Khandhar batate hain Mahalon ke raaz....
Yeh Kal ka Kal hi to hai, Jo hai Aaj...
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
Ajnabee
Jaane pehchaane se O' Ajnabee! Hai yeh meri yaadon ki Aazmaish..
Ya phir ho tum kisi aur ki haqeeqat bani, meri ek Khwab, Khayal ya Khwaish...
Ya phir ho tum kisi aur ki haqeeqat bani, meri ek Khwab, Khayal ya Khwaish...
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
A moment at work
He sat at his desk staring at the screen.
Thinking, not particularly about anything in specific but a lot of things none of which lasted long enough to register. Like a hundred kids in a park each running around in different direction only to change run in another.
The clock in front of him ticked away, slicing away a second from the day and from his life with each swipe of it's hand.
The 4th cup of coffee since morning sat on his table.. It had smoking in anger and had settled down to sulking in the remaining warmth.
The notebook was open, To Do's for the day shouting at him to look at them & work. Jostling among them to come to the front & get his attention. One was brandishing a double-tick mark, another showing off the underline and a third just sitting back in RED & BOLD. Screaming together, they somehow negated each other into an overwhelming silence.
He just sat at his desk staring at the screen... The moment passed or was it a minute..
'You have a meeting in 10 minutes', said the pop-up.. He put it on the snooze, took a break to work...
Thinking, not particularly about anything in specific but a lot of things none of which lasted long enough to register. Like a hundred kids in a park each running around in different direction only to change run in another.
The clock in front of him ticked away, slicing away a second from the day and from his life with each swipe of it's hand.
The 4th cup of coffee since morning sat on his table.. It had smoking in anger and had settled down to sulking in the remaining warmth.
The notebook was open, To Do's for the day shouting at him to look at them & work. Jostling among them to come to the front & get his attention. One was brandishing a double-tick mark, another showing off the underline and a third just sitting back in RED & BOLD. Screaming together, they somehow negated each other into an overwhelming silence.
He just sat at his desk staring at the screen... The moment passed or was it a minute..
'You have a meeting in 10 minutes', said the pop-up.. He put it on the snooze, took a break to work...
Monday, February 09, 2009
Letter...
The clock struck 4:30 pm.. And he woke up to the alarm on his mobile phone. It was another Sunday and he had dozed off while watching his favourite CSI. He got up, had a glass of water & sat on his bed. As he came to his senses, he was struck by a strange light in his room. An orange/amber hued beam of light falling into the room through the half drawn curtains. As he traced the light, he noticed a piece of paper fluttering on the floor. He instinctively picked it up, it just said
"I am Sorry,
Yours & Only Yours,
~Ashwini"
He quickly flicked it around, it was blank. Not as white as it once used to be, but somewhat sepia-toned. The colour looked as if someone had dried it over a flame after washing off the ink that once gave the paper its life & made it a letter.
As he sat there with the paper in his hands, he could not bring himself to think what was once written on it. Not because he did not remember, but perhaps because the letter had lost its two most important components. The recipient & the message. The latter was long irrelevant & the former long gone. He was just left with what was remaining.
".... Sorry... & ... Only Yours..."
"I am Sorry,
Yours & Only Yours,
~Ashwini"
He quickly flicked it around, it was blank. Not as white as it once used to be, but somewhat sepia-toned. The colour looked as if someone had dried it over a flame after washing off the ink that once gave the paper its life & made it a letter.
As he sat there with the paper in his hands, he could not bring himself to think what was once written on it. Not because he did not remember, but perhaps because the letter had lost its two most important components. The recipient & the message. The latter was long irrelevant & the former long gone. He was just left with what was remaining.
".... Sorry... & ... Only Yours..."
Monday, January 26, 2009
Rain.. Tears.. Whatever...
There he stood on the balcony, with the morning mug of coffee in his hand. The watch read 8:40AM. It was a Tuesday, most ordinary of days on which he would normally by rushing through his breakfast with the day's newspaper in hand. But today was different. And how pleasantly so. It was a holiday for some great man was born on this day some millennia back. He did not care at the moment. Because it was a mid-week holiday which are as much better than weekends as are those flirtatious looks from a stranger on the train from the mushy mushy love-nothings with your wife/fiancée/girlfriend. And as he stood there looking miles into the city-side from his 11th floor apartment, he could see washed down buildings, fields & trees of Salgaon. It was not usual for rains to come at this time of the year, but they had arrived like unannounced friends who were thinking of calling last night.. With the rains came down all his associations with the heavenly shower..
Flashback to 1984.. He was a kid of 4. Locked up in his room by his mom to prevent him from making boats out of his shoes, he would wonder what makes it rain? ‘Mama! Why does it rain?’, he would ask; scared that it was someway related to the glass he broke or the plant he uprooted the previous evening. Mom would say ‘It’s the God taking bath, dear’.. Haah, he would think; Gods too don’t use soap nor do they bathe every morning!! He would then remember to use it as a plea next time Mom ran after him with towel in hand to make him bathe…
Cut 2.. Year 1988.. He was by now a boy of 8.. Going to school & raking in numbers by bucket-loads in a small village school where he was the only one who wore shoes and owned the cricket bat with Kapil Dev’s picture on it. It would rain as incessantly as it ever did. The classes would be leaking & the children running around excitedly with buckets, mugs & anything that could hold water to put under the leaks. Tired of the running around, he would walk up to his teacher lost in long looks at the rain. People said he was a poet, he dint understand poems till then.. So he would ask ‘Sir, is this precipitation.. The final step in the water cycle of evaporation, condensation & precipitation.. And look saar, there.. The rain water is washing away the soil.. That is erosion, rite?’ He didn’t remember what the teacher said in response, he was just too happy to see his new knowledge in action..
Cut 3.. Year 1996.. He was in his teens now.. Had graduated from his BSA SLR unto a Luna Super.. While he had grown both in age & size, his world had shrunk at the same pace.. His get away from organic chemistry was calculus & time to relax meant Physics from Resnick & Halliday.. The family & friends were abuzz with his potential of becoming something in life.. ‘This kid is going to make it big. Look at the seriousness with which he goes about studying!’.. And rains.. Rains meant nothing.. Just another weather condition he worked through to his classes & the tuitions.. Dad’s old raincoat on, trousers folded up to knee, he would be riding through the rains. No time to rest, no time for respite.. He still can’t understand what drove him, still does not understand where he lost the much romanticized early years of growing up, the teens..
Cut 4.. Year 1999.. Class of 2001 engineering.. He had under-delivered on his promises. Was at a place where he dint think he would be.. But there he was.. Had long overcome the disappointment.. Had made a great bunch of friends.. Was focused more on that next afternoon cricket match than the exams 15 days round the corner.. No, he had not gone way-ward just that he knew he had it covered & lost the zeal to excel.. Rains once more.. He could see himself in the cycle-stand thinking how to manage the umbrella & cycle both while taking care not to wet the dilapidated library book..
It suddenly gets all blurry.. Who is that coming down the stairs looking scared with a bag on the shoulders & obviously no umbrella.. Who is that for whom he runs out to offer his umbrella & the library book to care & cycles back all drenched in rain.. Who is it that the friends in the hostel are shouting as they see him coming back wet, without the borrowed umbrella.. Who is it? All of a sudden everything gets blurry & hazy. Lightning strikes & he is back to reality.. Realizes he is all wet. Had been standing in the balcony far too close to the rain.. Wipes himself dry & realizes there were just drops sliding down his face.. Blames it on the rains & switches on the TV, but still can’t see it clearly.. Goddamn cable-walla, or is it his eyes are still full…
Flashback to 1984.. He was a kid of 4. Locked up in his room by his mom to prevent him from making boats out of his shoes, he would wonder what makes it rain? ‘Mama! Why does it rain?’, he would ask; scared that it was someway related to the glass he broke or the plant he uprooted the previous evening. Mom would say ‘It’s the God taking bath, dear’.. Haah, he would think; Gods too don’t use soap nor do they bathe every morning!! He would then remember to use it as a plea next time Mom ran after him with towel in hand to make him bathe…
Cut 2.. Year 1988.. He was by now a boy of 8.. Going to school & raking in numbers by bucket-loads in a small village school where he was the only one who wore shoes and owned the cricket bat with Kapil Dev’s picture on it. It would rain as incessantly as it ever did. The classes would be leaking & the children running around excitedly with buckets, mugs & anything that could hold water to put under the leaks. Tired of the running around, he would walk up to his teacher lost in long looks at the rain. People said he was a poet, he dint understand poems till then.. So he would ask ‘Sir, is this precipitation.. The final step in the water cycle of evaporation, condensation & precipitation.. And look saar, there.. The rain water is washing away the soil.. That is erosion, rite?’ He didn’t remember what the teacher said in response, he was just too happy to see his new knowledge in action..
Cut 3.. Year 1996.. He was in his teens now.. Had graduated from his BSA SLR unto a Luna Super.. While he had grown both in age & size, his world had shrunk at the same pace.. His get away from organic chemistry was calculus & time to relax meant Physics from Resnick & Halliday.. The family & friends were abuzz with his potential of becoming something in life.. ‘This kid is going to make it big. Look at the seriousness with which he goes about studying!’.. And rains.. Rains meant nothing.. Just another weather condition he worked through to his classes & the tuitions.. Dad’s old raincoat on, trousers folded up to knee, he would be riding through the rains. No time to rest, no time for respite.. He still can’t understand what drove him, still does not understand where he lost the much romanticized early years of growing up, the teens..
Cut 4.. Year 1999.. Class of 2001 engineering.. He had under-delivered on his promises. Was at a place where he dint think he would be.. But there he was.. Had long overcome the disappointment.. Had made a great bunch of friends.. Was focused more on that next afternoon cricket match than the exams 15 days round the corner.. No, he had not gone way-ward just that he knew he had it covered & lost the zeal to excel.. Rains once more.. He could see himself in the cycle-stand thinking how to manage the umbrella & cycle both while taking care not to wet the dilapidated library book..
It suddenly gets all blurry.. Who is that coming down the stairs looking scared with a bag on the shoulders & obviously no umbrella.. Who is that for whom he runs out to offer his umbrella & the library book to care & cycles back all drenched in rain.. Who is it that the friends in the hostel are shouting as they see him coming back wet, without the borrowed umbrella.. Who is it? All of a sudden everything gets blurry & hazy. Lightning strikes & he is back to reality.. Realizes he is all wet. Had been standing in the balcony far too close to the rain.. Wipes himself dry & realizes there were just drops sliding down his face.. Blames it on the rains & switches on the TV, but still can’t see it clearly.. Goddamn cable-walla, or is it his eyes are still full…
Monday, February 18, 2008
Wait...
A bridge across the Ocean, A straircase to moon...
Just a couple of things to finish, before i meet u soon...
Wait for me, Wait for me.. I will be there in a moment..
Dont let me down.. I have waited ages for this moment..
Just a couple of things to finish, before i meet u soon...
Wait for me, Wait for me.. I will be there in a moment..
Dont let me down.. I have waited ages for this moment..
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Four stages of Love....
Stage1:
Unhe humari dosti tak manzoor nahin, phir bhi hum unhi se pyaar karte hain.....
Na laut ne ka vaada kar ke shadiyon pehle nikal chuke hain woh, phir bhi hum unhi ka intezaar karte hain...
Stage2:
Abhi dosti se unhe koi sikva nahin, muhabbat se phir bhi hai inqaar...
Naa laut ne ka vaada tod chuke hain woh, waapsi ka phir bhi hai intezaar
Stage3:
Abhi dosti ki humein koi parva nahin, muhabbat ka unho ne kar liya hai izhaar...
Zindagi mere saath hai, uske baahon mein marne ka hai intezaar
Stage4:
Naa reh gaya koi dosti, naa reh gaya koi pyaar...
Yahan tanha hoon main, wahan akela hai mera pyaar...
Unhe humari dosti tak manzoor nahin, phir bhi hum unhi se pyaar karte hain.....
Na laut ne ka vaada kar ke shadiyon pehle nikal chuke hain woh, phir bhi hum unhi ka intezaar karte hain...
Stage2:
Abhi dosti se unhe koi sikva nahin, muhabbat se phir bhi hai inqaar...
Naa laut ne ka vaada tod chuke hain woh, waapsi ka phir bhi hai intezaar
Stage3:
Abhi dosti ki humein koi parva nahin, muhabbat ka unho ne kar liya hai izhaar...
Zindagi mere saath hai, uske baahon mein marne ka hai intezaar
Stage4:
Naa reh gaya koi dosti, naa reh gaya koi pyaar...
Yahan tanha hoon main, wahan akela hai mera pyaar...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
