muniya re muniya

अपनी ही सोच में  गिरफ्तार हुँ  मैं । बाहर अकेले चलूँ   सौ नज़रों से ऊपर उठकर, फिर भी हुँ एक धागे में पिरोयी हुई सुई,  ज़माने पहले की बेड़ियों को  तोड़कर चाहे मरोड़ूँ,  फिर भी ज़माने क तजुर्बे में  गिरफ्तार हुँ  मैं । खामोशी सी पसंद करूँ कभी  तो उठने वाले हज़ार सवाल हुँ  या किसी की नाराज़गी में चीनी हुई  खामोश दीवार हुँ, शोर मचाऊँ, तो आंसुओं सैलाब हुँ,  कुछ बना रखे थे ठिकाने से   अपने लिए  जिनपर चलना हमेशा से बाकी है,  पर एक यकीन है  फ़र्ज़ी सा,  कि चाह कर भी वो मिलेगा नहीं  क्युंकि खुद की गिरह में  कहीं भीतर सी  गिरफ्तार हुँ  मैं।  है ख़ुशी कि कोई झलक  साथ रहती है मेरे,  वो झलक ओझल है  या शायद मेरी आँखें धुंधली  उस झलक की ख़ुशबू ऐसी  जिसमें सौ फ़ूलों की महक,  वो फ़ूल जिनकी कायल हुँ  मैं  जिन्हे संजोने की चाह में  डर है,  कहीं मुरझा न जाएँ,  वो झलक है जो, उसे कैद करने के इंतज़ार में गिरफ्तार हुँ  मैं,  अपनी ही सोच में  गिरफ्तार हुँ  मैं, गिरफ्तार हुँ  मैं।

Dear Tall People, I do not want to address you as ‘dear’. I used to think – because you think you are tall(er), this should make you more grateful and humble towards extra inches of yours but to my surprise, the case isn’t so. You consider yourself as normal. So, I ask. What is your problem with me finding myself as much okay as you do? Why can you not stop even that faintest impression of the thought about my height, and stop blabbering seamlessly? Who am I? Who am I to think so generous of you? Who am I to even think anything about you without even knowing you? I ask you. You, who thinks is taller than me. Who am I? Nobody! I am nobody. And, so are you. You are nobody. You are nobody to tell me again and again how tall I stand because the moment you do that you expose the measure of your height to me. Height of how low you can think. Height of how low you can be to save yourself from some unwanted complex. Height of how low you feel about yourself that in order to u

I walk, slowly, Leaving my apprehensions Downright at the doorstep, For I smell something, tender, Like Mint, and I pray By the Holy Basil, Sprinkling water over The rose-like cabbage, Erecting the vines As a vertical hostage, I search for French Beans today And forget what I was searching Before I stepped in between These green lines, where Little buds complement the Fenugreek, An escape is all I seek From the conundrums of the day. Engaged, I feel. I gaze. Can’t help but be gay. I walk, slowly, Breaking the boredom Of the humdrum In my garden.

Inside the Forest. #1 Trudging through the grasses as tall as me under the scattered canopies of Boswellia serrata makes me ponder over my belongingness to a forest and the belongingness of the forest towards its parent, and as to numerous phenomena that have taken place over a period of centuries. A long procession of birth, evolution, survival, destruction and rebirth is emanated by the forest. It is a deciduous forest which is showing its colours of the monsoon. Most of the vegetation in the forest has its own niches and emerges in variable combinations. After walking sometime through the trail, I see Tamarindus indica shadowing the path. I take the liberty to pluck its leaves. While one side of the trail is really dense with a lot of undergrowth evoking a sense of mystery, the opposite side runs into a valley which forms rather an open scrub area. This transition from a denser grain of the forest to a sparse one brings in the school of thought that just as Aravallis afte

And I realise thereafter that this was an experience I had been longing for. Tracing what eventually formed up the system which has prevailed past the centuries before the humankind opens you up to a phenomenal process and several reasons to utter an amazement. We were in a forest. A forest trail. Maharana Pratap Trail. And this was a reason enough to find all kinds of evens and odds about a trek. Dr. Sunil Dubey, an elite person, a naturalist, an ecologist, a scientist, what not and an extremely humble man exposed us to a hundreds of plants species, trees, the understoreys and their stories. Penning down everything to a precision would be a treacherous task but the 24 of us were trying hard. Clouds were hovering all the afternoon and winds were palpable on the climb. We were moving down the hill now. Towards Badi Lake. Because we were moving down the slope, my classmates were walking a bit slow. Among those grasses as tall as me, I was trying to make it a bit fast and move on th

For the permanence in his name I reckon Everything that he is An endless pouring rain An ocean immeasurably deep Nothing to take back For he brims with love A fragrant shower A happy game Where everybody wins A real movie, A One Man Army For he fights for all Wrong that he sees Feels even the perished stone Brave and meak, an irony at heart Where every drop of tear is a pearl Rare and precious His bound soul, I reckon For the permanence in his name.

[ #1 : Notes From Dalhousie ] [ #2 : Notes From Dalhousie ] Just when we finished the turn near Bunny's Fast Food, arrives what is the Subash Chowk and up that we go from there is to that Church. A couple of months or more, the stay of Netaji in Dalhousie when according to history he also suffered from TB, bagged this chowk a name after him. St. Francis's Church. We began to climb venturing into the animals and birds of little kinds on the sides. The shop of candles and toys, and the eventual slim path to the Church. Churches have been a childhood fantasy for the reason that they were built in a different way and looked different. Like castle? The sound ambience of the Church tends to draw you towards its focus. And the designs leave you in utter awe. All the time. The Lancet Windows. The Gothic Arches. The Holy Cross. The Silence. We may write the wishes in the papers lying there and put them in the jar for they may come true upon praying. "Get me a cycle this