कच्ची सड़क

आज काफी समय बाद मैंने अपने ब्लॉग में लॉगिन किया। प्रथम पृष्ठ पर ही मुझे कई अपूर्ण प्रारूप मिले। शब्द पीपल के पत्तो की तरह बिखरे पड़े थे। एक हवा का झोंका आता और इन सबको अपने साथ उड़ा ले जाता। इन सभी को लिखते समय मैंने इन्हे पूरा करने का संकल्प किया था। परन्तु समय के अभाव और ज़िन्दगी के जटिल स्वभाव में ये संकल्प भी उन पीपल की पत्तो की तरह कहीं उड़ सा गया था। इन्हे पूरा करने की मैं अब चेष्टा भी नहीं करना चाहता। क्यूंकि इन शब्दों के प्राण पखेरू अब उड़ चुके हैं। ना ही अब समय वह बीता हुआ समय है। और ना ही व्यक्ति।

आप आज दार्शनिको की तरह क्यों बात कर रहे हैं? और आज एकाएक हिंदी भाषा का प्रयोग कैसे? मैं काफी समय से यह प्रयोग करने को उत्सुक था। और एक मित्र की सलाह ने अंततः मुझे हिंदी में लिखने के लिए प्रेरित किया। मैंने ये लिखते समय यह भी अनुभव किया की हिंदी में दर्शन शाश्त्र इस तरह से बसा हुआ है की अंग्रेजी इस छेत्र में उसका प्रतियोगी नहीं हो सकता। यह भी संभव है की हर व्यक्ति अपनी प्रथम भाषा में जिस तरह भावित होता है वैसा किसी और भाषा में होना संभव नहीं।

लखनऊ में जब भी मैं हुसैनाबाद की तरफ से गुजरता था, वहाँ के घंटाघर पर मेरा ध्यान हमेशा ही जाता था। उसके घंटे को मैं पेंडुलम की तरह इधर से उधर नाचते मैं देखता रहता। कई वर्षो बाद आज जीवन भी उसी प्रकार दफ्तर और घर के बीच में नाचता हुआ नज़र आता है। इसमें कोई शोध करने वाली बात नहीं है। मैं इसे इस राह की एक अवस्था मात्रा समझता हूँ। मैं मानता हूँ की जीवन में ये अवस्था सामान्य है और काफी सीमा तक आवश्यक भी है। इसी नज़रिये से चीज़ो को देखते हुवे आगे बढ़ते रहने की मैं सदैव कोशिश करनी चाहिए।

अभी यहीं पर रुकता हूँ। बिन बुलाये मेहमान की तरह एक अनावश्यक कार्य मेरे सर पर सवार हो चुका है और टस से मस होने का नाम नहीं ले रहा। इसकी उचित व्यवस्था करने जाना होगा। समय की मर्ज़ी हुइ तो फिर मिलेंगे।

The World is Stone

The bus ride from Monachil to Granada was marked by the panoramic view of the hills of Sierra Nevada. The colorful corners cut across the street which twisted and moved like a serpent. The homes, like little crayon boxes, were stacked one above the other, on the hilly terrain. It was like the white city of Nerja, just a little more colorful, and slightly less spicy.

The bus ride from Monachil to Granada is marked by corners like these, repeated until the destination.

I was caught in a state of trance looking at the map, trying to memorize the path to Calle Elvira from the bus stop. I was glad and anxious to go around without the GPS. The next bus to Monachil would leave in 2 hours and that is all the time I had to go to Calle Elvira, procure what I came for, and make my way back to the stop. When we got down at Granada, everyone else started moving towards Alhambra, while I crossed the bridge and continued forward to the Plaza.

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Junction

I almost forgot about you.
As I thought.
But I will not give up on you yet.
Let’s see if we can get along.

Nothing but the blue sky from now on.
But what about the storm?
The overcast skies. Clouds storming in.
An angry gargoyle staring at us.
Let’s see if we can find calm in the storm, once again.

I don’t understand quotes.
They seem nothing more than just a few wise words.
Just as I don’t understand rhymes.
I cannot relate to it at that level.
We are the exceptions, of course.

The minority does not decide the nature of the society.
But we have always been firm believers in destiny.
Nothing could have been better. Nothing would be worse.
The balance will always be restored.

A complex game of probabilities.
Permutations and combinations of everyday life.
From the choice of coffee to our beliefs and ideologies.
A maze without a hero. Or a villain.

I almost forgot about you.
As I thought.
I see you peeking from the shadows.
The quest for clarity. You thought you almost had it.
Do you? Let’s see. Let’s see if we can still get along.
I will not give up on you yet.

The Haze

Have you ever felt numb? I mean, the peaceful kind of numb? When you are glad that there is no thought running across your nerves. You feel and understand the things as they look. Take them for that face value and nothing else. Look around you and there is no particular direction you would rather go to, or not go to. Everything feels the same.

I stood right next to a broken bench. The blanket of rain and mist had taken over the place. The grass looked fresh as ever, the birds chirpy as ever. I looked at the lake, staring back at me from far away. I felt numb, looking at it, as everything in the surrounding settled down. I had just arrived at this place and I wanted to do nothing but to sit down and look.

I was lying in my tent. The rain had picked up in the last half an hour. It was getting cold. I peeked outside the tent if the lake has risen. But it was too hazy to see that far. This place reminded me of my village. How everything came alive when it rained. And also how everything became quiet. I laid on my back, closed my eyes, and decided to live in those memories for sometime. It started a chain reaction, and I kept on jumping from one memory to another, in an attempt to find something I had been missing. I remembered a few things, alright. But I also understood that there were so many gaps created along the way. I remember that one incident when I fractured my leg, and a few incidents in that timeline. I remember how getting into a new school everywhere was so tough. It is only the initial few days that I remember. It feels “fun” was not a part of my primary curriculum.

I opened my eyes. It was almost dark. The candle had almost burnt out and crickets and fireflies had took over the place. It was dark, yet the place shone with enthusiasm. I could hear a cuckoo singing somewhere in the distance. It sounded tired, but calm. I lit another candle, rolled another sunshine and went across yet another trip into my mind.

The tree and the bird

The birds had started making their way back home. I had sneaked into the fields. It was cooler there. I could see sunlight quickly receding towards the horizon. It was my favorite time of the day. Fresh from the afternoon sleep, I set for my destination. I had to come back before it was dark.

We had our summer vacations. And as a ritual, we were spending it at our Nani’s village. Most of my profound childhood memories are marked by this place. It was so beautiful and unpredictable. There were so many things that fascinated me. The fields beyond the mango farm was one of those things. I liked walking on the ridges of the irrigation canals. They connected the entire farm. I looked at the sky. The hues were shifting with every passing moment. All the different shades of red. I rushed forward as I crossed the jackfruit trees. It was the end of the farm, faced by a mini jungle of Bamboo trees. They made all kind of noise when the wind blew hard. The constant shatter and struggle, and yet they survived together for years. There was a hill to be found if you went a little deeper in the trees. Everyone at home told us the stories of snakes infesting that hill and how it was completely forbidden to go the Bamboo trees. I promised myself to keep that adventure for another day, and made my way around the trees. I kept walking for 10 minutes when I finally reached the fields.

It was a vast plain. There were patches of green and brown, stretching all the way to the horizon. A railway track cut across far away. A serpent was sliding over it. We called it “Paanch Pachhis ki Gaadi” (train of 5:25). It was one of those elements that made this place I used to so look forward to. Marching forward the field, looking over the few farms that appeared and faded away, I walked with the train whistling in the background. I could see that Babool tree. The lonely tree that stood in the west. With the Sun setting in the background, I imagined the tree with the Halo. Can trees have Halo? Though I was rushing towards the tree, it was not the tree that I was most interested in. It was the Maina’s nest on that tree. A raw structure of brown pulp, devoid of any green, the tree protruded out of the ground like a huge thorn. A thorn that was home to someone. I found it so ironic when I first found the place. But I realized later what it really was.

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