#DearZindagi.....

Dear Zindagi,

कहाँ से शुरू करूं ? Ruth Ozeki की किताब A Tale for the Time Being पढ़ रही हूँ।  कहानी में Nao , जो प्रमुख पात्र है, इस ही सवाल का जवाब सोच रही है और उसको जवाब मिलता है कि जहाँ हो, वहीँ से शुरू करो।  बात अच्छी लगी तो मैंने सोचा की क्यों न ये करके देखा जाए।

तो नवम्बर की मीठी ठण्ड में सुबह ५ बजे उठ कर नाश्ता और lunch-box तैयार करती हूँ।  सारा काम ख़त्म  होते ही अदरक वाली कड़क चाय और bread के दो toast बना कर बैठ जाती हूँ, तुम्हे ये letter  लिखने के लिए।  India में होती तो मम्मी और भाभी भी चाय के साथ कुछ गप-शप लगातीं और चाय पीने का मज़ा दोगुना हो जाता।  पर New Jersey के शहर Edison के एक apartment में बच्चों के उठने से पहले ये चिठ्ठी लिखने का मज़ा भी अलग लग रहा है।

बाहर बिलकुल अँधेरा है। खिड़की के blinds हटा के देखती हूँ तो आस-पास बस छोटी-छोटी टिमटिमाती lights नज़र आती हैं।  न कोई चिड़िया अपने घोंसले से बाहर आयी है और न ही कोई इंसान।  Blinds बंद करते हुए ख्याल आता है मम्मी की kitchen की खिड़की का।  पिछली बार जब India गयी थी तो वो खिड़की तो जैसे मेरी दोस्त ही बन गयी थी। जब भी बाहर देखो तो, Dear Zindagi , तुम अनोखे अंदाज़ में मुस्कुराती इतराती नज़र आती थीं। कोई गाय अपने झुण्ड के साथ जाती दिखती थी, तो कोई scooter वाला ऑफिस जाने की जल्दी में तेज़ रफ़्तार से निकलता नज़र आता था।  कहीं स्कूल uniform में बच्चे bag और पानी की bottle उठाये बस का इंतज़ार करते दिखाई देते थे।

खिड़की के बाहर, सड़क के किनारे एक पेड़ था। मम्मी ने माली से पूछ के बताया कि वो kigelia का पेड़ है - हिंदी में बलम -खीरा कहते हैं। न जाने मैं कितने साल उस पेड़ के नीचे खड़ी हो के अपनी स्कूल बस की wait किया करती थी।  उसी पेड़ के नीचे पापा ने एक चबूतरा बनवाने की सोची।  गर्मी के दिन बहुत थकान वाले होते हैं India में। पापा ने सोचा की बहुत चलती सड़क है , तो क्यों ने राहगीरों के लिए एक पानी की प्याऊ बनाई जाये। पक्का चबूतरा बनवाया गया।  मिटटी के मटके रखे गए - आह क्या खुशबू होती है मिटटी के मटकों के पानी की ! आते-जाते प्यासे राही जब वहाँ रुक कर पानी पीते तो लगता था कि प्याऊ का होना जैसे सार्थक हो गया।  पर ऐसा बहुत देर तक नहीं चला।  जानते हैं क्यों - क्योंकि शायद पानी की प्यास पूरी करने से ज़्यादा ज़रूरी कुछ और लोगों की अनजान पर महत्वपूर्ण ज़रूरतें थीं जो मटके या मटके के ढक्कन को चुरा कर बेचने से पूरी हो पाती थीं।

खैर, प्याऊ का अस्तित्व बनाते मटके गायब होते गए।  हार कर मटके रखना छोड़ दिया।  बेचारा चबूतरा तनहा हो गया।  एक सुबह खिड़की से देखा कि zindagi  एक नए रूप में चबूतरे पर सजी थी।  प्याऊ की जगह चाय का खोका खड़ा था।  सर्दी हो या गर्मी, चाय पीने वाले मौसम नहीं देखते।  धीरे-धीरे जमघट बढ़ता गया और चाय वाला तुम्हे, Dear Zindagi, एक बार फिर से ख़ुशी से जीने लगा।

कुछ दिन बीते। जाने चाय वाले की चाय ख़त्म हुई या फिर उसको zindagi ने कुछ नई राह दिखा दी, वो भी चबूतरा छोड़ के चला गया। पेड़ की हरियाली चबूतरे के खालीपन को कुछ दिन तक भरती रही।  कभी दोपहर में खिड़की से बाहर नज़र जाती थी तो दिखता था कि दो बंधु पेड़ से कुछ तोड़ रहे हैं।  बलम-खीरे का उपयोग जोड़ों के दर्द, गठिया के उपचार आदि के लिए किया जाता है। शायद घर के किसी वृद्ध के दर्द दूर करने के लिए बंधु पेड़ पर चढ़े होंगे।

एक दिन देखा एक सफ़ेद गाड़ी से एक आदमी बाहर निकल कर चबूतरे पर कुछ कपड़े रख रहा है।  सस्ती टी-शर्ट्स, जो न सिर्फ कीमत में पर देखने में भी सस्ती लगती थीं , उनका खरीददार कौन होगा, ये सवाल मन में उठा।  पर जवाब जल्दी ही मिल गया जब सुबह, दोपहर और शाम, कई दिनों तक, चबूतरे पर लोगों की भीड़ लगी रहती।  साइकिल सवार हो या बड़ी गाड़ी चलाने वाले अंकल, सबको उन टी-शर्ट्स में कुछ तो बात लगती थी।  समय बीता और zindagi का ये रंग भी किसी और गली-कूचे को रंगीन करने निकल गया। 

पर चबूतरा तो मानो सबको मोहित करता था।  कुल्फी वाले भैया ने वहां खूब कुल्फी बेचीं।  लोगों को गर्मी से राहत मिलती और भैया की जेब थोड़ी गर्म हो जाती। 

हम खिड़की के इस पार  खड़े यही सोचते थे कि अब ये जाएगा तो कौन आएगा। जैसे कोई मंच  हो मानो , जिसमें एक पात्र अपनी भूमिका निभा के जाता और फिर दूसरा आ कर उसकी जगह ले लेता। 

zindagi आगे चलती रही।  पर चलते चलते कभी पैर थके तो कभी जूते फटे।  चबूतरा सब देखता रहा। जहाँ कभी कपड़े , कभी पानी और कभी चाय या कुल्फी थी, आज वहां जूते रखे गए।  लोग आये।  जूते पहन कर देखे।  किसी को भाए तो लिए नहीं तो आगे बढ़ गए घड़ी की उस सूईं की तरह जो किसी का इंतज़ार नहीं करती।  

Dear Zindagi , कितने रंग हैं तुम्हारे!  तुम्हे जीने के लिए इंसान क्या नहीं करता। क्या हो तुम - एक उम्मीद , आगे बढ़ता एक कदम, एक छलावा, या एक भटके हुए राही की आखिरी मंज़िल ? उस दिन जब वो शराबी, जिसे किसी ने पागल कहा और किसी ने तिरस्कारा, क्या वो तुम्हारे आँचल में छुपा तुमसे कुछ सवाल नहीं पूछ रहा था? चबूतरा शायद उसको एक पालने के जैसा लगा होगा तो वो नशे में चूर हो वहां सो गया।  kigelia के पेड़ के तले कुछ गहरे सपनों में खो गया।  सब ने दूर से देखा और कहा कि शायद कोई पागल है, नहीं तो कौन भला ऐसे सो जाएगा।  कुछ पल बीते, कुछ घंटे और फिर पूरी रात।  शायद तुमने उसको बहुत थका दिया होगा zindagi .... तभी तो इतनी देर तक सुषुप्त रहा। सबने सोचा की शायद मर गया।  नींद में चबूतरे से नीचे सड़क पे भी लुड़क गया।  भीड़ जमा हुई।  सबकी साँसें थमी थीं कि जाने कौन है , क्या हुआ है।  कोई हमदर्दी से पास नहीं गया शायद, पर उत्सुकता ज़रूर उसके पास खींच ले गयी - सब जानना  चाहते थे कि ज़िन्दगी ने उसका साथ छोड़ा या नहीं।  

कुछ पल बीते।  साँसें चल रहीं थीं।  चेतना लौटी और शराबी/पागल अपनी मंज़िल की ओर बढ़ गया।  देखने वालों को कहानी मिली सुनाने के लिए और देखने के लिए मिला zindagi का एक और रंग। चबूतरा चुप-चाप एक मज़बूत मंच बन डटा रहा, जैसे कह रहा हो कि कोई भी मौसम क्यों न हो , मैं zindagi को बुलाता रहूँगा , कोई गीत गाता रहूँगा। धुन कभी दर्द देगी तो कभी हंसाएगी, पर ज़िन्दगी यूँ ही चलती चली जाएगी। 

ये सब लिखते हुए न जाने कितने पल बीत गए।  लगा कि मैं  फिर वहीं उस खिड़की के परदे खोल रही हूँ।  पर परदे उन यादों के खोल रही थी जिन्होंने मेरी ज़िन्दगी को सजाया है।  कुछ खट्टी यादें, कुछ मीठी यादें -  नम आँखों से टपकती यादें, मुस्कुराते होठों से छलकती यादें।  कहानी तो चबूतरे की लिखी पर स्कूल से सफर करती हुई आज के पल में आ के ठहर गयी।  कितना कुछ खोया इस सफर में - पापा की हंसी , भाई की शरारतें, बेपरवाह बचपन।  और कितना कुछ पाया - भाभी के रूप में एक पक्की सहेली, मम्मी की निकटता, बच्चों की मासूम शैतानियां। खेल खेलना खूब जानती हो तुम zindagi , कुछ लेती हो, कुछ दे जाती हो।  

क्या शिकायत करूं तुमसे.... मालूम नहीं।
सोचती हूँ बस चलती रहूँ। 
मंज़िल कहाँ है, क्या पता।  पर ये जानना शायद ज़रूरी नहीं। कुछ रास्ते छुपे रहें तो ही अच्छा है।  न जाने किस मोड़ पे कौन सी  खिखिलाहट रू-ब -रू हो जाए।  रही बात आंसूओं की, तो उनसे बातें करना तो तुमने सिखा ही दिया है। 

स्नेह सहित 
zindagi के मंच की एक पात्र 


“I am writing a letter to life for the #DearZindagi activity at BlogAdda“

"Hold Fast to Dreams...."

Image Source

She stared at the pages of her diary. For the past fifteen days, this diary had been her sole companion. Something had happened to her lately. Nobody knew what. She woke up one morning without any memories. She knew not her name, and who she was. 

In the facility where the doctors were trying to treat her, people came and went. They would come with photographs and other trinkets with which they tried to goad her out of this oblivion. First ones to approach were a child accompanied with his father. The man claimed to be her husband. And the child's little hands craved for her motherly touch. She felt a pang in her heart as she reached out hesitantly to the boy and hugged her to comfort him. But in her heart was just a torment. Who was she? "You are my wife", the man had replied. "Mom", the boy had cried.

Later came an old couple. They were her parents. They embraced her with a touch that gave her some relief. They brought with them stuff that had been dear to her when she had not forgotten anything. Stuff like books, paintings and her favorite food. Her gaze remained vacant as she held each of those things in her hand. "You are our daughter", the couple had pleaded before they left the room.

Some came who were about her age, though she had no idea how old she was. They were a jovial lot, her colleagues. They brought memories from the school she worked in. They humored her with silly jokes. They told her that her students missed her a lot. "You are a teacher, you ought to come back soon", they advised.

A woman simply clad in black and pink dress came and recited her favorite poem to her - Dreams written by Langston Hughes. 

Hold fast to dreams

For if dreams die

Life is a broken-winged bird

That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams

For when dreams go

Life is a barren field

Frozen with snow.

Before leaving the room, her friend tried to remind her that she had had many dreams she wanted to pursue. "One was to write a book, remember?" and saying that she dropped the diary in her hand.

She stared at her diary again. She took a pen and started writing something.

On the first page she wrote - Wife

On the next she wrote - Mother

On the next - Daughter

Then, Teacher.

Then, Dreamer.

Then in capitals, she wrote - WHO AM I?

and she closed the diary shut.

‘This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.’

Also Linking to IndiSpire #132 

पापा की बेटी

बचपन से ही पापा की दुलारी बेटी थी।  प्रतिदिन सुबह पापा को उठ कर कचहरी के लिए तैयार होता देखती।  काला कोट न जाने कैसे सम्मोहित सा कर देता।  काले चमचमाते जूते टक-टक करते अपना संगीत सुनाते और मुझे मोह लेते।  जब तक गाड़ी आँखों से ओझल न हो जाती , मैं टकटकी लगाए दरवाज़े या खिड़की पर खड़ी रहती थी। जबसे स्मृतियां बनीं , जबसे चेतना जागी , मुझे बस एक बात याद है - पापा की तरह मुझे भी वकील बनना था ।  

सुबह-शाम सपने देखती कि मैं भी काला कोट पहन कचहरी जा रही हूँ। अदालत में अपनी दलीलों से सबको हरा रही हूँ।  कि पापा की तरह समाज में मेरी भी पूछ है , रुतबा है। 

आज जब सोचती हूँ तो लगता है कि वकील बनने से ज़्यादा मैं पापा की छवि चाहती थी।  पापा की लुभावनी छवि - मुस्कुराता चेहरा, बेबाक हंसी, निडर व्यक्तित्व , सकारात्मक दृष्टिकोण।  आखिर वही  तो था उनकी सफलता का कारण।  और मैं बचपन  की मासूम अनभिज्ञता में दोनों को एक समझ बैठी। 

 रातों-रात नहीं बना था पापा का  रुतबा।  न जाने कितनी रातें पापा ने जाग कर गुजारीं होंगी।  न जाने कितनी किताबें जो पापा के दफ्तर की शोभा में चार चाँद लगाती थीं, पापा ने पढ़ी होंगी।  और न जाने कितनी बार नाकामयाबी की ठोकर भी खायी होगी।  मैं तो बच्ची थी।  मुझे सिर्फ पापा की खनकती हंसी सुनाई देती थी।  मुझे बस मम्मी के स्नेहित स्पर्श हर्षाता था।  मुझे बस भाई के संग मस्ती भाती थी। 

पापा कभी कचहरी के किस्से घर पर नहीं लाते थे पर यह जग-विदित था कि पापा कि अपनी साख थी।  पर पापा ने बहुत संघर्ष किया था यहाँ तक पहुँचने के लिए।  और मम्मी ने उनका पूरा साथ दिया था।  मम्मी बताती हैं कि पापा ने वकालत शुरू ही की थी और मेरे दादाजी का निधन हो गया था।  पर पापा ने हिम्मत नहीं हारी।  दिन-रात मेहनत करते थे।  किराए के घर के पैसे चुकाने के लिए गुल्लक में पैसे रखते।  घर में गैस का पहला सिलिंडर मम्मी की आमदनी से आया था।  मम्मी कॉलेज में पढ़ाती थीं।  पापा के पास आने-जाने का साधन भी नहीं था तो किसी और के साथ जाया करते थे।  एक दिन उसने मना कर दिया।  पापा का मन आहत हुआ और पापा ने स्कूटर खरीदा। मम्मी और पापा जैसे उस दुपहिए वाहन के दो पहिए थे।  एक-दुसरे का मज़बूत सहारा।  एक के बिना दूसरा अधूरा। 

कहते हैं न कि सबको हीरे की बस चमक दिखाई देती है।  सब भूल जाते हैं कि वह कितना तपा है उस चमक के लिए।  ऐसा ही सफलता के साथ होता है।  सबको चका -चौंध दिखती है।  संघर्ष कोई देख नहीं पाता।  

बात सपनों की हो रही थी।  मैं धीरे-धीरे बड़ी हुई।  पर सपना अभी भी वही आँखों में बसा था।  वकील बन जाऊं , बस वकील - पापा की तरह।  लेकिन समाज में बहुत रुकावटें थीं।  या कहूं कि बहुत त्रुटियां थीं।  मम्मी को, भाई को डर था समाज की कुदृष्टि से मुझे बचाना चाहते थे इसीलिए मेरा सपना उनकी उलझन बढ़ाता था।  फिर भी उन्होंने मेरा साथ दिया।  लॉ कॉलेज की प्रवेश-परीक्षा भी दिलवाई।  साथ साथ एक और सपना भी पनप रहा था - मेरी मम्मी का सपना मुझे लिटरेचर यानि साहित्य पढ़ाने का।  उन्हें बचपन से ही इंग्लिश लिटरेचर रोचक लगता था पर उस समय उनके कॉलेज में साहित्य की डिग्री उपलब्ध नहीं थी।  पर मम्मी अपना सपना थोप नहीं रहीं थीं मुझे पे।  बस मुझे एक विकल्प दिया था की अगर लॉ कॉलेज में दाखिल नहीं हो पायी तो लिटरेचर पढ़ लेना।  किताबें तो जैसे मेरे जीने का सहारा थीं।  बहुत किताबें पढ़ती थी मैं - पापा अक्सर दिल्ली से लाया करते थे मेरे लिए।  तो बस, इंग्लिश होनर्स की भी प्रवेश परीक्षा दे डाली।  

अब किस्मत ने कहा की सुनो मुझे भी तो कुछ करने दो।  तो हुआ यूँ कि परीक्षा के परिणाम पहले लिटरेचर के आ गए।  आखिरी तिथि भी नज़दीक थी दाखिला लेने की।  समय कम था।  मन में उलझन भी थी मम्मी के।  पापा ने मुझे स्वतंत्र  चुनाव के लिए प्रेरित किया था।  पर समय की कमी मुझ पर हावी हो गयी।  और मैंने लिटरेचर में दाखिला लिया।  कुछ  दिन बाद लॉ का परिणाम घोषित हुआ और मुझे जीवन भर के लिए एक अफ़सोस  दे गया कि काश मैं थोड़ा रुकी होती तो आज मैं वकील होती। 

पर लिटरेचर ने बहुत सम्भाला मुझे।  अच्छे-बुरे समय में  किताबों ने बहुत ज्ञान दिया।  समाज की जटिलता , स्वभावों की पेचीदगी, विचारों की उलझन, निर्णयों की विवशता - कितना कुछ था किताबों में।  आज दुःख नहीं कि सपना पूरा नहीं कर पायी।  आज ख़ुशी है कि पापा कि  सकारत्मकता मुझ में  सम्मिलित हुई।  वो खनकती हंसी मेरी न हो सकी पर मेरे जीवन को पल-पल अलंकृत  करती रही।  मुझे कहती रही कि अफ़सोस मत कर, बस ज़िन्दगी जी ले। 

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This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.’

The Dripping Roof

She was old and sleepless.....Alone too. To while away her time, she would take things out of her closet, only to put them back again. She would fold the clothes, then undo them only to fold them back again. Habits monotonous but necessary.... 

That night however was different. It rained. She looked out the window. She strained her eyes to see if anyone was outside. The world around was too busy to notice her. Cars went past, splashing water standing in the puddles. She turned around and headed back for her chair. Just then, she felt a touch - slightly cold, but gentle. It trickled down her buttery face, melting on it as if in love. The touch awakened her aging senses. She looked up and saw the drops falling from her roof. Tiny drops, slow but persistent.... She stood there for a while. She lifted up her face as if in a prayer. The drops seemed to regard her, for they fell precisely where she stood, bathing her mildly. The kind caress of the drops probably brought a tear in her eyes too. She did not wish to run around for a pot or a bucket. The moment transfixed her there. For this night, at least, she wasn't alone anymore. 

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‘This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.’

The Day He Cried.....

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Whenever I think of my father, I remember his laughter. It was loud, uninhibited, and infectious. It reflected his carefree self in the most beautiful way imaginable. He was a man of few words. He would talk less, but whenever he did, it bespoke wit and wisdom. His personality had a charisma that made me want to be like him. It would often fill me with a strong yearning to see his confident gait, his appealing nature. There was something definitely addictive about him. And it wasn't just me who was charmed by him. One could say that being a daughter I was biased. But there were others around him, who met him and were awed by that star quality oozing out of him.

Being a workaholic, he would spend hours in his office. His office was another place that I absolutely adored. It was full of books. I would step into the office and be surrounded by them, wondering if one day they would be mine to read. I wanted to be a lawyer too, like him. In my imagination, I would wear a black coat and fight cases, winning them all the time, like him. I would win smiles, win people, be famous like him.

Needless to say, he was a strong man. He would never show his emotional side. Or perhaps, he did not show it in front of us as he thought that his sadness would pain us, or his fears would scare us. He was a human too - he must have had all the emotions we all have. But he was careful, I guess, always laughing, always smiling, always confident - even when he lay on the hospital bed, readying for his surgery. When he was diagnosed with brain tumor, it was a shock that shook us terribly. Mom cried. My brother hid his emotions and put on a strong face, but it all reflected in his eyes. I cried too. I had been like my father, shielding emotions and never crying. But that day, I had cried too. He stroked my head and said, " I fell sick at the wrong time." My brother stood beside and we both held his hands and could not say anything. He promised he would be fine. 

And he fought. A man of his strength would never give up easily. But being a human, he fell prey to side-effects of therapies, strong medicines, and surgeries. His smile never faded. My brother got married, and so did I. As my visa papers were not ready and my husband was flying back to US, I was not leaving my home right after marriage. I remember the day I got married, and told my father," I will be back in an hour." He smiled and shook hands with me. We were together. He never said anything, not yet.

The day I left for US, his health was not that good. I was leaving to a far-away place. I had wished it to happen, having chosen my husband. But it felt strange to leave my home, my ailing father, my anxious mom, my  brother, my bhabhi, and their newly-born daughter. It was a feeling only a daughter could understand. I worried about them, but like my father, expressed it not.

The day of the departure holds no memories other than that of tears held back, and goodbyes waved. My father had again not been that expressive. I knew not what he was feeling. But after having gone, he cried. I did not see him crying. But I can feel it, his tears and his pain. He cried and told and my mom he felt that with his daughter gone, everything was gone. As I write this, I cry too. I cry out of helplessness of not being able to hold him, and hug him. I did not know then that I would never see him like that again. I did not know then that after almost a year, when I would return, he would be unconscious, preparing for his final departure. I did not know what I had wished for in going away. Since then, I am scared to wish for anything. For I know not, what my wish will bring, if fulfilled. 

But I miss him. Every single day. His laughter, his black coat, his books, his office, his warmth. He never spent time with me like mothers do. He may not have changed my diapers like my mother did. He may not have spent sleepless nights trying to lull me to sleep. But he did run to the doctor in the middle of the night when I fell sick. He taught me to smile, to fight in every circumstance. I can never be as strong or charismatic like him. But I am forever his daughter, a gift I am thankful for. I carry his name proudly, hugging it as the only bit that is left of him. 






‘This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.’

The Good Daughter

Three cups of tea lay on the table untouched. The cookie jar sat next to the cups, undisturbed. The chirping of birds outside was crisper, owing to the silence inside the house. Meera wondered what to do. Her husband was out of town owing to some office work. His job was very demanding. Her daughter Naina left yesterday for her first job to the States. Meera had been so busy packing up everything for her - from her tooth-brushes to her dresses, from her shoes to everything she might need for the kitchen.

"It would take time to settle in Naina. You must have everything when you land so that you don't have to run here and there for small things." Meera had told her daughter.

"You worry so much Mom. I will be fine." Naina had protested just like any other girl her age. But she knew deep in her heart that her mother worried for her since it was the first time she was going so far from her.

The farewell was heart-rending for the mother. She had spent her entire life around her only daughter. As the plane took off, Meera remembered the umpteen lullabies she had sung to Naina. She recollected the many times her daughter fell while learning to walk. She relived the many moments they would look in the mirror admiring each other in their new outfits. Her first smile, her first tear, her first accomplishment, her first failure, her first love, her first heart-break, her first mistake - Meera had lived through it all. And now, she stood there waving good-bye to her little bird as she flew in search of her dreams.

Meera had returned to the empty house. Her past two decades of life had been her daughter's. She opted out of job as she wanted to give in her hundred percent to her little star. She would prepare breakfast for her, and wake her up for school or college. She would make her favorite dishes, buy things as per her daughter's tastes. Her friends were treated with some luscious delicacies. It was fulfilling for a mother to see her daughter smiling.

But now, what was she going to do? She had no appetite. She did not prepare breakfast. She looked out the kitchen window. This was the place where the two would often stand and talk for hours, watching the outside world go about its business. They would crack jokes at some weird sight, and have some serious discussions too. Today it was all silent. No-body was there to talk to. 

Meera cleaned the last night's dishes. She wiped the kitchen counter clean. Then, she went to the bedroom and straightened up the pillows that she had tossed here and there thinking about Naina. She looked at the watch and wondered how long she would have to wait before Naina's plane landed. She switched on the TV and incessantly changed the channels. Then, she turned it off. She went back to the kitchen window and stared blankly. She turned and headed towards her daughter's room. Th door was ajar. Meera peeped in, as if hoping to find Naina inside. All she met was nothingness. She traced her steps back to the kitchen. She started peeling some potatoes absent-mindedly. "What will you eat today Naina?" She muttered to herself in the dead silence. Just then the phone rang. Meera ran to pick it up. Naina had reached safely.

"There is something in the drawer for you." Naina told her mom.

"Stay safe Naina. Eat well. Take care of your health. Keep calling...." was all the Meera could say.

The call ended. Meera was relieved. She started chopping potatoes at a faster pace. Suddenly, she remembered the drawer. She ran to open it up.

There lay a letter, a pen and a book.

On the letter were the words:

When it rains outside and there is no umbrella, I will imagine you covering me in your aanchal. When I feel hungry, I will eat thinking that you are feeding me with your hands. When I look out the window, I will talk as if you are standing next to me. When I sleep, I will hold the pillow tight as if I am holding your hand. I will take care of myself for you. Promise me that you will too, for me. I want you to write, every single day, a letter for me. I want you to take up all that you gave up many many years ago. It won't be easy, but as you taught me, it is not impossible to do something if you have a heart in it. Read every night, as if you are reading to me. Begin with the book I am leaving. I know you will like it. And please Mom, take care of yourself, for me. I will miss you.....

Meera's hands were shaking. Her eyes all welled up. She took a few deep breaths. Then, she looked at the book. The title brought a faint smile on her face. It read : The Good Daughter

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P.S. - Three Cups of Tea is a book written by Greg Mortensen and The Good Daughter is a memoir written by Jasmin Darznic.



This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.

कुछ प्रश्नों के जवाब मेरे पास नहीं

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कहीं छुपी है या कुछ उदास है
विचारणा मेरी
कविता नई कोई मैं लिख नहीं पाती हूँ आज
कभी खोजती हूँ पठानकोट के आंसुओं में
तो कभी पेशावर में गुम हुई बच्चों की खिलखिलाहट में
कभी मडाया की भूख में किसी सूनी रसोई के खाली बर्तन में उसे
पर मिलती नहीं मुझे  ..... 
अयलान की चुप्पी खंजर-सा वार करती है
हेब्दो के व्यंग्य बेमानी झूठे से लगते हैं
कुछ खफा है आज कविता मेरी 
शब्दों की बेबसी मन विचलित करती है 
मैं कुछ पूछती हूँ तो कहती है कि कहीं बुझ न जाऊं 
कुछ भयभीत हूँ विचारमग्न हूँ कहीं हार ना जाऊं 

कहाँ है वो स्पर्श मर्म भरा 
वो अश्रु संवेदना से ओत-प्रोत 
वो शब्द जो घृणा की कठोरता को पिघला दें 
कहाँ हैं ?

मैं मूक हूँ कुछ कह नहीं पाती 
कुछ प्रश्नों के जवाब मेरे पास नहीं 


English Translation

There are some questions I can answer not...

She is hiding somewhere or maybe she is upset

My Muse

A new poem I can write not any more today

I try to find her in the tears of Pathankot sometimes

And sometimes I search for her in the lost giggles of the children of Peshawar

Sometimes I rummage in the empty vessels of the desolate kitchens of hungry Madaya

But I find her not.....

Alan's silence stabs like a dagger

Hebdo's jokes seem fake and redundant

My poem is bitter/angry today

Feeble words make me feel discontented

When I ask her, she says, what if she is snuffed out

I am scared, lost in thoughts - what if I am wasted

Where is that soothing touch

-Those tears flowing with compassion

-Those words that could melt all hatred away

-Where are they?

I am quiet, I can say nothing

There are some questions I can answer not...

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.

Few Words on Words I Like.....

What would we do without words? What, I wonder! Yes, eyes speak too. But we all are so used to them. Can we go without speaking for even a single day? Perhaps not. Words help articulate our inner depths of consciousness. Words help us unburden our pains. Words help us express our joins. They give rein to our love, as well as our hatred. They are tools of communication, devices of influence. They can be like a balm that soothes, or like a sword that pierces. As I thought reflecting on the words that I just love, I realized that it was so difficult to choose just three out of the many that I loved. I loved the sound of certain words, and the symbolism of others. I liked a word because it evoked a strong memory and I liked a word because it had an association that made my heart flutter with excitement.

I thought and thought and thought and finally, here are my thoughts....!

Book

Those who know me won't be surprised. Tell me there is a book fair, a book sale, a library around the corner, and the greedy bookworm inside me wiggles and wriggles to break free and rush to where the books are. The affair with books started at a young age, when my mom gave me one of her Enid Blyton books. Then, Nancy Drew, Hardy Boys, Agatha Christie happened. What followed was a long association with books - poetry as well as prose, fiction as well as non-fiction. There also came a time when I could not pick a book anymore. Reader's block, I guess. I would fret as to why I could read no more. I would buy books, borrow books from the library and then, they would just stay there on the shelf, untouched. But gradually, as if it was a miracle, things began to change and I could read again. I have gone a bit slow but books have been with me. Come to my house and see books in every room -  many now are for children. My kids are growing up and they need to uncover the treasure too. 

There are many of my friends who fail to understand my craze for book. I always have felt that a good book can change your life. You don't need to read all that is out there in the world. But one good bok, and your life's perspective widens, you become more sensitive and wise. There is a world of emotions that goes untapped because we live a superficial life. It is book that questions, that prods, that asks us to dig deeper. For those who like books, and those who don't, I have something to say -

कभी अकेले हो तो कोई किताब उठा के देखना 
उस किताब के पन्नो को दोस्त बना के देखना 
उन पन्नो में लिखे शब्दों को परख के देखना 
उन  शब्दों में छिपी भावनाओं को जी के देखना 
उन भावनाओं में निहित कुछ सबक भी होंगे 
जो जीवन के अभिप्राय का आइना होंगे 
उस आईने में खुद को देखना 
तुम्हारी कहानी वहां से झलक जाएगी 
तुम भी किसी कहानी का पात्र ही तो हो 
किसने रची कौन जाने 
तुम बस अपनी भूमिका के प्रति सच्चे रहना 
उस सच्चाई को कोई तो पढ़ ही लेगा 
तुम्हारी कहानी को कोई हमसफ़र भी मिलेगा 
सच्चे साथी होंगे तो कहानी भी और रोचक बनेगी 
किताब के पन्नों में और जीवन भरेगी 
सच मानो मेरी बात 
कभी अकेले हो तो कोई किताब उठा के देखना। … 

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Lullaby

A word that sounds beautiful to the ear, and that evokes so many images - lullaby or लोरी in Hindi. A baby cuddled in the mother's arms, all attentive to the sweet melodies she sings, as she weaves a dream about her child's future, or a baby in her father's secure arms, listening to his bass voice, as he struggles to find the right words of the lullaby while trying to put his little bundle of joy to sleep - aren't these images beautiful. A lullaby evokes images of sleepless nights, anxious but proud parents, a little seed sprouting to life, a chick sitting cozy in its nest, comfortable yet restless since it pines for more. It speaks of a future taking shape, some dreams being imagined. It tells about a beginning - a new life of not just a child but of the couple who have become parents now. It is symbolic of new responsibilities, of new ambitions, of new plans. It speaks of nurture, of care, of an unbreakable bond. A lullaby.....

Hear these wonderful lullabies...Sleep, baby Sleep and Hush Little Baby....

Even though I am a mother now, I still like to hear my mom singing. She sings for her grandchildren and it soothes me too!


Snowflakes

Doesn't it sound good to you? Have you ever felt the season's first snowflake touch your cheeks? Have you ever seen it descend slowly towards you? Have you noticed the magical serenity with which it floats? Isn't it truly, purely blissful? 

Yes, it melts me too. It is cold but the moment it touches me, the moments it dissipates, it undoes me. It dispels every hard thought. It scatters a softness with its delicate fragility. Its transience speaks of a life lived fully. It is an exquisite example of nature's symmetry. They say that each snowflake is unique and the possibility of finding the same symmetrical pattern in a snowflake is rare. I don't know about that. All I know is that it is a special gift of cold winter months. It is what makes winters beautiful. Its white purity speaks of something unblemished, un-scarred. It is like a poem, falling word by word from the sky, touching us here and there, melting the frigidity away as it vanishes. 

There is something worth sharing here with all of you. It is from Khaled Hosseini's A Thousand Splendid Suns. It is a coincidence that I came across these lines just when I was thinking about writing this post. 

"She remembered Nana saying that each snowflake was a sigh heaved by an aggrieved woman somewhere in the world. That all sighs drifted up the sky, gathered into clods, then broke into tiny pieces that fell silently on the people below."

With those lines, I stop. Over to you, my friends...!

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This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.

He Drove All Night....

He drove all night

Wondering in the stormy weather

How silent would be the wife's anger

How stern would be his mother's temper

Thoughts like those might have slowed him down

But he went on......

For one more person waiting at home

Whose smile was true

Whose anger was cute

Who waited not for the gifts he would bring

But for the warmth and the love that would spring

From his eyes and his hugs....

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He drove all night

Fearing she might have slept by now

But he drove and he drove

To reach to her fast....

Gifts tumbled, dolls rolled

In the backseat....

Speedy highways posed a safety threat

With mile-long trucks in the side-lanes

Rains made it tougher

Winds made it harder -

Sleep tried to ensnare

But he fell not in its trap...

He cared not...

He had only one thought

To reach to her fast

So he drove all night...

He could see his house from a distance now

He could see all lights switched off

The darkness of the inside

Told him he had been late...

So he reached the doorstep quietly

And unlocked the entrance door

He put the gifts aside and sat down on the floor

He wanted to relax

But he knew that he had missed it

But work was demanding, deadlines inflexible

How would he explain it all to her?

How would he tell her he drove all night

But still couldn't make it in time?

Lost in thoughts, feeling quite blue

A touch startled her...

He looked up and saw those beautiful eyes

Happy to see her Papa come home

She hugged her as he lifted her up

And not a word passed between the two

Love has its way to send across the message

Nothing else was needed....

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The prompt He Drove All Night made me feel very nostalgic. I remembered the times my father would travel in the night to come home. There were times when work kept him busy and he was late. It was always a delight and a relief to see him reach safely.What else would a daughter want? As I write this poem, I miss him badly. He is gone so far that there is no return from there. But his laughter and his happy spirit touch my heart always making me feel he is close. This poem is for him, and for all the loving fathers in the world. 

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This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.

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Happy Birthday Mummy

One Year of Blogging Completed and Still Going On....!

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One year back, I started a journey. It had no destination. It had no prescribed path. It was just an act - an act resulting from a will to break free from all negativity, to come out of pain. And in this journey, I learnt a lot. I made new acquaintances, new friends. Some inspired me with their warmth, some believed in me, some filled me with awe with their modesty and unpretentious knowledge. All in all, the journey taught me to just keep going on. The journey made me realize that the more I learn, the less I know. I learnt to be humble and persevering. I want to thank all my friends on facebook who read me and supported me. I want to thank BlogAdda which provided wonderful prompts every week, and IndiBlogger where I made lot of friends. I want to thank all the fellow bloggers who read me and provided valuable feedback. There are so many of you that I cannot name all here. So, a heartfelt thanks to all of you.


Last but not the least, I want to thank my Mom, who has been my light, my support always. She stands by me like a strong pillar, although to tell you the truth, she is barely five feet tall! Her spirit is so strong that she never fails to motivate me.

It also happened to be my late grandmother's birthday when I wrote my first post last year.  I realized it only after I had published the post. The discovery made me smile. It gave me a feeling of joy. I had been dilly-dallying on the idea of creating a blog since a very long time but it was bound to happen on such a special day. My mom's mom....she was a fascinating lady. Full of charm, graceful, and oh my...what a temper. As children, me and my brother were scared of her anger but we loved her a lot. She loved us a lot too. She would often make nice, yummy Indian delicacies for us. Her laddoos, shakkar-paras, her maththis.....I cannot forget how wonderful she was with whatever she did. I feel blessed to have started a new venture and I feel that she is watching me. Wherever you are, Badi mummy, guide me and help me sail on. My blog will be my feelings, my thoughts as they come to me. They will be stories from my heart, ponderings of my soul. They will be my therapy in times when I feel sad. And I hope that whosoever reads them will smile too. 

I am posting a link below of a story I wrote earlier last year which I don't think I have shared with my fellow bloggers. Please enjoy when you can and leave your feedback on the story if it touches your heart.

Nanna's Corner


   

It's October....!!!

A leaf - crimson and solitary falls near my feet as I stand in my balcony. There is slight chill in the air that makes me shiver a bit. The weather that was warm a few days back has changed and brought a cool breeze with a muddy scent as rains drench the earth. The changing color of leaves makes everything outside a breath-taking spectacle. The vibrant hues on the trees speak of the frost that will settle in the air soon. What is colorful today will turn bitter white and make us sit indoors and sip hearty soups and hot teas. Yes, it is that time of the year again when warm beds and snug blankets will tempt us to become lazy. It is October again.

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Trips to farms, baskets full of lush apples, juicy beets, luscious berries, hay-rides, race through the pumpkin patch to grab the best candidate for jack-o-lantern - October has all that here in US. Kids get ready to be at their spookiest best as they choose their favorite costume to wear on Halloween. Stores welcome us with an abundance of candies and chocolates. Witches are wanted, houses are haunted, bats are in, spiders crawl around, and skeletons play the host. A whiff of sweet aroma emanates from the kitchen corners, reminding us of pumpkin pies, and the warmth of the scent of cinnamon-pumpkin cakes makes us all sugary sweet. Yes, October has it all.

Is it a wonder that October has celebrations in India too? The festival of lights, Diwali and the slaying of the demon-king Ravana happens around October. Even Durga, the principal goddess in Hindu mythology, chose to destroy the demon Mahisasura during this time which is commemorated by her ardent followers during Durga Puja. It seems that October is the demon-defeating month too....!

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It was our nation's serendipity that a great luminary was born in October. Gandhi, the father of our nation, the Messiah of peace and non-violence, who sought to win one's right by non-violent persuasion left a legacy of pacifism that the whole world follows. It is surprising that as a school boy, Gandhi had a tough time. He is known to have done only moderately well in school. His report card had a note that he was "good in English, fair in Arithmetic, bad in geography; conduct very good, bad handwriting.."   Was it not the man's own serendipity that made him travel in that train in Pretoria where he tasted racial prejudice and was thrown out on account of his color? Perhaps. From a shy boy at home, to a leader of organized revolution abroad, Gandhi came a long way, and showed us the light at the end of the tunnel, when all that we could see was darkness.

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It sure is a great time of the year. A time of beginnings and endings, a time of celebrations, a time of togetherness, a preparation to bid farewell to another year - a time for some nostalgia and some new hopes.

Let's greet it

Prospect of joy - It's

October!

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This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.

Also linking in to Blog-A-Rhythm Wordy Wednesdays Word Prompt Serendipity