Letter to a friend.

Dear Pari,

Apologies for being late. The romantic that I tend to be – with which I am trying in vain to disguise the facts of my own forgetfulness and lack of respect for time and beings – have always been ironically a prisoner of time himself, waiting in hopelessness and at the same time with eternal hope the coming of the hour where the mind shall wander high and above into those ethereal skies of fluid writing. As much as it is impractical and seems to carry tinges of fatalism, the thought of arranging or let us say, getting mystically arranged for such a “date” with my keyboard has always borne an invaluable premise for the things to follow – which impart me a certain independence and bliss experientially when I endeavour to cast these wordly pearls of little value from the immanent ocean of silence.

Like a fisherman standing on the edge of water, I look at the impermanence of the words themselves that will be unknowingly or knowingly get caught in the net of stream of consciousness. But what is to be remembered is always, obviously, the place where they all have gestated – that space which is inside me, which is inside you; that which is inside everyone and inside which is everyone. Within the space-time, they gestate like my very own children, waiting sometimes desperately and sometimes with ever so slightly terrifying dormancy, to cut the cord of ghostly semi-existence so as to come out of their period of rest or unrest and see themselves manifest in forms that shall play with the world, get all dirty with its muddy ambiguities and sharp with its polished precision and meet in the end like we all do, their own deathly rights in the old attic unless before their last moments, they trigger something of your own – like the autumn leaves carrying the message of our own transitoriness.

Now that I have laid to rest all that aspired to rest, we can get to the rest of the business. Let me begin with something that you can relate to in current context – Writing has always been close to me but closer are the events and people that inspire me to write. You, Parijat, have been an inspirational presence in my life. And when I say that, that does not just have to do  with occasions when you have devoted your time, which by the way is not an easy thing to spend in life – finite and meagre as it already is, to listen to my puny complaints of life and nihilistic conclusions and then with your ever fresh cheerfulness would silently inspire me at level somewhere deep within where even someone’s words would not reach – sympathetic or empathetic, but also when I observed you with others and more importantly you with yourself. There is no one in this world who would go unnoticed if he or she had a pleasing and much coveted combination of childlike innocence and worldly maturity. You are one of those for me. I am not a psychologist who can read minds or see through layers but I am an engineer who can on occasions extrapolate. Keeping that in mind, I’ll assume that your outside demeanour only points to an even healthier and pure inside. Where words fall, beings connect on higher realms and I had the privilege to share that realm with you where you became my Guru – one who inspires. My friend says, ” You do not have to go and take a formal permission and education to make someone your Guru.  Anyone who inspires you become your Guru that very instant and you then bow to that being out of your own volition and love.” Although one should always remember that this Gurutva also can be a transient quality and though, I am committing a sin of confessing my Shishya feeling towards you, I’ll suggest you to digest this with ease and not let it go to your head which I know you won’t but still a word of caution never killed anybody. Our greatest enemy is Arrogance: Try to be always aware of it. Hence, stay unmoved with this little piece of honest admiration.

Moving on, I have always appreciated your fluid way of meeting with people. In the world, where people are content with their little stagnant pools of friendships and kinships stinking of selfish motives and unnecessary emotions, you are an example of a river – never stagnant and always reaching to far and near both, never making pools and sharing with all. There are no prejudices, no stereotypes, no expectations that prevail in your sense of bonding with others which again is a pointer to something inside of you – vast and flowing which you are in communion with.

As an honest friend and well-wisher, it is my duty to shed light on the other side of the coin. We all are fortunately or unfortunately a part of a game tainted with grey hues. Nobody is perfect. And one who thinks is perfect is at the bottom of the ladder. All I have said is my own account of your current existence and its qualities. But just like any other weather conditions, these too are also subject to change. Be who you are currently and go from there because who you are is pretty awesome. Make that your departure point. The only way is up the ladder. But always remember, there is no end to the ladder – only a direction. Up or Down. Choice has always been ours.

Words have no limit but limitless words have no meaning. There are some things now that should be passed in silence. But before signing off, I would just like to add – Strive on to find something in you from where stem all these rich qualities – virtues and vices both –  but which in itself has always been the subtlest and ever-present base of your very existence.

Happy Birthday.

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The Golden Crescent.

Orange Moon 040720_3707Hours after the sun – ever-lonely in his majesty – has bidden farewell
I slide open the worldly curtains off my puny eyes
Miles away from the stagnant city scrapers and too many brisk voices
On a lonely highway flanked with nothingness on both sides
This evening belongs to fellow travelers and our rendezvous with the silence of the night.

And Lo! We behold a gift from the sky
Like a graceful yet sombre jewel the crescent disc hangs lowly on the canvas of horizon
For a few orgasmic minutes, a humbling privilege in the hearts of men and women blossom
For it is only once in a while that one can witness the moon’s golden smile
And breathe in the most modest of its phases
For it hangs – so low and near in the wildly black heavens – as if by a silky strand of a cosmic pendulum
That in the vast enveloping nihility, I had just stretch out my arm and with a swift yank along the inky skyline
With a stamp of authoritative aloneness make it for the night mine
And on this sharply chiseled and gleaming with tangerine buddy of ours
I had a like gleeful child slide from one tip of lunar tranquility to the other a thousand and one times.

For such an evanescent celestial stint in caging Time
Lustrous golden is the color that exemplifies its kingly might
It commands supreme dominance with all its ingenuity in the spectator-less opera of the night
For stars are white and dusk is no longer in sight
Aaah! What stream of beatitude flows from the concave glacier towards the collapsing darkness of the cosmic ocean
Bathing in it are the eyes of the both worlds
The immensely infinite twinkling gazes from the firmament
And the riveted greedy visions that belong to me and friends alike
One can almost sense the envy tainting Jupiter’s pride
For its audience has been stolen by an ephemeral elysian sight
Like the most vulnerable of arts, you too exhibit extreme transitoriness
Coz disappeared you have already in the river of time
Yet like an apparition you still hang on the horizon of my mind.

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Lucid Moments.

There are times that empower within me a certain lucidity of great magnificence, a feeling of physical and mental lightness that facilitates the ability to levitate higher than self thereby abandoning the heaviness that bogs us humans down to indefinite drudgery. And that is when in the most serendipitous of happenings, I am made to rendezvous with my muse; a communion that I always am craving to achieve at any time of the day. It is like a psychological or spiritual orgasm that culminates in fluid literary outburst. Such a spontaneous high-speed conduit is established that as soon as any thought or subject is painted on the canvas of mind, it is translated into its linguistic counterpart so instantaneously that I seem to always lose the control of the movement of the pen and the presence of someone else at the helm is felt no less than overpowering. It is to be thus remembered that spontaneity as much as it carries casualness is somewhere born in the depths of the heart and is therefore closest to being honest. Hence, I am forever grateful to such majestic times of immense featherly lightness and aspire to witness more of them in future because there is nothing else that makes “present” overwhelming to me other than these volatile yet expansive moments of ethereal lucidity.

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The Green Life.

Grass greets the dawn; dew its myriad eyes

I, high on reveries green, trample on this verdant scene

Lo! Behold the theater of Life.

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Haiku #1

Misty meadows among mountains bedazzle the sight

Mud and mire bedeck thy feet forlorn

Like forever You move on!

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An Ode to the Angel of Night.

collage“Be refreshed in the darkness.” —Rumi
“There is a great joy in darkness. Deepen it.” —Hakim Sanai

Night arrives with an intoxication I love to devour
Like an impish angel with its motives mysterious and dark
Coyly, it whispers to me:
“Let us take a stroll down the starry boulevard
Moonlit especially for you tonight, O my dear lord!
Let this be our dreamy little love story
And Let us talk while we can but don’t you dare speaketh
As by midnight
Along with your secrets darkest and deepest
I shall take you in with all my glory mightiest.”
Her eyes radiant, breath misty and words enchanting
Found me acquiescing for my own pleasure
As I sense at this hour an idyllic scene in making
And the angel with a snap of fingers…..

Night arrives with an intoxication I love to devour
Be always drunken urged Charles
O poet! I choose no wine, no poetry, no virtue
Only night’s deepest of silences and blackest of hues
A tipsy treat to all my senses
“Look me in the eye”, Darkness demanded.
“Listen to me, please, will you?”, Silence beseeched.
“Breathe in the chill”, Air hissed.
“Taste my holy dewy waters”, Mist invited.
“Hey you! Yes you, touch us” Illusions of ghosts provoked.
Wings brought forth by chaos
And I aim for the stars dancing
That is when I feel the envy —profoundest—
In the eyes of an owl protruding
A rotation of head and it contents itself
With the quick view of the world sleeping
Sometimes, Schadenfreude is our only answer to Envy
And the owl with a blink of eyes…..

Night arrives with an intoxication I love to devour
The distant calls of the blue bus I yield in to
The warm waves of pregnant words I drown into
And thus, embarking onto our journey to the higher road
That leads us to the hallowed firmament and skies beyond, We all
—The mystical driver with his silence pacifying,
The bewitching bard and his pupils with their words mesmerizing,
The rollicking band whose members know all about Time and I with my wondering—
Inside Jim’s bus guarded by Blake’s angel of night
Wallowing in Charles’ prismatic drunkenness
Raise toast to this Romantics’ voyage
And at the clank of our glasses…..

Night arrives with an intoxication I love to devour
The journey to the end of world begins at this blessed hour
And so, somewhere a train makes a screech jaded and haunting
Its shadows on the buildings takes along the dreams of people slumbering
To the lands far and unknown, ready to to unfolded.
A killer hides behind cedar tree somewhere in the mountains
For he shall quietly linger there till half-light to strike
As he wants his victims to feel beautiful just before they die
Belle de Jour Belle de Jour, the victims think of themselves at the first light
A hint of narcissism, eh?; Sadly he dines at this junction of day and night
Just when they feel closest to life and themselves
He calmly draws the last sigh off them
“There, there little buddy. Thank me for I have captured your eternal beauty.”
In the vast plains below away from city lights
The intense gaze of planets and stars is adored by a dreamy child
For a moment, he desired to kill his parents
For that very moment, he had fucked himself
Or maybe take a leap of faith in death
Live for the first time and decease for the last
And at the distant whistle of the train…..

Night arrives with an intoxication I love to devour
The old man at the end of line
Looks at this night sky fine
To him nothing but a graceful mirror of darkness
Disgusting reflections of past and visions of future teeming with hopelessness.
Tears in his eyes and weariness in his thighs
A sudden revelation hits him like a lightning bolt out of the ethereal skies
And makes him see it all:
Only memories belong to you
But not those “You”s
Half of the work is perpetually done
You always get rid of the past “You”s
Half of the work is to be done
Renounce the memories: painful or blissful.
The secret of life unravelled
It’s designed frame by frame; the graph of cruel continuity shattered
The eternity of the Present frame: pure, giving and untainted
The ending is nothing but an illusion for it is Always a new beginning.
And as the last tear droplet filled with memories and wishes drips out of his eyes…..

Night arrives with an intoxication I love to devour
A tormented writer begins to cast his spell beneath the lights of lamps and stars
in the company of Melancholic Solitude —a muse to his artistic self and a friend hard to find—
At the sights of own creations shivers go writhing across the spine.
The two friends laugh hysterically, psychedelia dripping out of blue veins
All this calm, fear and depression, the ephemeral visions and lucid dreams
Leak onto the parchment as ink rains
Aaah! The masochist’s only rule of love: the joy of pain.
The autumn leaves in the air drift aimlessly
The face on my windowpane blows them all to the address of his lover —heartily—
Miles across the oceans and lands
Where she has proudly succumbed to a pair of unworthy hands.
The July rains kiss the kid on the bicycle
Soaks away the corruption from his soul
Wait! How do you cleanse the incorruptible?
The rains fell there but arrived here through a wormhole.
The writer falls spirally in a bottomless pit when the eyes rolled and turned within
With one last flicker of light and the fading whoosh of the faintest din
The Stars within dive and die
Leaving holes dark and black; sucking light out of the brightest of girls and boys.
How he envies the blind!
And as the lamps begin to fade out…..

Night arrives with an intoxication I love to devour
With mind wide open, I welcome the confusion it intends to offer
The transient night of cusp, the mysterious presence of number 23 —ubiquitous—
Me and the fellowship returns on the Blue meteor flashing across the inky ether
But this aesthetic odyssey shall not be over
Until we doze off together.
As the blazing piece of rock —heartless and cold— disintegrate
We, the children of cosmic stardust —full of life and glory— too burn out into ashes and embrace our fate
Like phoenix our creations rise and shall with immortality integrate.
The angel’s business for the night is done
For it has once again transcended its lovers to the meadows beyond, where begins all the fun
Because somewhere behind the fog in the lap of horizon
—Where meets the ocean, the stars and the sun—
Under the trees evergreen play those little children whom we forgot in our run.
Night arrives with an intoxication I love to devour
Like an impish angel with its motives mysterious and dark…….

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कुछ शब्द तेरे नाम !

कभी हुकुम तो कर ए मालिक
पेश कर दूंगा वो ज़िन्दगी
जो बस्ती है नीली गहरी खामोशियों में
थी न जो कभी दुनिया की इस भीड़ में
वो जो बहती है मेरे, तेरे और उनके नगमों में
जो थी न कभी हमारे खोखले लफ़्ज़ों में

कलम से टपकते उस संगीत में
जिसके शब्दों के सागर में डुबाता चला मैं खुद को
या उस अजनबी की दीवानी करती निगाहों में
जिनमें देखता मैं अपनी ही ख़ूबसूरती को
मोमबत्ती की नाचती लौ में
आहुति देता फिरता जिसमें अपने सभी जज्बातों को

टूटते तारे के दो पल के अस्तित्व में
अँधेरे में ओझिल होती उसकी चमक की रेखा में
आईने के भांति जो करवाती परिचय
मुझको मेरे ही इस छोटी पर हसीन मौजूदगी से
गंदगी में भी जिंदगी का सबूत पेश करती
बारिश के बाद गीली मिटटी की महक में
जाड़े की उस सुबह की घनी धुंध की सफ़ेद नदी में
जो बहती चली जाती
जिसके आगे का न तेरे को पता लगता, न मेरे को
जहां देखा वहां पाया इस तार को मैंने
हंस दिया अपने ही होने पर मैं

छोड़ पीछा अपनी इन आदतों का
जिसकी चादर ओढ़े तू अपने डर को छिपाता
दरवाजों की भीड़ में खोल कभी तू
उस तनहा दरवाज़े को
दुनिया की भाग-दौड़ में जिसे तू कहीं पीछे भूल आया
अरे क्या करेगा इन साँसों का
जब सीखा ही न हो तूने कभी जीना
कहीं मिट न जाऊं मैं किसी दिन इस दर्द से
क्यूँ न तू ही पहले कूद जाए इन इश्क की लहरों में
शब्दों के इस जाल में अगर तू कहीं खो जाए
सफल हो जाएगा लिखना मेरा
अंजाम दिया अगर तूने इन शब्दों में जागती अपनी हसरतों को
सफल हो जाएगा होना तेरा !!

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