सुदूर आकाश नहीं, बस पास ही में,
ताज़ी हवा के झोंकों से
भभकनें को लालायित,
क्षितिज की आड़ में
नवकल्पोज से प्रज्वलित
भोरकल्प के सूर्य ने मुझे
आम किन्तु अभिग्य नज़ारों
की हल्की झलक दिखलाई है.

पवनांचल में कलोल भरती बया ने
फिर मुझे,
उड़ने की याद दिलाई है;
यदाचित,
आज कितनें दिनों बाद
पखों नें
सहमीं सी ली अंगड़ाई है.

बहुत दिन हुए-
उड़ते सोचे हुए;
उर्वी को ढके
अभिमानी कल्प-व्रक्षों के
ऊपर ही कहीँ,
सत्य से भिन्न झुड्मुठ पर
उड़ पसर बैठ,
मैंनें,
ठान भरी नज़र दौड़ाई है.

परों को,
दे रहा था विश्राम जहाँ
धरा है क्षितिज ये नहीं;
परे नहीं पर दूर है जो
पश्चिम नहीं पूर्व है जो
विलंबित प्रणय परिपूर्ण है जो
भोर ने बया में जो दिखलाई है
वह तृप्ति ही वो ऊँचाई है
इस व्रक्षांचल पर बैठ
अब जिस पर नज़र गढाई है.

I took this picture of Bayaa on my latest visit to Jhansi - my native. For more similar pics visit: Bayaa ka Ghonsala

It was a dull Sunday. My movie plans were cancelled by a sudden fake pain in my friends over filled tummy. It was one of those empty evenings, when mind doesn't perceive input from the sensory systems and heart doesn't expell any emotions either. Suddenly, I saw these three objects on the table and the idea of a wallpaper became a vivid imagination.

The output: My first self made wallpaper of my newly procured laptop. I love it!

Before I start, I would like to explicitly state that I am not a spiritual guru, or in any sense do I incline to decry any other form of spiritual or religious believes. I do not intend to preach or give gyan, but share my innermost thoughts.

लाल रंग के क्षितिज के
अनदेखे कोनो को सहेलते,
शरमाते चंदा की
मुस्काती आभा को आधा छुपाते,
आसमान के पेहलू में
मचलते,
ये टेहलते बादल,
तुम्हारे धुंधले से चित्र बनाते,
क्या कह जाते,
क्या पता,
पर मेरी तन्हा ख़ामोशी को
तुम्हारे प्यार की मीठी ज़ुबां दे जाते,
ये पगले बादल.

बादलों की घनघोर शामॉं में
बरसती बरखा से केश तुम्हारे
अपने झुड्मुठी घेरों में
मुझे छुपाते;
चमकती तबस्सुम की तपन,
में धधकते मेरे मन
के
अंतह पटल पर उभरते ये चित्र
मेरी कल्पना के सत्य हैं,
या किसी म्रग-त्रिष्णा का धोखा
पता नहीं...

(Contd. from last post)
Kalapeepal was a small peaceful town. It was though blessed with highly ambitious youth. This small town had so many to-be heroes; and that nobody even knew what would be the platform that would make them great. They just wanted to grasp the opportunities about which they‘d heard, read and discussed on the local Vachlayas and Pan Shops. It was when they heard the news that the neighbour had declared a war on the motherland; their amiable hearts were suddenly filled with fire to fight. They somehow saw their worth. Many of them went to the Army Lines and gave their physical tests. Not reacting much to the usual initial concerns of their families, many went to the Mountains of which they"d only heard of; and where sometime, some of them had planned a holiday with a beloved; they went to defend someone’s dream by marring their own.

It had become quite usual since the past month to get news that the Pappu, Pintu or Sonu of the local lanes and Galis was now an honoured martyr of the brave-land. B K took those messages personally; not just for the fact that he knew everybody personally, but more so because he had a sense of duty – duty he considered equivalent to that of ones who were fighting – duty he used against the same fire that burnt inside him – duty which was his sole principle of life, and thus though B K was much pained to deliver the messages of grief, he did it with much responsibility. They were his kids too who called him Chitthi Chacha amicably; to whom he used to distribute Orange Toffees on every occasion of National Importance; and on whose corpse he now was to offer Orange flowers.

“Badam, believe me it is the most difficult things to do! 12 already and I don’t know how many more this time. Hey Ram, what a pessimist am I! Ram will bless all!” was all B K said to Badam as they walked at a brisk pace towards the last coach.

Ramu was already there taking out the bundles. B K had nothing to do over there; but sitting there, alone, did not match the gravity of the situation. Rain had expanded its voraciousness; the storm seemed to have gathered energy of those were departed; the board that hung there was oscillating rapidly. Shyamu brought some relief in small glasses.

“Sahib, chai.” He said to Badam, B K, and the guard who had stepped down to join them. The guard and Badam took theirs but B K, just stood there – watching. His eyes said what he couldn’t; his face showed what he never meant to. It was only a slight pat from Badam that he became conscious of Shyamu’s offering. Ramu was now taking out the last bundle, when the chain holding the board relieved it of the hold as its tenacity succumbed to the heavy patting from the storm. ‘Cleanliness is Godliness’ was now at B K’s feet. The thunderous thump overpowered that from sky followed by a terrified silence that pervaded through their spine.

The following morning had its own bright charm in Kalapeepal. The clouds only covered the western horizon and they gave way to the Golden rays to descend with novel freshness. There were no bad news and B K, having segregated the delivery last night was eager to visit people whose Sons had written to them. He had all the good news to deliver today. He wanted to be a part of their joy Ð as much now as he had wanted to lighten them of their grief. It was a unique day after so long when he would not deliver anything to see tears of pain but tears from elated hopes of happy returns. It was much more a relief for B K, as he had been watched upon as a messenger of bad news; that he was now being looked upon as the physical embodiment of Yamaraj Ð The God of Death; and the worst was that B K knew his present reputation and hoped that he would be cleansed off this black sardonic adjective, as and when the time would settle the black soot floating around in the air.

ÒPOST MAN!Ó announced B K and the moment the lady of the house saw him, she broke into an emphatic rendition of mourning words.

ÒHai Raaamm! Bill ke BaapuuuÉoh my son, oh my Bille. Oh bille ke Baapuuu!!

ÒWhatÉwhat happened?Ó asked Sharma ji, alias Bille ke Bapu.

ÒOoo why ask meÉsee whoÕs thereÉpost manÉBilleÉwhy did you leave me so soonÉmy sonÉmy poor billeÉ.I told him not to goÉhe did not listenÉÓ Sharmain (Mrs. Sharma) was now out of reach of any form of conciliation

B K anyhow controlled himself and finding Mr. Sharma more composed, said, ÒSharma ji, itÕs a letter from your Bille. He is very much alive and written that he is ok and would be coming back soon.Ó

B KÕs words had an instant effect on Sharmain. It was as if somebody suddenly, through some remote control, reversed the emotions of the face of Sharmain. Though the words turned around the emotions inside, her facial ex-pressions and tear glands were not yet prepared for such a sudden change. She cried of happiness; and she was laughing with a frowned visage; and she thanked her God with all her heart, soul, mind, and body; and that she, finally, ran inside and brought laddoos and milk and offered them to B K.

ÒBhaisaab, take some sweet. I donÕt know what to do and you cannot imagine what all I can do now! Thank You! Thank You! Ram bhala Kare (may God bless you)!Ó and breaking down again into mixed feelings, took the letter, turned, shouted and almost ran inside, ÒRAANO! ~o RAANO! See Bille sent a letter.Ó Raano, BilleÕs newly wed, who stood and listened to everything from behind the door, was suddenly escalated from pits of dark mines to the heights of colourful skies; and that emotions of both mother and daughter started to flow together as though they were two rivers, which, just intersected into one.

B K took one Laddoo along with lots of greetings and moved on for the next. He knew that his day will be full of such dramatic events. ÔCongratulationsÕ, ÔBadhaiyanÕ, ÔThank GodÕ: these were some of the many exclamations that he used while he delivered the happiness to them.

"Cleanliness is Godliness", stated one of squalid, not so conspicuous, stained by the time, weather and neglect bill board, with pale white script on a background that had patches of green - as green as the grass marred by the equatorial Sun of May. The board hung amidst the various species or rather structure of species which have lost their vigour amidst the web of raunchy spiders that looked calm and calamitous under a flickering dim tube light. The clatter created by the variant levels of speeches by passengers, vendors and the machines; the cacophony somehow fitted with the aforementioned state of the billboard. As though, it was representing future of the Earth, with evil and disaster everywhere, green cover vanishing, devils staying "calm" and poor innocents decimated in their webby machinations and the radiant Sun flickering to death!

Not too far from the mentioned could-be paradigm of the future, hung an electric clock that had served its purpose accurately since ages and now, seemed to be giving itself to the times. However, with matchless determination of never ending the service life, it still clicked with great pride. The sound of each tick increased as the time passed with its famous persistency, and the darkness that had waited the whole day, was haunting the azure, and seemed to have a direct proportionality with the clock’s time. At the same time the clamour at the Junction seemed to have a reverse proportionality with time. The living matter had started to depart to their respective abodes, as if they were composed of substance quite sensitive towards these alterations in the surroundings; and that the sound of each tick of the old clock was a command to them to leave this place; and that they obeyed this command with due obeisance which was quite conspicuous in the festinate manner they wrapped up and called it a day; and whereof they’d go from here would be matter of their own personal choice that defined the method in which they found tranquility for a few hours.

Kalapeepal Junction was quasi-empty now and those who were left were the care takers, and some Railway Employees. The last passenger-train was about to arrive but it seemed to have lost the race with the dark clouds. The attack of drops was sudden. The tick of the mighty old clock was struggling to keep its identity as the thick drops made rhapsody with the concrete flooring of the station; the flickering tube light could be seen to have subdued to it’s mechanical limits and the black portions at each of it’s end were the signs of it’s slow but chronological death as it became soul-less when the civil power supply was cut-down; the responsibility to flicker was, though, taken upon by flashes in the overpowered sky. The variance in the intensity of light inside the station master’s room depicted the struggle of a solo candle flame. A silhouette was then seen emerging suddenly from the room, which became a shadow in the dark outside, hasting towards a wall. Tun, tun, tun, tunnnnnn… sounded the bell, grumbling loud to have woken up from a deep long sleep. Badam Singh had sounded the alarm for the upcoming passenger-train – a duty he rendered for over 33 years, giving an oriflamme of monotony.

Like the never-isolated pristine trees in the primordial jungles, he too, was not alone. Upon rendering his routine tasks (of which he was so used to that he could do them as well, even if, God forbid, he turned blind) he ran towards a small quarter accompanying the railway station. The quarter had with itself, the left-over impressions of the colonial rule; that it suggested the flourish of an architectural style which was quite in unison throughout the vividness of this vast land; and that, though the walls of the same were to befit an Englishman by some invisible rule, they were nonetheless, now, more used to the benign presence of Brij Kishore alias B K. Rutt-Tutt-Girgitt-titt…the sound of an age-old telegraph was confusing the female frogs outside. War was triggered on the mountains and B K was working alone and over time as there were a plethora of messages to be sent across, and he was the only qualified person to do so. His tired hands were resting as they hanged aside the right angled wooden chair, but their task being skillfully accomplished by the feet-thumbs!

Brij Kishor was now almost 60. He was the postmaster cum telegrapher. The general features that his physical structure carried were uncannily common in the GPO chambers of India; and that even without the knowledge of his profession one would be inclined to assume it correctly. Thick bifocal glasses with the plastic frame; a long face with tense ex-pression, medium cut well oiled hair with 50’s style slopes at the sides and back; an off white half shirt which was never meant to be tucked in – the left pocket of which was loaded with a pocket notebook quite conspicuous by the outwardly rectangular projections it created inside the boundaries of the pocket; and of course the trademark Arrow Ball Pen.

“B K, the evening mail has arrived!”, announced Badam Singh, followed by an impatient termination of all the sounds that filled the atmosphere. With definite alacrity, the intense ex-pression that stayed on Brij Kishore’s face suddenly vanished and gave way to fear, and a mix of alertness and nervousness. With a flash that matched the one outside, B K stood; reshuffling his shawl, he accompanied Badam Singh to the Station.

(to be concluded...)

Sometimes,

When the ‘tick’ allows,

I dive into the oceans

Of Visions

That fill-in

The deep abyss –

Within.

The eyelids softly,

Yet profoundly

Disconnect

The tactile incarnation –

Lame `n` futile

From

The quixotic phantasm –

Sane `n` juvenile.

Standing

Silent Simper;

Sensing

Spirited soul;

Seeing

Slow Sun-set;

Sea

Self-Surfing;

And

Sighing!

Do I face –

The terminus horizon

Unifying the separation;

Do I feel –

The soothing solace

With breeze surveying

My unclad surface;

Do I hear –

The silent mutiny

Of soul revival

Do I see –

Her hazy Face Gleaming

From The Setting Source

That’s Final.

Ah!

Oh! Alas!!

These moods

Of pure divination

Swing me back,

In a flash,

To live with living death,

In this sick asylum;

Waiting for eternal rest,

By the ‘ticking’ Pendulum.

This time, our ever so active HR department, decided to keep the routine project party scheduled on the last day of June, circa 2007 - as a corollary to keep their deep rooted pledges to keep the employer and the employee satisfied by distracting the subject of salary increments to fun parties – at Choki Dhani (A Rajasthani Resort, full of exotic services and entertainment). We all have an incredible capability to modify our plans and readjust our priorities when the matter comes to fun that is free – the fact duly attested by the almost 100% attendance. The place had Free Services worth mentioning: Tel Malish, Head Massage, Folk Dance Floor, Pottery maker (where I made a teeny tiny Pot) and the Jyotish Mahaguru – The Astrologist!

It is worth mentioning here that howsoever inane Astrology may seem to be, but it remains to be one of the most flourishing businesses; and Astrologers will be more than just happy to thank people like our very own Pushpa Mam (original name changed) for their incorrigible curiosity to peep into the future. But many times, astrologers prophecy what may seem to be – a lil outta their domain! Read On…

I am sure that people concerned with astrology and related sciences would definitely come out to help our very own Pushpa Mam after reading this (Mr. Saraf was already rubbing his hands for the help when I first made him read this; and I will not feel an iota of surprise if I get a GB entry from Mr. Daruwala, if by any luck from the stars and planets he visits my iLand and reads this!). Pushpa Ji has lately developed this great urge to know about her future, or should I actually be absolutely candid and precise? I leave it on to you to guess; Yes! Absolutely correct!! She is always eager to know who her lucky (really!?) fellow or in rather modest terms – Mr. Right would be. So deep was the power of that curiosity, that, when others were busy with the delicious dishes, taking snaps, Tel Malish, and of course the puppet items, Madame was trying to satiate her futuristic emotions with the Astrologer present over there. But she hardly had any idea about what he would be coming up with. The astrologer surely had a stint as a ‘compounder’ at a dermatologist clinic; for instead of telling anything about her nuptial vows, he predicted some dermatitis awes; and gave the following observation: “You are a hot blooded animal but your skin looks colder (come on! Do ya expect us to fume after a full drench in monsoon!), and you may develop some really bad skin diseases – and have brown patches on your face; your skin may come out like a peel! (I am sure Pushpa Mam was as cold as corpse, by now). Take this Pancha Dhatu Ring. Its thermal tendencies would keep you warm. Also, take this mighty Pukhraj and that would ensure the glow!”

It is not just strange but the strangest zeitgeist of Information Technology that, somehow, the important things are never heard of (there are fellas who fight against RTI), and the trivial facts are embellished with spices and made mellifluous by overtones of parodies – and hence, by Monday morning mails were sent across with such customized info and everybody’s eyes were waiting to see the Dermi Ring on Pushpa Ji’s finger!

Latest, as received from an eye and ear witness, she told that she was in no mood to be ‘fooled’ by that Astrologer. She told that instead of buying the ring from him for Rs.200, she got it from “All-items-for-Rs.10” pandal (tent) and that she had already noticed subtle positive changes on her face within few hours of application. Very Brainy Pushpa Mam! Kudos! If not an engagement ring, you have the Dermi Ring!
 

So fellas! Skin Treatment is now all time cheap – just a one time charge of Rs.10. For more information you need not to contact me. Happy Skin! :-D

Enjoy and Cheers!

-Abhishek ;-)