Disclaimer: All ideas presented by the author in this weblog are purely fictional and any resemblance to any person or organization is purely coincidental... (and all that crap)

सुनहरी बेड़ियाँ

यह कविता लिखना बहुत ही दुखद था|
दुःख इस बात का नहीं था कि सब चुप हैं|
दुःख इस बात का था कि मैं भी चुप हूँ|
इसी चुप्पी को तोड़ने की एक कोशिश है यह कविता पर मुझे पता है की यह सन्नाटा टूटेगा नहीं
इसलिए नहीं की हम असक्षम है परन्तु इसलिए
क्यूंकि हम डरते हैं
किसी और से नहीं.. बल्कि खुद अपने आप से
अपनी कमज़ोरियों से|
अपनी ही कमज़ोरियों की सुनहरी बेडियाँ पहन रखीं है हमने
और खुद अपने आप से लड़ना बहुत दुखद है|

रौशनी को ढूँढता हूँ अपनी आखें मीच के,
छिप रहा हूँ अपनी ही परछाइयों के बीच में|
लहू की लाली फीकी है, अब पानी बहता नव्जों में,
शोले दिल में हैं मगर बस चिंगारियां है लव्जों मे|

कीर्ति का कर थामकर, कर्त्तव्य का कर भूलकर,
कौरियों के वृक्ष रोपुं कृतघ्नता के मूल पर|
धन है, यश है, ज्ञान है, समाज मे सम्मान है,
स्व, स्वयं, मा, मम, अहम् मे खो गया इंसान है|

इमारतों की खिड़कियों से झाँक कर जब देखता हूँ,
जलते घरों की तपिश से बंद हाथों को सेंकता हूँ|
खून की बारिशों के छींटें सन गए है वस्त्रों पर,
जंग करने चले कलम से, ज़ंग लगे है शस्त्रों पर|

मातृभूमि की वह ममता, मातम के तम मे लुप्त है,
मत की कीमत मोतियों मे, मौत मिलता मुफ्त है|
उँगलियाँ सब उठ चुकी अब फैसले का वक़्त है,
उँगलियों की मुट्ठियाँ बनती नहीं, सब व्यस्त हैं|

क्रांति के वह लेख कागज़ की कश्तियों मे बह गए,
कर्म का कर विसर्जन, अर्थ अर्जन करते रह गए|
चीखते तो हैं सभी की हौसले बुलंद है,
त्याग पथ पर कौन जाये, इस बात पर बस द्वंद है|

युद्ध भूमि तक पहुँचने से पहले ही हार रहा हूँ,
मूक इस आवाज़ से उस रण ध्वनि को पुकार रहा हूँ|
आईने के सामने एक मृत शरीर सा दीखता हूँ,
बेड़ियाँ हैं हाथों में पर क्रांति काव्य लिखता हूँ |

बेड़ियाँ हैं हाथों में पर क्रांति काव्य लिखता हूँ |

The smartest answer I had

(This post has been censored to keep myself from getting fired )

I was sitting with my neighbor watching the 9 p.m news about the CERN Big Bang (We are mad losers with big brains, lets see if we can destroy the universe) experiment, and contemplating with relief about my Project Launch which was now possible as “Mommy! Look what I made! Its called a tiny black hole” experiment had been postponed.My thoughts were suddenly interrupted by my neighbor when he suddenly asked me “You really think it could have created a black hole ?”

Ah Ha!! Right question to the right person!! Given my extensive knowledge on the subject and to some extent,the questioner’s apparent lack thereof,I decided to deliver a brief but intriguing “Funda Session” about n-dimensional Riemannian geometry and relativistic effects of alpha-hadron collisions, whilst he listened attentively unawares of the widely held belief that all I know about the Black hole is that ‘It sucks!’.But here I was delivering an unfaltering speech about the technicalities of making a black hole and finally finishing it off with a brief note about the racist implications of the experiment and why it is called the ‘Black’ hole and not the ‘White’ hole,drawing analogies with Blackmail and the Blackberry.

Bravo!! I was pretty sure that the guy was dumbfounded and wouldn’t have noticed a single flaw in my expert analysis of the subject.After all, and most modestly, I did have bigger brains than him.(Incidentally,he was a 10 year old kid.)

The Spot Of Ink

When you write an exam and come back, its not the questions and answers that you remember. What you remember is the momentary pause, the glance you took at your neighbor’s face,the few seconds when you stopped writing and looked out of the window, when you heard the birds singing outside, and followed the rhythm of the creaking fan for a second, before you went back to writing..Life is like that.. The moments which we “live” in are actually the moments we don’t even know that we are living in.When you pause while running through the motions of life, you might not realize that, that’s when you are actually experiencing the phenomenon called life..Its not when you are writing. its actually when you pause and the ink spills, smearing your blank sheet of life, that you actually live.

The Spot Of Ink

The T’s tail hung loosely
The I’s eye looked blind
Smearing the insanity of the space
The spot of ink was left behind

Countless lines drawn,So much writ
And yet so much more to write,
A jungle of thoughts chime along
Like a thousand voices in the quiet

And yet its silent,empty,
I sink deep in ethereal waters
Gazing at the shining bubble of life,
As the impending tide no longer matters

Pause.
Life has stopped
I stop running and take a look around
The cheers and jeers echo in my senses
While I listen to silence’s sound

A moment stolen
From the vaults of time
It never appeared
But it was always mine.

Clutching it, before I started afresh,
I stopped to look, to wonder, to think
The lines, the words are washed away
All that remains, is the spot of ink.

Women = Beauty ?

A tribute to the female beauty which has inspired man since eternity.No wonder then, that many of the beautiful creations of literature have been about women and their beauty.Do also read the previous post “Women = Horror ? ” to reveal the complete meaning

There’s something about your eyes,
That makes me think again
There’s something they speak of
A fire, a fear, a pain…
Can’t look at you in the eye
Feel a tingle when I do
When my heart stops for a moment
I know that it was you
I weep and I cry
Gather myself and decide
I need to get away…
But I can’t get away from you.