ਅੱਜ ਮੀਂਹ ਨਹੀ ਪੈਣਾ

ਤੈਂ ਸਚ ਈ ਕਿਹਾ ਸੀ,
"ਸ਼ਰਤ ਲਾ ਲੈ, ਅੱਜ ਮੀਂਹ ਨਹੀ ਪੈਣਾ,"
ਰਸੋਈ ਵਿਚ ਖੜ੍ਹੀ
ਪਸੀਨੋ ਪਸੀਨ ਹੋਈ 
ਮੈਂ ਹੱਸੀ ਸੀ, 
ਬੜਾ ਹੱਸੀ ਸੀ,
"ਹਾਂ, ਤੇ ਮੈਂ ਕਦ ਕਿਹਾ ਮੀਂਹ ਪੈਣੈ?
ਇਹਨਾਂ ਦਿਨਾਂ ਵਿਚ ਮੀਂਹ ਨਹੀਂ ਪਿਆ ਕਰਦੇ,
ਬਸ ਮਿੱਟੀ ਲੱਦੀਆਂ ਹਵਾਵਾਂ ਸਾਹ ਘੋਟਦੀਆਂ ਨੇ..."
"ਨਹੀਂ,
ਕਿਹੈ ਤੂੰ ,
ਮੀਂਹ ਪੈਣੈ,
ਮੈਂ ਕਹਿਨਾਂ
ਮੀਂਹ ਨਹੀ ਪੈਣਾ।" 

ਤੈਨੂੰ ਕਿੰਝ ਪਤਾ ਸੀ,
ਅੰਦਰੋਂ ਮੈਂ ਮੀਂਹ ਦੀ ਉਮੀਦ ਲਾ ਕੇ ਬੈਠੀ ਸਾਂ? 

ਮੈਨੂੰ ਲੱਗਦਾ ਸੀ
ਮੈਂ ਸ਼ਰਤ ਹਾਰ ਗਈ-
ਪਰ ਬਾਹਰ ਬੱਦਲ ਆਏ,
ਮੈਂ ਅਸਮਾਨ ਵੀ ਘੋਖਿਆ,
ਸਵੇਰੇ ਤੈਨੂੰ ਝੂਠ ਮੂਠ ਆਖਾਂਗੀ,
"ਰਾਤ ਕਿਣ ਮਿਣ ਤੇ ਹੋਈ ਏ" -
ਤੇ ਤੂੰ ਹੱਸ ਕੇ ਆਖੇਂਗਾ,
"ਲੈ ਬਾਬਾ ਤੂਹੋੰ ਜਿੱਤੀ।" 

ਆਹੋ ਮੈਂ ਈ ਜਿੱਤੀ ਆਂ-
ਅਖੀਆਂ ਅੱਜ ਏਨਾ ਕੁ ਵਰਸੀਆਂ
ਕਿ ਸਭ ਬਰਸਾਤਾਂ ਹਾਰ ਗਈਆਂ । 

ਰਾਤੀਂ ਮੀਂਹ ਪਿਆ ਸੀ-
ਬੜਾ ਮੀਂਹ ਪਿਆ ਸੀ ।

तुम तो रहोगी न

क्यों पूछते हो -
"तुम तो रहोगी न ?" 

***
हाँ, रहूंगी न 
जब मेरा मकान
ईंट ईंट तोड़ोगे
तो एक ओर खड़े रहकर
तुम्हें देखूँगी,
सूटकेस में
मेरे घर को निचोड़ कर
ले जाते देखने,
मैं रहूंगी न....

सुनो
वो श्रापित राजा की कहानी याद है?
जिसके बदन में कीलें घुस गयी थी ?
रानी निकालती रही,
कितने रोज़, हफ्ते, माह, बरस...
और जिस दिन बस दो पल के लिए उठी
तो बांदी ने आख़िरी कील निकाली,
जगते ही राजा ने सोचा इसी ने सेवा की है,
रानी यही है, 

राजा और बांदी को पंखा झेलने
मैं तो रहूंगी न....

Shards

Am I the mirror in which you wanted to see yourself ?
And on purpose you shattered me? To see your multiple selves ?
So why does it now scare you to hear that nightly noise from those numberless shards?
(June 21, FB)

just...

Broke

Threadbare

Nude

ਿਕ

ਕੋਿੲਲ ਦੀ ਿਤੱਖੀ ਹੂਕ

ਵਾਲੀ ਕੂਕ ਸੁਣ

ੳੁਹਨੂੰ ਦੱਸਣ ਨੂੰ ਿਚੱਤ ਕਰਦੈ-

ਕਮਲੀੲੇ

ਮੀਹ ਮੰਗਣ ਨਾਲ ਨਹੀ

ਬੱਦਲ 'ਕੱਠੇ ਹੋਣ ਨਾਲ ਪਿਆ ਕਰਦੈ

ਤੇ ਬੱਦਲ

ਆਪਣੀ ਮਰਜੀ ਨਾਲ ਈ 'ਕੱਠੇ ਹੋਿੲਆ ਕਰਦੇ ਨੇ

The Play

I am a character in a play, you said.

…..

I am fighting with myself, you said.

….

Perhaps

One character

Is fighting with another...

A play within a play?

You filled a void.

You left a void.

I filled my void,

I created my void.

What is this place?

Your presence

Makes the heart lonelier…

Words,

Our connection-

Broken,

Chapped

Bleeding,

Hurt.

I with You

I am a name

a face

a smile

a glow

to you.

To me

you are

a dot

in the dark

that you weave around

yourself.

The dot

that

I refuse

to

move

or

remove.

...And On this 9th March

You went

I crumbled away.

then I gathered the bits again

and built myself

limb by limb

again.

Some days

the pasting was

just a bit harder

then life came along

to give me a wall

to lean against.

Now,

why am I scared

of forgetting you?

***

Some days you do not have the luxury to cry. On those days, you do not have the compulsion to laugh either. You go back, and again try to balance all your equations. And you suddenly find that life was not fair to you. That life took from you what you desperately needed. And then you suddenly realise that another side to balancing the equations is to start counting your blessings. You had realised that three was not four and five was not six; but you recall that you have had some threes that plussed with one to make a four, and some plussed with two to make five.

Life gave you the cards that you could deal in your own way. It were your hands that mattered. But some hands are just not lucky with cards.

Like clay. It destroyed a pot, then you picked up the bits and pieces, and kneaded it again and wet your hands again and then you put it again on the wheel. It took another shape to give you one complete whole.

You are scared, lest this new vessel should break too. So you cover it, so you protect it-at all costs. At your cost. And then you set it free.

I know the story is not complete. It can never be completed. Not by me...

Love La

Congratulations !

You failed

my borsalino test

when I said

“no”.

I built my bridges

but

did not cross them

over to you.

Now,

all that remains

is

lingering around in

lonely

libraries

looking

at dusty covers

and

faded loves.

Journeys...

The sign at the Metro Station

Announces

“The Train Ends Here”

“Yatra Samapat”

... I walk on...

the lock

Every night

Before sleeping

I remember

to lock the heavy gate

Outside the courtyard

Of my house

From inside.

I do not want

Any intruders.

Tonight

I picked the golden lock

And pushed a silver key in.

I was attempting to lock it shut.

My Words

I, in an emotionally challenging moment, penned down some words in Punjabi which I have posted on my Punjabi blog- Kaaghaz de Kujh Purzei. In a casual chat with my friend Sumanto, I happened to tell him that I wanted to put it up here too, but that I had not done a good job with the translation of the poem. He, very kindly, has translated it for me-rather as he puts it- he has 'transcreated' it for me. Your input is worth appreciation, Sumanto. Thank you.

++++

kamrey ke maroothal kee

deewaro'n se takraa kar

jab

mere lafz

mehz aawazein ban reh jatey hain,

main maa ban kar

pingley baccho'n ki tarah

unko goad mein utha

darr-darr firti hoon,

duaayein maangti

shayad

kabhi shabdo'n ke kaalib* mein

fir se rooh dhadak hi jaye.

(*kaalib-skeleton)

++++

Words rebound

lose their sound

in the four walls

of the desert of my room.

Tired whispers

die a silent death-

in the desert night.

I do my mother act

Gather the fractured words, my progeny,

Onto my lap-

caressing,

petting,

knitting prayers on my lips.

I roam about

each corner of the desert room

Hoping for an oasis

if only the skeletons could get back

the touch of blood

and

live upto life again.

I Drive All Night

I drive all the way
In the middle of the night
To smell you-
wondering
Will you drive me away from the road?
or
Will you open your arms and
take me into your house?

That empty bottle
Of armani black code
Keeps you on my shelf.
You do not even know
What keeps me
in love…
To drive me crazy enough
To drive in the middle of the night to reach you.

Long silences of absence
of stealing looks,
and turning away…

What became of
That drive through the night
To reach you?

Equations

This was originally thought and written in Punjabi. Original version in Gurmukhi is here. I am not very good either at Maths or at Hindi-kindly bear with me.


kabhi kabhi
hisab kitab kartey
samikaran asantulit ho jatey hain.

swaal suljaatey
kitna dhyan rakhti hoon
barabar ke nishan se
is paar ka tol
barabar ke nishaan se
us paar ke tol
ke barabar rahey.

jama, manfi kartey tang aa jati hoon
varshon ke abhyas ke baad bhi
jab samikaran sahi nahi hotey
gussa aata hai hisab ke teacher par-
mujhey kyon nahi sikhaya
yeh samikaran samaan karna?
barabar ke nishan ke is ore ko
barabar ke nishan ke us ore ke barabar karna?

bhag, guna, ghatao, jod-mere bas ke nahi shayad...
mere samikaran shayad
youn hi doltey rahengey?

I Walked on Landmines

All night
I walked on Landmines.

Landmines
I had buried over my life
and
Forgotten.

I died or lived after last night?
I don't remember.

I lived perhaps...

But
I am maimed
Or complete?
I don't remember

Akhiyan/Eyes

It was a couple of days ago that Parry Singh (incidently, I have two blogger friends sharing this name) left a comment on one of my poems and expressed his wish to 'make it into a song.' I had just smiled it away thinking that my poems or whatever they are, are not lyrical enough to be sung. I keep my Punjabi poems away from this blog because not all the friends visiting this blog understand the Gurmukhi script.

Nonetheless, he took the trouble to email me the musical version of my words two days ago. I was wonderstruck. My poem perhaps is not very great, but his gesture took my heart away. That you thought of giving music to a Punjabi writing means a lot, Parry. I request all my friends to go to his post and listen to this and to leave comments there. It is not very lengthy. Even if the words are in Punjabi, you would definitely enjoy his music. You can read the text of the poem here.

Recycle

These days
the complaints
do not automatically
shift to
the communication department.

Melancholy
does not by itself
get converted to
giggles.

The rubbish accumulates;
The migraine pinches.

It hurts to know
the recycling unit
in the brain

is not working 'normally.'

Life

Life is

fast evolving as

a roller coaster ride

on the graph of time.

The crests touching the skies,

the falls leading deep down

into the abyss

below the earth.

ਸੱਚ / Truth

Initially I posted only the original poem in Gurmukhi script. For those friends who know Punjabi but cannot read the script, I am transliterating it in Roman. I have dared try a working translation. Hope it makes some sense. There was some problem in spacing. So, I just ended up giving different colours to the three segments.

ਇਹ ਝੂਠ ਹੈ

ਕਿ

ਸੀਤਾ
ਅਗਨ ਪਰੀਖਿਆ ਮਗਰੋਂ
ਜ਼ਿੰਦਾ ਬਚ ਗਈ ਸੀ ।

ਸੱਚ ਤਾਂ ਇਹ ਹੈ
ਕਿ
ਹਰ ਯੁਗ
ਹਰ ਜਨਮ
ਹਰ ਵਾਰ
ਅੱਗ ਦੀਆਂ ਲਾਟਾਂ ਵਿੱਚ
ਸੀਤਾ ਦੀ ਰੂਹ
ਸੜ ਜਾਂਦੀ ਰਹੀ ਏ;
ਸੀਤਾ ਦਾ ਦਿਲ
ਫਟ ਜਾਂਦਾ ਰਿਹੈ;
ਸੀਤਾ ਦਾ ਮਨ
ਮਰ ਜਾਂਦਾ ਰਿਹੈ;
ਸੀਤਾ ਦਾ ਮਾਣ
ਟੁੱਟ ਜਾਂਦਾ ਰਿਹੈ ।

ਹਰ ਯੁਗ
ਹਰ ਜਨਮ
ਹਰ ਵਾਰ
ਸਿਰਫ਼
ਸੀਤਾ ਦਾ ਜਿਸਮ
ਅੱਗ ਵਿੱਚੋਂ ਸਲਾਮਤ ਨਿੱਕਲ਼ਦਾ
ਵਿਖਾਈ ਪੈਂਦਾ ਰਿਹੈ –

ਸੀਤਾ ਦੀ
ਮਿੱਧੀ, ਸੜੀ, ਮੁਰਦਾ ਰੂਹ ਦਾ ਮਾਲਕ,
ਹਰ ਯੁਗ
ਹਰ ਜਨਮ
ਹਰ ਵਾਰ
ਮਰਿਆਦਾ ਪੁਰਸ਼ੋਤਮ ਅਖਵਾਉਂਦਾ ਰਿਹੈ ।

For those who know Punjabi but can't read Gurmukhi:

Eh Jhooth hai
ke

Sita

Agan Parikheya magro'n,
Zinda bachh gayee si.

Sach ta eh hai
ke
Har yug
Har Janam
Har vaar
Agg dian laatta'n wich
Sita di rooh
sarrh jandi rahi ey;
Sita da dil
fatt janda reha ey;
Sita da mann
marr janda reha ey;
Sita da maan'h
tutt janda reha ey.

Har yug
Har janam
Har vaar
sirf
Sita da jism
agg wicho'n salaamat nikkalda
wikhayee painda reha ey –

Sita di
middhi, sar'hi, murdaa rooh da maalik
Har yug
Har janam
Har vaar
Maryada Puroshottam akhwaonda reha ey.

Says who?
that
Sita

survived the Agni Pariksha

The truth is
that during
Each era
Each birth
Each time
In the flames of fire
Sita's soul
burns to ashes;
Sita's heart
tears open;
Sita's mind
dies a hundred deaths;
Sita's pride
suffers a thousand cracks.

Each era
Each birth
Each time

saw
emerging alive out of fire
only

Sita's body.

The owner
of

Sita's crushed, burnt, dead soul
in
Each era
Each birth
Each time
has been known as
Maryada Purushottam.