Tuesday, October 16

Saturday, September 15

When I was in Love.


Now I merely see wretched patches of a tattered sky. A shabby sheet of cotton spread over the celestial blue. It used to be a fantastical show of mythical beasts and imaginary scape. I swear i could hear music too. Giant leaves drifting in the sky, melting. I witnessed the great theatre of a flying pig that transformed itself into a watering can. They weren't clouds, but a hazy circus troop in action.

But I was in love then.

Don't tie me down with the stereotypes of the age.
Rather think of me as an antique.
Classic and rare.

Thursday, September 13



"O Buddha with eyes shut, 
Weathered skin of stone and lotus lips.
This tender smile -is it emancipation or pure sarcasm ? "

Deaf, mute and stone-hearted, these sculptures of time seem to mock my living.

Friday, July 20

Tears of joy.

Mighty peaks, seemingly firm and unmoved,
Melt down in a mere monsoon, 

Into a collective wail of a thousand waterfalls.
It shall last the season.



Overdressed in an exotic fur of green,
and fuzzy clouds against will into an unfitting headgear,
The mountains with their expanded bases, finally at rest,
Are watching and sobbing.



Baked and cracked all summer, 
abandoned by their own family in search of more capable fathers.
Left alone to contemplate on t
his strange destiny
In the company of some wilting dry branches.
A harsh summer indeed.


Today with everyone home,
Nothing seems overdressed, nothing too much.
The joy so great, that smiles fail.
The mountains are weeping in joy of homecoming.
It shall last the season.

Tuesday, July 17

It did not stop him to find his soul, his happiness. His sanity welded to his beliefs, his happiness attached to his sand castles. He built them, he believed in them, he played with them and lived in them. People thought he was insane, but they were people. And people speak.
So what if his dreams were as impractical like peacocks in flight. But they were his, and of his creation. They were beautiful and they weren't wrong.



People were jealous after all. 

Monday, July 9

There was a boy. He thought that the grapes were green and the apples red. That all peaches were peaches. That trees were still and hearts moved. Once he saw grapes that weren't green and apples that weren't red. Peaches that were apricots afterall. He saw trees running with him, some fast and some slow while inside a train and that the overwhelming site of it all blinked no eye, the excitement moved no heart.

Monday, July 2

Rain.

Raindrops fall on my skin, pecking softly,
As spent fingers, on an old typewriter.
Glazing and polishing,
Losing me to the reflections.
Like an old woodworker
Cautious to scar the wood- just enough.

Drops evoke the many serpents on my forehead,
Into a slithering gait of a perplexed variety.
Creasing and creating channels,
Bounding liberating showers into pain.
The ones that survive, in the alcove of the eyes, nurtured-
Awaken the incapable tears of an earlier occasion,
They too fall.

I love the rain.
It stirs me to a thick consistency.
I am me and I loose myself.
It cools my charred skin of the sun’s brawl,
It burns my heart away of its coldness.
Rain provokes my pain,
Rain, conceals it too.
I too fall.

Monday, June 18

A cup of tea.



Watching sunrise from my terrace top, I slowly sip tea from a cup. All in vain efforts to shake off the last clinging residues from last night’s dream (and all the other nights too). Like spurting Bodhi trees on dilapidated constructions-It stood and grew. It is growing, still.
Sips of the hot liquid char my careless mouth and the scarlet sky burns my heart. I’m reminded of the times spent. I try bringing those vanilla memories closer to myself. They are but, just a handful. An evocative fable of a melancholic past hummed monotonously in the throbbing of my flaccid heart. I swirl the seemingly comforting liquid inside my mouth for a few seconds until it becomes unbearable. I gulp it down quick.
Little sips yet again pinched a hibernating self-loathing self awake. Blasphemous ordeals of love and ignorance, which I thought were left far behind, caught up quick, and this time taller and stronger. Like a creeper twirling around a support to stay, or a coin in the wishing well astray- I held faith strong and gulped. The remaining last few sips (now cold) from the cup.The sun is yet to grow warm and sky still a faded blue. It is time enough to contemplate the strange resemblance of the game-The cup and the tea, our lives, you and me.

The cup of tea is over, and so I guess we too, love.
The dying cloud mourns a loss,
and soil rejoices a gift of life.

Monsoons




Gurgling resounds and echoing yells of the enraged cloud
They proclaim a theft.
Led on by the violating wind messengers,
A bigger tantrum- fuming fury, lightning and sounds.
Today the cloud was torn to bits.

Its drops stolen.






You bring out the best in me, you bring out the worst in me

Thursday, May 24

The boy, the bike and the blunders I


The rainclouds seem to reappear from nowhere as if to mere tantalize him, just like his mom, every time he thought of stepping out. Reluctant to get drenched in the winter rain he would give up only to realize that the sun is yet again out. This continued for a good three hours. On top of this, his mom’s repeated reminders about him being lazy and worthless irritated him. Adit thought he rather be cold than pestered at home.

The amusing thing about his mother’s taunts and arguments was, that they would always end up with mentions of his poor academic performance, an absolute unnecessary number of friends and a forecasting of him not getting married to an educated girl. The starting points of all these arguments would however vary from subject as general as cooking and astrology or as vague as aliens.

Throwing a disgusted look at the kinetic he took it out of the house. He had asked for a bike in class eleventh if he gets an eighty percent in exams. Luck be blessed, he exactly scored that much. But somehow his dad convinced him to buy a gear-less two wheeler that could also be driven by his mom. That moment be damned. Till today, there are ownership quarrels in the Kumar house between him and his mom. It always a “die or die” moment for Mr. Kumar to decide whether the kinetic be sent to the vegetable market or to the evening tuitions, but of course we know who the clear winner every time would be.

Although it was just eight months old, the kinetic behaved like living the seventieth year of its humanly existence. The battery gave up, the suspension (I wonder if it is sill there at all) the paint and the pick up- everything was in disarray. Whether this was an effect similar to a mishandled child of a messy divorce or Adit’s conscious efforts of breaking it by not missing even a single pothole in the road or making three people other than him sit on the kinetic and then racing it half way till Mussorrie, it was difficult to say. But what could a seventeen year old do about the situation. He would rather vent out his fury on the poor vehicle than to try making his parents understand how important a two-wheeler is, to be ‘in’ and ‘accepted.’ Hardly were the Kumar’s even aware of the cycles going out of fashion for the teenage crowd. Moreover just imagine the embarrassment of the young lad asking a girl out for a date after the tuitions (or even during them) without a bike. Is she expected to sit on the cycle carrier at the back or the horizontal member in the front? Moreover with the hilly ups and downs of the city roads, cycles just ‘don’t work.’ Adit just wished for his parents to see such a simple logic without him actually having to explain it to them, because frankly they might have a problem with the “girl” and the “date” bit. 

The parents thought that providing Adit with the kinetic was a gesture of scaling efficiency and love. But only the poor boy knew how he felt when this stud group of boys in his school and tuition, each with their own shiny roaring bike, would question his male sitting on the maroon gearless vehicle.
“The sooner this breaks, the faster a new one shall come and this time it’ll be the bike, with gears and everything,” was how Adit manipulated the situation. But somewhere at the back of his mind, being the deprived child that he thought he was, he knew it was his only friend in need and hence the damages were restricted till the permitted non-fatal limit. Adit and the kinetic shared a relation, and a very deep understanding  between them. In the wild the animals kill only for food and not pleasure. Such was the case here. Damage the vehicle till the folks get the point, not to the point where there isn’t any vehicle at all, and the days of the bicycle return. Many days, in fact two torturous years raced by with numerous encounters, adventures, misshapenness and misdoings- the duo witness to all. 

Thursday, May 17


I held on like a last bleached petal of the spring tulip, long gone. Thoughts like morbid oasis of blossoming cherries, in a throat wilting summer, where sane and emotions evaporate. The tears dried up leaving salt marks on the edge of my eye, never seeming to justify the gloom and ache.  Wind it wails of love misplaced, as it searches in the nooks and along the edges of the valley. A poppy in the middle of the wheat field is standing out reminding me of us, a picturesque irony of ambiguous misgivings. Love drizzled in like the welcomed monsoon, but left me swamped. The sticky knee-deep pangs of abandonment like quick sand, broke me into a sweat and pulled me into nightmares. I wake up repressed like a maple leaf in the mighty river. Helpless like a firefly in day, and lost to love. In the painful harmony of the lake and the mountains, the blue sky and the clear waters, the weeping willow by the edge seems to realize it all. Every now and then it would move and stir, creating silent ripples of pulsating soreness. The ripples they seem to grow one inside another just like my daily justifications of murk, never too immense for you and never trivial for me. 

Thursday, May 10

A crime worth committing.



The scent of crushed coriander tiptoed inside my room and sneaked under my quilt waking a wistful me. The delight of a calm morning in a retired hill town is only excited by a brazen display of the velvety okras and beans trying hard to impress the gardener. Their youth is short-lived after all like the others. But the okras are oblivious to the gardener’s intentions. In a plush corner where the plums and the pears reside, the bay leaves are wearisome of concealing a secret filled with memoirs of the cold, nostalgia and all things that were joyous and content. It is the secret of cinnamon. The glossy mint huddle under the cinnamon tree seems to know something about the whole affair, but is determined to be silent about it. The patch lies still to the naked eye and to an uncaring passer by. But the green is reflected in the gardener eyes; his toil is finally paying off. But this isn’t love. It was greed.

As I meander around, between the council of beans and around the mint senate, I witness in the silence, tales of treachery and disdain, of infidelity and betrayal and the gardener’s selfish love. Of the coming over it and reliving life new, another season. The democracy of the vegetable patch stands conceited and strong. The lenient trees and the altruistic shrubs, like mothers taken for granted, speak of their poignant life only to a selected few. Being the human I am, under the watchful gaze of the jamun and the papaya trees, I pluck a few mint leaves, squish them and inhale. The gardener seems half guilty now under the spell of the dying mint. I walk to the other ignored corner where the modest lemon grass stands, dressed plainly expecting none. I did what I had to. Pluck, sniff and move on. As I reach to the end of the patch, I held in my hands, those showy okras, those velvety beans, mint and the lemon grass strands and a fistful of the cinnamon sticks. It was a crime committed. The garden looks back at me in regret and contempt, branches drooping. I only wish the garden forgives me just like it did the gardener every time. 

Monday, May 7

Painting of a child.

I drew when I was small,
icy mountains and a river bare,
a bunch of birds flying,
crows, mynas or geese- I didn't care.

From behind the mountains
a scarlet sun, with rays radiating wise,
Sometime a face, faceless otherwise,
But always seeming to rise.

The little hut besides the river,
small, big, I’d hardly worry about class.
A tiny door and just one window,
with lush green dew less grass.

Sometimes when I’d be too happy,
the skies would have more crows
or the tree gifted with apples plush,
the river with an added boat.

A thrill it was to paint a thought,
even if it rhymed with most
The mountains, the tree, the river and the hut,
No sad, no gloom, no ghost.

A fool to wish, for past to come,
For now I drew a setting sun.
The pencil and the paper, they trade
Freewill with a house of walls and gates. 

Being a kid.

Childhood was a happier place,
Simpler things touched soul then,
Unadorned feelings, unguarded sentiments,
Sight, giggles ,touch and cries.

Sunday, May 6

Wishful Thinking.


"Mirror mirror on the wall
Fuck the darlings, kill 'em all
Make them fall in Love instead
Sting them, burn them, serve me crisp."
Liberating rain arrives.
I hear Door and Windows shut 
More tighter than ever.

Spring.

The Gulmohar explodes into a laugh so great,
And couldn’t contain it.
Pursued and taunted by the impish wind
The giggles now stain the paved roads.

Left.

A phoenix reborn, faded and lifeless,
What castigation yet again this lord,
while there lie my lovers deceased.”

Friday, May 4

Withdrawal.


A crushed ego, a regretful past
and countless fancy words to make bygones more real. 

A clock of questioning condemning self 
picking slowly on numbers.

Thoughts of burning insecurities and flaming incapabilities
like a winter's rain, unwelcomed but obligatory.

Wednesday, May 2

A Winter's Night.

I see stars in a guessing game
Across the dark teal sky
Making shapes, ignorant of shame
The solemn hills watches, sly.

The pine tress silent and grim, 
Towards the lights at play
A firefly sometime, seems to distract them
Or is it the fox astray ? 

The cunning snowflakes thinking better
Settles upon them, the pines
The serious lost observers, 
Frozen tapering lines.

A delicate coat of shimmer, fireflies studded
The tree's male is under a doubt
In fear to be teased by the hill
It stands more stiff, arms stretched out.

A skeptic hunter with doubtful gaze
Not convinced of the frozen lake
Takes the longer path (than to be sorry)
Letting the summer sleep in full glory. 

The hill is silent and peace prevails
Hushed stories of the winning trail
A jealous rooster, a dicey fellow
Conspires loud and kills the mellow
 
The stars now startled, they cry out help
Their game revealed to the pines
A bigger sun comes running and red
And even the clouds in time.

Tuesday, May 1


Sun scorching above my head,
and I photograph inquisitively.
This curious grassless land patch,
with black dots like patterns.

A frog watches at a distance, grieving.

Boredom under the open sky.

A stallion shamed across the sea, 
To catch it seems a giant bee.
And when it did they morphed so quick,
Like butter, it melts with a burning wick.
And now it vanished behind a flake,
To emerge again as a slithering snake.
It coiled and rolled and then it spread,
Thin and vast, like oil on the water bed.
It wiped again, renewed like the dew
But this time the clouds are very few.

Monday, April 30

As I look yonder to what were once the hills of Solitude and Confrontations.

Old beloved friend of mine,
Altered and seem to have grown with time.
The leaves you flickered with rushing winds,
Those mighty Sals and the tamarinds.
Many little birds and their jovial songs,
That rugged stream and the banks along.
I hear no echoes of my yelling and calls,
You certainly have misplaced it all.
You seemed to be trapped in some sort of hurry,
To you it’s a memory, fogged and blurry.

The Strident Silence.


The falling sky and the hushed clouds,
Dedicated squirrels and the birds loud.
A confused bamboo groove and ruthless grass free, 
The zealous foreplay of the creeper and the Sal tree.
Pebbles like tired pilgrims lay at rest
A tailor's attempt to build the nicest nest
An upset myna caught a drifting bud,
The air it smells of fresh wet mud.
Wind whistling away and the busy bees.
The glazed slopes and the moth-eaten leaves.
The hectic setting and the restless hills,
 And through it all, the valley rests still.

Sunday, April 29

The River and the Sea.


In utter treachery 
The river to the sea-
I feel ignored 
Im loveless and bored

To give you have less
Ah! and that other mistress
If ignorance must you try
I'd run my love dry

You must speak now, Sea
For I plead thee
Serving you and emptying me
Seems now a waste to me

A driftwood for thee
You are as dear as she
Not anger nor hatred 
But some heartfelt pity

Don't you see what I bore
To take and yet take more 
To never come to a stop
Ignore if I feel warped.

Your grieving and her tears
Your joys and her fears 
Muddy or clean
Salty or green

To me love was partial
I cant express mine
Overwhelming, overfilled me
Yet cant return, just whine. 

Our lives seems ironical
It must feel mechanical
But a blessing we share
If only we care.

Some day I'll overflow
You'd be empty once spent
But sure better than ones
Who never meet in the end.

Saturday, April 28

Love and Pain.


The monk asks the wind
Who do you love more ?
The valley or the trees
The cattle or the geese.


The wind it smiled and waved a leaf
O monk when shall you ever learn
Love is not when a leaf it shakes
The dance of the cattle
Or the carved up scapes.


Love, it compels me to rise and fall
It brings me here to the mountains tall
To be cracked and whipped and cry in pain
To be beaten and chased and trained again.


To be sinning a crime I had never done
And yet again to mountains return.

Grudges.


To come and take me
To scar and shake me
Effortless and quick
Love

Winters.


Snow like an overwhelmed expression takes over the hills
As I sit alone watching
Cold is deepening.

Thursday, April 26

Innocence.


I am falling in love with the scarlet yonder
and somewhere a forest is on fire.

The secret.

Treacherous scorching soul burning summer
How are you so patient,
Snail ?

Random.

Hurled into the desert
It is but moist
O stone

Trying hard.

A flutter here, and there
Sigh! butterfly
A hop here, a skip there
Never mind grasshopper 

Muted.


The stubborn rocks
The agitated waters
A valley stands silent

The story of a windy evening.


The tyrant mountain
Chisels the wind
I hear a scream of thousand pains

Jealousy.

Ah that pretentious caterpillar
will all but sober down.

Waking up.


The morning light paints a yellow room
A corner left bitter.
A night's misdoings.
The most spineless of creepers is the one to scale the tree tops first.

Tuesday, April 24

Closed and awake.

The night falls, the shadows crawl
I sit unmoved , behind closed walls

The Introvert Bud.


The plight of the shy unfurling bud
Ever so secure all closed up.

Mushrooms like the modernists
Stand up in the orthodox wilderness.

Jealousy.

The fireflies filled up the trees at night
The stars so jealous call upon the sun

Alone.


Today, in my solitary times
I repent clearing the remains of that last cobweb



The smitten.


The carcass of the burnt moth
still arms wide embracing
as if succumbed while making love

The sarcastic butterfly.


A prouder butterfly
in her sarcasm,
"The proud caterpillar
Knows not its days"

The curious case.



The restless fly longing to meet her love
alas but is now all ashes.

Nature.

The stars in the sky flaunting
The mushrooms on the ground contemplating 
The mushrooms like bulbs illuminate the night

Denial.

The dying moth tells itself
do I smell love or is it me burning.

Lost and found.

The drifting dandelion seed touched ground and ceased to exist.

Patience.

Great is the irony of the tree, 
The branches and roots,
live together to never meet.

The dew and the bud.

The leaf, drained of its pearly dew
Awaits the night to be renewed
The same night, a cactus buds
To forever its petals shed.

Am I ? Or..

What to you I'm I wonder
A friend, a fan, a cuddly toy
A piece of heart, a special someone
Or just the next door boy.

Just there.

Being far was just not bearable 
Being close isn't as painless as I thought it'd be
With my eyes shut and my body in your arms
That unachievable love still haunts me.

The divine end.

To revere his tunes the trees bow down. They shower on him their not so beloved. The air I feel is still. The nearly wrinkled and half dead leaves seem to be in a rush to make some use of their last moment. If only they could touch him once and get blessed. They saw god in him. The incense made the air heavy and hung low with a promise. “ Thou shall be set free.” The leaves fell-bodies loose, eyes looking up to the heavens, falling down, up to meet the superior him.


If only they could reach him.

Surety.

Not as glossy
Neither so bright
Not really shiny
Not nearly white

Broken and working.

I'm muddy and pale
So weak and frail
Not a fluttery winged creature
but a dusty hail.
The thought of you
Pricks life away from me
The thought of you
Thaws me down
The thought of you makes my heart still pound

The thought of you
O it’s all so sick
Like a charmed magician's trick

I was crazed and wild
and so it seems
To give and breathe life a foolish dream
I played along, I felt so strong
And trusted you, where did I go wrong

To let go of you
To trust you deep
To feel you’re mine
A long yawning sleep.

Soaring wishes of my little heart
Did it not let your heart ever sway?
Like paper with marks of botched literature
Is crushed and thrown away.

Lovefool.


I see i seize
I feel and I breathe
I call and recall
I rise and I fall
I’m me and I’m u
Love stuck - an inept fool

Like a dream.

To scared to try
To scared to leap
To scared to give
The last bit of me

The feelings forced
The heart's ignored
The mind's suppressed
The hope's galore

Seems I'm trying too hard
Yet am sinking down
This utopian glee
Does conceal a frown

What if I fail again?
Is this the parable grail?

Sometimes there's too much to flatter
Sometimes it just doesn't matter

Well bliss it seemed like
Now a wreath of thorn
The wings of the mind soared high
And yet another hope is born

Randomness of mind thoughts
Then actions and deeds
Of echoing the same mistakes
And then repentance and grief indeed

I had my chance
And so had you
I’m out not calling
No not again falling

Like the air that’s felt
But never seen
I shall be around
Just like a dream

Well you asked me how i felt.


Dented furniture, squished flowers, thumped people, ripped paper
Buds detached and mirrors scratched
Troubled kids and tortured dogs.


ऊपर नभ से चली
कई मील दूरी तय करके
पानी की बूँदें पहुँच ही गई

चिचिलाते सुलगते मनन को छु गई हैं
वैसे तो सुइयों सी चुभती हैं
पर झुलसते मन को शीतल भी तो करती हैं

नैन में जो सपने भरे हैं
पुरे से होते दिखते हैं
आंसू की बूँदें तो अभी भी हैं
बस फर्क सिर्फ इनता हैं की अब ये खुशियाँ बयाँ कर रही हैं

इक दुराहे पर आ खड़ा हूँ
पेचीदे कशमकश में आ पड़ा हूँ

इस तरफ पथ मुश्किल न है
और धरे हैं सारे सुख
उजाला सा कल लगता है
सिमटे लगते हैं दुःख

उस तरफ करना है चिंतन गहन
दुःख कर लेना है सहन
खिची सी लगती है रैन
पर अंधियारे के संग है चैन

मौन हूँ मैं

वोह घनघोर तूफ़ान
जिसकी तेजाबी बारिश ने मुझे घाव दिए
वोह बवंडर तो आकर चला भी गया

पर वोह धुप तो निकली ही नहीं
जिसकी गर्मी में मैं उन घावों को भरने वाला था

निशाब्ता छायी है

मौन हूँ मैं

रास्ता तो सीधा सा लगा था मुझे
पर न जाने घूम कर वही जगह पर
कैसे आ गया हूं मैं

इक सपना सा लगता है
पलक झपकते ही सब गायब

राहत के वह चार पल
वह पीड़ा और उस से उभरना
लगा था कुछ देर तक रहेगा
पर पीड़ा है की डेरा जमाये बैठी है

इक से हैं दोनों
सुख और दुःख
कभी कोई ज्यादा तो कभी कम

सुख भोगना है तो दुःख को समझना पड़ेगा
तो क्या सुख की खातिर, दुःख की दुआ करूँ ?

इक और अंत हुआ है
अब इक और कहानी शुरू..

थक गया हूं - यूँ अलग अलग रोल निभाते
कहीं असली आप को ही न भूल जाऊ

वैसे सही भी है- सत्य ने सुख जो कितने दिए हैं
बहुरुपिया बन घूम रहा हूं
जो चाह बन गया
न कोई फ़िक्र न बंदिश

कोई तो नाम दे
इक पहचान दे
यूँ गुमसुम गुमनाम
इक भटकता साया

चाहता है चाहत को
इक तन जिसे वह अपना कह सके

पर शायद कुछ हद से ज्यादा ही मांग लिया
शायद
रूहे कब से इतने नखरे करने लगी
क्या किसी ने देखी हैं
वह तो शायद होती भी नहीं
शायद


अनहद नाद..
घोर घनघोर सन्नाटा..
धुन्द्लापन

कुछ है- अपाठेत, अज्ञात, अस्पष्ट

आशा या निराशा
फल या विफल
कुछ ज्यादा या कुछ कम
या कुछ भी नहीं

जाना तो है ही
और जा भी रहा हूँ मैं.

तो क्यों ये प्रश्न, से सवाल, ये दुविधा
कहीं पथ-विचलित ना हो जाऊ..

गति माध्यम है
पर मन रोके न रुके
विचलित है, पीड़ित है
किसी की ना सुने

मन तो रहा है भाग
आँखों को दिखता नहीं
प्रश्न है दुविधा भरे
सही है न सही

इक तलाश है..इक मकसद
बस खुद को ढूँढना है
उपेक्षाओ के इस जंगल में न जान कहाँ खो गया हूं मैं.

क्या कभी इस भयानक वन में खुद को ढूंड पाउँगा मैं ?

और अगर कभी मिल भी गया
तो इनता न बदल जाऊ की
खुद को खुद न कह पाऊ.

तो ये प्रश्न से सवाल, ये दुविधा
कहीं पथ-विचलित ना हो जाऊ

आधा सा, पूरा न हो पाया...
कुछ अजीब
धुंदला सा

बहुत कोशिश कर रहा है
पर न जाने क्या होगा
पास या फेल होना तो बस इक नाटक सा है

सफल होगा तो न जाने ख़ुशी मिले न मिले
विफलता तो बस दुखी होने का इक बहाना सा है

तो इस से कैसे तारें ?
कैसे कहें की सही क्या है ?
कौन फैसला करेगा ?
मैं तो बस इंतज़ार कर रहा हूँ ...


इठलाता, उछलता ,फुदकता
किसी की न सुनता

दूर इक तेज़ रौशनी को देख
मचल गया है
नाच उठा है

सरपट भगा
पर वह रौशनी है की हाथ न आये

मायूस हो गया है
ख़ामोशी सी छायी है
विचलित है

इक चाह है पर राह न है
कोशिश करी तो बहुत पर सब विफल

निकर, निठल्ला, निर्बुद्धि
क्यों तुझ में इतना बचपन भरा है

गली के किसी उस छिछोरे कुत्ते की तरह है..
खाना देखा नहीं की चला पूँछ हिलाने

कभी तो अपनी गल्तियौ से कुछ सीख
कुछ तो रहम खा अपने आप पर
इतनी ख्वाहिशें हैं की पूरा करना मुश्किल

जो है वह चाहिए नहीं
जो नहीं मिल सकता..
उसके लिए मचल उठता है

मुह की खायी थी
आगे भी खाए गा
अभी भी समय है, समझ जा
ओ बावरे मन

जब बनाया था
तब ये नहीं सोचा
की थोडा गहरा कटोरा दे दूँ

इतनी जल्दी भरता है
की छलक जाता है
इधर-उधर गिला कर देता है

किसी को बोल भी तो नहीं सकता हूँ
की थोडा पानी मेरे कटोरे से ले लो

इक तो उनके बर्तन भी कुछ खास बड़े नहीं हैं
उस पर मेरा पानी भी खरा है

इक सपना देखा है
अपना सा लगता है
पर आम के पेड़ की सबसे ऊँची
डाल पर लगी उस हरी कैरी की तरह है
पकड़ से दूर , चिढाती सी

न जाने कितने कंकर को बटोर
कर ऊपर मारा,
पर कंकड़ है की मुझ पर ही आकर
गिर जाते हैं- चोट मरते हैं.

कैरी तो अभी भी वहीँ है
सामने मेरे- इठलाती सी

डर है की कोई उसे चुरा न ले
कहीं वोह सड़कर गिर न जाए
पेड़ पर चड़ना भी तो नहीं आता मुझे

बस पत्थर मरने के सिवा
और कर भी क्या सकता हूँ