Waiting for you… my November

You are my November

beautiful like the despair of autumn leaves

when the season takes a turn in deep sleep

like promises that I couldn’t keep

You are my November morning

shivers which scream of unsaid moaning

You are my November afternoons

akin to the zari border ripped of a benarasi sari

i had long kept to save up a memory

You are my November

but what am I, a question lingers

I am the winters waiting for November

in search of the tangerine hue of those cold evenings

rummaging the arid dreams in a desolate night

portraying the crimson shades of a shivery mornings

anticipating the flutter, quiver, shudder of a lone fire

i am a distracted flustered soul

a little in October

afraid of December

wanting to be ubiquitous

here and there, inside -out

i am a fragment of year

i am the sand that’s slipping between fingers

waiting for November

My November

Postcard from P: We are lonely by choice #UrbanNomads

To the young girls and boys

Today sitting alone in a café, having my third latte I want to talk about us- the urban nomads. In our quest to find us, somewhere we all are loners trying to breathe. You know cities can be the most lonely spaces in nights. I try to write and i think  there is a writers block. I go to a café, I have been fed with the idea that J.k. Rowling created the whole world of Potter in a café.

After numerous coffees and few rubbish drafts, I look at the cafe owner. I think he knows my deepest secrets, I think he knows that I am a vulnerable piece with just a strong looking packaging. I open my phone and enter the world of Instagram where everyone is happy. I think we have found the key to happiness- Selfie and captions that do not suit the pictures.

I come back,  I clean my bed , I bring all pillows and keep on bed just to make sure there are no vacant spaces. There is a pink elephant stuff toy which I don’t remember who has given it to me. Maybe a junior who was fond of me or maybe that girl I shared a flat with. I hate pink but I am sure I may have never said that: Not to the pink ugly toys or to the pink sari that a girl claimed to be best friend gifted me on my birthday. I drink water every minute. I am just trying to say a fuck off to the feeling of being lonely.

Everything has changed, the pale-yellow colors of wall that I grew up with have turned into aquamarine blue, the woman who sold flowers at the small temple on corner is nowhere to be seen. You know we do grow up but never grow out of the familiar world etched in our mind.

We want to stay back, stay back in lives of people we think we are important. I want to stay back in the anklet that has bells that sound like love, I want to stay back in a white coffee mug that dad sent me. I want to stay back in the books that I own, scribbling my name, a faint smiley here and there to remind the person reading it that I stayed back. I want to stay back in a diary with yellow pages where I wrote many messed up poems on love. I want to stay back in the mickey mouse sweater that once was my most prized possession. I want to stay back in the eyes of the boy who used to look at me always during morning prayers but never said anything. I don’t remember his face clearly now. So in an attempt to stay back everywhere, are we forgetting to hold back too.

In our stride to be independent, we have married loneliness and it’s there everywhere around us like a possessive love interest. I find it there on the table lamp kept at bed side, between the pile of books I keep ordering, the chilli flakes lying on floor since the day I ordered of the pizza and a calendar which is still showing February.
You realize there is a set pattern with all of us, however happy we seem on our social media feed, we are lonely by choice.

Don’t fall into this trap. DON’T.



दुनिया के सभी पापा के नाम

ट्रेन यात्रा के मेरे किस्सों में कल बहुत प्यारी सी कहानी जुड़ गयी. बीच सफ़र में, एक परिवार मेरी सामनी वाली सीट पर आ कर बैठा, पति, पत्नी और उनकी छोटी सी बेटी जिसका नाम पिहू था.पर सिर्फ ये तीन साथ में सफ़र कर रहे हो ऐसा नहीं था- पिहू के दो दोस्त भी थे- एक गुड़िया जिसका नाम कुहू था और एक टेडी जो गोलू था.पति की तबियत कुछ ख़राब सी थी, बुखार से परेशान थे वे. ट्रेन में चढ़ते ही सीट पर लेट गए और उनकी पत्नी ऊपर वाली बर्थ पर. अब पिहू अपने पापा के साथ ही बैठी थी. माँ ने ऊपर बुलाया पर पिहू को पापा के साथ रहना था अपने दोस्तों को लेकर. जब मान ने डांटा तो पति ने कहा “कोई दिक्कत नहीं है, रहने दीजिये यहाँ, खेल तो रही है, मैं बिलकुल परेशान नहीं हो रहा”. क्या दुनिया के सभी पापा इतने ही प्यारे होते हैं? फ्रायड वैगैरेह तो ठीक है पर क्या इसी वजह से अपने प्रेम में, अपने रिश्तों में हम पापा सी निश्चलता को खोजते हैं.

गाँव में एक बूढी चाची कहती है कि जब वो पैदा.हुआ था तो जम कर पानी बरसा था, आसमान में काले काले बादल छा गए थे, डरावने से. “लगा था कि सरजू मां सब बहा ले जाएँगी उस बरस”. पर दूसरे दिन पानी उतर गया उस डरावने दिन से आया वो पर फिर भी कितना सुकून है उसके होने से, अधखुली आँखों में डर के जब उठती हूँ तो वो ही तो है जो मुस्कुराता रहता है. वो ही है जो टूटने नहीं देता. जब अँधेरा खाने लगता है तो वो ही है जो खींच के बाहर निकाल लेता है. ये लिखते हुए जब आँखों में आसूं आ गए तो एक गहरी सांस ले कर मैं सामने देखती हूँ तो वो वहीँ खड़ा मिलता है. और मेरी लाल आँखें मुस्कुरा उठती हैं. कोने का एक दांत नहीं है उनका, आईने में खुद को देखती हूँ तो लगता है झुर्रियों के पड़ने में भी वही दिखता है, दायीं ओर ज्यादा गहराती झुर्रियां. उसका होना इस खर्च होती उम्र का एक हासिल है…………..एक दोस्त उनको बड़े पंडित कहता है और मैं पापा.

P.S.- पिहू अपने सोते हुए पापा के पेट पर ड्राइंग बुक रख कर पेंटिंग कर रही है और बगल में कुहू भी दिख रही है.सच कहूँ पिता के माथे पर परेशानी कि शिकन भी नहीं थी.

My old home

one evening when sun painted
the sky with goodbye of orange
i passed through a familiar lane
leading to a “no more my address”
to an old home where my childhood stays

it was there my old home, old and wrinkled
for years which never trembled
perched near a dhaak tree shade
the colors that have begun to fade

our home was small and sturdy through seasons
we were happy may be that was the reason
inside we had a guava tree whose branches came
inside the rooms where the love  still flowed.

a swing hung to a porch for the children to share,
we giggled, we laughed and didn’t have anything to care,
inside that home a rickety chair and mattress lay bare,
an old dining table where meals were shared

and through all the dark nights we hid with quilts piled high,
we slept like kings through stories of kings, not knowing why.
so, today as I left that by lane and bid my old house a goodbye
inside my heart, I know I could never love my new house exactly so

and no matter on which pathways life now leads me on,
still at the sleepy town is an old home is where I belong