और फ़िर तन्हाई...

रात है, चाँद है, और फ़िर तन्हाई,

रात चराग़ों में फ़िर जली हो जैसे !

ये तेरी आहट, कि बढ़ गयी धड़कन,

ये तेरा साया, कि तू मिली हो जैसे !

दिल में तक़लीफ़ सी जगी हो जैसे,

याद फ़िर सीने में चुभी हो जैसे,

ये ख़याल फ़िर तेरे न होने का,

चोट कोई फ़िर छिल गई हो जैसे !

इतनी क़ुर्बत कि हर पल की ख़बर रहती थी,

इतनी दूरी कि कोई दुश्मनी हो गई हो जैसे,

बात करती है तो बस ज़ख्म देती है,

देखती यूँ है कि कोई अजनबी हो जैसे !

है क्या दीवानगी, ये तमन्ना धुंधली सी,

उसके आने की कोई आस बची हो जैसे !

वक़्त-ए-रुख़सत तूने मुड़कर न देखा पीछे...

ज़िन्दगी साथ मेरा छोड़ चली हो जैसे...

|||फराज़|||

अभी ताज़ा है ज़ख्म, थोड़ा अभी सह लेने दो..

आज मुझे अपनी गहराइयों में छुप के रह लेने दो..

आज मुझे ज़रा देर चुप रह लेने दो..

अभी मैं बिखरा हूँ, कुछ वक़्त में सिमट जाऊँगा..

अभी सोया हूँ, जब जागूँगा तो निखर जाऊँगा..

मेरे हालात से तुम न परेशान न होना..

मैं हूँ दरिया, समंदर नहीं, जो ठहर जाऊँगा..

अभी ताज़ा है ज़ख्म, थोड़ा अभी सह लेने दो..

आज मुझे ज़रा देर चुप रह लेने दो..

अभी बाक़ी हैं हवास, कोई बात न मैं समझूंगा..

एक पैमाना और कर दूँ ख़ाली, तो कुछ समझूंगा..

अभी ज़िन्दगी के कुछ घूँट भी हैं पीना बाक़ी..

जो कुछ बूँदें ही मिल जाएँ तो ग़नीमत समझूंगा..

मुझसे ख़्वाबों में भी ना कोई रिश्ता रखना..

इतना है कहना, इतना ही बस कह लेने दो..

अभी ताज़ा है ज़ख्म, थोड़ा अभी सह लेने दो..

आज मुझे ज़रा देर चुप रह लेने दो...

आज भी याद है जब तुमने कुछ कहा भी न था..

तुम ही आँखों में, ख़्वाबों में, मेरी ज़िन्दगी में थे..

आज भी याद हैं ठिकाने तुझसे मिलने के..

आज भी कानों में तेरी सी सदा आती है..

ये, और कुछ और बातें, जो अधूरी रह गयीं..

आज फिर ये बातें मुझे खुद से कह लेने दो..

अभी ताज़ा है ज़ख्म, थोड़ा अभी सह लेने दो..

आज मुझे ज़रा देर चुप रह लेने दो...

क्या मेरे ख़याल पर आज भी तू ठहरा होगा ?

क्या मेरे नाम को फ़िर चुपके से पुकारा होगा ?

कभी फ़ुर्सत में मेरी यादों में गुम हो के,

मेरे अहसास को आग़ोश में उतरा होगा?

क्या फिर कभी माथे पे लटकती लट को

उतने ही करीने से फिर संवारा होगा ?

कभी यूँही जो ढूंढोगे गुज़रे सालों में,

मिल जायगा वो लम्हा जो साथ गुज़ारा होगा..

इसे वक़्त का तक़ाज़ा कहो या मेरी लाचारगी,

है क़ुबूल हर फ़ैसला जो भी तुम्हारा होगा..

अब न कोई आंसू न दर्द रहा बाक़ी,

पर क्या होगा, जो मुझसे सवाल तुम्हारा होगा..

यादों की दराज़ों में महफूज़ वो गुज़रे लम्हें,

सीने में क़ैद कोई मलाल जो तुम्हारा होगा..

कफ़न में लिपट कर न जाने कितनी आरज़ुएं,

सो जाएंगी ज़ेर-ए-कब्र जब विसाल हमारा होगा !!!

हर रात ख़्वाबों में

हर रात ख़्वाबों में आते हो ख़ामोशी के साथ,

कुछ बिसरी सी यादें लिए, सरगोशी के साथ,

न दो दस्तक ख़्वाबों के किवाड़ों पर,

आज सोया हूँ आग़ोश में तेरी परछाईं के साथ..

तेरे वादों का दिल पे कुछ तो भरम बाक़ी है,

शायद बाक़ी है धड़कन, पर कुछ कम बाक़ी है,

न हसरत, न दुआ, न कोई इल्तिजा बाक़ी,

बस मैं हूँ बाक़ी मेरी तन्हाई के साथ..

हर करवट पे तेरा झूठा गुमान बाक़ी है,

कोई रिश्ता नहीं बाक़ी, बस पहचान बाक़ी है,

मेरी चाँद बेख़बर है मेरी अमावास रातों से,

अब तन्हा है सफ़र मेरा आवारगी के साथ!!!

अहद-ए-वफ़ा !!!

कब तलक दर्द मैं बेवजह लिखूं,

सोचता हूँ आज तेरा अहद-ए-वफ़ा लिखूं !

लिखूं मोहब्बत में डूबी तेरी बातें,

कि आज तेरा चेहरा ख़फ़ा-ख़फ़ा लिखूं !

लगता है चाँद तेरी बिंदिया जैसा,

सोचता हूँ कि चाँद को तेरा गहना लिखूं !

चलो लिखता हूँ तेरा चेहरा चाँद के जैसा,

फ़िर सोचता हूँ कि अब चाँद को क्या लिखूं ?

रखता हूँ आज भी तेरे ख़त मैं क़रीने से,

तेरी हर याद को मैं अपना ख़ज़ाना लिखूं !

मेरी आवाज़ पर जो दौड़ा चला आता था,

मैं कैसे उसका लौटकर न आना लिखूं !

वक़्त की सिफ़त है बदलते रहना,

चल वक़्त की तरह तेरा बदलना लिखूं !

लिख दूँ तुझसे पहले-पहल मिलना,

या मिलकर 'फ़राज़' से तेरा बिछड़ना लिखूं!!!

||| फ़राज़ |||

अहद-ए-वफ़ा = promise of constancy

क़रीने= decorations

ख़ज़ाना= Treasure

पहले-पहल= Initially, Beginning

A tear

Is it a tear for the kiss we had?

Or a tear for the love that left,

Is it a tear for the love at first sight?

Or a tear for brutal heartbreak.

Is it a tear for I thought you are the one?

Or a tear for my side there is none.

We both know it should not happen this way,

The streets we walk along, never trace us together again,

I wish those secret rendezvous,

Under the stars, murmuring thought night,

Would still be waiting for us to return.

I understand all I sought for

Is now shattered to pieces like glass.

And so now I have to take it in my face,

And will have to walk apart.

I understand how much I want you to say,

But now that you won’t come back,

I’ll have to walk away.

Time is the real Master

Once upon a time, 

there was a little birdy

Chirping along with family, 
and peeping from his nest.

One eve the birdy saw another
on the next branch.

Both fell in love at the first sight,

Hereafter,
they always chirped together.

Folk of the same wind 
flew together to different skies,

Far away from their own nests, 
they were setting up one on their own.

Life was dancing, so they were.

Sharing weal and woes, arm in arm.

Then wind changes the intensity,
and so the fate.

The calm breeze turned into a storm 
And shattered nest within an instance.

Brutally, and no reason why?

All the chirping hushed at once.

And lovebirds got separated.

Life turned an elegy,
An endless pain either.

Where are you my little birdy

I can’t fly when you are not around

This is what I feel without you

Alas! I have words but no sound.

एक उम्र गुज़र गयी इंतज़ार में

हूँ दर-ब-दर कि ठिकाना नहीं मिलता..

फ़क़त दुनिया ही नहीं अजनबी लगती

आईने में भी अब मेरा चेहरा नहीं मिलता..

मक़तूल हूँ मैं, तेरा राज़दार भी हूँ

जुर्म का तेरे और कोई गवाह नहीं मिलता..

तुम लौटना भी चाहो तो हैरत होगी

कोई बेवफ़ा कभी बेवजह नहीं मिलता..

लोग कहते थे की मोहब्बत अनमोल है

मैं जानता हूँ की दौलत से क्या नहीं मिलता..

तूने मंदिर में ढूंढा, मैंने मस्जिद में तलाशा

जो अन्दर है, बाहर वो ख़ुदा नहीं मिलता..

Night @ the Taj hotel

 Sometimes, you have too much to say about a keepsake but not enough time to pen it down in your pandect to save it for a lifetime. Then, a period of loneliness comes across in your life, and you decide to journey through the past to experience the joy left behind.

It is amazing how the brain will connect one thought to another until it gets where it wants to be. Chetan Bhagat wrote this line in Revolution 2020, and it somehow fits the following events. Let us ride to an evening when my friend Boney Meyn and I finally reached The Taj Hotel, Dhaula Kuan, for one of my life's epics.

It was a February evening. In those times, we both needed money, as our expenses were too high to manage with the money from our parents. Boney—the man of ideas—brought us to this epic situation. We arrived at the entrance of The Taj to work as waiters in a five-star hotel till midnight.

The saga begins when Boney parked his Maruti Esteem—as well as our self-esteem—at the entrance of The Taj. The janitor asked about our visit. We answered truthfully; he looked at us, flabbergasted. When he finally returned to his senses, he directed us to a distant parking lot, half a kilometer from the grand entrance. Our Esteem was no less than an alligator in a chicken farm among a few bicycles and fewer motorbikes.

For a random note: Boney and I were the best-dressed waiters. I bought a pair of trousers, a white shirt from Janpath Market, and black bi-occasion shoes from Sarojini Nagar Market for this fateful day. Our goddamned attire at least shielded us from the wrath of hotel managers during the uniform inspection. Little did we know that our clothes weren't enough to save us from the challenges that awaited. We, the anyhow-cleared candidates of the inspection trauma, had been sent to a mega banquet called the Maharaja Hall (God bless my memory).

As we entered first, we noticed the Page-3 type crowd and the soothing touch of mellow lighting, instrumental music, and an aroma of high society. It was quite a place for me, given I had never been to a five-star hotel. However, it was not a relishing job. We had to serve the food in a typical, articulate manner and pronounce the names of the dishes we had never heard. The party, where everyone was someone important, ended within an hour, without earning a single pourboire.

Apart from the pourboire misfortune, everything was going as per our anticipation before we were sent to the Shah Jahan Hall (God bless my memory: Part 2). We were about to be sent to the hall where the South African Cricket team for the ICC Cricket World Cup 2011 quarterfinal match was having dinner, but our fate dragged us to the Shah Jahan Hall. This hall was crammed with herds of brusque upstart Delhiites. Let alone Page-3, one will never give a place on the three-millionth page to this kind of crowd—a journo's calculation.

The brusque upstarts were demanding something constantly. Poor Boney pleaded to escape this godforsaken place each time he passed me. We both were exhausted, battered, and drained but could not find a safe opportunity to escape. I realized that requesting the management to let us go would not be a good idea because they would not let us quit easily. They could abuse us or do things worse than that. I was afraid of the latter because sometimes it is better to flee gobsmacked after being awarded an abuse than to be thrown out. So, my paranoid but still strategic mind told him to wait for a safe chance.

It was not a cakewalk to sneak through the awry crowd in the banquet hall. It used to take 4–5 minutes to cross that hundred-meter hurdle race flawlessly, especially with a tray full of utensils. And when the time to booze came, the hall got even more stuffed and haphazard.

First, the hall manager guided me to deliver a tray full of whisky glasses. Now, that hundred-meter hurdle, already more than a hundred times tougher than a real one, seemed five hundred times more toilsome. Delivering a tray full of 35 whisky glasses, each weighing 500 grams, is not an easy nut to crack when you had to beg those morons for the charity of a narrow escape, quite literally. The torture got worse when the demons went groggy.

Then, as if the torture I endured was not enough, the manager promoted me to the next level: the thirty-bottles-full-of-liquor task. Now, I had reached the zenith of my endurance. I was quickly contemplating the best way to get out of this goddamned place. Boney was also looking as if paralyzed and food-deprived. Mr. I-Can-Endure-Anything was about to collapse on the floor at any moment.

I was going through the ordeal when the manager ordered me to serve pegs to the boorish metropolitans. Now, this was the enough-is-enough situation, where a trick had to be played rather than giving up.

I went to the hallway adjacent to the banquet and sat on the floor, my head bolstered on my bent knees. I started to play numb and did not respond to anyone until the senior manager arrived.

Boney appeared on the scene at that moment and started fibbing about my fictitious fever and nausea. My sick-fallen performance was no less than an award-winning one. They asked about my identity. I dished my college ID card out. That did the trick. The ID card startled them. They started behaving and treating us like humans again. Finally, my college, which I thought was good-for-nothing, saved me. After all, an ID card belonging to Jain TV works in awkward situations like this, even a little, even more in The Taj Hotel.

Now they offered us food and drinks too. They were even more intrigued when we said we had our car and turned down their offer of a cab to return to our place. They escorted us to the same entrance gateway where this odyssey began. We somehow reached the car and sprawled on the seats. Our bodies were crumbling down. The masochism was over. It took a while for our blood circulation to return to normal again.

Epilogue

Boney drove the Esteem, with the remnant self-esteem, to my hostel in South Ex-1. After serving various cuisines in a five-star, we had Maggi and coffee, which I made for us. Boney fell sick with a fever and was stuck in bed for three days. It was not a nightmare. It was Night @ The Taj Hotel, a half-night stand because we mostly stood till midnight or more.

Me and my conscience

With the last moon, when I was crying

Wishing up you to come and calm me down.

Tears were rolling down my face

My eyes were brimmed with innocent beads

It was a chase till nowhere,

It was a dream, never to come true.

My wail and whine remain unheard.

You didn't return once again.

Then my conscience, ‘my best friend’,

Arouse within and sat beside me.

It talked, chided and then calmed me down,

Leave it, buddy, as it had to be, it told me.

She won’t return to cuddle you,

So don’t you ever cry again.

Never waste your emotions

for the one who left you in vain.

Life is a party, so don’t live it like an elegy,

Believe me, the best is always yet to be.

We: The Media

Biologically, we are born with an insect inside us called the journalist. We always boast and praise ourselves that we are media people and we are superior to the layman. We think we can look wider and deeper than other common man and we can explore things broadly. But things are way different than how we look at them. We need a deeper introspection that what are we doing and how it should be!

We are pursuing a rat race where TV channels and other media are just running without knowing the finish line. We are doing stupid things which were never meant to be like that. This isn’t journalism in any manner. A politician’s visit, which results in nothing, becomes big news for the media. It may never bother any common man but we project it as breaking news. Is it justifying?

Now let me ask a question. Do we really bother about celebs’ dress or affairs? It may entertain a group of masses but is it really a thing for a journalist to explore? Do hell whether sunny Leone wears Saari or she put it off. But we give damn attention to such rubbish things. It frustrates me when a magazine like ‘India Today’ presents its cover with a female cleavage and when you turn the page it says “Happy cleavage day”. And then they start to tell you about breast therapy to increase the size of the breast. What the hell is it? If it is journalism then we are ‘Pimps’.

After handling the assignment desk in news channels for 7-8 months, I found ridiculous things happening in media. Here parameters are horrible to pick a story. If 3-4 people are dead in an accident, then it’s not newsworthy for us. But if a man is stuck on the tower for his demands then it becomes a leading story. Let me give you one more example. What impact has the Arushi Talwar murder case in our society? Why it always becomes the prime story of the day. Does anybody really care about Nupur or Rajesh Talwar? It is nothing but a media-made case.

It's the irony that many media persons think about it, and talk about it but results in nothing. I know it will never change. In fact, this is supposed to increase day by day because it’s the game of demand and supply and we ‘the media have become the businessman of the news which is spicy and easy to sell. Business is going to shine because Sunny, Poonam, Veena, and so on are putting off more and more clothes on camera. And cameras are always in hunt of these kinds of ironic things.

God bless the media.

Irony of India

      We are living in an incredible nation called INDIA, but the food of thought is why our nation is so incredible? Just because it has the second largest population which is 16% of the world’s population while INDIA is using only 3% of the land of the green planet. Or we are great because we are one of the most corrupt countries. No, neither we are neither great nor incredible. We are just like insects we aren’t able to raise our voices against crime, and corruption. Even we aren’t able to stand in front of situations like that. And when we talk about our leaders firstly we don’t like to talk about them, and secondly, we talk about them just because we hate them. So who should think about that and who should take responsibility for‘ haters or hated’?