Poems

बादल, बादल, बादल,
सफ़ेद, जैसे जन्नत,
तुझे देखने के लिए,
खूब धन व्यय करता हु मैं
और तेरे इशारों पर नाचता हु मैं,
लेकिन कब मुझे तुझमे और औरत में यह समानता दिख गयी,
तुझे तो मैं सिर्फ निहारता हूँ,
और उसी औरत को इसके लिए ताड़ता हूँ ।


कई साल पहले,
रोज़ देखते थे तुझे,
आज जब वापस देखा,
तेरे कई रंग ढंग याद आये,
सत्यानाश हो इस कम्बख्त कमोड का,
तू भी पुराने आशिक़ों 
में शरीक हो गयी ।



कहा हो तुम,
यहीं तो हमारा प्यार है,
इन्ही बादलों में, हवाओं में,
कहा हो तुम।

ढूंढें अनुरागी मन तुम्हें,
पूछे हर पेड़, बूटे से,
तुम्हारा पता।

कहीं मिल जाओ अगर,
क्या ढूँढूँ मैं,
मेरे प्यार को,
या इन पेड़, पत्तों, झरनों को।



मेरी माँ की कढ़ाई
जो उसने पाई पाई जोड़ खरीदी थी,
जो वो रोज़ रगड़ के मांजती थी,
जिसे वो साल में एक बार कलाई करवाती थी,
जिसमे रोज़ पाकी सब्ज़ी खा कर मैं बड़ी हुई,
जिसमे मैंने पहली बार सब्ज़ी बनाई थी,
जिसने मुझे इतनी बार दांत खिलाई थी,
आंच काम रखो, ठीक से मांजो,
क्या अगले घर जाकर हमारी नाक कटायेगी?
कभी कभी नफरत होती थी 
मेरी माँ की कढ़ाई से,
सोचा खुद एक कढ़ाई लुंगी,
जिसे मेरी तरह रखूंगी,
मेरी कढ़ाई देख कर लेकिन,
माँ की कढ़ाई याद आती,
माँ की दांत याद आती,
कभी गलती से अच्छी बनाई सब्ज़ी याद आती,
कोई सहेली, बेहेन- भाभी की सीख याद आती,
एल्युमीनियम का एक बर्तन ही तो हो तुम,
मुझे रोज़ याद आती हो तुम।



झाड़ु निकालते हुए एक सहेली याद आती है,
और वो उसी वक़्त याद आती है,
बर्तन धोते वक़्त वही दो क़िस्से याद आते है,
मन हर बार उनको जी लेता है उसी तन्मयता से,
रोटी बेलते हुए एक इच्छा जागती है,
सब्ज़ी काटते हुए करियर के अगले पायदान की नींव पड़ती है,
खाने की खुशबू में गुम मन फिर से नए पकवान सोचता है,
पोंछे और कपडे धोने की मेहनत में,
पूरी ज़िन्दगी मैं जी लेती हूँ,
यही मेरा स्वप्न है, 
यही मेरा फेमिनिस्म है।

The nostalgia of Summers

The hot winds are back
The pressures of school exams over and results out;
With dreams of a new class, new learnings, newer friends;
It was the time to unwind
With tickets booked to that village with the neem tree
My shops, my fields, my gods, my hills, my cousins, my town,
Or to a newer place…

The scent of mango-god; and its juice;
That big watermelon that father would buy for us
Shopping for summer clothes;
That artificial powder with a cooling effect
Watching Amitabh’s films on a rented VCR
Playing kho-kho, langori, or chain chain,
Sometimes it would be badminton or cricket or simply cycling with friends..
Broken knees and arms…

Faded memories make me smile.
Same setting, same mangoes, same cousins, same village, same powder
Never will all of it come back..
Sometimes I will have mangoes, sometimes cousins, sometime village, sometimes powder,
Will join them together and be happy...

The New and the Betrayal

A new body, a new mind,

A new space, a new time,

To look, to touch, to feel, to emote, to sensualise,

To sing, to dance, to kiss, to like, to love, to promise,

To trust, to betray, to cheat, to lie, to break that promise…

What does it take to fall in love? What does it take to begin to love?                                           

The body, the romance, the care, the talks, for sure…

What does it take to remain in love?  What does it take to grow in love?

What does it take to be honest and be in love?

Can honesty and love co-exist? I see them together elsewhere,

But not in the new body, the new mind,

The new space, the new time.

It cannot be that…

Them on that bench…

Amidst the remains of history…

And the suggestive greenery…

Who could they be?

Were they friends?

Were they a couple?

Were they rivals- trying to resolve things that could not be elsewhere?

Were they discussing a court matter?

Were they discussing marketing strategies?

Were they contemplating about what to do with life?

Were they there to bask in the spring sun?

Did they come out of their homes because there wasn’t enough space there?

But there is a lot of space here; unlike there!

Do they really need that space?

Were they only there?

That girl…

Girl… a mere four- lettered word

 But it has already set parameters for her…

To think in a certain way…

And yet she learnt more words…

Inclusion, Exclusion, Pedagogy,

Body, Reclaiming, Identity, Canon…

To recognize that they were mere words…

Found it bizarre that wordplay yielded money to them…

And yet she never earned through that wordplay…

Went on to unravel hidden histories…

Found solace in the past…

It gave her dimensions to her personality…

And when she came back…

She was a four-lettered word…

Mere humdum mere dost,

Tumne mujhe kya kya na diya…

Aurat hone ka sabab diya…

Main shukraguzar hu…

Aurat hone ka matlab…

Meri soch, samajh, usool, padhai ka mujhe balidaan karna hai…

Mere vajood ko nakaar kar, uski nirmam hatya kar

Mere humdum mere dost,

Tumne mujhe kya kya na diya!

Shayad tumhari mardangi meri isi balidaan par apna vajood bana sakti hai…

Aur ussi se hi to tumhara vajood hai,

Uske bina to tum kuch nahi…

Tumhare sanskar hi aise hai…

Macaulay aur uski angrezi fauj ke sanskar bhi aise hi the…

Mere humdum mere dost,

Tumne mujhe kya na diya!

Four and thirty three…

That four lettered word called girl,

Might have that ray of hope in this country called India,

To acquire a political entity,

May be she will be empowered and more conscious,

May be she will not be exploited anymore,

Because that man might be scared of her,

But what if 33 becomes a mere tool in the hands of patriarchy,

I know what you will say,

It already is,

But, but, but,

But what IF she becomes the FRANKENSTEIN

And controls not just the home, but the nation…

But that also exists in the history already…

A de-sexed, power-hungry monster…

At first it was one,

Now it will be 33…

The whore is the host

That night

He could not take it any more

He had to let it out

Bought it and finished with it…

That man

Caught in his manliness, morality and values,

With a tear drop in his eyes,

Vowed never to go to her again,

Instead finished with it without buying it…

The host was the whore now…

Saturday ended and it did with bitterness,

Bitterness grew on Sunday and

Changed into gloominess on Monday morning…

Am glad, am gloomy again- the mad woman has entered the attic again.

Death

Death faced me last three days,

In its many facets,

Sometimes it was just the thought of him going away,

Once it was cancer,

At the other it was death itself,

I want him to live forever,

But that woman said, “Don’t bother your children so much”

The other woman said, “you have lived a healthy, happy life, sleep peacefully”

And the children cried, they did not want him to go away…

Though I wish that I die this very moment,

I am not ready to allow him to die…

Aaj…

Aaj mujhe tum apni taraf aakarshit nahi kar rahe ho

Aaj mujhe mera maayka bhi yaad nahi aa raha

Aaj mujhe meri padhai bhi nahi kheech rahi

Aaj mera ghar ka sapna bhi toot gaya

Aaj mera laadla bhi mujhe apne rudan se nahi hila pa raha hai

Aaj main sirf main hoon

 Aaj main sundar hoon

Aaj main phir se apni potli uthakar duniya me jaana chahti hu

Aaj main sirf main hoon…

The age of decline

With that ability to articulate in more than 4-alphabet words,

You tell me that I am no good

My words are not correct

My thoughts are not even newer

Hey, I never made claims to becoming a Che or Marx or Castro or Hitler

I am only observing around me

And things are so mundane,

And this is the era that we live in…

So will the thoughts be…

Doors will open to your left

In my drunken solitude,

I reach a platform lit with neon lights,

Boundaries between M and D blurred, the cool air notwithstanding,

Entering the casteless, classless, sexless train,

The boundaries remained blurred still,

I turned around, searching for them, my sisters,

May be I shall look into their faces, and might know their stories,

Or at least weave one in my head…

But I found men around me…

Nevertheless, I will still gaze at them and weave another narrative…

I look, and I look, and I could not find…

The faces…

Happy and contented in their meaningless routines,

Or their married lives, with kids and wives

None of them looked at me,

And I woke up to Delhi…

Doors will open to your left,

Please mind the gap!

No Name

Dear Mr Shakespeare

Our heads echo with the question you asked long ago,

"What's in a name?"

And I ask this to me again,

Thinking what difference does it even make?

And this time, when I want to get rid of my name,

I am talking to you,

When I am thinking about wanting another name, another identity, another existence,

Can I really change my mannerisms, my temperaments, 

My moods, my patterns, my existence, my present!

I guess, I now know.....

"What's in a name?"  

The ethereal and the ephemeral

She didn’t have her own children,

Even though her home was very warm and loving and caring

She had built her family around those who genuinely liked her,

She was elated that her daughter and son-in-law conceived a baby in her house,

She felt that God had listened to her in some other way

But her fate never did leave her

And the baby was gone

And the home that she had built with her soul, was about to be gone too

She cried and cried, as the last memory of life in the home was gone

And then another phone call came,

Her another daughter was about to get married

She cleared her tears and said, “This is great news”.

And she began to prepare for her second daughter’s marriage

And wait for the life that was about to become!