थोड़ी सी उदासी है

कितना ख़ामोश समां है
थोड़ा सा अंधेरा है
मैं हुं और आसमां है
और थोड़ी सी उदासी है

जो मिल सका मिला है
किसी से न कुछ गिला है
ये मैं हुं वो काफिला है
और थोड़ी सी उदासी है

कुछ सुक़ून मिला है लिख के
कलम के हाथ बिक के
कुछ और देखुं लिख के
क्योंकि थोड़ी सी उदासी है

ज़िद पूरी कर ली सारी
भूली सभी लाचारी
मंज़िल को पा लिया है
पर थोड़ी सी उदासी है

ऐसा ना हो कभी के
तोडू़ं मैं दिल सभी के
तूफान बन ना जाये
जो थोड़ी सी उदासी है

सब ख़त्म कर मैं दूँगा
शायद ख़ुश मैं तब रहूँगा
क्या चाहती है ये जो
थोड़ी सी उदासी है

इस ख़ामोश से समां में
अंधेरे के रास्ते में
मुझे आप कैसे दिख गये
मुझे आप कैसे मिल गये
क्या मेरी तरह भी आपको
थोड़ी सी उदासी है

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Ghazal #4


आँसू बहुत हैं तो ये काम कर ही जायेंगे
सहरा तेरे सराबों को हम भर ही जायेंगे
AaNsun bht hai so ye kaam kr hi jaeNge
Sahra tere sairaaboN ko ham bhar hi jaeNge

शोर में तो ख़ैर कब लगता था दिल मेरा
पर ऐसी ख़ामोशी में तो हम मर ही जायेंगे
Shor mai to khair kab lgta tha dil mera
Par esi khamoshi mai to ham mar hi jaeNge

कहना आसमाँ से के वो दर खुला रखे
दश्त से निकलेंगे तो फिर घर ही जायेंगे
Kehna aasmaN se ke wo dar khula rkhe
Dasht se niklege to phr ghar hi jaeNge

और हम से ले भी क्या सकती थी ये दुनिया
हम से दीवनों के तो बस सर ही जायेंगे
Aur ham se le bhi kya skti thi ye duniya
Ham se deewanon k to bas sar hi jaeNge

ऐसे अनासिर से बना है मेरा बदन
जितना भी संभालो मगर बिख़र ही जायेंगे
Na jane kese anasir se bana hai mera badan
Jitna bhi sambhalo magar bikhar hi jaeNge


Sahara= desert

Sarabon = Mirages

Dar= door

Dasht= desert

Anasir= particles

STILLS #7

STILLS

#erotica

A white bed sheet, silky and smooth, is entrapped in curls of itself and a pair of hands. His hand is clenching her palm and the bed sheet in between.

And somewhere between their fingers a red rose is entrapped, waiting to be crushed, right then and right there, knowing this would be the only way to its freedom which would come when he would loose his grip on her when they both will be crushed like rose.

****

Through STILLS writer would portray various phases and faces of life in the form of stills. Like a photographer. There would be no movement but each element would say its story. There would be no dialogues but emotions would be communicated.

So the concept is very simple. a photographer can capture a moment, but can a writer do the same?

STILLS #4

STILLS

#ChildLabour

Look at that hill and the sun behind it, radiating its glory and singing its pride. When you zoom out you see a roadside stall. People are busy in their usual routine. Washing, cooking, making tea.

At the centre, there is a nine-year-old kid sitting on a bench. His undershirt is pale due to dried sweat and his skin is suntanned. His hands are rough and wrinkled. The sweat drops on his hair tips are shining like diamonds of a king’s crown.

He has a cup of tea and a biscuit dipped in the cup.

A same age boy sitting next to him is looking at him with satisfied face while everyone else is still busy in their daily routine, washing, cooking and making tea.

****

Through STILLS writer would portray various phases and faces of life in the form of stills. Like a photographer. There would be no movement but each element would say its story. There would be no dialogues but emotions would be communicated.

So the concept is very simple. a photographer can capture a moment, but can a writer do the same?

STILLS #2

STILLS

#terrorism 2

“A man in his mid-sixties, guarded by four armed men, AK-47s, is delivering a speech in front of a hundred people. His eyes are red and venomous and sparkling. His nostrils are flaring and a nerve on his neck is on the verge of bursting.

His audience is listening to him carefully. They are holding their AK-47s to the sky. Their eyes are full of hate.

At the far corner, a six-year-old girl in her white frock is licking her ice-cream and looking at all of them with puzzled eyes.”

****

Through STILLS writer would portray various phases and faces of life in the form of stills. Like a photographer. There would be no movement but each element would say its story. There would be no dialogues but emotions would be communicated.

So the concept is very simple. a photographer can capture a moment, but can a writer do the same?

The Happiest man on Earth?

Untitled-2

Antony Fartey was ten when he first felt as he was feeling now. His face was pale and he was sweating as though his body was nothing but a shower. His light blue shirt had sweat marks at armpit, at shoulder and at collarbone. The air conditioned atmosphere of his cosy cabin had no effect on him. He looked restless and troubled. He loosened the tie and closed the lid of his laptop. He went back on his chair and tried to relax. He closed his eyes and wished this would get over, very soon.

No, he was in no state to bear it. He stood up and walked two rounds in his office. He opened the gate of his cabin and went towards the washroom, two cabins away. He was about to enter there when a guard stopped him. ‘Sir, there’s some plumbing work going on, No one can use the washroom today.’

Antony cursed the man whose face he saw when he woke up in morning. That was a threatening situation for him. He called his secretary and asked her to cancel all his today’s appointments. He started to run in the corridor, slipped twice and dashed two persons in his way and did not even care to apologise. Entire office looked at him in disbelief. He had realised that he had a very little time left. He took the elevator, entered in and pressed minus-one button. Elevator accelerated down quickly, became steady then decelerated till it stopped at parking. Antony could feel every single movement happening to and in his body. He reached to his car and entered in there, took some deep breathes and pushed the accelerator hard enough that tyres made two skid marks on pavement. On his way he jumped four red lights and almost killed a man and his wife who were crossing the road.

After some fifteen minutes of reckless driving when he reached his apartment, his legs were trembling. They were weak and strained.  He opened the gate. His dog jumped on him and licked his hand. His wife looked worried when she saw him in that condition. Antony pushed both of them and went straight to the washroom.

Ten minutes later when he came out, his wife had swathed her face with a thick cloth and was spraying room freshener at everywhere. His dog was barking like an animal that just had gone crazy. The entire apartment was filled with obnoxious smell of human excreta. And amid all of this, Antony Fartey was standing at the washroom gate, his hand on his stomach, a heartfelt smile on his lips. Antony Fartey was perhaps the happiest man on the earth.