The Dance of Indian Democracy

The dance of Indian democracy is played out LIVE from the media houses. The giants that are as inaccessible as the Indian Parliament, they are only accessible when there is a noise. A noise of frustration, noise of desparation, voices to claim their spaces maybe the last voices. These voices are stirred and presented, in a dish decorated for short lived titillation, that gets the people walk around as knowledgeable. The mind games that are played with the actual games of the voices have huge returns, for business houses.

The strings of democracy are with them. The actors are the audience and the audience are the people, but nobody is asking why the blood flows? why the innocent are killed? why there are media trials? who gave them the right to run a trial?why are the unfair trials suffered?  Their back stage is equally opaque as the oppressive government.

The blood soaked media wins again, a 9  year old well maneuvered battle of silence and titillation, for gains. And yet again a chance of democracy dies. It dies with the death of Afzal Guru. Hope it will not be followed with the blood bath of the chances of those unknowingly standing in the line. Here again is created a chance of more income with the death of the muted audience.

Long Live Media Long Live Indian Parliament and Long Live the Democracy held by them. Meanwhile rest of us will stand dumb, living with our squeaks from safe quarters (who still have a voice). Silently our days are being counted.

It is amusing and intriguing to be a spectator to people taking for granted a trusted one to the extent that they fail to realize when they breach the boundaries. The drama of exploitation, use, ridicule, self doubt and being inappropriate that follows mirrors the lows we can get to. How loosing face becomes irrelevant when only bothered with own motives. It makes me wonder this mantra of approaching others with trust should have footnotes or disclaimers somewhere that are not known, as falling despite or because of company of the trusted ones can be irreparable.

Natural Death

When the words exit before meeting meaning
When over-stretched threads refuse to weave a pattern
When memory loses itself to unearth its start
it is better to read the eyes of reality that whisper... maybe.... it was a natural death

When the icicles of  moments have melted
When the search in lonesome desert is stranded
When the colors exchanged drapes the past as a damp shroud

It is time to stop looking for the sand that slipped through the hands
It is time to lay the wilting flowers
It is time to accept that it was a natural death.
...and it is time to go home to finish the undone

Universe...is it

Can a human being be her own universe...
With no one...but own self to share....sigh ... be happy..
to walk with...and smell early morning....
to be anonymous and get lost...
to discover...invent ...and innovate...
to laugh and to criticize...
to appreciate and cut down to size...
to be content...and suffice.....

शायद

आजकल हर कदम बड़ाने पर कशमकश होती हे,

आहटो के गलत होने का खोफ रहता हे ,

समय की बूँदें रेत के महलों को हर बार बिखेर देती हे ।

धड्कनो की रफ़्तार के साथ चलना अभी तक नही सिख पाए 

या शायद सीखने से पहले ये पाँव थक गए हें ।

भरोसा मतलबों की सादगी से  बेमतलब हो गया हे,

सादगी के मकबरे के चक्कर जितनी  बार लगते हे, हर बार फूल चडा आते हे।

दहलीज पर बहार आने के इंतज़ार कि रंगोली या पूस की रात के पत्थर हुए दरवाजे 

क्या हें जो गलत हें

या उससे भी गलत हें,

शायद इस  सवाल से जूझना ।

आदत

औ र कुछ नही बस उम्मीदों  कि आबरू   है   जो बनती औ र बिखरती  है   ।

वैसे तो हम भी समझदारो में गिने जा सकते है ,

पर उम्मीदों कि  समझदारी   है,  जो मेरी समझदारी को शर्मिंदा करती है ।

अगर मेरी समझदारी को दिन की  धू प से मुहब्बत न होती,
 तो शायद उम्मीदों के साये के बगैर  उसको साँस लेने की आदत  होती ।

पता नही चलता कि  कौन सी आदत है जो मेरी  जान  को परेशान  करती  है ।

Walk Away

There is some sound outside
Is it the knock that you dont hear
The constant knock musical with the breaths of meaning
You know who's knocking, by the rhythm of forms cast in the air
You know what it would be like, just like what it was several moon's ago, a melodiously flowing river of story
When, what you saw in haste from above was the silent sheet of  flowing water and not the storm of unseen unsaid beneath

What is today that the knock would have brought...
Noise as always, to be strung into beads of music on you becoming the mute audience
The more heart beats you measure to unlock
More pieces there are to be sewn together
More than when you had come out from behind the wall

Why have you made a flight behind unyielding netted walls
Is it the noise you don't want to hear
Of fear of barbs you have built a wall with shards

They walk away with more pieces to collect, as you are too scared to fell the wall
Its fear of the thorns that you close your doors, you miss the call of building a spring
Springs don't just dawn you forget, they are built in treacherous winters with undying resolve

Nobody just comes to walk away,
You give them what you don't want to bear

Or were you the blessed one, not to be among the noise and thorns ever
Or was it the wrong door they were knocking at, fooled by the echoing within the hollow walls