelessly inside.

And fall down.

No, its no poetry.

Its my pieces who shout, 

voicelessly shriek out.

And fall down.

Pick up my pieces.

Please fix me.
photograph borrowed from https://www.pinterest.com/pin/318277898642587661/

The Sprouting LIFE.

It rained last night.
Inundating my soul.
Somehow it managed to penetrate so deep.
To wash 'it' all...

And sprouts this morning in me,
This life.
Innocent, tender and green.
And I am changed.
I had never in my life felt this before.
This 'tender life' in me, I had never realised or seen...

This tender 'life'.
Is not for prudence to smother.
Is not for any past or 'those people' to bother..
This life.
Is to grow...
To breathe, to bloom, to survive.
This 'life' is to set me free.
It is to tell me that I AM ALIVE...

आकार

डरती थी मिटटी जो, फिर चाक चड़ने से;
तपने से, फिर भीगने से, टूटने से, पिघलने से।
तू आंचों में सौ पका के।
फिर चाक मुझको चढ़ा के।
तू चोट करता है।
फिर उसको भरता है।
देता मुझको 'आकार' है...

तू ताप दे कि, पिघल मैं सकूँ जिससे।
इस आग पर तेरी, चल मै सकूँ हँस के।
बंधन तू कुछ तोड़ता है।
धागे तू यूँ जोड़ता है...
तू ही मिटाता है।
फिर से बनाता है।
देता मुझको 'आकार' है...

मेरे सपनों, सुनो तुम

तुम ही तो मेरी कहानी हो।
मानो या न मानो,
मगर मेरी जिंदगानी हो।
मेरी तन्हाईयों में तुम,
मेरी परछाइयां बनकर।
रहते सदा साथ हो मेरे।
नभ और उचाइयां बनकर...

पिंजरा.

'वह' कैद था. पर वह दुखी नहीं था। जिसने आकाश का विस्तार कभी न देखा हो, वह अपनों सीमित और छोटी सी दुनिया में ही 'सुख' ढूँढ लेता है. पर सुख और तृप्ति भिन्न हुआ करते हैं। वह लोहे के उस संरक्षण में 'सुख' तो ढूँढ लिया करता था, पर 'तृप्ति' से मीलों दूर था। क्योंकि 'तृप्ति' के लिए 'खोज' ज़रूरी होती है। भाग्यशाली होते हैं वो लोग जिन्हें इस खोज का अवसर प्राप्त होता है। उस शाम पिंजरे में कैद उस हरित पंची को भी ये अवसर मिला। उस शाम...

मेरे लिए वो लोहे का पिंजरा 'घर' सा बन गया था। बहुत वक़्त से खुद को वहीँ और उसी अवस्था में देखा था। मेरी आवश्यकताएं तो पूरी हो ही जाती थी उस पिंजरे में. पर कुछ खाली था मुझमे। कुछ चुप। कुछ जमा सा।

'वह' आया। 'वह' पिंजरे में कैद मुझ हरित पंछी को देखा करता। मानो मेरे पंखों में बसी उस चिन्मयी शक्ति से परिचित हो। वह शक्ति, जिससे मेरी आत्मा स्वयं अनभिज्ञ थी। कुछ था उन दो नेत्रों में। कुछ बारिश से पहले आकाश में घुले मेघों सा अस्पष्ट। कुछ सागर कि तेज़ उफनती लहरों के बीच खड़े बड़े पत्थर सा स्थिर और दृड़। कुछ कहा... कुछ अनकहा....
कुछ...
जिसने मुझे पहली बार एहसास दिलाया कि मै खुबसूरत हूँ। कि मै ख़ास हूँ। कि मै सपने देख सकता हूँ। कि मै उड़ सकता हूँ.....

'उसने' आज तक मुझसे कुछ नहीं कहा। बस मेरे पिंजरे कि सलाखों को खटखटाता रहता। मानो मेरी चेतना से परिचित हो। मेरी व्यथा को जानता हो।
उसकी संजीदगी बताती थी कि वह दुनिया देख चूका था। कि उसे भी बहुत हसने का शौंक रहा था पहले। जाने क्यूँ उस तटस्थ भाव से मेरे बंधन खोलने कि चेष्ठ में जुटा था। जैसे मुझसे और मेरी चेतना शक्ति से परिचित हो...

वो अकेले कभी मिलता; तो झंझोरती उसे।
जहाँ जहाँ से वो टूटा था, जोडती उसे.

पर कुछ था कि वो ऊपर सा हो गया था सुख से, दुःख से, ख़ुशी से, दर्द से, मिलन से, विरह से... या कोशिश कर रहा था खुद को एक सपने के लिए तैयार करने कि. कहता कि मै दुनिया जीतना चाहता हूँ। पर उसके लिए मुझे खुद को जीतना होगा. पर उसका प्रयत्न नहीं चूकता था....

ज़रा सोचिये, कितना बड़ा कद रहा होगा उसका।
मुझसे मिलने वह बुलंदी से उतर कर आता था।

वह 'आस्था' था, तो वह उड़ान भर पाने कि 'चाह' था।
वह 'साधना' था, तो वह कभी न शिथिल होने का 'निश्चय' था।
वह 'संघर्ष' था, तोह वह मुक्ति कि श्वास था।
वह अभय था। वह भक्ति था। वह कथा था। वह जय था।

शाम होने को थी। सूर्यास्त का समय था। मंदिर से घंटियों कि ध्वनियाँ गूँज रहीं थी। जब सूर्यास्त के समय पंछी जंगलों में अपने नीदों कि ओरे वापिस जा रहें होतें हैं, तोह उसने वो पिंजरा खोल दिया। उसने स्वप्नों के चित्र पर वास्तविकता के रंग बिखेर दिए, क्योंकि पंख होना एक बात है; और उड़ पाना दूसरी। उसने छोटी सी दुनिया में कैद मुझ पंछी को आज सारा आकाश दे दिया.
वह मुक्ति था। वह चेतना था। अब वह कभी न समाप्त होने वाला संघर्ष था।

हम अक्सर दूसरों में सहारा दूंदतें हैं। 'उसने' मुझे कभी 'सहारा' नहीं दिया। 'उसने' मेरी हथेली खींचकर मुझे पिंजरे से बहार निकला। उसने मेरी हथेली पर एक नाम लिखा। वह उसका नहीं था। वह नाम मेरा था. 'उसने' मुझे जीवन में पहली बार 'मुझसे' मिलाया। और एहसास दिलाया कि-
'मै सबसे बेहतर हूँ।
मै उड़ सकती
हूँ।
ऊँचा। बहुत ऊँचा....'

लगा कि मुझको उठाकर, कोई फिर खड़ा कर गया।
और 'मेरे दर्द' से, 'मुझको' बड़ा कर गया.

अब मै आज़ाद थी। सारा आकाश मेरा । वो पिंजरे टूट चुके थे जो दुनिया ने मेरे लिए बना रखे थे। जो मैंने खुद के लिए बना रखे थे। वो पिंजरे सिर्फ लोहे के पिंजरे नहीं थे। वो पिंजरा था हर उस डर का जिससे जीतने कि बात वो करता था। हर उस बंदिश का जो मुझे खुश रहने के अधिकार से वंचित करती थी। वो पिंजरा था भ्रम का। परितोष का। भ्रांतियों का।
आज वो टूट गया था। आज 'मै' खुश थी।आज 'वो' खुश था। और 'आज' को जीने का अधिकार था हमें।

जिस पल ब्रह्माण्ड के किसी कण में सच्ची चाह का उदभव होता है, उस पल दरीखे खटखटाए जातें हैं। खिड़कियाँ टूटती हैं। और पिंजरे में किस चिन्मयी शक्ति को मुक्त करने के लिए श्रृष्टि प्रयत्न में जुट जाती है।

हम अपने जीवन में खुद को बहुत से पिंजरों में कैद करते जातें हैं। दायरों और दीवारों में बंद करते जाते हैं। सीझ्तें रहतें हैं उड़ने से, भीगने से, टूटने से... फिर 'कोई' आता है। दरवाजों पर दस्तक देता है। पिंजरों को तोड़ने कि चेष्ठा करता है. वह इश्वर का बंदा है। वास पाक है। वह सत्य है। उसकी आवाज़ सुन लीजिये। खुद को पिंजरे से आज़ाद कर दीजिये। क्योंकि...

पिंजरों को खुलना होगा। दीवारों को टूटना होगा। मन में जमे हर डर, हर बंदिश को पिघल कर बहना होगा। ह्रदय में जो यह नन्हा पंछी बैठा है उड़ने को तत्पर, उसे उसका नीला आकाश बाहें फैलाये बुला रहा है। उसे उड़ने दो...

अब डर नहीं है। अब आस्था है। मेरे साथ। मेरे पास। और यह आस्था 'उसे' ढून्ढ लेगी जीवन की लकीरों में...

जो चाहो तो कोई सीमा नहीं है।
नहीं चाहो तो सीमायें बहुत हैं।
आज बतला दो इनमें 'तुम' कहाँ हो?
मेरे हाथों में रेखाएं बहुत हैं....

Miracle.

I had heard of miracles.
It just came.
Like a child in his play.
To ask my name...

Like a star afar,
beaconed a lost hue.
and invoked again,
What I already knew...

Rainbow

When there is no rainbow in the pellucid sky,
I shall create one.
By sprinkling fresh water droplets on the Sun...

Ephemeral.

Ephemeral am I,
Ephemeral are You.
But We share a moment;
Ephemeral it too.

I know this comfort,
I know this pain.
But I know, that both;
are ephemeral again.

To Sir, with Love

I don't know whats making me write this post. but I guess I need to write this. For the affection i have shared with this teacher. If you think He has ever been a part of your life, please leave a comment.

An Ode to Hansraj Sir.

“May I come in sir?” I would peep in with hesitation at 9:15 am, from the door of 211-B, with pleading eyes towards a pale elderly figure near the blackboard. But this pale elderly figure would let me in, one thing I loved about him; unlike others who would either welcome me with terrorizing glances or most of the time drive me away from the class. I just had one grudge with him at times; as to why could he never miss a class; or why would he always be on time. Whether it be an eight o clock lecture or a two o clock tutorial; whether there be ten students in the class, or full class strength; this old gentleman’s effort and dedication to his teaching would never change.

Steel structures was his subject. Not that it mattered.

For me all civil engineering subjects were the same. Dry, pointless and suffocating.

But his dedication to his students, his spirit to teach and his exuberance. That mattered.
That always mattered to me.

And this was the reason that inspite of getting a meagre 50% in his previous course; and still never understanding a word of Steel Structures; I would look upto him him with a respect I have not for many people in this world. There was something about him that I would come up with awesome verse and prose in his class; and would pen them down while the rest of the class was busy solving steel numericals. And some of those writings would actually amaze me.

They said this eighty year old soul lived all by himself. His wife had passed away long back. His daughter was said to have been married somewhere in Mumbai, and all we could guess was that he must have chosen not to live with her for his principles.

We would often see him cycling to or from the P.C.T. and he would respond to our good mornings and good evenings with a heartfelt smile and his peculiar salute, which reflected a spark, an enthusiasm ,an ineffable zeal. Where did this zeal come from; what did it feed upon; would often fill me with awe.

He was so different from the mankind around him; with his freedom of thought, his affection, his graceful bearing and humility and this gentlemanly zeal.
He would salute us as we wished him.
I would salute this gentleman in him.

It was this zeal oh his which would sometimes inspire me to take interest in steel structures; but as other civil engineering subjects, I would only end up in suffocation.
That day after his class, he happened to ask me why I bunked so many classes and why I would not be attentive.

I could have lied to him as I had learned to with ‘others’ who never cared. But that zeal in his eyes urged me to speak the truth. So I told him he was never at a fault as a teacher. It was me who couldn’t grasp the concepts of civil engineering. I told him I would often write poems in his class.
He did not say a word, just walked away. But I could see disheartenment in his eyes. I felt a bit guilty of having spoken a bit too much of truth that day.

Days passed as they pass in Pantnagar and we heard that hansraj Sir was soon leaving the University. He was joining some college in kichcha.

“Why?” was the first question.

Retirement?
No. he needed the job to keep the zeal alive.
Migration?
Not either, as he had great memories attached to this place and would not like to leave it at this phase of his age.
Then?
I discovered the reason soon. I won’t mention it here. But as I came to know it, a sudden convulsion of madness and rage passed over me.
“How could they?
To such a noble soul!
God!”
But past few days I had known deception, false hopes, betrayal and untrust. I had seen egoism, false pride and unjust decisions and someone being sacrificed. Today it was His turn.

It was a bright Monday morning. I walked up to his cabin with a card I bought for him.
“We’ll miss you Sir” I gave him the card and implored him to open it after I leave. He asked me the reason for the same.

I told him I had enclosed within all the poems I had written during his steel classes.
To my surprise, he took out those pages, kissed them and pressed them against his forehead.

His act left me speechless.

He then pointed at a glass pane on his table and said-
“Look there! Those are scribblings by my daughter when she was a child. I have still preserved them.”

As he said that I could see a tear drop struggle hard with his eyes. I looked at the glass pane. There lied, tiny pieces of paper with thoughts scribbled in coloured sketch pen.

Something erupted in me and I felt like crying.

But I looked on, surprised and moved। I looked at that man, loyal to a vision, betrayed by his dream, faithful to his everything.

I saw that everything might change one day. What shall stay is the inexorable zeal this man is carrying along. The zeal that shal keep him going, that shall drive him on, no matter where he goes. Zeal to live. Zeal to love.

Zeal to say ‘Yes’ to the life ahead।

“May be he’s required there for a good reason” I said to myself and smiled.

I am.

I AM
not your love.
I AM
not the 'man' of your life.
Your words, your touch, your soul; do not belong to me.
But I
have been indited in You.
To imbue you with life.
To save you from sin.
To make you go on...

I AM
The sanctum of your sanguinity.
For you to recover your Faith.
Each time its stirred.

I AM
The conundrum you end up with.
Each time you talk to the mirror.
And you are not left 'unheard'.

I AM
The vicissitude of your journey.
When God plays Dice.
And a battle inside is conquered.

I AM
the 'triumph' ensuing your unfailing effort.
Feeding your immaculate desire...
I TAKE BIRTH.
I BREATHE.
I DIE.
AND I
shall never let you down...
Whenever,
Your 'eye' meets your 'eye'...

I had never lost them. They were indited in me, from the very beginning. Even when one odd day I found I was over, 'they' were operating within, imbuing me with an invincible desire to go on..
My colours survived the dark..
They could not perish in the dust that had scattered the ashes of the unextinguished hearth of my soul. Today they rekindled the fire that once ‘lived’ and ‘loved’…
They gave me the strength to vanquish those fears… to break those walls…

And even when my being shall come to an end and life would close,
My ineffable hues shall pervade…




This is one of the sketches i drew during my post laser surjery period in january. and many more... fifteen black and white days restored in me my innate 'colors'...

COLORS

It had been just two days after my eye surgery. I had just returned from Ambala the previous evening, and two days of nothingness were enough to blow the hell out of me. I had another 15 days to go during which I could not read or write, watch computer or tv screen or even look at my mobile screen; these are the some post laser surgery precautions you see!

It had been two and a half months of running away from the things I did not want to face. All these days I had kept myself absorbed into my English and history books apart from my daily B.tech schedule; but now these 15 days I was all alone, all by myself and a black and white world. i was afraid. afraid to face myself and that unsatiable void that had now become a part of me forever...

My friends had been taking good care that I do not feel lonely and would make frequent calls. I had just got up an hour ago and my throat was still full of the foul taste of my eye drops. My mind had become a battlefield. Whole of my past two and a half years were flashing in my mind and would come to halt at that one devastating moment as a song gets stuck in a gramophone record. “STOP!” I almost shouted in fear, when there was a phone call from a friend. I pressed the button to take the call. The sensation of touch is perhaps the greatest of all five human senses; as when you’re deprived of any of the four, it fills up the gap.

“It’s getting over me. I can’t bear any more. I can’t bear this nothingness. Can’t read, can’t write.. can’t do anything! Hell. It’s killing me…” I broke off.
Even this one consoled me as all my friends would, in there respective calls and visits. But this one came up with something else too. Something different. Something which struck the chord.

“ Why don’t you do this Gazal?” He came up with this suggestion, “ask someone to get some A4 sheets for you and some colors, and whatever comes in your mind, just take it out on paper. If you can’t write, you can obviously draw…”
“ Draw without seeing what I’m drawing?” I protested instantly.

“Yupp. That’s a technique you see to dig out the things we often put at some shady corners of our mind. When you get well, check out your drawings and interpret what they say. They’ll tell you everything about you in these 15 days. You’ve got a good chance Gazal. Go on… talk to yourself. Colors speak...” He exclaimed.

“I fear… I don’t want me to go back to that… And I know this technique of yours would pull it all out. I don’t want to… I’m afraid…” I whispered hesitatingly.

“Now don’t say that to me!” he scolded back, in his same familiar tone. “ That’s not all you have in you! There’s so much more. Your passion, your spark, your dreams, your colors… Try it… And they’ll all come out.."

He had reached his grandma’s residence. We ended the conversation. But something within me went on.
“Should i?” or “Should I not?”

I called up Geetika. She was to come to meet me in the evening.(And she was coming with a pizza, as she had promised!). I asked her to also get a sketch book and a pack of crayons for me…
And this is how it began….

I just scribbled with whatever came to my mind. And then when i could see partly after a week, faired my scribblings a bit and added on to them... I was amazed. My friend was right. Colors speak..

COLORS SPEAK IT ALL...


When a soul draws you close...

When a Father feels his shadow...
(the 'father' who stands patiently when you come running to hug your mother on getting a prize, he keeps looking at you with the same satisfaction and 'awe' with which he first felt and touched you...)

This was not just a post 'the 3 idiots' hangover, but much more...

And the best part, this friend who had advised me to do this secretly disappeared for about a week. No contact at all. Cell switched off. I got worried. Later on told me He had gone on a 'one week exile' which he really needed. As for me I feel His exile did me good for probably God wanted my sketches to speak it all..

And they did...

For colors speak...