Wednesday, July 8
Sunday, May 24
the de beauvoir excuse
were sold, well weighted
in balances and pans.
The bids were high, and we succumbed
believing in our labeled worth
preening and downcast, or
making deals, saving face, being rentable.
Land, language, mother-
Everything was whored.
A sneer or a smile were powerful,
for paths changed, forgetting all joys.
Remained only the diplomas, the money,
the look of admiration in faces I love not.
For pride and gold trade for God.
Sunday, February 22
the closed world of intertextuality
when I last stood by the sea.
I was alone, the breeze did not last
and a smile played on incipient moon's
face. Wicked drop
of abandon, of freedom.
You sit on the rock, the waves lash,
waiting for a being to cross the sea,
walking on water in age of cynicism,
and you stay, , but you stay,
as revelation is lost
amidst throes of reason.
While descends a pall of wisdom
deep into soul, blotted into
as guilt and as sin,
while stone transforms to Creator,
and new eggs are laid to turn to wood,
Kristeva fills minds of men, of women.
You wait in a checked shirt, blue jeans,
Looking at that dibbly-dobbly vessel,
as if you should sleep while He comes;
But you prefer so, for waiting is better
than conversing with flies feasting on the dead,
for You remain the last one to see the Rhino.
Thursday, February 12
summer comes again.
But I left in deep winter,
to carry a piece forever
in my heart.
Sunday, January 11
In a sea of hate, France crumbles
They stopped the trams and metros at noon for a minute's silence. Everyone became noble and felt so good about themselves for that minute. But one woman kept on talking on her phone, oblivious of the decencies of life where you can publish crude, derogatory cartoons but not keep talking when a minute's silence is the fraternal thing to do. And then a girl told, how she just wanted to give a nice hiding to woman who wouldn't shut up and how she was just so disgusted. The silence, it seems, was not just for self-satisfaction, but also for judging others. And yet it was supposed to remember, to think, to reflect, within the precise matter of sixty seconds. In other places, school classes became silent: some rebelled (spoke), but many others were peer-pressured into remaining silent for that minute which never seemed to stop. It is like the national anthem or song which asks viewers to stand up before a film is played in Bangalore: if you do not, you feel that you might be lynched right there. Free will does not seem to play a huge part in fraternal societies.
And now, what do we have? The President has not yet addressed the people about the Muslim community, nor the Muslims directly: he just doesn't care, isn't it? Instead, the government is bringing out the same magazine next week with state money: as if seeking cheap publicity by derogating others was a martyr's cause. Pity that ideologies cannot sue in courts: only well-oiled humans seem to have that right. Because of the extraordinary sensation that the media has created out of it, thanks to another hashtag spring, the society is now even more divided: many and many Muslims, especially young kids, have now seen the cartoons which they never had earlier, and they cannot understand how such things can be just cloaked up in the freedom to speech attire; the entire non-French-looking people, even if they are white, have become the Other, who don't understand the pain that the French have felt over their pride being destroyed; parties like Front National will create more discourses and incidents to divide people further; and aims of all those who seek to further violence and thus pillage this land and its people will be furthered. And all this in the midst of an economic downslide: whereas France needed to open up its shores, this will only lead to the politics of suspicion, anger and exclusion.
The violence rooted in society, perpetrated in other lands, is now coming back to haunt France. This incident will be a catalyst for Europe's accelerated downslide. And no one will hear those who cry from tenderness, from love, from sadness: only anger will be heard, and responded to. And the response will also be anger, be hate. When the French couldn't be proud of the expanse of their colonies anymore, they turned to their language. When English became the undisputable lingua franca, they turned to their flag, their values. As these values turn out to be hollow and the economy flounders, the last of their fiefdoms disintegrates, and pain is trampled upon by politics and hypocrisy.
Saturday, November 29
जैसे जल से उभरे योगी,
शनि की छटा निराली
किसी बारूद के ढेर की तरह,
जो फूटे अचेत में, कहीं गहरे समंदर में
पर जन्म ले चेत में, प्रत्यक्ष रूप में,
न बोल, न समस्या, केवल आनंद
और उसके संवाद, उसके गीत,
तपस्या के पालक, जननी के जनक|
Sunday, November 16
मर-मिटने की बात सोची,
झिझक थी तो अपने-आप से
जैसे देव-द्वार की रेखा;
प्रकृति देख रही थी, भावुक,
ज़हन में कविता लिए,
पूछ रही थी, विश्वस्त,
मेरे उत्तर स्वयं ही बोलती;
अभिलाषा का पानी बह गया था,
ले गया था नीति-धर्म के सेतु,
सामने था मैं, प्रतिबिंब बिन काया,
हाथ बढ़ाऊं तो ईश्वर का निवाला|
Monday, September 15
a European life
Thursday, August 14
और जग नाचे,
बिल्ली की गोद में
कौन देखा, कौन सुना,
प्रेत से पूछो, बरसाती रात को,
न दिया जले, न दिल हो भस्म,
डगर-डगर पे हरी की आस|
Friday, May 30
कल कई थे—शायद तुम भी?
जमा करे कंकड़-मोती, सब,
ले कर आए थे|
ख़ाली हाथ गये, भरे दिल से
ज्यों-ज्यों निशाना सही पड़ा|
फिर रात के सन्नाटे में भी
आए थे कुछ बादल;
मेघ को दारू समझे पी गया दिल,
जैसे-जैसे घाव भरे, हुस्न खिला|
मैदान-ए-आशिक़ की वारिदात
दर्ज नहीं होतीं| बेसबब समेटी जाती हैं,
यादों के कटघरे में नहीं;
सिर्फ़ इनायात के तजरिबे में|
Saturday, May 24
Narendra Modi: new twist to Asian story, world history
It is amusing to read some of the invective both pre and post Modi win, and people sharing it on social media: the variety includes leftist intellectuals who still yearn for some socialist, subsidy-ridden state; human rights advocates, who conveniently forget years and years of Hindu-Muslim riots that happened all throughout Congress-ruled regimes in Gujarat, something that is no more there since the post-Godhra riots in the last ten years; those who are concerned about the growing strength of a religion, Hindutva, at the expense of sanatana dharma, a philosophy that defines India; environmentalists, who fear from a China-style development, which is supposed to look only towards short-term benefits; and, finally but the biggest quantity, those who haven’t lived in Gujarat, who simply read a CNN news article about Modi’s revoked visa or rights records and who don’t know what secularism is and assume it to be some unquestionable good, those who pitchfork themselves into the category of humanists and intellectuals. As always, some concerns are valuable, some others seem to be derived from flimsy grounds, and in many there are a few grains of white and few of black and a lot of grey. And yet, Modi has often been painted as black, univocally black.
Sunday, May 18
life of a human
smoked tunas are hung out
to dry on walls by the beach, bicycle
I have only heard of smoked salmons.
But they sound nice.
I would like to play
some football. I do not know how I get
I have heard of Pele and Maradona,
seen pictures of busty girlfriends.
But all of it looks nice.
Tomorrow, you will come, you will go,
like a cloud some rain, then barren
I have heard of love and hearts in a flutter,
read stories where they died together.
But then, it dreams nice.
I have wondered about the Dhaka muslin,
or more about Dacca. Spellings carry
Under which lamp now sits the boy
whose grandfather once weaved looms of splendor?
And it touches nice.
I have sat under the low, mango tree
counting the stones they pelt. I would like
an alphonso steamed in the fumes of
My favorite will be Stromboli.
But it tastes nice.
And then I wonder,
if strombolied alphonso is same as
beach-hung smoked tuna?
I wonder who will tell me,
I dream no one will,
Tuesday, April 29
सन्नाटे की चमड़ी
हर अंधेरे की ओट पे है सवाल,
मंत्रणा करते केंचुओं को फ़िलहाल
न मिले माई-बाप, न ननिहाल|
सागर से जाके पूछो, तो टक-टक,
जैसे समय की लड़ी बेखटक
दौड़ती जाए, एक साँस एक-टक
चाहे कितने ही सेतु की हो उठक-पटक|
ज़लज़ले के भीतर न तुम खेलो,
खेल बड़ा है, दाना-पानी बना लो,
आग में भस्म होने का चैन ले लो,
पर आहिस्ते ... वरना सब खो लो|
शैतानों के देव अब करें समंदर पार,
न बादल न जल करें संहार,
कोई वाद, तो कोई विवाद को दे हार
जब चले प्रलय का तमाशा, बार-बार
Friday, March 7
तनिक बादल पे गेरू नहीं,
न कहीं गहरे मन का नील,
बस सफाचट नभ तपे, तपाए
संगमरमर के मकान-ओ-मंदिर,
जैसे दिन चलते चलें, बिन आग, बिन बरसात,
और शिथिल उच्चारण में फँसे ओम,
वैसे बढ़े रोग, बढ़े दारू,
फैले अचेतना, न रंग न प्रकाश|
Thursday, January 23
मेज पर किताबें रखी छोड़े,
सूरज की कॅंपन को अनदेखा करे,
जाड़े की रेशम-सी गलियों के बीच,
कहाँ निकल गया था, रे?
कौनसा संकल्प तू ने ऐसा बाँध लिया था,
कि भूल गया तू इस गुलिस्ताँ के
पाबंद मज़े को, नाज़ुक मोहब्बत की लड़ी को?
हैं रे? किस आग में झुलसा ऐसा,
कि सब ग़म को पी गया, न हँसते, न गाते?
देख! यहाँ आसमाँ के रंग नहीं बदले,
न वे कोने-कचुले जहाँ तेरे चर्चे रहते;
उसी उम्र में फिर मिलना हुआ
कोई रंजिश बिना, जैसे बिन मौके की बरसात
आज गिरी मेरे आँगन में, न दस्तक, न माफ़ी|
तू आया है तो आराम कर तनिक,
मेरी आँखों के सवाल हैं गुम, हैं अंजाने,
तू सुना, अरसा हुआ तेरी ज़ुबान सुने,
क्योंकि यही सामान ले कर जाना है मुझे,
कहीं दूर, जहाँ तेरी यादें हों, तू न हो|