My Superman...

 आज कल दुविधा के एक गुब्बारे में खुद को क़ैद पाती हूँ! 
 वैसे life कभी भी, वो क्या कहतें हैं crystal clear  नही थी, पर सर पे एक हाथ था I

 हाथ थोड़ा कमज़ोर था, पर एक बच्चे से सॉफ और ज़िद्दी ईमान ने हमें कभी भी उस कमज़ोरी का एहसास  नही  होने दिया I

बब्बा.. लिखते हुए भी आँखे नम हो जाती हैं.. पर एक अजीब सा सुकून भी मिलता है..

ऐसा लगता है जैसे सब कुछ उतना ही simple  है, जितनी बब्बा की life थी I

आज जब उनके बारे में सोचती हूँ, तो फिल्मों की तरह बहुत philosophical  और ज्ञानी बातें याद नहीं आती..  he was never the man/ husband /father who preached, but was clear on how he wished to conduct his existence and that made my father, all of 45 Kgs, the strongest man I know. 

बचपन की गुड़िया बहुत ढीठ थी.. आज भी ज़यादा कुछ बदला नहीं. Since an apple doesn't fall too far from the tree, me and Babba were the torch-bearers of being stubborn. बब्बा ने कभी मेरी ज़िद्द को बाँधने की कोशिश नही की, पर मुझे ज़िद्द और reality के संतुलन का पाठ पढ़ाया I

मेरी ज़िद्द थी स्कूल के बाद दिल्ली जाने की,  but he made that a quest, something that i earned, a milestone that makes me feel good about myself till date. मुझे आज तक याद हैं जैसे उन्होने बाकी parents की तरह मेरी कोई मदद नही की, मैने फॉर्म्स दिल्ली से मंगाए, उनको खुद भरा, पोस्ट किया, दिल्ली में लोगो से request करके फॉर्म्स submit  करवायें I उन दीनो इंटरनेट का वर्षस्व आज की तरह नहीं फेला हुआ था, लोग एक दूसरों से बात करतें थे I 

First list निकल आई और मेरी एक फ्रेंड दिल्ली मैं थी तो उसने मुझे बताया की I made it to three colleges out of the four that I applied to, I was overjoyed, अब हमको counselling और final admission के लिए दिल्ली जाना था I 

I remember telling him, 'I have made it this far without you, but now you have to come for my admission', he showed  no visible sign of happiness and just uttered softly.. 'we will need reservations, come lets go',  फिर वो मुझे टिकेट करवाने के लिए एक shady सी जगह ले गये, जहाँ मेरी फ्रेंड्स के parents  उन्हे कभी सपने में भी नही लेके गये होंगे. 

I squirmed at the sight of it, hating him even more. Oblivious to everything he told me 'get that form, fill it and stand in this queue', putting some money in my hand... 'I am standing in that corner if you need me for anything.' Lighting his cigarette he stood with a nonchalance that was characteristic of him when it was just him and his nicotine. 

मैं जून की गर्मी में खड़ी रही, वो भी चुपचाप साइड मैं सिग्रटते पीते रहे, हमें RAC की टिकेट मिली और हम घर वापस आ गये I यह ट्रेन का सफ़र हमारा पहला और शायद एकलौता सफ़र था जिसमे बस मैं और बब्बा थे I I don't have any recollections from the journey , because we didn't talk much, we never have, but one image that is vivid is both of us huddled in one berth (the top one.. yes he could climb it easily in 2002).  आज सोचेतीं हूँ की उनके दिमाग़ में क्या चल रहा होगा, was he ready to send me away? Did he have the money to afford my studies? But he said nothing .. that was him... he never burdened us with what he thought of our life decisions .. he always somehow led us to find our own ways.. and was always around with an unimpressed smile on his face and a cigarette in his hand. 

Finally मेरा अड्मिशन हो गया और मैं दिल्ली आ गयी, आने के कुछ महीने पहले मैं जब घर में अकेली थी और माँ नानी के यहाँ गयी थी, मैने चुपचाप बब्बा की whisky taste की थी,  and like an honest daughter I told him about it, and he just asked me did you like it?  बब्बा ने जब मुझे दिल्ली में छोड़ा तो जाने से पहले बोला की तुमने इस बार खाली ज़िद नही की.. पर उस ज़िद को पूरा करने की मेहनत भी की है, यह याद रखना की me and Maa work very hard to give you this life, don't take this for granted, and one more thing I know one day you will start drinking, ensure that you earn that money before you spend it on these things, I trust you to not spend my money on it.This is what he told an impressionable 18 year old girl planning to live alone in a BIG city. He was a quiet man but he was one of the most progressive man i know, unlike stereotypes that plague the so called "small city" people. 

My father may have not been a lot of things, but he taught me the biggest lessons in life. He taught me the difference between being stubborn and being difficult, he taught me to experience the pride in proving one's stubbornness. Being alone in the hostel came easy to me.. it was like he prepared me for it; I could go and figure out how to open my bank account, l learnt how to use a debit card on my own, and guess what I took my friends to the reservation counter and taught everyone how to book tickets before holidays. 

एक और वाक़या यहाँ बताने लायक है, जब कॉलेज में पहला break मिला तो सब घर जाने को तैयार हुए, जायदा त्तर parents ने AC bookings  करवाई since its safer for girls and all that jazz. But as predicted your's truly was booked in sleeper class and was slightly ashamed of it. I thought my father would make up for it by picking me up from the station like all 'normal parents' did.  जैसा की आप ठीक समझें होंगे मुझे लेने कोई नहीं आया और बब्बा ने बोला बेटा विक्रम लेके घर आ जाओ ...   and of course I was infuriated to see him still sleeping with no visible excitement as I came back for the first time. Oh god how he tortured me !!!! 

पर जब  मेरे वापस जाने का दिन आया ...बब्बा मुझे as usual  स्टेशन ट्रेन जाने के एक घंटें पहले ही ले आए, and the man didn't move an inch till the train didn't disappear, didn't talk but kept standing. Since then it was an established code... I would always come home on my own, but he will always drop me back and will stand there till the time he could not spot the train any longer. I am not sure why he did that, maybe there was no reason behind it. Today when I try and decipher it actually symbolizes our relationship with him..he always let us decide when we wanted to come to him hence ensured that we took responsibility of it, but once we were in his turf for those 10 days,one month we were again his responsibility, his little kids who he had to take care of, and that's exactly what he did. 

Babba... he created us, and there is no bigger power than creation BUT he never abused his power over us. 

He may not look like a superhero, but I have no qualms in calling him our Superman who always knew that with great power comes greater responsibility. 

आज वो हाथ तो सर पे नहीं हैं 

पर उसकी परछाईयाँ ज़रूर हैं 

दुख बहुत है की कुछ जायदा ही जल्दी चले गये तुम बब्बा ...

पर तुम्हे हर काम पूरा करने की जल्दी भी तो कितनी रहती थी 

यह तुम्हारा ही अशिर्वाद ही है की इतने दुख और अफ़सोस के बाद भी मुझे नींद आज भी सुकून की आती है I

For a man of very few words this is a long post, because despite his silence he taught so many lessons.. lessons which have made me a reasonably tolerable human being. 

Never said this to him, because we have never been an expressive family .. I love you Babba, and I miss you terribly and I safely assume for my own happiness that i was your favorite person in this world. 

कहाँ मिले थे? कहाँ चले थे?

वो यादें ज़रा कमज़ोर सी हैं 

क्या खरीदा था? क्या बकाया है?

वो हिसाब भी ज़रा छूटा हुआ है 

कहाँ जाना है? क्या पाना है?

अभी उन उम्मीदों ने हमें जकड़ा नहीं है 

एक सुकून हैं बेख़बरी मे अलग सा

एक इतमीनान सिर्फ़ साँस लेने मे भी है 

बेताले मुखड़े पे भी कदम थिरक जातें हैं कभी,

सुरों से ज़यादा रूह की लालसा है अभी 

इस भागती, चीखती दुनिया से कहो,

चन्द बातें हमारी बाकी हैं अभी 

बात कुछ ऐसी हुई थी वहाँ

ज़ायक़ा ज़ुबान पे जिसका आया यहाँ

तकलीफ़ भरी बातें तो तुमने कहीं वहाँ

मेरी ज़ुबान ने भरा हरजाना यहाँ !

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मेरी सोच एक दायरे मैं बंद क्यूँ हैं?

ख्वाबों के रास्तें भी लगते तंग क्यूँ हैं?

आलम यह है की अल्फाज़ों की कमी हो गयी है

अब तो लिखने के लिए चोट खानी लाज़मी हो गयी है!

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Accidentally ran into something i wrote 5 years back

On the busy roads of Delhi, there are some who spur along the flyovers like the chilly wind making its way through sparse clothing of the less fortunate ones. If one notices carefully there could be a few souls walking through those demanding paths daunted by the majesty of the buildings and mocking at their splendour at the same time. It’s these conflicting and loony souls that time decides to teach a lesson.

The scorching heat of the season is beyond tolerance, and a DTC bus ride makes matters worse. Survival is the name of the game in them, but the beauty of it is that you would enter it smelling of your own sweat but would definitely get off smelling like ten different people around you. On a philosophical and maybe a crazy way you take a fraction of their subsistence with you.

It was a usual day for most of the people. The customary laziness in waking up after an indulgent night and managing the daily chores, the honking of school buses with heads sticking out of windows, the noisy shutters of shops, the aroma of early chants along with the stench of morning rituals of many.............it seemed everything was just the way it ought to be. But two lives were to be changed for ever .......two lives oblivious of each other’s existence.....immersed in the futility of their providence and lost dreaming in an abyss of hope and despair. Two lives who lived the day by themselves...but the night had an encounter in stored for them.

Siddhantha climbed carving his way effortlessly through the maddening crowd, his regular 567 which took him back to Lajpat Nagar. Wearing a khaadi kurta and a torn jean, with curly locks covering his forehead and glasses which could not hide the intensity of his big grey eyes, he made way to the window seat that was always vacant for him. An unusual sight awaited in the form of an occupant of “his” seat. A distraught face staring hard at the nothingness covered with hair was the encroacher. It would have annoyed him otherwise but today it seemed to make no effect. His eyes met a few familiar passengers who gave him tired and phony glances of recognition. He sat next to the encroacher and heaved a deep sigh. Placing his head on the seat he closed his eyes. 567 has always been the place where he had come to terms with everything.

“Your story is too surreal and bizarre, we are sorry”.............the words echoed in his ears as soon as he comfortably seated himself in the seat. “Well this is a new one”, he murmured to himself, with a cynical smile festooning his face, exposing aligned depressions on both his cheeks. It was 8 in the night and the bus was making its way on a snail’s pace honking at every other moment. The wind was gushing inside from the window which to his relief the encroacher decided to keep open.

The first thing that Ragini always did on boarding a bus back home was grasp a window seat and open her tightly tied bun. It gave her the sense of letting go, an exhilarating feeling of being herself for those few comforting hours which seemed torturous to most. The wind blew her hair in all directions, and she liked the flapping sound of them on her face and the feel of it on her skin. Today she missed her bus and had to board a longer route one, which never bothered her because no one was ever waiting for her. Ragini had taught herself to be independent and strong, as she assumed it to be the best way to live. Her rigidity was her weapon by which she speared her way ahead, only to realize that she lost on living in her strife for a mouthful of sky.

Completely unaware of each other’s rhythmic sighs Siddhantha and Ragini kept sitting without moving. “Beta lo tumhara das ka ticket .....aur apko kitne ka doon madam”, the shivering voice of the old conductor, got the two back to their senses. After taking their tickets with one gaze they both looked through but looked right at each other at the same time and simultaneously turned there faces away.

“No one had ever done that to me before”, Ragini said without even looking at him. Shocked by her guts and sudden verbalization of the subtle undercurrent experienced, Siddhantha looked at her, smiled and replied, “Getting a taste of my own medicine was quite an experience in itself, I’m Siddhantha ....and you are...?” “Ragini”, she replied quickly turning and facing him, astonished at her own urgency to talk to a stranger. “Nice name, maybe I would name my character in the next story after you...”  “So you are a writer?” she asked, “Yah both by choice and by profession, a lethal continuum to live up to”, he chuckled so hard that almost gasped for breath.

Both of them were quiet for a very long time. The scene was getting more chaotic, the bus driver had vowed not to move until his pal the conductor wouldn’t go and give personal invites to every one walking on the street. Suddenly a crisp sound of fluttering papers got both Siddhantha and Ragini back to their present life space.

“In their eyes She gave up on every one....but only she knew that......’’.Ragini almost strained her neck to read the whole sentence. Looking at her skewed posture, Siddhantha smiled and softly murmured “that’s too much attention for my words...i guess they wont be able to take it.” Ragini looked at him and retorted back, “Don’t be too sure maybe i would fail your words, rather than the other way round.”

It seemed that a chord of distraught had struck between them long time ago . The bus reached Sarai kalan khan- the usual long halt. There were people jostling and entering the bus, women coming and demanding for their quota seats resulting in the annoyance of their male counterparts. “Moonfali, Chana le lo”, “10 rupayah main do light vale pen”, the bus echoed with these chants along with the rhythmic murmurs of the passengers and not to forget the blaring radio.

Along with all the cacophony, everyone in that bus had a corner, a corner where they were quiet, lost and living their day ...some moments of happiness, some disappointments, seconds of despair, sudden twirls of hope.......Two of these corners were meeting, much to their disapproval.

“ So it must be well paying to be a writer”...... Ragini couldn’t resist her cynicism that inherently got her disliked by most. She always liked the tension and distress that her mean retorts caused people.  To her disappointment but not surprise she met with a smile showcasing dimples contouring a chiseled face...’ sure it does...pays me well enough to keep writing about eccentricities...” ...‘Hmmm ...its good to see someone so desperate to keep his will alive against the worldliness’ Ragini intentionally whispered loud enough to be heard by her busmate. Hahahahaha, guffawed Siddhantha ...‘ that’s ironical my protagonist’s defense is what you profess... and let me tell you the world doesn’t really like people like you...’ Sidhhantha said pointing towards his file.

What defense are you talking about? Said Ragini....almost dying to hear her truth from this absolutely strange soul. Sid kept looking straight, and in an absolutely placid tone added....the camouflaging act of ones passion by spanking the humble bearings of others ...which in short most of us call sarcasm....how does that sound?

Engulfed with a tranquil gush of soothing hot air down her lungs...Ragini felt the rush of a drag of filtered tobacco ...suspending her with the lightness that she had forgotten. ‘ So what happened to your heroin....where did her defence take her?’ Asked Ragini...looking pleadingly into his eyes as if her fate had already been written in those pages.

Kotla....Kotla......madam jaldi utaro...red light hai abhi .....the realities of life got her back...she tied her hair quickly in a ritualistic fashion....gave him a last look....he moved to give her way. Ragini’s head was still racing she needed to hear something from him...she had a strange faith that today his words would cure her from many things....She was carving her way through the crowd to the gate. She was almost there and before disembarking, turned back only to find Siddhantha behind her. “She befriends her passion’’...he whispers in her ears.

Sometimes life’s biggest lessons stay with one in very serendipitous ways. Ragini went off the bus .....smiling from one end to the other.‘ bhaishaab agar utarana nahi hai to rasta kyun roka hai...’ hearing the complaints...siddhantha moved to the window and peered outside, only to find Ragini looking at the full moon night with her hair open and flapping against her face.

He could almost hear her sighs...sighs of respite, redemption. Today he could understand what his mentor meant when he used to say ...‘fasane ke asli jashn ko to ek insaan hi anjaam deta hai...kirdaar nahi....aur jab apne kirdaar se insani tarruf ho jaye tab kahin tumhara fasana mukammal hota hai’... ‘ and that’s precisely what pays me well enough to keep reciting eccentricities.....he murmured to himself smiling.

                                       -Inspired by a painting by Gurjot Mamik (Celebration of Art)  

Why I don't travel behind a Maruti Van?

I don’t have one but 10 reasons for not traveling at the back of Maruti Vans:

1. Because I am not a CNG cylinder
2. Because I am not from the 1950’s
3. Because I am taller than 3 feet and have self esteem
4. Because I rather have a portable weed garden at the back of my Maruti Van
5. Because I do not prefer a numb posterior
6. Because I prefer sitting in a car and not climbing/hiking it
7. Because I don’t plan to use a time machine, go back in the 70’s and get chloroformed in a bollywood movie
8. Because I am not a picnic basket
9. Because I am 18+ and have a driving permit
10. Because I usually keep the back of my cars vacant for dead bodies, incase someone pisses me off on the way

staticchange: Peaceful Absurd

staticchange: Peaceful Absurd: Sisyphus, the absurd hero with his ravenous ardor for life and acceptance of his fate has often enamored my own nothingness. Aware of his ...

Peaceful Absurd

Sisyphus, the absurd hero with his ravenous ardor for life and acceptance of his fate has often enamored my own nothingness. Aware of his providence and armed with his audacity he lived his absurdity with pride,if I must say. The gods had chastised him against his impish acts to roll a stone up to the top of mountain which inevitably will fall down again off its own weight. This was his eternal punishment which was aimed to rebuke the futility and nothingness of his existence.

He did deeds that no mortal would dare to execute, but would be surely tickled with the thrills of doing the barred. He chained death and fooled him out of its wits, while we are often jolted with the sudden stop at the end and easily relinquish to it’s preeminence over our being. He questioned the sanctity of his wife’s adoration while we are timorous to question anything, out of our own insecurities, and constantly live for maintaining the status quo.

Talking about absurdity what strikes me the most is the feeling of zilch that it comes with. Though it’s definitely futile and would often yield discontentment, but the experience of living the nothingness with absolute no hope often makes my mind wander. Today, I feel I’m doing a lot of work which keeps me busy throughout the day but the futility and uselessness of them pervades in the background. If we look carefully there is hopelessness in each hope, and we often are stuck in the scenario of hope against hope. If we realize the futility of our actions and accept them as a mere response to survival and a rationale to an eventful existence, I guess ground work for peace will be laid.

I don’t know for what reason I think a sentient absurd can be a tranquil person. Absurdity and peace can be made to sit in two ends of a continuum. Sisyphus was a tragic protagonist, since everyone saw the uselessness of his actions, his toil and labor to mount a heavy rock up only to see it come down and his continued tryst with it. I dart my imagination and wonder what the incorrigible Sisyphus on his way down the mountain following his rock would say to me? After giving it some thought, I can actually envisage the spectacle. Sweat adorning his forehead, slouched shoulders paining with all the physical labor along with frustration of seeing his efforts in vain. The moment he sees the inquisitive and vague mortal in me the weariness and discontentment evaporates in thin air and a profound glee appears on his face. “How the hell do you live with this monotony that clinches your existence?” I would ask to which I can hear an impish reply, “I live with the certainty, when I mount the rock up I know that it would come down….’’

I am forced to realize that Camus was right when he said that Sisyphus was tragic because he was conscious of his fate. All of us in our pursuits keep ourselves busy with variety of activities without realizing that the consequences are uncertain. We constantly live in hope and get crushed once it’s crushed. When I say that the feelings of absurdity, irrationality pervades our quest I wish to highlight how one moment life is a fact, an enthralling journey, and in the next it’s a cloak of nothingness or death.

The idea is not to cultivate an idea of living a life of hopelessness, but it is to accept the nothingness, the absurdity and the irrationality that is the essence of everything and stop professing that we are bound by rationality. The day I would welcome my fate, my absurdity, consequences will stop bothering me and I would be peaceful.

Camus said, ’’ One must imagine Sisyphus happy”, and I do.