Hmm.... the proverbial muse

Junoon ke shikar ho, junoon ke raaste chalo
Bahut kadam rok liye, aaj mere vaaste chalo

Aadha Rasta

On a portal called LSD, posted something long-long time ago. An attempt to recollect a bit in my mother tongue –

Saath chalogi mere? Aisi do pagdandiyan jo na dishaheen hain aur na hi unhe aakhiri manzil ka gyan hai, un par chaleinge hum. Saath saath par apne apne raaston par. December ki ek khushnuma subah ki dhoop mein, garm doodh mein ghulti haldi ka rang liye sookhe patte, hamare kadmo ke neeche cheentiyon se aankh michauli khel rahe honge.

Tum taktaki lagaye kabhi aasman to kabhi kshitij mein kuch talashogi, har woh koshish karogi ki meri nazron se apni nazar bacha lo. Hum purane gaane gungunayeinge aur Bharat ek Khoj mein Roshan Seth ke kirdar ko saraheinge, hum tumhari kavita ko jiyeinge aur meri tukbandi ko theek karne ki koshish kareinge, hum darkhton aur paththaron mein aakritiyan talasheinge aur jab achanak ek hi shabd saath saath boleinge to khil khila kar hans utheinge, haan shayad batana bhool gaya - hum baat bhi kareinge, albatta nazarein churate huye. Yeh pagdanadi badi albeli hai, raaste mein tum kanto ke painepan ko samjhoge aur phoolon par machalte bhanwaron par tumhe taras aayega, hume achanak se zor ki hawa chalne par haath pakadne padeinge aur thapedo se bachne ke liye kareeb chalna padega, shayad apne apne raston ko khud b khud kareeb lana padega.

Kabhi doston ke saath jamun ke ped ko zor se hilaya hai ? Hum kuch bachchon ko rah kinare yeh karte dekheinge, ret par girte jamun bator bachche charo taraf bhageinge, kuch hamari taraf aur kuch us nehar ki or. Hum kheton ki med par chaleinge, tum mujhe bataogi ki kahan kya boya hua hai, mai nazarein bachakar tumhe dekhne ki koshish karoonga.

Fir kabhi chaleinge dost, koi sahi kehta hai, mai man lagakar soch bhi nahi sakta, aalasya ghar kar gaya hai nas nas mein…..maalik

Pocketful of Sunshine

Every living molecule of my being soaked in warm delight as electric sun rays danced on the exact spot that I stood. It was a sleepy, Sunday afternoon for most. But a testosterone submerged routine quarantines few from that luxury, and I am one of the privileged few. So I allowed myself to lapse into a mental conversation of sorts, before it would be time to yield to schedule.

A pocketful of sunshine is all it needs to send you plumbing crevices that hold jumbled-up memories of winters spent in a faraway tropical country that I call home. And where my thoughts and my mind still escape to. Garden-fresh gajar-matar ki subzi, countless afternoon hours spent sitting in the garden, shelling peanuts and then crunching them between your molars, watching the sky turn a burnt yellow and then a tired crimson, clutching tightly with both hands that adrak ki chai ka cup and letting it sear your palms in the most tender manner, and so much more.

By daytime, things are refreshingly different here too. And I see things in a different light, literally speaking! For instance, the neighbour’s curtains are beige coloured not brown as I always thought them to be. Innocuous specks of rust adorn barbed-wire fences everywhere in the world. Yes, even in America.

And that butterflies fluttering their rainbow wings still excite me. I am very tempted to break into a sprint and leap at them, as those lovely, winged creatures dodge my attempt… At that moment I think nothing of dropping to the ground my fancy overcoat, and the fancy contraptions that I carry. But that instant ticks away soon. Only if I could chase butterflies!
And then I told her.

Me: Now I know why weather, especially sunshine finds so much mention in firangs’ novels…
Her: Hmm… Okay
Me: What a tepid ‘okay’. Now I won’t tell you what I wanted to say
Her: What’s wrong with an ‘okay’. Plus, it was an encouraging one
Me: Who are you kidding?
Her: You
(silence)Me: Haan… so what was I saying? About weather…

The Critic

To recover from a work of art is an art in itself. You delve deep into the myriad possibilities created by the artist which he never takes the pain to enlist, project into a space with no ropes around to cling on to and take a shot at basically nothing - "Hmmm......beautiful, this is an extremely intense interplay of colors to highlight a symbiotic realisation vis a vis the protagonists' attempt at falsifying the fundamental reality behind narrator's take on psychic truth in the cultural ball" The only intelligible word being, ball. Ran into something extremely revolting, being praised by all and sundry, on probing an oblong shape and almost a bent arrow replied - "I don't know about art, but the food is good and so is wine and when high, I think I am a critic. " It feels nice to write in English at times.