Archive for April, 2012

April 30, 2012

ज़िन्दगी महज़ अफ़सोस रह न जाये डरता हूँ
हाथों में रह न जायें सूखी तमन्नाएं डरता हूँ

छोड़ आया हूँ जो रास्ते वो फिर मिल न जायें डरता हूँ
मुड़ गया हूँ जिन राहों पर वो गुम हो न जायें डरता हूँ

कह देता हूँ जो यूँ ही सच हो न जाये डरता हूँ
होता आया है जो वोही फिर हो न जाये डरता हूँ

मेरे हाथों से घर किसी का जल न जाये डरता हूँ
मेरा घर अँधेरे में खोकर रह न जाये डरता हूँ

कभी खुद की कभी ख़ुशी दूसरे की चुनता हूँ
बीच इन डरों के रहकर मैं जिंदा रहता हूँ

आहटें पैरों की हों या करवटें बिस्तर की
ख़ामोशी में रात की सब सुन लेता हूँ

जानता हूँ कि जो चाहता हूँ वो सबको नहीं मिलता
कहता नहीं हूँ खुदा पर तुझसे वोही माँगा करता हूँ

April 22, 2012

आखिरी कदम…

हर एक मोड़ पे तेरे लगता है
कि ये मोड़ आखिरी है
चल लूँ कितने भी कदम लेकिन
ये उम्मीद रहती है
कि ये कदम आखिरी है

फासलों मैं तेरे सोया रहा हूँ मैं
दरख्तों मैं तेरे खोया रहा हूँ मैं
दूर मंजिलें हैं
थकान चढ़ चुकी है
पर पिघलती नहीं है तू
बड़ी कठोर हो चली है

April 22, 2012

Writing and PR

“Think of a good PR story,” said ranjan.
“Like hell I need one. Books sell on content,” I thought.

Well, I wouldn’t contend with the later part of my statement but sure would doubt the first half. I need PR. For I write for public consumption. And for your work to reach out to people, you first need to reach out to them. And there comes the difficult part. For while in the process of creating one convinces him or herself that he/she is doing it solely for himself. That the creator is the first and the last consumer and it doesn’t matter if no one else reads it or likes it. And there is a reason why that conviction is required. It is to block your mind. Block it of all the many doubts which shall creep in if you do not do so. There is no sure way of knowing that what you are doing is good enough. That it has been written the way it shall be. At some point one has to start writing whatever way he/she deems fit. And at some point he/she will have to sit as jury over it and ask, “is it written well?” The trouble happens when you begin to do the two at the same time. It may never need a conclusion. Part of the reason why a writer or any creator for that matter undergoing lack of confidence will find it tough to start and tougher to continue. They would need constant inspiration, encouragement to bolster self-belief. And what compounds it all is that self-belief can only come from believing in yourself, backing yourself. No one else can do it for you. And nothing could be more shattering when at the end of having finished your work you come to a conclusion, by yourself, via friend’s/well-wishers feeldback or through publisher’s rejection, that it is not good enough to make the cut. It will cut deeper than deep. That is why that blind, rigid, obstinate, rock-hard conviction is required. I write what I deem fit. Fuck the world. They know a damn fuck. I care a damn fuck.

Well, that’s act one for you. Act two begins once you serve your manuscript to the publishers. They want changes/altering/tailoring. That is the first hammer to the rock solid defense or ego whatever you may want to call it, one has built. It shall take some time but sure enough, most will crack. Those who won’t, either will bring something fundamentally unique and path-breaking to the world or shall never be known about. Well, I cracked.

Part three begins when books begins to hit the market. Because now one encounters competition and faces it point blank. “What is your book bringing out so unique? Why should I read it? Does it entertain me? Does it tell me something? What is it really about?” are questions that one can not escape anymore. And these are really hard questions for one convinced he/she wrote it for oneself. For he can not read all the copies. As a matter of fact he/she wouldn’t want to see it for some amount of time so saturated one would have become of it during writing/editing/tailoring process. And these are question which he would have blocked long back. Now these are the ones that come down heavily shattering the shell. The baby is out at school and teachers are grading it. He/she may have been a genius when born but well, its time to sit in exams. And this is where the toughest of challenge shall come for a writer of some sort. I have added, ‘some sort’ because it looks quite presumptuous to me to call myself a writer, though I have the credentials. Even though the shell is broken, the answer to the questions posed are still hard to find because sure enough there are no answers in the head to be found. The guy needs external help. To my mind, add novice mind if you shall, a writer knows little about what he/she is creating. He has some notions, certain notions but no clear picture. Atleast that is true of me. To me, a writer is not always a person who can think well and straight, he could well be a person who can think but not straight. That is why he needs a page to pour his stream of thoughts onto. Poor guy is living inside his head and you are asking him about whats in your head? He is merely babbling in response. Spare him. And if he/she knows too well what he is creating than to me it is not coming from the gut, from the end of the individual. For to me, writing is also a process of self-exploration. You come to know much about the story while telling it unless you are a manipulator or detached from it. I am not. And that is why I do not really know what I have written. Why you shall read it. Whether it shall entertain you. These are questions I didn’t ask myself for I am not qualified to answer for you. I found my answers to why I am writing in the first place and you dear rear shall find why you are reading it. Well, with that attitude of mine, you must have understood I can not do PR. I don’t have it in me. I can not have it in me. For the shell I built is too fucking hard. It is suffocating me. Well, save me.


I do not like to write. I like to have written. These are words of some I guess famous writer, I know not of. But these have begun to ring so true. Sometimes there is a frustrating and agonizing need to express something out, to finish something out so that it can be finalized, packaged and made to read. But the process is not really in one’s control. It has its own rhythm and one has to beat as per it if he or she wants to get things done as per satisfaction. Even if it did not have its own rhythm, it still would be painstaking and would test patience. But if it has its own rhythm then it exaggerates the cyclicity, thus adding anxiety, restlessness to agonizing wait.

April 20, 2012

Corrupt …

Corrupt is mind
corrupt thy body
corrupt my soul
or should I say
corrupt am I

corrupt it was
corrupt it is
corrupt it shall
or should I say
corrupt shall I

corrupt is good
corrupt is bad
corrupt it is
or shall I say
corrupt is all

Corrupt it came
corrupt it goes
corrupt it went
and can I say
corrupt is buried?

it shall rise
it shall die
it shall live
or is it just that
corrupt will prevail

April 18, 2012

एक अदद मुट्ठी भर
रेत चाहता हूँ
बिखरा है जो चार सूं
बस वो ही मांगता हूँ

यूँ तो मेरे हलक में
समंदर की प्यास है
रख गीला मेरे गले को
मेरी इतनी ही आस है

बड़ी गहरी चोट है
तुम समझ न पाओगे
दूरियां लम्बी बड़ी हैं
तुम चल न पाओगे

वो अपना दिल साफ़ करें
मैं अपमान सहता रहूँ
वो मुझपर पत्थर फेंके
मैं दरिया सा बहता रहूँ

निर्बल मेरे ऊपर चलें
अज्ञानी मेरे सर पे
वो पत्थर हैं सो मैं ढोता रहूँ
ये कैसा इन्साफ है


हारे हुओं को हराओगे कैसे
जीतकर हमसे मुंह छुपाओगे कैसे?

हमको मालूम हैं क्यूँ मिलने से कतराते हो
मिल के मगर हमसे दूर जाओगे कैसे?

दुनिया में चंद ही हैं जिन्होंने हमें चखा है
जानकर हमको अब बिन हमारे रह पाओगे कैसे?

हसरत तुमको समंदर की है, दरया में रह पाओगे कैसे
दूर हमसे रह के सुकूँ दुनिया में पा पाओगे कैसे?

तुम जानते हो जब बुलाओगे हम आ जायेंगे
खो गए जो हम फिर ढूंढ़ पाओगे कैसे?

April 17, 2012


मैंने जिंदगी से कहा
मैं तुझको जीत लूँगा
वो बोली, देखते हैं
वो जीत गयी
मैंने सोचा,
जिंदगी से जीतना मुश्किल है
हार कर देखते हैं
मैं गुमसुम होकर बैठ गया
वो किधर से तो घूम कर आई
मेरे चारों तरफ घूमकर, आँखें मटकाकर
बोली, क्या हुआ बे
मैं बोला, मेरे को तेरे साथ खेलना ही नहीं है
तू चाहे कितनी भी फाईट मार ले
मेरे को कुछ करना ही नहीं है
वो कुछ नहीं बोली,
चुप रही और गायब हो ली
थोड़ी देर में हुआ हैरान
हो उठा परेशान, चिल्लाया
अरे साली, तेरी तरफ की शर्त क्या है
कुछ देर में उठ कर चलने लगा
समय काटने को कुछ कुछ करने लगा
साला मेरा काम बढ़ने लगा
मैं बड़ा बीजी रहने लगा
बड़े दिनों बाद मुझे जिंदगी की फिर याद आई
उसके बिना मुझे डसने लगी थी तन्हाई
लेकिन वो फिर नहीं आई
खड़े खड़े, मुझे ये बात समझ में आई
ये साली जिंदगी बड़ी कुत्ती चीज है
साली, शर्त न बताकर शर्त जीत गयी

April 16, 2012

Writing …

An autobiographical writer, as he writes, does not truly remain the one to whom things happened. He is the one for whom things didnt happen the way they were supposed to. He is the one who is shifting his identity, to bring himself in harmony with the events, to make him feel at ease with himself and with the world. As he has written out what happened, what remains with him is what could not happen. That is what he becomes. That is where he lives. In the hollow cavity of possibilites that never took place. Barely anyone can have entry to it for he can not even explain what didnt even happen. People seldom see what happened. Chances of them being able to fathom what didnt without brining in any sympathetic/pity emotion, is next to nill. He is distancing himself from what has been written by writing about it. One who lives in fantasia doesnt truly likes the reality. He couldnt deal with it in his head, so he lets the fantasy take over. It is here that things find a place fitting with his wants. It is here he rests. It is here he lies.

This kind of writing often has deep, incisive and often edgy sharp assessment of events and situations. This statement rings true with autobiographical writer of 70’s Sasthi Brata (My God Died Young).

On the other side, there is one to whom things happened more than he could handle. So what he brought forth was what spilled over. It is as if the writer is already like a cup which he fills with engaging with things outside of him. And when these engagements/experiences/fantasia brims over his capacity, he needs to purge it out. He may purge just the froth or the whole deal. Paulo Coelho talked about such capillary affect in his interview and how he makes love with life till he begins to feel full and then he has to purge himself out in the form of writing. And onc begun he can not stop doing so till the work is complete. He can not stay away from it not even when he is travelling in a plane.

Further, writing of any kind, autobiographical or otherwise, can fill your head with crud. Like a pot in whom milk has been boiled ends up with sticky mess, mind is likely to end with pestering and nagging thoughts post purge. Some of the biggest blocks come from one’s own judgmental, self-critical and doubtful sides. Judgmental mind may ask if you think so highly of yourself that whatever you think is worth writing? Why do you then often scoff at what others have written? Self-critical side just beats the hell out of you by bringing in its high standards and ideas of art, writing and every thing in general. It asks you if what you are bringing forth is worthy of being brought. It is like asking if the child you are going to give birth to is going to beat Tendulkar’s record. If not, is it worth bringing it out. What is its relevance and why should it exist? More, importantly, why should I make myself grind? Often, one doesnt even understand what one is bringing out. You cant even block your own internal critique by saying he/she is an idiotic fool. Doubtful side is like sympathetic cynic. He will listen to your hopeful wishes, wouldnt say anything negative, just stay aloof and pull away, his face having not betrayed any emotion. When nudged into telling what he thinks the cynic is likely to defend by saying, well, evasive answers, how he is not worthy of critique, downplaying his own importance etc. On being assured that its okay, and he is free to express his ideas, he would gently suggest how all the hopes are likely to not work out because of reasons x, y, z. All of the reasons being very logical, factual and often based on previous experiences. And then he would say, like capping the whole thing, that well, dont you go by what I am saying, I am just saying, you never know.

Huh! So much for helping out.

April 13, 2012

Ode to facebook.

O’ facebook!
why do you bring me
pictures of the years gone by
of her on her honeymoon
wearing a short silken skirt
strutting her shapely legs out
holding hands atop the car’s gear
making me go into a sigh
those hands could have been mine
everything of it would have been mine
with only one tiny little difference
I would have surfed hands on those thighs
that could have been mine
may be they did it too
surfed hands on those thighs
and it is picture of moment before or after
that only would now be mine

April 10, 2012


है मुझको मालूम ज़िन्दगी
तू मुझसे खेल ये करती है
कितना भी तू नाटक कर ले
दिल में मुझ पर ही मरती है

है मुझको मालूम ज़िन्दगी
तू मेरी है, तू मेरी है
खामोश खड़ी है तू क्यूँ की
फट पड़ने से तू डरती है

मैं तेरे इंतज़ार में जानम
किससे किससे मिल आया
हंस आया मैं रो आया मैं
क्या क्या करतूतें कर आया

हाथों में दिल के अंगार लिए
लोगों की बगिया जला आया
तुझको पाने की हवस में जाने
किस किस की रेत उड़ा आया

तुझको लिखने की चाहत में
लिखी तकदीर मिटा आया
ख्वाब तेरा सच करने की खातिर
लोगों की हकीक़त झुठला आया

तेरी अंधी हंसी जीने की खातिर
मैं जीवित आँखों को रुला आया
मेरे सपनों में कोई डोर न हो
मैं दामन जग से छुड़ा आया

तुझसे मिलने को ये जग जाने
क्या क्या कारनामे करता है
एक मैं हूँ तेरा सच्चा आशिक
खाली हाथ चला आया

हवन करे, कोई तप करता है
लख चीज़ों से तेरा घर भरता है
मुट्ठी भर मुरादें लेकर
मैं नंगे पाँव चला आया

आजा अब तू दूर न रह
जलती क्यूँ है दूर न रह
आजा आजा अब न घबरा
मेरे दामन में जगह बहुत सी है
तेरे विष का भी पान करूँगा
जग की मदिरा बहुत पी है

विष तेरा मैं अमृत कर दूंगा
बस तू मुझको शीतल कर दे
दिल के छोटे खाली कोने
बस तू उनको खुद से भर दे
जो मैं न कर सका बस तू वो कर दे

April 9, 2012

Place I belong to…

I need to find the place I belong to
where when I shout they do not look at me
as if I have gone cuckoo
turning finally where I belonged to

where when I throw tub of water on their bed
for they jumped on my bed with their shoes on
they do not go for tea without asking for me
thinking I would have some of the offence they have

I need to find that place where after gettimg me drunk
they do not lend me a hand only to throw me into a well
dusting their hands they travel back with leisurely gait
quietly enjoying the evening fall, telling themselves
now all is very well, now that I am in the well