muniya re muniya

  They laid their lives left the lands numb so that we sleep in the night's hum. But who would know in the light of freedom, sleep would still be endowed not so easily to some. Picture Credits: Tarun Thakur

  A new home is being constructed on the grave of Toona ciliata . Earlier, parakeets would sit on its branches. They would show their curvy bodies against the dense fog of a wintry morning. Today, they sat on reinforcement bars belonging to columns of the future's structure. They also have found another tree nearby, which displays its bareness before the spring. They sat like they would earlier, mourning for another loss. They wore quietude like they would earlier, against a heavy white morning. Did gossip of the town matter to them? "Oh! The winters are late! Its mid-January already! Oh, last time it was downright in November!", etc. etc. Maybe it never mattered. Maybe, what mattered was the arrival of winters, whether sooner or later. Parakeets chirped like they would earlier, when the sun penetrated the prevalent translucence. Maybe, nothing is late. Nothing is early either. Because these are relative terms which bind our gossips to a thread.  Maybe parakeets seek life...

Referring to a poem which I had written sitting in my room on the roof lit by fairy lights, " Sold ", in the city of Ahmedabad. When I was writing it, I remember writing it multiple times. The process involved writing different lines at different times on different days. I started with, "there is a giant mountain behind another mountain...", and then in the following weeks I started writing about the roads, the rivers, the night. Eventually, this got sewn into a feeling which I wanted to share. A feeling of running out of affordability to make certain choices after having made certain choices. And thence came my favourite line - For the future's lure, my breath is sold .  It got published in the 'LAND' issue Volume 3, No.3 AUTUMN 2020 of The Urban Transcripts Journal where I presented the poem as an expression from a migrant student. May find the link as  Sold - a letter from the city

This is in continuation to  Dear Spiti  . Landscapes are the underpinnings of any form of life. Experimentations in the field have long been resolving ways for human needs and practices, impacting biodiversity through changing inter-dependencies. Traversing in a Himalayan region proffers a deep understanding of the relation between landscapes and their impact on life forms.  I wrote some notes from a journey undertaken in the summer of May 2019 from the Lesser Himalayas, towards the Greater Himalayas, and transcending the Trans-Himalayas.  A spectacular transition can be observed from the forest landscapes (Shimla Hills) to the barren landscapes (Spiti Valley). It is further revealed how altitude variation exacts upon to lead a cold mountain desert from a lush green jungle.  The weaving of culture into landscapes is extremely profound. I observed that while faith becomes a pioneer steward of the local landscapes, human practices can offer controlled and sensitiv...

डरती हूँ मैं कि क्या करूँ ? क्या हिम्मत रखने की गुंजाइश अभी बाकी है ? हँसते हो तुम, सोचते हो कि कमज़ोर हूँ मैं, डरपोक भी, शायद मुझे अपना बल दिखाना अभी बाकी है। तुम्हें यदि ऐसा खयाल है कि मेरी पहचान है तुमसे और मान सम्मान भी तो डरती हूँ मैं ! डरती हूँ मैं तुम्हारे इस खयाल से, हँसते हो तुम, सोचते हो, तुम्हारी उंगली पर नाचता खिलौना हूँ मैं, कि कमज़ोर हूँ मैं, डरपोक भी शायद मुझे अपना परिचय देना अभी बाकी है। और यदि तुम्हें ऐसा खयाल है कि मैं देवी हूँ ! कोई सीता या काली हूँ तो डरती हूँ मैं ! डरती हूँ मैं तुम्हारे आदर से, मुझे दिए गए सत्कार से, हँसते हो तुम, सोचते हो, तुम्हारे कर्मों को सहन करती हुई मौन मूरत हूँ मैं ! कि कमज़ोर हूँ मैं, डरपोक भी, शायद मुझे अपने रूप का अनुसरण करना अभी बाकी है। क्योंकि तुम्हारी दी पहचान है ज़्यादा कुछ ख़ास नहीं, मुझे देवी-सा पूजने का ढोंग है आया कुछ रास नहीं, डरती हूँ तुम्हारे मैले मन से जो मुझ पर अपना हक़ समझता है डरती हूँ मैं अकेले चलने से, कि कदम हर मर्द पर अब शक करता है। हँसते हो तुम, सोचते हो, कि मिट्टी से उभरी नाज़ुक गुड़िया ...

There is a giant mountain Behind another mountain, Lit by houses Like stars laden to its silhouette. And here I am, in a desert. Where giant are the buildings Laden with all fancy and bright, Making me blind. There is a gushing river, Schools of fish, The Victoria bridge I looked from. Beside which lies an ancient cave. And here I am, on a parapet, Watching a dead stream. Beside which lies a new road. Golden but grave. There is plenty of air, Pure and cold. Fragrance of the fresh, An elixir to breath. And here I am, amidst the puffs Of smoke, flying dust. For the future’s lure, My breath is sold. There is a forest. A forest of chirps, Of snarls, roars. Belonging to the fittest. Ensembled present of hopes. And here I am, again in a forest Of concrete, horns and honks. Belonging to the weaks Of intelligent stature. Entangled in the illusion of the past, Now, fixing futures. There is a sky so blue. Where my dreams would fly With a circus...

PART 1, 2013  -  याद ही है तेरी बस तूने देखा ? वो आँगन जिस पर हमने रंगोली बनायी थी, न जाने क्यों अब धूल हो गयी है।  जिस आँगन में... वो! कुर्सियों का घर बनाया था, न जाने क्यों अब मुसाफिरों का मुकाम बन गयी है।  हमारी यादें उस आँगन में सिमटी हुई,  अब न जाने किस-किस की तस्वीर हो गयी है, ताश छुपाये कोने वाला कमरा भी ढेर हो गया है।  उससे भी पहले ढेर हो गयी वो बालकनी, जहाँ नाना संग *ब्यास को घूरा करते थे।  वो कहते हैं कि सरकार सड़क बढ़ा रही है... घर बिखरता देख रही आँखों में,  दर्द का सैलाब उनके भी है।। हमारे बचपन के किस्सों को न जाने कितने पहिये कुचलने लगे हैं।  शिकायत करूँ ? क्या कहूं !  दिल हल्का करने के लिए तू भी साथ नहीं है।  हमारी हंसी की फुलकारियों को , न जाने कितने हॉर्न शांत कर गए हैं ! खबर दे दूँ तुझे, कि अब उस गेट पर कभी झूलना नहीं होगा, उस खेत के पेड़ों पर फिर चढ़ना नहीं होगा, उस चूल्हे की गर्माहट में खुद को सेकना नहीं होगा, वो कहते हैं कि सरकार सड़क बढ़ा रही है... छुट्टियों के ...

Thou! Like the Great Grandfather, Strange and Strong. Proud, in way Thou stand, By a river, narrow but long. Stubborn in Thy dominance, Thou crouch on, to guard. Rocks, trees, in reverence, Turn bare and hard. Thy strict facial expression, Hones the attitudes of lives. Thy high altitudes, Infuse coldness in mind. Thence mind relentlessly longs Solitude in Thine old arms. In a trance, I leave the thoughts Of anything I can jot. Before Thy cold desert, Dear Spiti, My being is only a dot, My being is only a dot.

क्या होता है तुम्हारे साथ भी ऐसा ? या मैं कुछ अलग हूँ ! इस दुनिया में चल रही हज़ारों लोगों की ज़िन्दगी चंद नमूनों के कारण थम जाती है। वो मदारी के भांति उन्हें नचाते रहते हैं। शायद... मैं भी उसी भीड़ में एक जमूरा हूँ। मगर ये कैसा नाच है ? जिसमें किसी की मर्ज़ी नहीं होती, जिसमें कदम चलते तो हैं मगर मानो किसी जंग के लिए। ऐसी जंग जिसमें न तलवार है न ही कोई बन्दूक। बस, एक सोच है। सोच ! जिसके तले ये तमाशा बन रहा है और मैं इस  नाटक में समायी हुई हूँ। क्या तुम भी इस नाटक में कोई कलाकार हो? या मैं कुछ अलग हूँ ! आँखें हैं सभी की जो देखती होंगी सब कुछ। हैरान न होना यदि मैं कहुँ की मेरी भी आँखें हैं जो स्वयं को दुनिया में पाकर स्वयं से अनजान और कमज़ोर पा रही हैं।  इस भाग-दौड़ में तो मैं भूल ही गयी कि सबके पास एक अपनी छोटी ज़िन्दगी है, जिसे बड़ा कहने में मुझे कोई हर्ज़ नहीं, जिसे सजाने की चाह में सब किसी सोच की लपेट में हैं, माफ़ करना, चपेट में हैं।  क़ैदख़ाने की आज़ादी में अब अपने पंख फड़फड़ा रही हूँ किसी पंछी के भांति और विशवास है साथ कि एक दिन  मैं भी महात्माओं के भांति उस सोच का...

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, ...

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...

[ #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 ...

ये रेंगती हुई सड़क ज़होर की ओर बिठा गई है डर घूम जाने का दिला गई है भरोसा फिर भी, रास्ते का जिसपे इठला रही है ये सरकारी बस, कंडक्टर भी झूलता हुआ युँ किराया बटोरता एक तरफ़ से ये पहाड़...

I dream. I would be there. On the border. Guns and Arms. Eyes on unrest. Mind vigilant. With a proud heart. And Love. Still there in my heart. Somewhere deep. I dream. I would be there. In the school. Colourful chalks and duster. Teaching them about life. And its ways. Bending down on rough roads. Mending the matrix. Of a tough lattice. With terrific energy. Just as the young. And fire. Still there in my heart. Somewhere deep. I dream. I would be there. Writing with a fountain pen. On chunks of papers. My story, your story, our story. And everybody's story. For us. For them. Perhaps make us gauge. Over little things. And smile. Still there in my heart. Somewhere deep. I dream. I would be there. Visiting the world. And capturing in the eye. Taking notice. Of the unfathomable culture. On the world map. Spending evenings. In utter silence and awe. With You. On the side. And drink. Still there in my heart. Somewhere deep. I dream. I would be there. Living a life of 10 to 5. Breakin...

The world is small. And some people are meant to run like a loop in your mind and in your life at times. Maybe that is how people come and go. Maybe that is how people meet and stay, sometimes leave. And when there is strong resistance inside your heart about wanting to leave or of wanting to let go, things fall into place without much ado. After they left the movie hall, Muniya and Anaira strolled towards the market. Some sunsilk...Some handkerchiefs...Some vicks...The moment they stepped out of the shop and began walking back, there, Muniya's eyes pointed out at him. Chamkeela stood looking back as if he had already seen and knew where was Muniya. Muniya in utter surprise brought Anaira to meet the stance. Oh yes! It was Chamkeela...But how come? A surge of happiness ran inside Muniya. Chamkeela was someone Muniya could not explain about. Like there are leaves on the tree... strange to the relation. Like a cactus in a desert... unaware of its strangled existence. Like a less tr...

[ #1 : NOTES FROM DALHOUSIE ] A clear day is all I wait for after rains. And a few rays of the sun at such a time at Dalhousie would pull you out of your coop. Once they arrive, the monsoons! Misty evenings, white sky, new insects arrive by default. And no wonder why we find all the nearby Punjabis travelling to here during scorching summers. Its a cold charm. "The Pouring Sun...Blazing Summers...All Despite...Dalhousie is respite!" A shower in the early morning with sun peeping by the noon, a white sky follows in the evening for a pleasant walk into the misty road where everything wet succumbs to the dark silent night as if no sign of life till the death of the moon. I walk. Out at 6:45 evening. Or perhaps 7. Its the time of the day I wait for and pray it doesn't rain. Mostly it rains near and about the time if it does so I am almost saved. Call it a near miss, my evening walk and the unpredictable rains. Its the gush of people at the Subhash Chowk on the ...

And I found myself murmuring during the first rays of the sun. "Teaching is such a noble profession. But you see most of the things have been digitized now and the impact which a teacher had over the students by scratching the chalk on that blackboard has gone missing. That flair of teaching has its own grace." Half sleepy - Half awake : I am not able to make the why and wherefore of it.