This year has begun with great promise: one made by me, some made by life. After all the running around and hassles of the years gone by, there looks to be signs of peace.
There is hope that we can settle down (in more ways than one), let go of the trifles of everyday living, and rest.
Today marks the anniversary of this blog. Today is also the festival of Holi, the Hindu festival of colour and Spring.
This year, though, the festivities will be a shade calmer: the sudden cool prevalent over much of India will prevent many from indulging in the usual wild splashing and watering of people, emotions, and life itself.
However, this unexpected cold does have some benefits. Some I’ve tried capturing in the lines below. Like always, do let me know how you like them.
At times, your words don’t come from you. They are too powerful to belong to one voice, their meaning too deep for one tale. Recently, I uttered some of this sort. They were said to someone I know in a jovial tone, without much thought gone in their formation.
And yet, when I reflected on them, I was saddened. Extremely. By their weight, the lost possibilities they spoke of, the grief of demise they had. Moved, I wrote this poem, and made those words its title. Let me know how you like it.
रिश्तों की उम्र कौन माप पाया है?
कुछ सदियों ज़िंदा रहते हैं, हमें शेरों-कहानियों में मिलते हैं। कुछ पूरी ज़िन्दगी अपने पैरों पर खड़े होने में लगा देते हैं, कुछ पूरी ज़िन्दगी हर दिन जीते हैं। हर एक की अपनी उम्र होती है। हाँ, कहानियां सबकी एक ही लगती है मुझे।
काफ़ी रिश्तों को क़रीब से देखा है मैंने। पाया है की जहां ख़ुशी है, रंग हैं, वह सब लोगों के अपने हैं। पर जहां कलह है, दुःख, रुस्वाई है, उन सबकी एक सी पहचान होती है। ऐसा लगता है की मानों एक को देख लिया हो, तो सबको देख लिया। हम उन्ही मसौदों पर रूठते हैं, वैसे ही बेगैरद लहज़े से बात करतें हैं, उसी दर्द से बिछड़ते हैं, वही आंसू रोते हैं… सब वही है, हमने कुछ नहीं सीखा है। इन्ही उलझनों से गुज़रने का नाम हमने ज़िन्दगी कर दिया है। यही चेहरे, यही मोड़, यही सब चलता रहता है, एक के बाद एक, दोबारा…
इन्ही किस्सों, कहानियों, दोस्तों, और लोगों के ग़म को देखा है मैंने, और उसे संजो के ये कविता लिखी है। उमीद है कुछ पसंद आएगी।
The last post might have led you to believe that I am quite bitter at the end of the year. But that’s not entirely true!
The end of any particular thing makes me quite emotional and vulnerable, and Nostalgia rather frequently gathers its dark clouds and pours forth memories and miseries in a storm I am quite incapable of withstanding. From this storm of friends and lovers, good times and bad, hopes and hermitages, alliances and accords, come scenes that were once lived.
I see them, feel them, but they are distant. I cannot touch them, but only endure them in moments of pathos and hopelessness. My friends, should you read this, know that I remember our time together. I am grateful that I found you, and you me, and of all that passed to this point. I am happy that I will always have you.
What time is once past is finished, and yet we keep going back, like ghosts.
The Bombay suburban trains – colloquially referred to as the ‘locals’ – are a fascinating experience.
A strange, harmonious-amidst-chaos world in this city that is little-harmony-amidst-massive-chaos. They are a legend unto themselves, an embodiment of this city, a symbol of its liveliness, anarchy, and beauty, an icon. Maybe it is the innate desire for journeys that endears them to us, maybe the perfect cultural and socio-economic pot pourri that they carry each day, or perhaps it is, bereft of imagination, just the convenience of travel they offer in a city that is too large for its own good.
Just like this poem here, the following is something that just erupted on a ride I took on the suburban rail today.
Hope you like it…
Longing (Click on the image for source.)
There’s something to be said about sadness – it brings out some rather vivid creativity from within. I don’t know what the reason or the relation is, but it sure is something that I’m sure most of us have, at some point or the other, experienced.
This is the product of one such experience of mine. I’d love to hear what you think of it.
“Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else’s opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation.” – Oscar Wilde
I’m in college now. And it is boring.
There’s mighty little I’ve for company here. Or rather, there’s mighty little I’ve in the room for friends. Hi-hellos abound, and honestly, I do prefer to keep it this way. So, as such, even though there’re a lot of people present, and many those from more or less the same background as me, I can’t really get to relate myself to what they are. I don’t mean to say that they’re abhorrent, weird, uncouth and silly – no, not at all. They’re smart – as they’ve a nice circle of nice fellas around them – and probably have nice personalities as well – as they manage to keep that nice circle around them.
Which are both more than what can be said about the louse that I am.