The Gentle Voice (एक कोमल वाणी)

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जगजीत की गायी हुई यह नज़्म कितनी संवेदनशील है। एक बार सुनने के बाद, बार बार गुनगुनाये बिना नहीं रहा जा सकता।

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I used to visit my maternal home very often and this mammoth tree always greeted me, just beside the red post-box. Once, when I stepped off the rickshaw, the far end of the street looked bare. It took a few moments to realize that the tree was not there. Its decimated remains were all that were left. The branches were torn apart, the leaves had wilted and were shuddering in the breeze. The massive trunk lay like a martyr, revealing the web of long, deep roots. It was a sinking feeling.

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I did not write this poem. Rather, it was written for me...a long time ago

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हिंदी में यह मेरी पहली कविता है। मेरे एक मित्र का सहज विचार इस कविता की प्रेरणा बना। उनके उस प्रश्न-रूपी विचार ने इस उत्तर-रूपी कविता को जन्म दिया। उसी कविता को यहाँ आवाज़ दे रहा हूँ।

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The other day someone said, “In order to keep a drowning relationship afloat, one has to pay through surrender.”

Well, the surrender is not the price tag. Surrendering is beautiful as long as it is natural. If it is natural, you will not even notice it. The fact that we notice our surrenders indicates that we are being made to give up something under some stress or threat or an emotional influence......

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Run all you can, but the ego will follow you, haunt you. By resisting, by escaping, it can not be lost...can not be defeated. This is what is discovered in this poem.

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One of the 'Miss-you' nights. The poem depicts my yearning for her

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A few years ago...perhaps 11 years ago, a friend of mine opened up his heart and told me how he lost his first love. She was diagnosed with a tiny hole in her heart and did not live for long. It is not easy to forget our first crush and he too narrated about his lost love with a streak of longingness in his voice. I wrote this poem for him. I remember he was very touched...

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The poem depicts a struggle between the insticts and freedom from them. It represents a deep confusion over how to transcend natural urges which throw one back into the world of misery again and again.

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The poem depicts an intense urge and effort to find one's true self. It brings forth the futility of all effort and search mechanisms in the quest to reveal one's nature. Finally, the realization dawns that it is much easier to recognize who you are if you simply remain effortless and aware.

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When my daughter was small, she used to insist for a bed-time story, like all children too. This is one of those stories...for her.

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The poem depicts the mind's tendency to keep swaying back into the past and forward into the future, never staying put to enjoy the present moment. I am waiting for the mind to settle down.

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The poem depicts the miserable local travelling conditions in a Metro city of India

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A poem filled with nostalgia

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I was driving through that lane after many years when I saw that house. When I had visited it last time, about 15 years ago, it was full of life and laughter. It was my friend's birthday.

Today, the wall-paint had peeled off, the iron-gates were rusted, the shrubs and bushes had gone wild, a window was broken and there was no door at the entrance. Perhaps they had shifted a long time ago and had forgotten about the house and their life there altogether. Just like me...

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It is not that I have not felt it before, but as my parents grow older everyday, the fear of losing them has crossed over from the sub-conscious to the conscious.

In this poem, I re-live some of my cherished moments with them.

Mom, dad:- This is for both of you

ONLY FOR YOU
--------------
Every now and then...
I roll out
of a rude dream
and find myself
in some unknown stretch
of the night;
gaping blankly
...almost obtusely
at the false ceiling.

It is
at a time like this...
when the preceding dusk
is left behind... a long way
and I have no idea,
if the first blush is near
or still faraway;
that the mind conjures the cine-effects
like an elaborate multiplex
and a myriad portraits of you
and your groom
begin to flicker.
*

...There is that veteran wedding-album
of nineteen sixty seven.
In some photos
you both look tired.
In others...
...happy
...unseasoned
...childlike
...shy...

I see your vibrant un-arrested youth,
those wonder-filled eyes of first,
and then the second instance
of parenthood.


Do you remember mom?
And you dad?

I remember:
The grammar, the math
and the etiquette
that you have taught;
the silly queries
that you have solved;
and the medical opinions
that you have sought
for your gasping, asthmatic son.

Do you remember mom:
the eleven a.m. tea,
and peeling out the peas
in the cozy winter glee?

And dad, do you remember:
the visit to the cynic herb-doc
and the early morning moped-rides
in the impenetrable January fog?


Dad: Your out-station tours
Mom: The memoirs
of your childhood

...................∞

I remember so many of our times together.
How I wish they could last forever.
But as I approach thirty-eight,
the inevitable dread
stares in my face
and often...
the rude dream that I wake up from
is about the time when you will be gone.
*

Tonight
is one such night
and I hope it is alright
to tell you
that even if I were sixty-two
I could hardly do
without;
your unconditional blessings,
honest counsel
and a love
that is
…immutable and true.
*

The heart is now at the brim
and like for every intense feeling
the vocabulary has become slim.
A few words quiver:
Thank you, love you, miss you....
None delivers
but I know
that you will know
just like you did before.


Therefore,
the remaining composition contains
all my pure silence

...only for you.

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The poem depicts the turmoil of an immature mind which wishes to cling to youth and is depressed by advancing age.









THE AVALANCHE
--------------

Unlike before
a young lady ignored
my presence.

My heart broke
...once more!!!

Nineteen times
out of twenty
this would
not have happened
to me.

But this time,
it did
and I slid
into a peculiar sadness.

At a later hour
I looked at the mirror
and
a plump little man
with partly grey hair
glumly returned the stare.

The young man
of yesterday
had been demolished
simply by the way
time moves ahead
...quietly
...surely
and
the youth is buried
inevitably
and irredeemably
under the cold, old years,
that come cascading
disapassionately
along the avalanche of time.

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For poor dear God. May he be saved from the modern man!!!
--------------------------------------------------------






Much time had passed.
God 'Almighty'
had been choking quietly
in the 'holy' building;
imprisoned skillfully
by the fanatic devotee.

Many a scholar
and master mason
had given
a 'false to life' expression
to the scriptures
and to his features.

For long,
he had longed
to get away.
So,
one day
he cleverly escaped,
only to find
the crafty politician
on his way.

And now,
the tale of His slaughter
is simply a part
of the manifesto matter;
vigorously voted for
and voted against
by a 'theist'
and a progressively decaying nation