एक कविता कहते है

आओ एक कविता कहते है…
वही पुरानी घिसी-पीटी बातो को नयी थाली मे रखते है,
ग़रीब की रोटी को अमीर का पकवान कहते है,
आओ एक कविता कहते है…

किसी और के हादसे को आपबीती बताते है,
एकतरफ़ा प्यार की महक को बादामी बताते है,
किसी को ना समझ आने वाले जुमले भी कहते है।
आओ एक कविता कहते है…

बिना लेय और विचार की,
लेके तुकबंदी उधर की,
वाक़्यो को चुराई हुई अनुभूति की माला मे पिरोते है।
आओ एक कविता कहते है…

विध्रोह के लिए मंटो, तो कम्यूनिसम के लिए निराला बनते है,
मैखाने के लिए बच्चन, तो प्रयोग के लिए मुक्तबोध बनते है.
दाढ़ी भड़ाके कम नहाते है, किसी कवि की तरह दिखते है।
आओ एक कविता कहते है…

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शहतूत का पेड़ (Mulberry Tree)

वो सरसराती हवाओ में
समंदर सी दहाड़ मारता
बूढ़ा एक शहतूत का पेड़,
आज भी
मेरे घर के आँगन में
सीना ताने खड़ा है।

मेरे अल्हड़ बचपन के दिनो में,
प्यार से पास बुलाके,
शाख़ों की गोद में बैठा के,
कहानियाँ सुनाता था वो।
अक्सर अपने मीठे फल भी
मुझे तोहफ़े में देता था।
कभी मेरे लिए ख़ुद को नीचे झुकाता
और कभी
ग़ुस्से में अपनी गोद से मुझे गिराता भी था।
कभी माँ की डाँट से बचाता
और कभी
धूप से सुकून भी देता था।
पिता का फ़र्ज़
निभाता था
वो घर के आँगन में खड़ा
शहतूत का पेड़।

अब बूड़ापे से हारके,
अपने झड़ते पत्तों के साथ
मेरी यादें मिटाता है।
फिर भी
जाने किस उम्मीद से,
हर एक बदलती ऋतु के साथ,
मुझ पर टकटकी लगाए
इंतेज़ार करता है
मेरे बचपन के लौटने का
मेरे घर के आँगन में
सीना ताने खड़ा
वो शहतूत का पेड़।

Dreams

It’s the most undeniable stat,
that 10 out of 10 people will die in the end.
So here’s an advice; don’t take life too seriously.
It is not meant for you to simply work and wait for the weekends
to hang out with your friends.
It is not meant for you to regret,
when you are old and you think about your life in retrospect.

I don’t know much, but I do know this;
the thing we call life is actually a gift. So you should treat it like one;
live it out, pursue your dreams and have fun.
Don’t let the doubts and insecurities bog you down,
you should sometimes try turning your frowns upside down.
Dream big, shoot for the stars, don’t be afraid to take risks…

Now, don’t get me wrong. I am not talking about unnecessary risks, but just hear me out on this.

I believe everyone one of us has a dream inside
that we try to hide.
Because, you see, most of us lack courage to go after that dream, to live the life that we truly desire.
We let our self-doubts and prejudices get the better of us when we could be aiming higher.
The spark is always there in all of us, we just need to reignite the fire.
Yes, there will be hurdles in your path to achieve your dreams. Yes there will be times when your mind would resist.
And in those times, I want you to ask yourself this, “Why do I exist?”

Trust me when I tell you this; that somewhere,
in a place unknown,
on a stern stone,
someone wrote for you,
“Yes, dreams do come true.”

So I want you to dream and chase them.
Take that leap and cross every river to catch them.
Don’t wait till you retire,
to live the life that you truly desire.
Because, you know what? 10 out of 10 people will eventually die.
So, it’s upto you whether you want to actually live your life before that happens or you just want to wait for it and sit idly by.

My Grandfather

I once had a grandfather like many of us do,
But in his old age, he went a little cuckoo.
He was a lovely guy, who loved all things great,
He was a man of calms, riches, composures, and fate.

He was a comic by passion and a romantic by heart,
Thus to make extravagant claims, that was his art.
His parables were always too ornate,
Believe me, there is no scope of any debate.

How it all started no one knows,
How can one fathom his love for purple prose?
He once compared happiness with a sunken pirate ship,
And at another time also to a young unicorn’s yip.

But you will have to admire him for the craft;
To be in love with something so daft.
Now, I will surely quote his words in a while,
But when I do, please don’t be hostile.

“Son, love might be an emotion, but true love is not,
For it’s a journey, from ashes to glory, and what not”

I puked then and there,
While gasping for air.
“Son, True love is the elixir that can change heart’s barren land,
Into a mystical garden, roamed by unicorns, nymphs and their band”

I rolled my eyes,
But no one was there to hear my cries.

His favourite phrase was as old as time,
And I wrote this line, just to make it rhyme.
But maybe in his choice, he was quite right,
For the phrase is, “It was a dark and stormy night”

He would say many things, even while tying up his dhoti,
I once, for goodness sake, even saw him reading Don Quixote.
He was taking inspiration from the man of La Mancha,
And I scurried away, wishing him not to make me his Sancho Panza.

And as I left him there, I would also leave you now,
There is no need to look at me with that raised eyebrow.
And I do hope you won’t mind all the adjectives and insane verbs
Because it’s time for my grandfather to recite his purple prosy words…

Put Down Your Phone

An average adult spends almost a third of his waking life looking down at his phone.
Weird isn’t it?

You wake up and its the first thing you see.
You go to bed and it’s also the last thing you see.
You rely on your phone for every information,
Who’s doing what or who’s on vacation!

You stare at your screens and remain silent among friends.
You choose to be online instead of an evening well spent.
You keep scrolling and reloading even when there’s nothing new,
You would much rather write an angry post than to get to know the real you.

I feel strange to be a part of this generation Next,
When people can easily turn into a text,
And a face to face interaction is just a video call.

Who needs laughter when you can just say “LOL”.

We live in this age of media overstimulation
Where more likes is a cause for celebration,
We crave adulation, by using abbreviation
and emoji instead of having a real conversation.
Yet we don’t question our state of sedition
by this technology owned by some rich corporation
which sells us our own social isolation
in the name of another flagship creation.

Our phones may be smart but we are not,
It takes up all our time, when we can have a real thought.

But wait…

Most people can’t do that.

Because some studies show this result,
That even a goldfish can hold a thought longer than an average adult.

There should not be a need for me to come out and say it,
But I think we are all addicted.
Our generation has an anxiety disorder in the form of a phobia;
The fear of not being able to use your phone is termed Nomophobia.

They say the sign of good health can be measured by the glow of your skin,
They didn’t mean the glow from your screen but from your within.

So do this once, or do this once in a while,
Just be nice and put down your device.
Talk to people, go out more, be adventurous, or be a recluse,
Just don’t be a slave to your phone, and put your life to good use.

Don’t try to capture every moment, just live them.
Don’t try to post your meals, just eat them.
Instead of taking the perfect photo every time you smile,
Try to savour that feeling for a while.

Nothing bad would happen if you don’t have your phone,
There are many people around you, you won’t feel alone.

Don’t make it the first thing you see when you wake up,
When you can talk to your loved ones, or play with your pup.
Don’t make it the last thing you see before you go to bed,
When you can just relax, or develop a new thought in your head.
So stop looking down at your phone, and shut down that display.
Don’t be an average adult. go out in the sun and enjoy the day.

शबनम की बूँद

आज एक शबनम की बूँद को कमल पे बैठे देखा,
तो मन मे एक विचार आया,
की, ” क्या यही प्रेम हैं?”
वो बूँद, चुपके से रोज़,
दबे पाँव,
आती है मिलने
भृंग के संगीत की तरह
और फिर गुम हो जाती है
कमल महसूस तो कर पाता है,
पर देख नही पाता
क्या, डर रहता है उसको, की कही लोग देख लेंगे?
क्या अफ़सोस भी होता है उसको कमल से मिलने का?
और अगर होता भी है कुछ, तो रोज़ क्यू आती है?
ये शबनम की बूँद और कमल,
क्या सच्चे प्रेमी है?
मिलते, बिछड़ते, छुपते- छिपाते और आलिंगित
आज एक शबनम की बूँद को कमल पे बैठे देखा |

राधा, और उसका प्रेमी
वो किस्सा भी मशहूर है,
मिलके बिछड़ना ही शायद
इस दुनिया का दस्तूर है |
सिर्फ़ मिलना भी क्या मिलना,
ये एक अपक्व सिद्धांत है,
अगर ना होता ऐसा कुछ
तो,
क्या दरिया कभी सूरज की किरण को क़ैद कर पाता?
क्यों फिर चाँद अपनी उस सखी किरण को रोज़ छुड़ाने आता?
क्यों किस्से नामी होते फिर,
रोमियो जूलिएट,
हीर-रांझा,
मिर्ज़ा -साहिबां के?
`ये सब भी तो प्रेमी है,
उस शबनम की बूँद की तरह,
जिसे आज कमल पे बैठे देखा |

इस विशाल ब्रंहमाण्ड मे,
जब सभी नश्वर है, लघु है
मैं, मानव, क्यों फिर हठी हूँ !
इस कुदरत मे सभी आख़िर,
जब प्रेम रस मे कौशल है.
मैं, मानव, क्यों फिर हठी हूँ !
क्यों ना समझ सका मैं कभी,
प्रेम मिलने की खुशी मे नही,
बिछड़ने के गम मे है |
फूल, पंक्षी, पर्वत, नदिया,
इन सबका ये पेगाम है
परबंद नही है प्रेम ये,
वो उड़ता है तो जाने दो,
कल फिर लौट के आएगा,
उस शबनम की बूँद की तरह,
जिसे आज कमल पे बैठे देखा

मैं शायर

मैं शायर खुद को कहता हूँ,
मैं गुमनामी मे पलता हूँ,
मैं सड़को पे भी मिलता हूँ,
मैं कुर्ता पहना करता हूँ
मैं छंद अलंकारी बुनता हूँ,
मैं राज हर पदी पे करता हूँ
मैं उपमा सबकी कर सकता हूँ,
पर मैं बेकार कविता लिखता हूँ|

मैं शायर खुद को कहता हूँ

अँग्रेज़ी, उर्दू, हिन्दी…
मैं इन भाषा मे लिखता हूँ,
मैं शिल्प, कला का ग्याता हूँ,
मैं पद्य, गद्य भी रचता हूँ,
मैं मध्य अनोखा रखता हूँ
मैं तुक मिलाप भी करता हूँ
मैं मात्रा से भी खेलता हूँ,
मैं चौपाई भी रच सकता हूँ,
पर मैं बेकार कविता लिखता हूँ |

मैं शायर खुद को कहता हूँ

सोलह-अठारह-सोलह-अठारह…
मैं मात्रा ये पकड़ता हूँ
मैं जब उमंगीत होता हूँ,
मैं काग़ज़, कलम उठाता हूँ,
मैं शुरू शून्य से करता हूँ,
मैं ख़त्म भी शून्य पे करता हूँ,
मैं जब काग़ज़, कलम उठाता हूँ
मैं ग्लानि से मुक्त हो जाता हूँ,
और मैं बेकार कविता लिखता हूँ |

मैं शायर खुद को कहता हूँ

आ से आ, और हूँ से हूँ….
मैं ये तुक मिलाप करता हूँ,
मैं मात्रा से अब भटकता हूँ,
मैं ध्यान सभी का चाहता हूँ,
मैं थोड़ा सा और सताता हूँ,
मैं छंद अधूरा टपकाता हूँ,
मैं उदाहरण एक अब रखता हूँ,
मैं एक बेकार कविता कहता हूँ,
मैं अतुकान्त अब वो पढ़ता हूँ….

“और फिर….
और फिर कुछ यूँ हुआ
की कुछ-कुछ, कुछ भी ना पता चला,
जो कुछ-कुछ, कुछ-कुछ पता चला,
उसका कुछ भी होश कहा?

और फिर….
और फिर ये वक़्त रुका,
वक़्त, वक़्त से हुआ खफा,
वक़्त-वक़्त मे फिर जो ये वक़्त कटा,
उसमे वक़्त की थी क्या ख़ाता?”

मैं ये दोष एक रखता हूँ,
मैं ऐसी कविता रचता हूँ,
मैं उनको जब भी पढ़ता हूँ,
मैं शर्मिंदा हो जाता हूँ,
मैं खुशी लेकिन झलकाता हूँ,
मैं आफ़सूस पर ना रखता हूँ.
मैं शायर ही खुद को कहता हूँ,
पर मैं बेकार कविता लिखता हूँ !
पर मैं बेकार कविता लिखता हूँ

Sips and Drags

As she sipped her morning whisky, she heard his son crying. She often heard that. She looked out the kitchen window and felt the sun. She was a romantic woman, and like a romantic she took another sip. She never liked the taste of whisky in her mouth, but that was the taste of unrequited love – Whisky and the smoke of an unfiltered cigarette. She took out a loose one from the kitchen drawer and lit it. The gate swayed and creaked, and she once again heard his son’s cry.

She thought, between her sips and drags, of the day before when he came home late at night, laid down by her side and said, “Good night”, and then there was silence; as if the words were drowning all other sounds. She didn’t sleep that night. He kissed her good morning, but he never used to.

“Is everything all right?” she goes.

He kissed her again and the romantic in her died a little. He didn’t say anything; he just upped and left. He returned again late at night and found her waiting. The child, not more than a month old, was crying.

“Remember that fair?” he goes.

She nodded.

He goes again, “I still believe in what I said.”

She turned and remembered.

“Do I get a chance?”

She was talking to herself like this. Does he get a chance? We are now into something big. It is going to affect our lives. I don’t want to, but how could he. Pointing to the child she goes, “What about it?”

“Can’t we just forget?” He goes.

She goes, “Do I get to think?”

And without a word he went away with the child. That night she didn’t sleep, the child was crying. He didn’t too, the child was crying. And just with a cry, not of the child’s, but of the sum of thousand echoes she heard in the void of her inner self; feeling rejected by the man who had promised her his love – the man who had promised never to sleep by her side silently.

He never returned. He still loved her, but his love for the child was unrequited, with a certain looming uncertainty, which thrilled him. At first he used to talk to himself like this. We are into something big now; our lives won’t be the same after this. Then, later, he told her all.

What will the woman do without her man, and the man without his child!

She lit another cigarette and let the smoke hover around her, as if trying to submerge the infinite void, bridging what she felt, that was far too incomprehensible to be put into any worldly language, and her desire to shout. She started crying. The smoke reminded her of the day when she was a little girl and her pet dog died. She begged her father to bring about Spot, but he never did. She thought of that and cried even more

Blue Paper Films

Stop motion animation logo for my film production house.

Shot with 5 MP mobile camera with steady (more or less) hands, i.e. without a tripod. Edited using DragonFrame and Windows Movie Maker. Audio – Jenny’s Theme

The Unmindful

It may be raining
But neither the rainbow
Nor the halo
Of the seven horses of sun
Shall be retaining
The oblivious none.

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