Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe

“Why do we smile? Why do we laugh? Why do we feel alone? Why are we sad and confused? Why do we read poetry? Why do we cry when we see a painting? Why is there a riot in the heart when we love? Why do we feel shame? What is that thing in the pit of your stomach called desire?” If tears could build a stairway and memories a lane, you might discover the universe's secrets under the crippling fear of darkness that isn't conspicuous to the eyes. Maybe they're hiding to obscure the profundity of existence which unveils its beauty under the warm sunshine of the dawn. Indeed the universe is settling and unsettling within, with a candid yet discreet flow of emotions. It often misleads the vision, obfuscating the line between virtue and reality, leaving the mind perplexed. Well, one could always discover the secrets of the universe by rummaging the core of self without looking into the reflection of eyes because sometimes they don't reveal the truth; they lie. "The summer sun was not meant for boys like me. Boys like me belong to the rain." Set during a high school summer, Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe untangle the rhapsodic journey of two teenagers who find solace in each other's composure as they struggle to comprehend their identities amid the bustling pandemonium of the world. Striking an unlikely camaraderie, Ari finds himself complementing Dante's fascinating and philosophical nature as he attempts to fit into the surrounding he inhabits. He never shared a sense of belonging with the world. Neither he was comfortable under the flesh he was living in. Residing with a family that kept their secrets locked up, understanding the world has never been simple for Ari. The symbolic depiction of his brother, about whom no one has spoken since his incarceration, accentuated Ari's incapability to make sympathetic connections with his family or even feel much of anything except a simmering, inarticulate rage. Lacking a true male role figure in his life, Ari has always felt separated, particularly from the world of boys and their interests. "Somehow, I'd hoped this would be the summer that I would discover that I was alive. the world my mom and dad said was out there waiting for me. That world doesn't exist." Ari's mother is quite complicated and fragile. Initially, she was depicted as a stringent parent trying to curb Ari's freedom by imposing her strictness. Some intriguing quotations were meant to tickle our inner emos–“The problem with my life was that it was someone else’s idea.” Although Ari sometimes finds her annoying, he admires his mother's unconditional love and shares a bond of true friendship. On the other hand, Ari's father was a silent and reserved man with gruesome scars haunting him now and then–"Sometimes I think my father has all these scars. In his heart. In his head. All over." These scars were not often noticed, as most people did not even bother to take a look at and understand the meaning behind them. Dwelling on a past too traumatic to talk about, he erected a wall between himself and his family that restricted the glimpses of his life. Ari became distant, withdrawn and broody, caged in his grim and loud thoughts while fighting the demons in his restless mind. Ari had no outlet for his emotions piling up for years, leaving him disturbed and frustrated. Despite his crumbling connection with his family, some resonating moments came from Ari's relationship with his parents, opening new perspectives and widening the horizon for parenthood. However, to bring a change in his monotonous life, he ends up spending his summer days at the local swimming pool, despite not knowing how to swim. His life turns when Dante Quintana walks in, offering him swimming lessons. Little do they know, they are the keys to setting the other free. Soon their friendship blossomed into an ardent love story–true to life, true to the soul. "I love swimming," he said again. He was quiet for a little while. And then he said, "I love swimming – and you." I didn’t say anything. "Swimming and you, Ari. Those are the things I love the most." Dante is unafraid and extroverted by nature. He craved art and literature that served as a looking glass to the world he was still processing. Dante grows more comfortable in his skin–transparency he allows his best friend to see in every aspect of his life. There’s a sense of sincerity and selfless dedication in every word in his letters to Ari, where he explores hushed topics of his deep fantasies of kissing boys and even escapism with drugs. His ability to enact and manifest his visceral thought and feeling becomes more glaring, particularly after life-changing events. Ari, on the other hand, strives to acknowledge and understand the changing emotions that keep him tangled in the cobweb of uncertainty. While Dante revels in his passions, Ari hides from them as he scuffles to confront himself about his preoccupied desires or summon the courage to finally urge his family for the answers that he always craved. "And it seemed to me that Dante’s face was a world without any darkness. Wow, a world without darkness. How beautiful was that?” Ari and Dante are both complex characters, relatable in many ways with a depth to them that is not often afforded to teenagers. Their struggles are dealt with with utmost compassion, and their desire to “write their own story” is taken seriously. Both parents are caring, supportive and constantly trying to understand their kids better. Dante’s parents’ unconditional love and support for him when he admits he “likes kissing boys” is not something many queer kids expect or experience when they come out to their families. Despite a lot of devastating and heartbreaking themes and incidents, this story is, at its core, an uplifting, queer, coming of age tale that is guaranteed to melt even the iciest of hearts. Through the book, we contemplate Aristotle battling to put a leash on his inner demons. We see him proceeding to tussle with loneliness that overpowers and deprives him of his identity. He endeavors to survive the weight of his outrage and the raging curiosity of his convicted brother's estrangement. The trauma of not finding solace in his own skin is heightened by his impulse to wrestle with the vigor of emotions, sexuality, thriving sufferings and self-imposed solitude. Ari is most like the author in the sense that he seemed like a happy guy when in fact, he was miserable and kept waiting for his life to flip upside down for better and worse. Having gone through a very long and painful healing process of coming to terms with his sexuality, Benjamin started to write “Ari”, and “Dante” soon followed. According to him, Ari and Dante are both like him, “they are the young men that I wanted to be–and never was.” The flow of the narration and the aesthetics of writing are surreal. Sometimes the shortest sentence engulfed the reader with the feeling of love for the book. Every description of Dante's laugh, every time the boys would call each other weird, every moment they spent together – it felt like reality, experiencing their friendship and their bond. “Maybe we just lived between hurting and healing.” Pain is a constant companion that follows them on every step of their journey as the boys come to terms with their identities and confront internalized homophobia and feelings of inadequacy. Despite all this, the comfort to the eyes was to witness that their friendship was able to survive every blow of fate that was hurled their way. Their friendship and always those little, to some people rather insignificant moments, touched the soul and automatically warmed the heart of readers. With writing that sings, Benjamin Alire Saénz dives deep into the chaotic relationships we have with those closest to us. The idea of becoming ‘air’–something and nothing at the same time, the persistent need to discover the universe in search of a world without darkness, is something that will surely resonate with us. Gentle stories like these are important. They teach us the importance of living your truth in a world that would instead hide it. It is dedicated “to all the boys who’ve had to learn to play by different rules.” "I guess I'm going to tell my dad. I have this little speech. It starts something like this. Dad, I have something to say. I like boys. Don't hate me. Please don't hate me, don't hate me, don't hate me." This queer novel is a perfect read if your inquisitiveness is piqued by angst and love; it will transcend you to a alternate universe where stars don't twinkle, they explode. The whole idea of this novel is to stifle the ingrained homophobia etched in the mind of the cishet community that often goes unnoticed while highlighting the dilemmas crippling the mind of teenagers. As the reader turns the page to a new chapter, it brings enlightenment and realisation of the unknown, leaving a thread of teardrop on both cheeks, whispering a silent appreciation for the beauty of love depicted through words. There is no exotic Nicholas Sparks plot twists descending into a melodrama, no touch of erotica Fifty Shades of Grey style, not even a fierce declaration of love via Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice–the story of Aristotle and Dante is unique and spiritual, giving a vision to a utopian world.

A Thousand Splendid Suns

"Each snowflake was a sigh heard by an aggrieved woman somewhere in the world. All the signs drifted up the sky, gathered into clouds, then broke into tiny pieces that fell silently on the people below. As a reminder of how women suffer." Just like diamonds hidden under bomb debris, this heart-wrenching story of intense beauty and strength is buried under the surface of the cruel and capricious life. A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini is nothing less than an ingenious anecdote with grievous twists and turns that quivers the vigilance of the reader. Portraying the people of Afghanistan in despair, the book paints a vivid image of a decaying nation under erratic and conflicting powers. The scenes are described as–one could not count the moons that shimmer on the roofs or the thousand splendid suns that hide behind the walls, reciting the sorrowful tales of two resilient souls who depicted an imperative strength of courage in desperate times. Even though it recollects a string of events representing loss and suffering, the novel fabricates an air of virtual storytelling as one antagonizes, reading words between the lines. Indeed, it's one of those novels that reminds us of the cruelties that come with the war, pulling on the heartstrings until it shatters the heart to an uplifting end. "Learn this now and learn it well, my daughter: Like a compass needle that points north, a man's accusing finger always finds a woman." Set in Afghanistan, the story spans over several years from Soviet occupation to Taliban control, enclosing themes of grief, abuse, education, and the importance of resilience. The repressive narrative illustrates how circumstances flip the visibility when the world around us is set aflame for better and worse. The tale begins with a young girl named Mariam, who was born out of wedlock in the city of Herat. She lived with her mother on the outskirts, anxiously waiting for visits from her wealthy father. Branded as an illegitimate child, Mariam faces many prejudices in her early life and discovers a void for affection. An impulsive tragedy turns her life upside down. At the early age of fifteen, she was married to a 40-year-old man, Rasheed, who quickly instructed Mariam on what he believes an ideal wife should be: subservient, obedient, and fertile. The likeliness of a fresh start was tainted with mishaps and tribulations. Mariam discovered that her husband was a tyrant in disguise. From a cheerful girl, she was forced to be a dutiful wife held at the mercy of her husband. But how long could she endure the suffering? "She lived in fear of his shifting moods, his volatile temperament, his insistence on steering even mundane exchanges down a confrontational path that, on occasion, he would resolve with punches, slaps, kicks, and sometimes try to make amends for with polluted apologies, and sometimes not." Here, the narrative took a different turn as we blinked several times and screamed out in outrage. In the neighborhood, another girl was born, Laila. Growing up in a well-educated family, she beheld ideologies of the new era–one, clamoring against injustice. When life took a wrong turn, she endured the grief of losing loved ones. The war brutally ripped her apart from a perfect life. Orphaned, torn from her love, Laila conceded to marry Rasheed. However, an unforgiving sin gave her the will to live. But, did she make the right choice? A new set of events took place. A deep friendship developed between Laila and Mariam, and their lives intertwined most unexpectedly. One innocent yet keeping an unforgiving secret and another bitter with age and burdened with oppression. Both, still with a glimmer of hope in their eyes, ventured on a new journey. "It's our lot in life, Mariam. Women like us. We endure. That's all we have." The catastrophic war, abuse, and injustice came in like a black hole pulling them towards its gaping mouth. But, unlike the void where light is inconspicuous, they managed to find a glimmer of hope. They strives to break free, muddling through life, trying to find joy through the gloom, even if it's for a brief moment. The question is, did they reach the echo point of their destiny? A land where it is a crime for a woman to step out of their house to see their children. A land that forbids women to speak or laugh without permission. Mariam and Laila attempted to seek freedom in the man's world that offered so little. The novel did a splendid job depicting a brilliant tale of feminism and startling heroism. While there is much darkness and pain throughout the book, Hosseini never allows the story's emotional tone to descend into a melodrama. There is wallowing, there is suffering, there is a loss, but there is no surrender. These women absorbed tremendous blows, both figuratively and literally, but never gave up on their will to live. The fate of one of the characters is simply a perfect summation of the strength and dignity that is the heart of this story. Khalid also did a confounding job in illustrating the plight and cry of the once vibrant city of Afghanistan. It is a fable of endurance and courage that comes with love and the inevitable strife. The characterization and setting make it one of the best novels that every man and woman should read and manifest. "A young Mariam is sitting at the table making a doll by the glow of an oil lamp. She's humming something. Her face is smooth and youthful, her hair washed, combed back. She has all her teeth." "The little girl looks up. Put down the doll. Smiles. Laila jo?"

The House in the Cerulean Sea

“The world is a weird and wonderful place. Why must we try and explain it all away? For our pleasure?” The above quote from “The House in the Cerulean Sea” manages to quite succinctly capture the very essence of the book it is taken from. Written by T. J. Klune, this fantasy fiction novel tackles mankind’s tendency to fear what it does not understand. The plot of the novel has a multitude of layers and meanings and yet succeeds in coming across as raw and enjoyable, and therein lies its most significant victory. "We should always make time for the things we like. If we don't, we might forget how to be happy." Set in a fictional world where magical creatures exist naturally and are yet, shunned; the book follows the life of Linus Baker, an ordinary middle-aged man who is a caseworker for the “Department in Charge of Magical Youths (DICOMY).” His job is to investigate orphanages that house magical children, write a report that determines either the continuation or discontinuation of these establishments, and justify it all within uncompromising parameters of fairness. Linus acknowledges his work to be routine and boring and, yet, is law-abiding to a fault, as is demonstrated by his rote knowledge of the ‘RULES AND REGULATIONS.’ "Change often starts with the smallest of whispers. Like-minded people are building it up to a roar.” The break in his monotonous life, and hence the beginning of the novel’s main plot, arrives in the form of a mysterious ‘top secret’ assignment from ‘EXTREMELY UPPER MANAGEMENT.’ He is ordered to travel to a clandestine orphanage on Marsyas Island, inhabited by six highly magical children and their caretaker, Arthur Parnassus. While Linus is assured that the investigation is entirely routine, the island's inhabitants are classified as highly dangerous, and it is heavily implied that the government is just looking for an excuse to shut the orphanage down. “Humanity is so weird. If we’re not laughing, we’re crying or running for our lives because monsters are trying to eat us. And they don’t even have to be real monsters. They could be the ones we make up in our heads. Don’t you think that’s weird?” What follows is Linus’ journey into a world hitherto unknown to him, a world made of towering houses and cerulean seas, island sprites and gnomes, shapeshifting dogs and faeries, with the literal Antichrist thrown in the midst, all topped off with the enigmatic and gentle caregiver, Arthur Parnassus. The author portrays Arthur as the epitome of acceptance, kind and gentle and completely unconditional when loving the people in his life. In a way, Arthur inspires the readers to let go of their preconceived notions and love the world and its creatures as they are. Over the course of roughly seventeen chapters, Linus learns to look at the world in a completely different way, shedding his prejudices and accepting the people around him for who they are. In the process, he finds the peace and happiness that he’d always yearned for. “Sometimes our prejudices colour our thoughts when we least expect them to. If we can recognise that and learn from it, we can become better people.” The novel is bright and lively, written with such exquisite care that it seems like the author’s very heart is contained within the pages. The plot flows seamlessly from one event to the next, and readers are bound to grow along with the protagonist. It is, however, the cast of extremely well-written characters that carry the book, making the story fun and light-hearted to the point where the heaviness of the underlying metaphor ceases to be daunting. All in all, with a pandemic ravaging the earth for the past two years and thus, creating a situation where humanity’s only hope of survival is by taking care of each other. One cannot translate the whimsy that author Klune was able to create. This is a feel-good novel that is both amusing and enlightening. It will change the way you perceive “If you see something, say something”. This book is an absolute must-read.

Dead Poets Society

'We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for.' Dead Poets Society is a lovely timeless coming-of-age story. The protagonist is an unconventional and charismatic teacher who tells his students to seize the day and make their lives extraordinary. It can undoubtedly be acclaimed as one of the best school dramas made to date. A movie that has stood the test of time and is still recalled affectionately even today when it was released in 1989. Dead poets society happens in Welton Academy, a private boy's prep school in the fall of 1959 where rules and guidelines are strict and students have to abide by the conventional methods of teaching. However, things change after a former student John Keating, played by Robin Williams, arrives as an English teacher. He harnesses the power and passion of literature with his unorthodox ways of teaching to open his pupil's minds. Keating believes that words and ideas can change the world and thus pushes his students to celebrate nonconformity and freethinking. The movie is filled with brief quotations from Tennyson, Herrick, Whitman, and even Vachel Lindsay. One of the first extracts of poetry shared by Keating with his pupils to rush them to explore the world while they still can: "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying: And this same flower that smiles today Tomorrow will be dying". There are numerous such extracts and powerful scenes in the movie that can stir hearts and minds. Hearing the words, "Carpe diem, seize the day boys, make your lives extraordinary" fills your heart with unmatched power, courage, and confidence. Keatings is the teacher we all have wished for at some point in time in our lives which makes his performance even more captivating with the theme of the movie resonating with our hearts. The plot shifts as Keating's students start to explore freedom in their lives and break the shackles of timidity. They revive the secret club, "Dead Poets Society" which was once led by Keating himself during his days at the Academy. In the words of Keating himself 'Dead Poets were dedicated to sucking the marrow out of life.' The young lads gathered at the old Indian cave and took turns reading from Thoreau, Whitman, Shelley, waiting for poetry to work its magic. They weren't just some guys, they were romantics, who didn't just read poetry but rather let it drip through their tongues, like honey. Spirits were soared, women swooned and gods were created. In the dramatic turn of events, one of his students Neil defies his father's orders and takes a role in the school play which leads towards a tragic end, and Keating is made the scapegoat by the school authority. Though this marks the end of Keating at the Welton Academy he and his teachings are etched in the hearts of his students forever. He succeeds in making his pupils understand that it is not just about making the right decisions for yourself but it is also about making your own mistakes. The movie explores the beauty of poetry and the power of freethinking. It teaches us to love freely and most importantly makes us understand that the purpose of education is not about following a proven tested method but to explore, ask questions, and think for ourselves.

गांधी की सुंदरता

१. सुशोभित और गांधी पुस्तक के प्रस्तावना स्वरूप लेखक 'पहला पन्ना' लिखते हैं। उसमें उन्होंने कहा है- " गांधी जी कब मेरे भीतर प्रविष्ट हो गए? मैं इसका पता लगाकर रहूंगा!" और आप पूरी पुस्तक पढ़ने के दौरान ये महसूस कर पाएंगे कि सचमुच गांधी जी लेखक के अंदर प्रवेश कर गए हैं। इसका सबसे प्रबल प्रमाण है, इस पुस्तक की शैली जो इतनी सरलता और स्पष्टता से सबकुछ कहती है कि आपको महसूस होगा आपके आसपास गांधी जी हैं। आप पुस्तक‌ के पठन के दौरान विचाराधीन रहेंगे, गांधी जी पहले विचार के रूप में फिर पूर्णता के साथ आपमें भी प्रविष्ट होने लगेंगे और लेखक जो खुद के विषय में कहते हैं कि गांधी जी उनमें प्रवेश करते जाते हैं, इसी तरह की अनुभूति आपको भी होगी। २. गांधी जी का पुनर्स्थापन पुस्तक आपको गांधी जी की ओर लेकर जाएगी। हर भाव के साथ आपको गांधी जी को और समझने-जानने की उत्कंठा जागेगी और साथ ही एक आत्म शोध आपके अंतर में, आपके चित्त में चलता रहेगा। आप पढ़ते हुए पूरे समय मनन की अवस्था में रहेंगे। पुस्तक में कुल १५५ लेख हैं जो लगभग सभी महत्वपूर्ण अवयवों को समेटने की कोशिश करते हैं। घटनाक्रमों के जरिए गांधी जी के दर्शन का सरलीकरण किया गया है जो कि पहले से भी अत्यधिक सरल ही है तथा गांधी जी द्वारा लिखी पुस्तकों के भाग तथा दस्तावेजों को अक्षरश: प्रयुक्त किया गया है ताकि विषय-वस्तु यथार्थ से जरा भी न डिगे। लेखक गांधी जी के आदर्शवाद को स्थापित करते हुए आज के जनमानस में जड़ हो चुकी उपनिवेशवाद, अवसरवाद, कट्टरता, वैमनस्यता अदी कई विकृतियों पर प्रहार भी करते हैं। वे गांधी को आज के चश्मे से देखते हैं और उन्हें आज भी सबसे प्रासंगिक नायक के रूप में स्थापित करते हैं। इस तरह लेखक गांधी का पुनर्स्थापन करते हैं। ३.महात्मा में मानुष की खोज इस अनुशीर्षक को मैंने पुस्तक के नाम से ही उठाया है जो कि इस पुस्तक का सार भी है। सुशोभित कोई आडंबर करते नहीं दिखते हैं, वो तथ्यों को रखते हैं, उसके आसपास सरलता से विचारों ‌को बुनते हैं, समकालीन सरोकार से उसे जोड़ते जाते हैं और फिर आज के संदर्भ में उसकी प्रमाणिकता जांच कर उसे सिद्ध करते हैं जैसे कोई प्रयोगशाला में तत्वों को जमाकर क्रमशः प्रयोग का निष्पादन कर रहा हो। यानी वे गांधी जिनका जीवन खुद एक प्रयोग की तरह है इसे हर लेख में सिद्ध करते जाते हैं। लेखक ये सिद्ध करने में सफल दिखते हैं कि कैसे गांधी खुद के अंदर के संपूर्ण मनुष्य को उजागर कर लेते हैं और साथ ही खुद को और पाठकों को भी प्रोत्साहित करते हैं कि गांधी के जरिए वे कैसे उसी मनुष्यता को साध सकते हैं। शायद बुद्ध इसे ही निर्वाण मानते होंगे। लेखक इस पुस्तक में दो द्वेत स्थापित करते हैं, उस समय के दो प्रमुख विचारकों के साथ - लोकदेव( नेहरू ) और गांधी एवं रजनीश और गांधी जो गांधी के व्यक्तित्व का सम्यक उन्मूलन करने में सक्षम हैं। इस तरह लेखक गांधी को और अधिक स्पष्टता से प्रदर्शित करते हैं। ४. उपसंहार मैंने जो कुछ लिखा है या लिखने जा रहा हूं, वह पुनरुक्ति है क्योंकि लेखक ने सबकुछ लिख डाला है। लेखक पुस्तक के जरिए हमें गांधी के बिल्कुल पास लाकर खड़ा कर देते हैं और गांधी के कहने पर उनके रास्ते भला कौन नहीं चले। गांधी के आकर्षण को लेखक और बढ़ा देते हैं। गांधी के विषाद में आपको विषाद होता है, गांधी की सफलता आपको अपनी सफलता मालूम होती है। गांधी को लिखने में जो आत्म संतुष्टि लेखक को हुई होगी वैसी ही संतुष्टि आपको पाठक के रूप में मिलती है। लेखक गांधी को त्रासद नायक कहते हैं, ये रूपक आपके सोच को परिवर्तित करने का माद्दा रखती है। ये क्षोभ से भी भरती है कि कैसे इस महामानव का अंतिम समय बीता और कितना बड़ा छल किया हमने, इतिहास ने उनके साथ। पुस्तक के अंत तक आप गांधी जी के आत्मकरूणा को इस हद तक महसूस करने लगेंगे की आपको लगेगा गोली आपको आकर लगी और झर-झर आंसू बह पड़ेंगे।

Moonlight

Moonlight is a pioneering piece of cinema that reverberates with deep compassion and universal truths. This Oscar-nominated avant garde film is a rare yet eloquent coming-of-age story, a poignant tale, of a young man's journey to discover himself from childhood to adulthood. The story is predominantly centered around the challenges faced by the protagonist, Chiron, as he navigates through ecstasy, agony, and beauty of falling in love while struggling with his sexuality. Moonlight, as a movie, offers an empathetic yet restricted look into a person's life, inviting the audience to follow the life of a young black queer character who feels so alienated from the world around him that he can't see himself as he is. Carefully crafting silence to portray the notion of refusal through the queer eye, Moonlight delicately appraises what it is to be a male in the present era. Chiron adopts a more masculine persona as a means of protection against a world that demands him to be more resilient. The film touches on complex and dark themes of drug abuse, bullying, sexuality, poverty without showing the audience too much.

Reviewing "Alone" by Edgar Alan Poe

"Alone" was my first poem by Edgar Alan Poe, discovered on a session break from school basking in a late February sunset in a book about a girl who read and wrote poetry amongst gravestones, and that my dear readers, is exactly how you read Poe."Alone" is said to be autobiographically written by a 20 year old Edgar, and left almost hatefully unnamed, presumably. It was published after his death and titled "Alone". Edgar starts off with the reference of his tragic and grief stricken childhood. With deprivation of emotional connections, bereavement has been a common theme in most of his works. Despite his critical essays demonstrating his literary critical prowess, most of his letters reflect the sorrow that he describes here. In a life filled with abandonments and despair, he felt that his dynamic imagination was a curse. But it is commendable how he draws his inspiration for even the most raw pieces from snippets of his life, the imagery he paints of landscapes that he must have come across in one of his lonesome rendezvous. Alone has to be one of those works of Poe which escapes the recurring themes of death of women, horror, madness and life after death. Here, he speaks vividly of the lonliness and disparity that fills his life. And as he speaks of deriving his passions from an uncommon source and his emotions being oriented due to all the experiences he's had as of yet, one line strikes a cord in my brain, "And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—" Edgar blatantly speaks of his failed attempts at acquiring love, for the love in his life either slipped away from him towards death or he pushed love away and allowed the madness to truly drown him. The momentum of the poem is very similar to Poe's experience, leaving him breathlessly grief stricken and in a deep retrospection. As the poem comes to a conclusion, we believe that Edgar was distracted whilst lost in the reverie of his own glum thoughts, trying to decipher them once again in his lifetime through his writing. The ending, however, still leaves me perplexed. After reading several unconfidently vivid and vague analysis on this poem, I draw the conclusion that Poe had more to say, that "Alone" was left unnamed because it was probably incomplete.

Flowers for Algernon

I don’t know what’s worse: to not know what you are and be happy, or to become what you’ve always wanted to be, and feel alone.” This is a quote from the book -Flowers for Algernon. Why do we put such pressure on ourselves for some artificial accomplishments to feel better about ourselves? This book answers such questions and more by telling us the story of a man who understood life in its simplicity and innocence but a scientific experiment changed all that forever. The Algernon in the story’s title is not a human but in fact a mouse upon whom an experiment is performed to test whether it is possible to increase intelligence artificially. A man called Charlie Gordon, who works as a sweeper in a factory, and has an IQ of 68 volunteers for the operation that is fated to triple his IQ and everything changes. What happens next? The story is a character study, social commentary and love story all rolled in one. But most of all it is a tale of immense empathy and heart that will surely stick with you for a long time. The author says- Its lonely at the top. Everyone wants to belong, It’s the most primal instinct of man as a social being. But what happens if people expect you to be what you are not and deny your true self? Is it then better to be alone? People take too much pleasure at having fun at the expense of those they consider below them and shrivelling up Infront of those they consider superior to them. And maintaining these foolish hierarchies for what? When one becomes too self-conscious, life becomes more challenging than it needs to be. self-doubt robs one of all meaning giving just emptiness to hold onto that you create in the first place. The story explores themes of identity, self expression, self worth, social acceptance, isolation, unrequited love and human intellect and how it affects how we are perceived by others. The way the story is structured is also so unique filled with grammatical errors and spelling mistakes at the beginning but as time goes on and Charlies intelligence increases it shifts into a sophisticated and contemplative monologue. This is until the main plot twist and climax of the story which is so beautiful and empathetic and hard-hitting and unexpected that is bound to make you speechless if not move you to tears(did for me). Charlies eagerness to move up in the world changed his life and those around him forever. How much ambition should we have ? As we want to be someone in this world sometimes we are too eager and in such hurry to let go of our previous selves that we perhaps forget to stop even a moment to say goodbye to our previous selves and our previous lives. And I think that is what the book ultimately tells us – to stop and take a look around every once in a while.

मधुशाला

हिंदी काव्य में ऐसी कुछ कालजईं रचनाएँ हुई हैं जिन्होंने काव्य के स्वरूप को, उसके दर्शन को काफ़ी हद तक बदल दिया, हरिवंश राय बच्चन जी की कविता ‘’मधुशाला ‘’ इन्हीं दिव्य रचनाओं में से एक है। यह पुस्तक कवि के खुद के अनुभवों और कल्पनाओं का मिश्रण है। भाषाई सुंदरता और जीवन दर्शन से भरपूर यह रचना सदैव प्रशंसा और आलोचनाओं के तराज़ू पर झूलती रही है। कवि पर नित्य मदिरापान को बढ़ावा देने के आरोप लगते रहे, सौभाग्यपूर्ण स्वयं गांधीजी ने इन खोखली आलोचनाओं का खंडन किया था। कविता विधिवत अनेक रूबाइयों का मिश्रण है। ‘रूबाई’ चार पंक्तियों की एक छोटी कविता होती है, जिसमे पहले, दूसरे और चौथे पंक्तियों में तुकबंदी होती है । कविता में भाषाई सुंदरता और सिद्धांत दर्शन समग्र मात्रा में देखने को मिलता है। पुस्तक में जीवन की मादकता को लेकर जो विभिन्न परिपेक्ष हैं उन्हें खूबसूरती से दर्शाया गया है। कविता के छंद पाठक को एक गहरे आत्म मंथन की ओर ढकेलतें हैं । दिरालय जाने को घर से चलता है पीनेवला, 'किस पथ से जाऊँ?' असमंजस में है वह भोलाभाला, अलग-अलग पथ बतलाते सब पर मैं यह बतलाता हूँ - 'राह पकड़ तू एक चला चल, पा जाएगा मधुशाला मधुशाला की कुछ पंक्तियाँ पाठक को अपने भीतर के ईश्वर की तलाश करने की सलाह देती है । पंक्तियाँ बतातीं हैं कि अंतर्मन के ईश्वर की शक्ति घर्मस्थलों में स्थापित ईश्वरों से सहस्त्र गुना अधिक हैं। कविता में अनेक पंक्तियाँ धर्म कटाक्ष को समर्पित हैं । कवि बच्चन ने धार्मिक सद्भाव को भारतीय स्वतंत्रता संग्राम का अमूल्य हिस्सा माना है। कवि ने रूबाइयों के सहारे स्वयं घोषित धर्म गुरुओं पर अपने अनुयायियों को प्राकृतिक नियमों के विरुद्ध भटकाने का आरोप लगाया है। कवि का मानना है कि जो सामाजिक नियम देवों द्वारा गढ़े गए थे, उनके परिवर्तन का मनुज को अधिकार नहीं है । मुसलमान औ' हिन्दू है दो, एक, मगर, उनका प्याला, एक, मगर, उनका मदिरालय, एक, मगर, उनकी हाला, दोनों रहते एक न जब तक मस्जिद मन्दिर में जाते, बैर बढ़ाते मस्जिद मन्दिर मेल कराती मधुशाला! मधुशाला की कई रूबाइयों में हमे कवि का प्रकृति प्रेम देखने को मिल जाता है। इन पंक्तियों में कवि कहते हैं के ब्रम्हांड की मधुशाला में यह वसुंधरा एक प्याले के समान है जिसमे आलौकिक प्राकृतिक हाला भरी हुई है और मनुज , पशु, कीट , पक्षी आदि इस मधुशाला में "पीनेवालों" के रूप में एक राहगीर के भाँति ठहरे हुए हैं । कवि ने इस ब्रह्मांड के रचने वाले उस महाशक्ति को साकी माना है जो इस मधुशाला को नियंत्रित करता है कविता की कुछ पंक्तियाँ ऋतुओं के सौंदर्य का दिव्य वर्णन करती हैं । कवि संकेत करते हैं के पर्यावरण और अंतरमन की हाला के मिश्रण से जीवन रूपी मधुशाला सुखद बनती है । बनी रहें अंगूर लताएँ जिनसे मिलती है हाला, बनी रहे वह मिट्टी जिससे बनता है मधु का प्याला, बनी रहे वह मदिर पिपासा तृप्त न जो होना जाने, बनें रहें ये पीने वाले, बनी रहे यह मधुशाला रूबाइयों के सहारे कवि ने मनुज जीवन में प्रेम की महत्वता को दर्शाया है । कवि लिखते हैं के प्रेम-हाला का परहेज कर मनुष्य एक दिव्य भाव से वंचित हो रहा है । पीनेवाले और साकी एक दूसरे के पूरक हैं । कवि लिखते हैं के मानव मन के प्याले में जब प्रीत की हाला ढाली जाती है तब यह जीवन-मधुशाला गुलज़ार हो जाती हैं । कवि ने प्रेमी मतवालों को समाज में सबसे श्रेष्ठ माना है । वह बताते हैं के प्रेम भाव में लीन व्यक्ति नरपतियों से अधिक धनी एवं संपन्न है। धन , संपत्ति और माया उस हाला के समान है जिसका प्रभाव क्षण भर तक मान्य है परंतु प्रेम हाला की बेहोशी सदैव मनुज पर छाई रहती है । आज सजीव बना लो, प्रेयसी, अपने अधरों का प्याला, भर लो, भर लो, भर लो इसमें, यौवन मधुरस की हाला, और लगा मेरे होठों से भूल हटाना तुम जाओ, अथक बनू मैं पीनेवाला, खुले प्रणय की मधुशाला। कविता की रूबाइयों में बच्चन जी ने मनुष्य की नश्वरता का अनूठा वर्णन किया है। कवि लिखते हैं कि मनुज के प्याले रूपी शरीर में अब हाला की कुछ अंतिम बूँदें बची हैं। अब स्वयं दण्डधर यमराज साकी के रूप में खड़े हैं जो मनुज को इस जीवन की मधुशाला से निकाल कर भवसागर पार परलोक की दिव्य मधुशाला की ओर खींच रहे हैं। मृत्यु के बाद प्याले में बस कर्म-हाला की कुछ बूँदें शेष हैं जिसके बल पर पीनेवाले के आगे का सफर निर्णीत होगा। कविता में कवि ने काल को उस हाला के रूप में दर्शाया है जिसका सेवन कर मनुज आनंदमय तो होता है पर क्षण क्षण मृत्यु के निकट भी बढ़ता जाता है। बच्चन जी का मानना है कि एक सुध में, भटके बिना जीवन काल की हाला का सेवन करने से मनुज मोक्ष की मधुशाला पा सकता है । यम आयेगा साकी बनकर साथ लिए काली हाला, पी न होश में फिर आएगा सुरा-विसुध यह मतवाला, यह अंतिम बेहोशी, अंतिम साकी, अंतिम प्याला है, पथिक, प्यार से पीना इसको फिर न मिलेगी मधुशाला

माँ की दिनचर्या

सुबह के तीन बज कर पचास मिनट हो चुके हैं, सैमसंग के बटन वाले फ़ोन पर बज रहा है अलार्म। ध्वनि गूँज रही है पूरे कमरे में। ध्वनि गूँज रही है पूरे मकान में। ध्वनि को गली के कोने से भी सुना जा सकता है, सुबह शांती रहती है चारो ओर, इतनी सुबह कोई नहीं उठता सिवाय मेरी माँ के। तकिये पर सिर गड़ाये, बिना आँखों को खोले, मैंने बंद कर दिया वो अलार्म जो माँ ने लगाया था इसलिए कि अगर गलती से उनकी नींद न खुले अपने आप तो फ़ोन की घंटी से वो उठ पाएं और शुरू करे अपनी दिनचर्या। माँ की दिनचर्या क्या होती है? मैं सो गया वापस उसी तकिये में सिर गड़ाये, माँ ने उठ कर ब्रश किया, नहाया, कपड़े धोये, घर बहारा, गमलो में लगे पौधों से फूल तोड़े, चावल भिगोया, सब्जी काटे, आटा गूँधा, मसाले तैयार किये। पलकें झुकती रहीं उनकी नींद से उन्होंने अपना चेहरा धोया हाँसू पर प्याज़ काटे, आँसुओं को रोका, और रोटी बेलते बेलते उन्होंने मुझे आवाज़ दी किचन से कि नालायक अब तो उठ जाओ। नालायकों को स्कूल भेजने के बाद, माँ तैयार होने लग गयीं खुद स्कूल जाने के लिए, बच्चों को पढ़ाने के लिए, रोटी कमाने के लिए। माँ अब एक शिक्षिका हैं। उन्होंने उठाई है चाक और लिखना शुरू किया है ब्लैकबोर्ड पर कभी पाइथागोरस थ्योरम तो कभी केमिस्ट्री के एक़ुएशन्स, कभी फ़्रांस की क्रांति तो कभी संगीत के सुर। माँ जून की गर्मी में दिसंबर की ठण्ड में सितम्बर की बरसात में मई की आँधी में पढ़ाती रहीं निरंतर, बिना रुके, बिना थके सैकड़ों बच्चों को। शाम के साढ़े चार बज चुके हैं, माँ के बेटे इंतजार कर रहें हैं कि कब माँ घर आएँगी और कब वे माँ से पूछ कर क्रिकेट खेलने के लिए बाहर दौड़ लगायेंगे। माँ रास्ते में हैं, बच्चे फ़ोन पर फ़ोन कर रहें हैं, माँ कह रहीं हैं कि बस बीस मिनट और , माँ सब्जी वाली से भिन्डी के दो रूपए कम कराने के लिए मोल भाव कर रहीं हैं, बच्चे धीरज खो रहें हैं। माँ शांत हैं। माँ ने चौखट के इस ओर कदम रखा ही था कि बच्चे दौड़ पड़े बैट लेकर बाहर। माँ ने कंधो से पर्स और हाथ से झोले को रखा जमीन पर, बच्चों के जूतों को सीधा किया, उनके यूनिफार्म को बाल्टी में डाला, उनके बैग को रैक पर रखा अपने माथे के पसीने को पोछा अपने कपड़े बदले, मुह धोया और फिर चली गयी किचन के अंदर जहाँ रखें हैं सुबह से इस्तेमाल किये गए सारे जूठे बरतन। बरतन धोने के बाद, माँ आकर बैठ गयीं हैं बालकनी में, गर्मी से तर बतर, बिना लाइट के, हाथों में प्लेट लिए। और तब जाकर माँ ने लिया है आज दिन का पहला निवाला। माँ ने खाया है आज सुबह की बनी दाल, सुबह की बनी चावल, और एक रोटी। माँ को कोई गम नहीं है कि बच्चों ने माँ के लिए सब्जी नहीं छोरी। बच्चे लौट गए हैं खेल कर, माँ घर बहार रहीं हैं। बच्चे पढ़ने बैठ गए हैं, माँ सब्जी काट रहीं हैं, बच्चे पढ़ रहें हैं, माँ आटा गूँध रही हैं, बच्चे पढ़ रहे हैं, माँ मसाले तैयार कर रहीं हैं। बच्चे टीवी पर मैच देखते देखते खा रहे हैं माँ रोटी बेल रहीं हैं, बच्चे खा कर हाथ धो रहे हैं, माँ गिलास में बच्चों के लिए दूध निकाल रहीं हैं बच्चे सो रहे हैं माँ बरतन धो रहीं हैं, बच्चे सो रहे हैं माँ पढ़ने बैठ गयीं है, बच्चे सो रहे हैं, माँ अपनी पीएचडी की थीसिस लिख रहीं हैं, बच्चे सो रहे हैं, माँ कल क्या पढ़ाना है वो पढ़ रहीं हैं, बच्चे सो रहे हैं माँ स्कूल से लायी कॉपी चेक कर रहीं हैं, बच्चे सो रहे हैं, माँ महीने के खर्च का हिसाब लगा रहीं हैं, बच्चे सो रहे हैं, माँ अकेले बिना आवाज़ किये रो रहीं हैं, बच्चे सो रहे हैं, माँ लड़ रहीं हैं, बच्चे सो रहे हैं, माँ दीवार पर टँगी उस तस्वीर को देख कर उनसे ये पूछ रहीं हैं कि वो अकेले इतना सब कुछ कैसे कर पाएंगीं? बच्चे सो रहे हैं, माँ की पलके भी अब झुकने लगी हैं। बच्चे सो रहे है, माँ बिना खाये, कुर्सी पर ही बैठ, हाथों में कलम लिए दीवार पर सिर टिकाये आज फिर सो गयीं हैं। बच्चे सो रहे हैं। माँ सो रहीं हैं। अगले दिन सुबह के तीन बजकर पचास मिनट पर अलार्म फिर बजा, मैंने उसे आधी नींद में फिर बंद किया, माँ उठीं कुर्सी पर से, ब्रश की, और चली गयी फिर से कपड़े धोने, सब्जी काटने, मसाले तैयार करने, बच्चों को पढ़ाने, पीएचडी थीसिस लिखने, बरतन धोने, और बाजार से सब्जी लाने। माँ की दिनचर्या क्या होती है? आयुष

असमर्थ मन

कोमल-निश्छल प्रेम – न हमसे हो पाएगा प्रेम दूब पर बूंद ओस की प्रेम प्रलय पर विजय बोध है प्रेम प्रभात की प्रथम किरण है प्रेम स्वयम का आत्मशोध है। भूख-गरीबी , पत्थर तन है आग लगी है , विचलित मन है। मरूभूमि के कंटक वन में मरघट की ऊसर धरती पर कहो गुलाब क्या खिल पाएगा? मुट्ठी में गर जीवन भर लूँ एक ज़ोर मैं और लगा लूँ सारा अमृत बह जाएगा मेरे हिस्से विष आएगा। कहो प्रेम क्या हो पाएगा? क्या गुलाब की नाजुक कलियाँ मेरी क्षुधा मिटा पाएंगी? कभी स्नेह या प्रीति किसी की मुझमें प्रेम जगा पाएगी? नहीं! एक ही उत्तर इसका सभी दिशाएं बोल रही हैं हिय मेरा अभिशप्त प्रेम का भेद सभी से खोल रही हैं। जीवन क्या है किसे पता है? प्रेम कहाँ कैसे मिलता है? भव सागर कितना गहरा है उतरा हूँ? जो कह पाऊँगा! कहो ! मुक्त मैं हो पाऊँगा?

‘Nothing’ has ‘Power’

If there’s nothing between us, I wonder, if nothingness exists. Still ‘nothing’ has existence. You think in nothingness, You feel in nothingness, Who said nothing equates to emptiness And that emptiness is vacant. If the distance between you ‘and’ me is space, Who said this space is empty. You say about the space, The space that has stars and constellations The stars whom you gaze And the constellations those predict the fate, Who said there’s emptiness in nothingness. The moon and sea, miles apart Forced to wipe the distance with tides The nothingness therein has ‘power’, So does here. You look ahead there’s nothing, but… But the air that parts us The air that ‘you’ and I breathe.

आँगन बरखा अटरिया

सावन घिर आए भिगाए अँगनिया। मोहे जावन दो न पहिराओ पैंजनिया।। फेंकी पीरी चुनरी रे उघरी अटरिया। लाजो न लजाए री गाई कजरिया।। जेई रंग-रंगइनी सब बही-बही जाए। मोरी पैंजनिया जब ताल मिलाए।। बरसे झूमी झम-झम कारी बदरिया। पियू भारी लगे लाली-झीनी चदरिया।। मोहे बैरागन के रंग रंगा दो। अरी पिया मोरा श्रृंगार हटा दो।। बन जाऊँ मैं श्याम तू बन जा राधा। जा बन जाएँ जुगल जोड़ी आधा-आधा।। मैं नाचूँ ध्वनि जैसे नाचे मुरलिया की। तू बाजे मधुर-धुन गोपी-पायलिया की।। मैं हो करधन तोहे अंग लगाऊँ। तू बन माखन मैं मिश्री हो जाऊँ।। मोरे केश-कजर सब बिखरत जाए। मोरा अल्हड़ रूप जासे निखरत जाए।। पिया मोहे सखी की याद सताए। तू सखी रूप में अति मन भाए।। मोरी नथिया अाज मोहे रास न लागे। तोसे लगन प्यास की अगन है जागे।। अब दे उतार जेई रजत पैंजनिया। मोहे भारी लगे घुँघरू झमकनिया।। चढ़ी नाचूँ बिसर-सब उघरी अटरिया। मोहे जावन दो न पहिराओ पैंजनिया।।

The Tree in the sands

It had been an hour of aimless wandering in the hot desert. Matt took the last sip of water left in the bottle. Why did he have to part with the group in the first place? Was every little 'off-trail' adventure necessary? He questioned his actions for the hundredth time. He knew bickering wouldn't help, yet he grumbled again and again. The desert was driving him crazy. The overhead sun sucked his life out of his limbs as the sparkling sand blinded his eyes. He huffed and puffed as he dragged his feet on the ever-fading trail. He hadn't seen any sign of life in a while. No snake slithered on the arid soil, and no lizard crawled out of the yellow sand. He had lost all hope and was about to lose his sanity when he spotted… a tree! A simple, ordinary tree, it was, with a trunk so thick that Matt couldn't even surround it with his hands. It was the first sign of life Matt had seen in an hour. It was like reuniting with a long-lost friend. A friend you know very little about but would want to learn more about. There was nothing extraordinary about it, though. It was just a big, old tree. But for Matt, it outshone the dazzling sands and the bright sun. The fact that it existed in a biome so barbarous made it nothing less than extraordinary. There was no plant, lest another tree nearby. No sign of any vegetation. Nor was there any water body nearby. Only dry, arid soil covered the area. But still, the tree lived. The kindred hues of green leaves looked so vibrant at the time. It was a miracle that life had thrived there for years. Maybe not thrived but survived. The Tree had stood its ground against all odds. It was like a lone wolf battling the mighty desert. It didn't have an arsenal of weapons but a lot of determination. The war, however, had left a lot of scars as well. The dried fallen branches under the tree reminded me of the wounds it had suffered. They spoke of the countless times the desert had tried to uproot it with sandstorms and heavy winds. But the tree didn't give up. The new, tender branches spoke for it. The tree wasn't ready to give up. Not yet. The wrinkles on the trunk trapped years of battling experience. They accounted for years of struggle the tree had faced. But they also showed the years of resilience the tree had shown. "With will comes the power to stand against adversities and overcome them." The Tree personified this line with utmost accuracy. The suffering has been long... very long.....but the tree is implacably determined not to lose. The war is raging, and maybe nature's wrath will overcome it someday, but the tree will depart knowing it did its best. Knowing it stood high when no other could. Knowing it outdid itself. Matt's thoughts were interrupted by a jeep horn. He turned and saw his friends in a jeep coming toward him. "Thank God! Matt, you're Ok. We were worried sick for you," Linda let out. Matt smiled and started walking towards the vehicle. He turned back to take the last look at his newfound friend. Just then, a dry gust flew, and a leaf fell off the tree. It sailed the wind and landed in Matt's hands, who caught it very cautiously. Perhaps it was a parting gift from a friend he might never meet again. Funny how he prayed and prayed for someone to rescue him but now that his friends had come, he was reluctant to go. He was unwilling to leave such a marvelous creation of mother nature—a masterpiece carved by the earth itself but which might never come forth into the world. The desert was covered with gilded sands, but the real gold was the big, old tree with a trunk so thick.

कृष्ण की राधा

The love of lord Krishna and his beloved Radha has always been remarked as the most pure, eternal form of love known to mankind. Here is a poem of mine which highlights certain questions that my mind has encountered during the folds of this night. I know many of you may not agree to my views, do let me know what you feel. उस घड़ी, जब कृष्ण हज़ारों गोपियों के साथ रास लीला रचा रहे होंगे, क्या सच में, बस राधा को ही अपने मन में बसा पा रहें होंगे? ज़रा सोचो, उस घड़ी, क्या रही होगी राधा की दशा, जब प्रिय को अपने, उसने हज़ारों के मन में देखा था बसा| चूर-चूर हो चुका होगा गुरूर उसका उसी वक़्त, और शायद अपने प्रेम पर वो प्रश्‍न उठा रही होगी, बाट कर हृदय के टुकड़े को सबसे, क्या सच में वो मुस्कुरा रही होगी? नाम चाहे उसी के साथ जुड़े कृष्ण का, क्या सच में वो उसे अपना बुला पा रही होगी? कितनी बेताबी के साथ खोजा होगा अपने चेहरे को उस कमल जैसे नयन में उसने, जब उसके कृष्ण के रूप में लीन, उसकी सखियाँ भी शर्मा रही होंगी| अपना सब कुछ नाम कर दिया था जिसके उपर उसने, उसे द्वारिका जाता देख, वो आँखें ना जाने कितनी यमुना बहा रही होंगी| क्या ऐसे प्रेम को वो सच में अपना पा रही होगी? क्या सच में वो कृष्ण की ही राधे कहला रही होगी??

Gazebo of memories

I sit in the gazebo of memories As the emotions meander around. I sit as the reminiscence of my austere self, Makes me covet to travel to the past. I sit in the gazebo of memories As the emotions meander around. I sit as I am reminded by them, How my demeanour has changed, How from a soft-hearted boy, I became an iron-hearted man. I sit in the gazebo of memories As the emotions meander around. I sit in a resolute stoicism, As the waves of time alter the sands of life. I sit, wishing to scream,” I am the same”. Instead, I choose to silently bleed rhymes through my lesioned memories. I sit in the gazebo of memories As the emotions meander around.

The Tale of A-Merry-go land

Selected as the winner of ‘Make Rostra Great Again!’, a political satire writing competition in Rostra ’18. This is the tale of A merry-go woodland, that lay somewhere beyond the valley of balance and Highlands of sanity. The usually mutually indifferent, self-consumed denizens dwelling the merry-go woodland, would huddle together on every fourth equinox of the fall, to select one from themselves, amerrygans as they fondly christened themselves, as a tradition, to elevate to the status of the “nutcase”, the supreme commander-in-charge of all the “nuts” of the forest. It so happened that the Berserk Elephant, nicknamed the sandfoxhead, who had to his credit, several towering gilded oaks, and a weird pastime routine of grabbing pussycats by the tails, and a penchant for awkwardly trumpeting about his daughter’s constitution, announced his will for contending the Quadrennial. Just like his other boorish, myriad, random, incoherent trumpetings, the wildfolk of the woodland, ignored him initially. But, a shocking number of red necked white hawks, amongst other raptors, rallied behind him, talons outstretched, who believed, they of all birds, should’ve the sky solely to themselves. Before anyone could realise, the sandfoxhead had amassed an entire armada of white wolves, fangs bared, howling in his wake, that the black and resultant grey ones had contaminated their blood. Meanwhile, the most likely contender for the Nutcase Quadrennial, the Hill Eric Lynn Don-key, the most public of the many mates of Bill C Lynn Don-key, a former Nutcase, was ceaselessly repeatedly braying about making all breeds of horses equal, as the donkeys. Meanwhile, rumors had it that their respective daughter Chill C Lynn Don-key and E van kaa Trunk elephant had struck a friendship. Amongst the traditional strongholds of the C Lynn Don-key family, the equine sachslands and the far-go wells, an octagenarian wise serpent, Burn E Sandvipers, rose by burrowing beneath the oil plantations of Berserk Elephant’s symbiote, T. Rex Diggerson, and exposing how the innocent seeming Donkeys, asking to make horses donkeys, had found special grazing mates in Arabian Horses from far off lands, who as a queer habit, unanimously neighed in chorus, “Saw-Thee Oil Fields”. At the rather abrupt conclusion of the tale, and surprising turn of events, due to the Berserk Elephant breaking down the fourth wall and revealing that the word limit of the entry was finite, the Don-keys tricked the serpent by depositing dung on his senile heat sensing pits, making him feel the oil was gone, and the Berserk “sandfoxhead” Elephant, with some help Put-in by Vlad E Deer and a cunning namesake storyteller fox new Z, emerged victorious, despite most animals of the forest hating him for a variety of reasons. The red necked white hawks circled ominously driving out the doves and fellow redhawks, and ruled supreme, watching over the merry-go woodland, besides the ancestral forest spirits of fellow Rip-up-lickans Ape Lincoln, Buzzard Nickson, Ron Ant Rig-an-election and John, Fitz, Gerald, Ken & Eddy, wondering how their glorious feats could’ve possibly been emulated by a drunkard of such notoriety. – Pitamber Kaushik Picture Credits: Patrick LaMontagne

Bottleneck

Finally, I bottled you up one day. Threw you into an ocean. You, a result of a chasm. Between façade and fact. Now, you sail more restfully than ever. Sail away, as long as you want. Hope no hands find you this time. Only to remove the cork. Only to spill you loose. Only to poison the ocean, The ocean of my thoughts. Please remain caged. In that bottle, bound by the neck. Holding onto you would have been a mistake. So, I threw you away. Out of sight today, out of mind tomorrow.

रूबरू

बहुत समय बाद ऐसे बैठे थे हम, सोचकर आज बातें करेंगे, भूलकर अपने गम। मुस्कुराते हुए एक ने कहा… “कल ही खबर आई थी सर, कॉलेज में मेरा भाई आया है शीर्ष पर।” “वाह! ये तो बहुत गर्व की बात है, आई खुशियों की सौगात है।” “सर… बिटिया ने नाम रौशन किया है, खेल में स्वर्ण पदक लिया है… लीजिए सर मुँह मीठा कीजिए…” “माँ के हाथ की बनी मिठाई आई है, कल ही बहन की सगाई हुई ये पैगाम लाई है।” “घर पर तो हो रहा होगा संगीत,तो क्या… हम भी गा लेंगे यहाँ खुशी के गीत।” “बात तो सही कहा सर आपने… पता नहीं फिर भी क्यों आँखें नम है, वहाँ संगीत और बॉर्डर पर हम हैं।” “आंखे नम न करो अपनी, हम सबसे खुशनसीब हैं, सबकी खुशी है हमारी खुशी, बस हमारी दास्तान थोड़ी अजीब है। जागते हैं हम यहाँ पर, लोग वहाँ चैन से सोते हैं, हमारी जाँबाजी देख ही, नया सिपाही बोते हैं। सिर्फ अपना ही नहीं ये देश हमारा परिवार है, धरती माता के लिए , हर बार जान कुर्बान है।” बात खत्म हुई नहीं थी कि… दौड़ता हुआ सिपाही आया…”सर! सर! आतंकवादियों ने अचानक हमला कर दिया है! वो हमारे कैम्प की ओर बढ़े जा रहे हैं, हमारे कुछ सैनिक उनसे लड़े जा रहे हैं। हजारों तादाद में हैं वो… और हम सिर्फ सौ!!” “जवानों… तैयार हो जाओ, हमारी परीक्षा की घड़ी आई है, धरती हमारे लिए पैगाम लाई है। चाहे हमारा सीना छलनी क्यों न हो जाए, एक भी दुश्मन बच न पाए! धरती के हम हैं वीर, दुश्मन को कर देंगे चीर। रुकना नहीं है अब वार कर, एक एक भारी पड़ो हजार पर.” “Yes sir!!” बिना रुके बिना झुके जवान बढ़ते गए, दुश्मनों को खाक कर, उनको चीरते गए । भीषण राक्षस की भाँति बढ़ते जा रहे थे वो, जवानों के शरीर पर ही फेंक रहे बम थे वो। मगर माँ के बेटों को अब तक कौन ही रोक सका है, जालिम लाख कर ले कोशिश, जल के ही खाक हुआ है। “हैलो!! सिपाही क्या खबर है ?” “सर! हजार भी न टिक पाए बेटों के सामने, धरती की रक्षा में जान दे दी हर जवान ने। दुश्मनों का एक टैंक हमारी ओर बढ़ रहा, बम और बारूद से हमला वो कर रहा। जान देने की बारी… अब मेरी आई है जालिमों के सरदार ने माथे पर बंदूक लगाई है। भारत… माता की जय!!” “हैलो! सिपाही… हैलो!!” खुद के शरीर को बम बना, कफन बांध माथे पर, जकड़ लिया जालिम को वो, ले गया घसीटकर, खुद पर ही वार कर, जालिम को खाक कर दिया , धरती के बेटों ने दुश्मनों को राख कर दिया। चल पड़ा तिरंगा ले, लहरा वहाँ दिया उसे, फिर से जंग जीत कर, माँ सलाम कर दिया तुझे। झंडे को सलामी दे, गिर पड़ा जमीन पर, दर्द थी सीने में, गुरूर था चेहरे पर। सांसे धीरे चल रहीं थी,पर शरीर था न हिला, अंतिम सांसे ले कह रहा था हमसे, कर चले हम फिदा… जानो तन साथियों… अब तुम्हारे हवाले वतन साथियों।। जय हिन्द!!

Denouement or: The Time My Future Was Abruptly Cancelled

“Aprameya Gupta. Hello.” A beautiful woman, thirty-something, was standing beside my seat. The seat of a train, I was traveling at that time. Speaking of which, the train was mostly empty, as far as I knew there were only 6 other people in my carriage. So, an empty train and a beautiful woman, this appeared to be the setting of a movie, either a horror or a pornographic. I mean, it’s not common to be greeted by a beautiful older woman while everyone else is asleep who also happens to knows your name. And she pronounced it correctly too, wonderful! “Yeah, umm that’s me, hello.”, I said. She took the opposite seat. I hastily got up and hit my head on the middle berth. Damn, they are too low. And why did I open it in the first place? God, I felt stupid. She laughed, “You really are cute, your fans weren’t wrong about that.” “Umm, my fans?”, I scratched my head, “I have fans?” “Sorry, I should have started with that. Aprameya Gupta, you are the protagonist of a series of monthly short stories published in the world famous “Curtains” magazine. That’s is the reason for your adventurous life, in which you frequently get into trouble, have a miraculous escape, maybe learning a lesson or two in the end. Your character is loved throughout the globe for its complexity. However, the man who created you is currently facing prosecution for alleged rape charges, therefore, I am charged to find a suitable end for you.” My thought process split into three parts. One tried to comprehend the massive dose of information she gave me. The others wondered how a magazine named “Curtains” would be world famous. And lastly, could this still be considered one of the two scenarios I mentioned earlier, I still wished this would somehow turn in the later kind, she had a strong powerful sort of face that would make beta and gamma males like me go crazy for her. Makes us want to get dominated. “Umm so, can you prove the things you said earlier?”, I asked,” Why should I believe you?” “Oh, that’s not a problem, you know I can always MAKE you believe without explaining anything but, this would be more presentable to our readers.” Six passengers suddenly walked up to my compartment, their eyelashes grew giant which they used to fly. The ceiling of the carriage split open, like a chest, and they flew away. “Now”, she said,” You pretend that you hate your name but you love it, it makes you feel special. You’ve had a homosexual crush in standard 9th, something you refuse to accept. You are secretly addicted to the taste of incense stick ash. Are those secrets plenty? If not then come with me.” The base collapsed to make way for a staircase. As we climbed, she said, “You’ve already seen the Taj Mahal, allow me to show you the rest of the seven wonders.” One of the passengers returned with the Great Wall of China hunched on his back, still flying using her enormous eyelashes. “Now, how about some mathematics my dear?” She turned and conjured a blackboard out of thin air and drew a triangle on it, and then drew a DIAGONAL on a triangle, a line that was somehow touching both the vertices of the triangle without being a side. “Th-That is enough, please.”, I said. She smiled and nodded and we returned to my seat. And so, this turned out to be the first kind of scenario. “You believe me now?” She said,” Now its time we discuss your end.” “I don’t get it if I am really world famous, why are you killing me? Can’t they have you writing my stories instead?” “And why should they? Or why should I? You are his most famous work, his legacy. A rapist’s legacy. You need to end.” “And how will you end me?” “Oh, that isn’t a difficulty really. We can just kill you off – by disease, accident, murder, we can make you depressed enough to commit suicide or we can leave you alive and kill everyone you love. After that, the planned collection of the stories will never get published, the movie studio that bought your live-action adaptation rights will drop the idea, and we’ll recall all unsold merchandise. People don’t really want you to have a happy ending, you see they see too much of him in you.” “He is a rapist, not me. Why do people hate me? It’s unfair.” “Is it? Because I seem to remember, you found an underage girl cute in one of the stories, you have lascivious desires for some of your female cousins and aunts and you’ve been having lewd thoughts about me ever since we met.” That damned writer wrote this too, I’ll kill him. “Hey I was underage too, and I said she was cute in a non-sexual way, plus all those cousins and aunts aren’t my close relatives, and you are genuinely beautiful. Everyone will think the way I did!” “But not everyone is the creation of a filthy rapist. Think of it this way, it’s your creator who is suffering here, he is getting the punishment he deserves by seeing his hard work reduced to ashes…” “But”, I cried,” I am the one who is losing his life!” “See it this way – ‘You are not real so it doesn’t matter’. Now Excuse me, I’ll be leaving.” I sobbed,” If you can’t give me a happy ending, can you at least write something like I didn’t mind it at the end, or that I was happy.” “I’ll see.” She left. So, that was probably my last appearance in this “Curtains” magazine. I hope this end wouldn’t be painful and that you guys will remember me for my adventures, not for my perversity, because as it turns out, those were his thoughts, not mine, though unfortunately, I still have to suffer for them. Well then, GOODBYE.

^ Death of a Mother ^

^ Death of a Mother ^ You are tired of telling yourself not to write about your dead mother. The provocation is one proclamation after the other. "I will not, I will not, this is the last time, no more, one more…." and then you write 'suitcase,' and she's there, folded into it. She appears hungry on the page, looking at you with eyes that belong to her mother. You begin to write, and the words you deposited in her coffin come back to life. You let the ink swirls on the paper, until it runs out of capacity. There's a grieving son, holding his feet stiff to the ground to call upon the stars while stars behind his head have begun to count his sorrows. He watches the guests wiping salt from his cheeks and under-eyes from time to time and they hold his father's cold hand until another pair of legs enter the room. The daughter pets the dog until she can't bear the stench of a funeral and leaves the room with wet footprints. She looks up to the sky, thinking her tears might go back to the ocean, and holds her chest like a wounded pigeon crying in the barren trees after its nest has been stolen. The son assumes that the world belongs to him, that every hornwort, chrysanthemum, and goldfish will wallow in his hopelessness, and fishermen might drown in the melancholy of boats reflecting on the sea view. Claustrophobic nostalgia is buried in their hearts as a contemplation of the sadness around them, because they were the broken armchair their mother used to sit on while knitting a shoddy sweater for her niece during the pale winter's noon. There is a group of three older men at the funeral service. Their home-grown palms resting on the dining table where Mother used to serve tea. Compressing their knees on top of one another, they sit in the most poised manner while feasting on the repast. They call time an indifferent comrade that pens down a story note and leaves with a greeting card for the next child's birth. They hold criticism in their tongue, mendacious sympathy in their voice, deception in their eyes, and a fake black suit covering their skeleton that appears remotely remorseful. They whisper, "you will never be anything but the silence your mother put inside you." Only seconds after, the quiche is served in the perfect shape of a flower. The dessert is soon disfigured in an immediate eagerness for human birth chaos. For these older men are the tilted photographs on the wall of a living-room that is often seen but seldom noticed to be set straight. Empty rooms are another dead thing cloaked in the melancholic verses of Beethoven and wilting notes of Mozart. The capitalist clock which buys family time halts in the final tik, and the tok is never heard again. A cedar plant groans, oxidized cutlery clanks, and smoky cupboards refused to rust under the fungus because there is nobody to clean it. The marble floors borrow the habits of a beggar to stare at every soul walking overhead and finally becoming ignorant to apathy. This home lived under the syllables of her name, and cremated itself along the creases of her forehead lines. It's a matter of the spaces we occupy. as in this home, a funeral is painted as a portrait of irony living in the backyard, green in the start and burnt in the end.

Stolen Values

An intriguing story of a person’s life with values. Have you ever loved, or hated? Or have you experienced the two together? I’ve mostly found myself in the latter category. While most people adorn their wrists with bracelets and bangles, you’d find a trusty rubber band around mine. And while it might have something to do with our finances after dad left, we weren’t exactly left wanting. Mummy says dad isn’t coming back, so she got a new father, but I liked my old dad better. I pulled the band back a bit and let it impact the red inflamed skin underneath. The pain that came with a resounding snap shook away the hazy cobwebs around my thoughts and allowed me to concentrate on the task of convincing my sister to return Aunt Savita’s bangles. The ones she wore yesterday when she visited us. It was shiny, oh so shiny, and how that hurt me, I can’t describe. I can’t remember the time when I didn’t have this urge, this slight shiver in my worry lined palms and the oily sweet voices that whispered and cajoled. I wanted to get rid of this anxiety, and I stole them, took them off her hands, unnoticed. My sister agreed to return her bangles; an unknowing affirmer of my lies and excuse. Vices, a pack of sniggering hyenas never do visit alone. You indulge in one, and the others become much more enticing. A boundary once crossed is no boundary at all. My birth father was the only person to discover that I steal compulsively, things were difficult after that. He never really understood the reason behind the urge; scolding was routine after that. I still remember my dad’s orders, that if I’m unable to give up stealing, I must return the stolen goods and I should never steal money. Dad’s long gone, but I still find it difficult not to obey his words. Thankfully, mummy didn’t know. But that made things difficult sometimes when I waited for her near the jewelry shop while she bought vegetables nearby or when I accompanied her to the marriages. I could not tell her. How would I? She was the only parent left and I can’t afford to lose that connection with her. In these cases, sometimes I won against my urges, sometimes I failed. Thankfully, my sister was always there to quietly return everything, without attracting attention. Life sustained this way for years, till the day I repent the most. My sister’s wedding arrangements were being carried out since the past week. I was feeling a plethora of emotions, I was genuinely happy for her, and I was a little sad too, that she’ll leave us. But, the feeling that troubled me the most was the urge to steal. During that week, we would frequent jewelry shops, and that day, my eyes were blinded by the gleam of a necklace. I lost control. The wedding night passed in pomp and show. The flair and the sparkle left soon enough, enticing us with the royal lifestyle (I had never felt the urge to steal food before, but Silver Work Ladoos hadn’t really been a thing before that!) to our average middle-class lifestyle. The house never felt this silent before. Who knew that this silence heralded an oncoming storm? And just like that, one nostalgic morning, I woke up to the fact that the necklace was still with me and my sister was nowhere to be found to cover up this time. I started convincing myself to go and return the necklace myself, but the fear of getting caught held me captive. I decided to ask my stepfather for help. My stepfather was resting in his room when I entered. He looked at me and again closed his eyes. With shivery hands, I took out the necklace from my pocket and stretched my hand towards him. “Sir, I found this necklace in my room. I think it must have been accidentally left. Could you please return it to the jewelry shop?” I asked. Mockingly he said, “How do you know this is from that shop, have you stolen it from there?” It was only after a while; I realized that I was standing numbly in his room, while he was gazing at me, repeating the same question. “Have you stolen it?”, he asked sternly. I put in all my effort to shout, and deny, give a long patently honest exposition. All my traitorous throat managed was a high pitched ‘EEP’ that might have resembled a “NO” to some species of bats and dolphins. I did shout quite a loud denial after getting my breathing under control, but in my blind panic, I had given the game away, the charade was up. Step Dad left in an apoplectic rage. I ran to my mother, she would understand me. I told her that I had accidentally picked this necklace, and that father was angry when I told this to him. Mum pampered me and took the necklace. She accepted it to be a genuine mistake and agreed to return the necklace. With my sister gone, I had no other option but to control myself. But sometimes, no matter how hard I tried, I had to succumb to the urges. For the few times I did, I made up some story for my mother, and she used to return the items. Those days, I was preparing for endless, successive job interviews, when calamity hit our family. My sister fell horribly ill while her husband and in-laws were out of town. Father rushed to the city, brought my sister back home. She was critical and had to be hospitalized. Later I came to know, that my sister was suffering from hemophilia and was admitted to the ICU. It was a hard time for us. She showed no sign of improvement, until one fateful day, when the doctor announced the requirement of an immediate surgical operation, much outside of the limited medical capabilities of the town medical center and much outside our carefully proportioned budget. I had just returned from an interview when father confronted me at the door. He rushed me into his bedroom and asked: “You have never been caught for stealing, have you?” I was silent, trying to figure out the happenstance when he broke this news to me. My sister was dying and father was not ready to invest in her anymore. I was left struck and shivering, with no job and no close friends to speak of, who could lend me aid. My kleptomania and the secrecy I had built around it, had seen to an effective social isolation. My mother was a housekeeper. If father won’t pay up, my sister would die. That’s when he told me “You’ll have to arrange money and you know how to get it.” “But I never steal for benefits, sir. It is just the urges I can’t suppress.” I said. “I don’t care. You are capable of getting money, you get money.” “But I never steal for personal gains. It’s against my morals.” I revolted. “Your morals, or your sister, you decide.” With these words, he turned tail, and I was left alone, me and my empty morals. There I was, standing in a dark room, with a war raging inside me. “My sister or my morals, what to let die?” I’d like to say, that I did the right thing, that the thought of wrongdoing never entered my mind. I would fool no one, I had never made an easier choice. At once I had the answer and I left for the jewelry store. The shopkeeper was busy showcasing his best bridal collections when I entered the store. I asked him to show me a simple necklace, and while he was at it, I found a perfect time to take off with the ostentatious bridal set. “This one set and all my problems will be solved. This one set and I’ll repay its price over time. This one set and I’ll never visit this shop again. This one set for my sister’s life.” “This one set and I won’t be able to live guilt free again.” I dropped the set and left. I came back home to find my father waiting at the gate. “Show me, have you brought enough” he demanded but I all I had to show him were empty hands and emptier morals. He was furious. He told me that my sister will die and that is just because of my inability to sideline some self-made rule. I wanted to zone him out, to not listen to him, as I had done many times in the teenage rebellion phase. However, he had never played to my insecurities, never had I been laid bare so, faults of my own choosing and otherwise, became his blades and those scrapes, never truly healed. Tears wanted to jump out of my eyes, but whom for? For the sister, I can save but I chose not to? I was about to crash when my mum came out. She looked at us and asked me, what was happening? The father huffed and was about to leave when I blurted out everything. My affliction, my misadventures all came out, and I cried on the porch in my mother’s arms. The neighbors peeked out and looked on with abject pity, just as useless as my impotent rage and wasteful morality. She told me to go to my room, my father was in a towering rage, and I realized that he had bluffed, he had the money, he was always going to pay the money to save my sister, now he’d just have to pay up from his own pockets. However, father’s anger didn’t subside I heard some shouting from their room, and for the first time, I feared for my Mother’s safety. Their relationship was never violent, however, the anger in his tone made anything seem possible. I sneaked down to their room. They were standing in front of her Almirah when she opened it and took out a bag. She opened the bag, with some trepidation, a golden glow spilt onto their faces. It was full of ornaments! Ornaments, which I had given her to return. She gave the bag to father and told him to get the money for sister’s operations. He left a bemused expression on his face. Like for once, the opinionated bastard couldn’t decide, what to feel. And just for once, we were united under the same instincts. I actually saved my sister. But I did not steal this time. I was no longer a victim of my own doing, I remained a victim though. My values were stolen if I had any.

Euphoria in smoke

Like a forlorn cigarette bud, Worn out and crushed between your fingertips, caressed, yet a sweeter poison. How much of hate did it encompass to watch, watch and watch and yet stare a little more, at people walking by, living their stories, completely unaware of the crumbling, stinging words, Or the destroying tsunami of tears, Or even the constant beauty of a smile. A little wounded but who would care? Heartlessly wiping away blood on clothes To see a younger, “you” , overspilling , flowing from the edges, painted in blood and coloured in pain, like the wisps of rings of smoke, pecking lips and kissing cheeks as they pass away, insignificantly unknown, knocking on a stranger's ignorant consciousness, But somehow suffocating care in lingering disgust, choking love with obsessing desires, admiring souls falling apart, swimming out of the oceans of dreams, and recessing in the tide of times. I had seen bodies hanging in, and hanging from the ceilings, floating in euphoria, breathing in regrets, and yet, I was left with nothing but a cigarette bud, to relieve it over and over again, with all that's left, with all this pain, enclosing it within my eyes, blending it with my being , and letting it flow, because all i know and am left with, are a few ashes from the cigarette buds I had smoked. To forget, to ignore , to let go, To turn laughter to smiles , from caring to barely knowing, how flowers wilted, how that random person died, and eventually grow in dust, to mix in dust, Suddenly finding it a blessing to be barely a speckle in the cosmos Why should I care?

मगध

गंगा पार करके दक्षिण बिहार आना मेरे लिए एक ऐसी दुर्लभ प्रक्रिया है जिसके वहन का आज मुझे पुनः सौभाग्य प्राप्त हुआ है। आज सुबह ही मुजफ्फरपुर छोड़ कर पटना आया हूं। उत्तर बिहार में गंडक की तराई से लीची जा चुकी है पर आम्रपल्लवों पर अभी तक शीत नही जम रही। आषाढ़ भीतर हो चला है पर सूर्यदेव के कहर से छाया करने वाले मेघ अभी तक दुर्लभ हैं। गर्मी अपने चरम पर है। दिन का तीसरा पहर है और मैं पटना से गया जाने वाली बस में बैठा हूं। यही कुछ जहानाबाद पार कर रहा होऊंगा। बस की खिड़की से बाहर देखता हूं, फिर अंदर देखता हूं। मन अनायास ही गतिमान है। दिख रहे हैं लोग, केवल लोग, लड़ते लोग, मगही लोग; अपने लोग। बस में लगे स्पीकर पर तेज आवाज़ में ‘राजा हिंदुस्तानी’ के गाने बज रहे हैं। यहां एक युवक स्टील की थाल में कोवा (जो कि ताड़ पर लगने वाला एक फल है) बेच रहा है। बगल वाली सीट पर बैठे चचा के वक्ष पर लिपटा मटिआया हुआ भगवा गमछा खिड़की से आती हवा के वेग में लहरा रहा है। व्यंग्यिक तौर पर ही सही, मगर यह गमछा किसी ध्वजा की सी शान लिए है, जिसपर आज के मगध की स्थिति और गति का सटीक बिंब दिख रहा है; अपने भासमान अतीत का भूला, एक निदग्ध वर्तमान का मारा, सक्षम, किंतु आबद्ध। चचा ने बड़े इल्म से तंबाकू को अपनी करतल पर मला, पीटा, सहयात्रियों को थोड़ा थोड़ा दिया और अब अपने मसूढ़ो में दबा लिया है। मुझे मगध में होने की अनुभूति का बोध हो जाने के लिए इतना तो काफी है। फिर खैनी तो आप में ही हमारी समूहवादिता का बड़ा द्योतक है। मेरे लिए, जिसने किसी परदेस जैसे परिवेश में बड़े होते हुए अपने मगही माता पिता से सिर्फ मगध और मगही के बारे में केवल सुना है, यह वातावरण कुछ रूमानीकृत सा है। ऐसे में, मैं खुद को एक सतही संस्कृतिवादी कहने से पीछे नहीं हटूंगा। क्योंकि गहन संस्कृतिवाद तो उनमें बसता है जो अनभिज्ञ रहते हुए परंपराओं का अनुसरण कर पाते हैं। जिन्होंने गरीबी के दैत्य से लड़ने को शहरीकरण की बांह नहीं गही। कड़े हैं वे वहीं, माथे पर अपनी भेद्यता का टीका लिए। जड़ गए हैं, अंतर में बैठा रत्नाकर वाल्मीकि करने को, तप में ही। और ढो रहे हैं, महाबोधी वृक्ष की भांति, झूलती विरासत का भार। यदि मैं कुछ सांस्कृतिक बोझ का भागी बनना भी चाहूं तो मुझे परंपराओं से चिपका वह दकियानूस, जो कि आधुनिक भारत की सारी विलुप्त संकृतियों का हन्ता रहा है, वापस खींच लाएगा। और न ही इतनी लचक मेरी लेखनी में है जो पुनर्जागरण का भार सह ले। सोन और फलगू इतना गाद भी तो बहाकर नहीं लातीं कि उपज सके इनसे पुनः नालंदा का वह विलुप्त ज्ञान, पाटलिपुत्र की शान और सिद्धार्थ गौतम का बोया वही शांति उद्यान। जो मुट्ठी भर उपज उठता है, वह पेट का पूरक भर ही होता है। कईयों के तन का जामा और सर की छत तो अब भी सितारों पर ही लगते हैं। ऐसे में कला, संस्कृति और परंपराएं बघारना तो पाप सा लगता है। इससे पहले कि मन कुछ और सोचता, मैं अपने गंतव्य पर उतर गया और लाद आया अपनी आशाओं का पारावार चचा के उस गमछे के भाग्य पर या कि उनकी परिस्थितियों पर जो कि यदि कभी धुले तो उतर आए मैल के साथ सदियों की मटियाई संपन्नता।

Paris,1998

It is 2 in morning and somehow it is one of those nights when I'm unable to sleep, It's pouring outside and I could see the faint street lights from my window.. I get up from my bed and head to the kitchen to grab a glass of water and ease myself on the couch It's been 3 months since I moved in here, in this small apartment just so I could reach my work place earlier.. Ah the work.. it has been quite a hectic week I'm on my couch when I hear soft notes of piano someone's playing at this hour I escape to the balcony and could tell it's coming from my neighbour Are u sad? The soft notes of piano made the rain even more melancholic as I watch over the traffic in rain.. Sighs it's cold here, i lock my hands and go inside to fetch a stool and a chair, I take out my fine save, mademoiselle m,1950 and a goblet and place it on the stool in balcony.. I take me seat, pour myself a drink and savour the taste over the fine music and feel it all in, my feets are are over the rails and are getting soaked in rain. I recognise that my neighbour has changed the piece, i know this one- Gymnopédie no. 1, i close my eyes..

The Violet Soul

You eased my fears, Yet to others, it was blasphemy. I drowned in the silence of hurricanes, Battered by torrential rains and cutting winds, In relentless struggles to express, In longings to find myself, A little place, safe under the heavens. I waged a war, With you, beside you, against you, for you, Hoisting white flags against relentless denials. My very existence crumbled, Shame lingering— A taboo at dinner table discussions, Something you were ashamed to speak of. My existence had become a nuisance, In a play staged by moral grounds and ancient belief, I was nothing but a humble slave, Yearning and aching to be free, In bits and pieces, In laughters and sadness. I was colored in violets, Velvet yet covered in calluses, A little something akin to wildflowers— Uncommon in gardens, Woven in novel naivety, Yet often uprooted, Even before I bloomed beautifully. I hope to visit ever-gardens someday, Blooming with violets, Under the sun, alongside sunflowers and roses. I lit a candle of hope, Rather a holocaust of self-worth. I understood then, How Atlas felt, carrying the weight of the world. Clear as a river, yet cold as glaciers In a world of meltdowns, I felt insignificant, Crushed and forced to mingle with vast oceans. I long to see rainbows in clear skies, To stand under the warm sun, Not as a banished existence, But simply as myself, as human. In love, a little lost, With the ease of smiles, Among those cherished and loved, Not as someone everyone expects me to be, I hope to be seen for who I truly am, Probably a little deviant from the norms of society, But happy.

Unapologetic

The nights are long, filled with silent cries, Each tear a question swirling beneath the midnight skies. Why must love and truth be held as crimes? Why can’t my heart beat freely, as it desperately tries? The world cries, "Be yourself, honey!" Well, I'm trying, but you won't let me be. I am trapped, can you not feel it? The way my soul revolts against the body I inhabit! There are boundaries all around, There are whispers and faint sounds. And I am a prisoner of society, Cause it's a taboo to break free. And these pickets, these fences, so suffocating and cold, I try to climb these walls, but can find no hold. The world is cruel to everything that is bright; It tries to crush my self,

इतना भी अधिकार नहीं?

इतना भी अधिकार नहीं? स्त्री-पुरुष और जाति बॅंट गयी धर्म, वर्ण और प्रजाति बॅंट गयी फिर वर्गों में विभाजित इस जग के क्या ये भी योग्य हकदार नहीं? मनुज होकर मनुज कहलायें क्या इन्हें इतना भी अधिकार नहीं? चोटिल हुए हैं स्वाभिमान इनके न्यूनता ही आयी है स्थान इनके आदर के प्यासे इन शुष्क मनों को क्या मिल सकता मान का पारावार नहीं? मनुज होकर मनुज कहलायें क्या इन्हें इतना भी अधिकार नहीं? जब निर्मल और निश्चल भाव प्रेम है बंधन मुक्त सरल स्वभाव प्रेम है फिर शापित समझे जाते उन तन के क्या हृदय में बस सकता प्यार नहीं? मनुज होकर मनुज कहलायें क्या इन्हें इतना भी अधिकार नहीं? खुलते पंख को जग ने झकझोर दिया करने को निम्न कार्य मजबूर किया इन के आशाओं अभिलाषाओं के स्वप्न हो सकते क्यूँ साकार नहीं ? मनुज होकर मनुज कहलायें क्या इन्हें इतना भी अधिकार नहीं? अपनों ने ही इन्हें पराया बनाया समाज ने इनका अस्तित्व झुठलाया स्वाभाविक है जब इनका होना फिर जग को क्यूँ यह स्वीकार नहीं ? मनुज होकर मनुज कहलायें क्या इन्हें इतना भी अधिकार नहीं? समाज की बेड़ियों को त्याग दिया उन्मुक्त नभ से अपना हक मांग लिया सतरंगे इन्द्रधनुष के रंग से रंगा , है इनका मान , इनकी पहचान यही, मनुज हैं और मनुज कहलायेंगे है इनका भी अधिकार यही ।

इत्तेफ़ाक

पीले रंग से रंगे हुए एक कमरे की तन्हाई में खुद से उलझा हुआ मैं, दुनिया के रंगों रूप से आगे, फलक में उड़ते परिंदों के घर तलाश करती तुम, और सुकून की तलाश में दर ब दर भटकती हम दोनों की आंखे। किसी दूसरी दुनिया में बैठे हुए है कुछ शक्श, जिनके वजह से होते है कुछ इत्तेफ़ाक सितारे जिनके होने से थोड़े ज्यादा रौशन है, साथ जिनके होने से सफर ए मुहब्बत थोड़ा ज्यादा आसान लगता है। उन्ही के वजह से इत्तेफाकन हम मिलते है दुबारा और घटती है दुनिया की सबसे खूबसूरत घटना, यानी हमारी आंखे एक दूसरे से टकरा जाती है, और फिर इस जीवन में सब कुछ अच्छा होने लगता है। इत्तेफाकन, शायद इसीलिए कहा जाता है दुनिया में जो होता है, अच्छे के लिए होता है। ~स्पर्श