सरसराहट

 सरसराहट 

कैसे मैं मन संवारता हूँ 

कैसे मैं राहें बुहारता हूँ 

कैसे वक़्त की मकड़ी
के जाले उतारता हूँ 

कैसे साँस में जकड़ी 

ख्वाइशें निकालता हूँ 

कैसे थकी आँखें तराशता हूँ 

कैसे फिर दिल संभालता हूँ

तेरे आने की सरसराहट पर 

4/7/2001

एक बारात

एक बारात 

बूढ़ी घोड़ी
फटा बैंड
धुत बाराती
सँग गैस लाइटों की कतार

थके बुज़ुर्ग
नाचते बच्चे
अंजान दुहला
लिए किराए की एक तलवार

जटके ज़ेवर
सफारी सूट
चमकीले गोटे
उच्छले नए नोटों के कई हार

गरीब पलटन
पीछे पीछे
दौड़े हरदम
हुई जब चव्वनिओ की बौछार

पैसे खा कर
ट्रैफिक रोके
खड़ा सिपाही
सुने फ़िल्मी गानों की सौग़ात

एक अजनबी
घर की तलाश में
गुमशुदा
यूँ गुज़री सड़क से बारात



4/8/2001

What seeped into the walls

Decades of living in an apartment can be detected easily, even when vacated of its residents. Patterns of walking show up in how furniture is laid out. Ways of eating in how food is cooked and stored in the kitchen. Means of passing time are apparent in how TV is displayed, magazines strewn and books shelved. Bedrooms tell the story of intimacy expected, protected, and shown. Pantries of our hunger. Closets display how we organize our minds.

We seep into the walls that surround us. I realize just how much only when I visit my dad’s apartment a few months after his death. 

In the display cabinet are souvenirs and tchotchkes collected over a lifetime: each tells its story in short strokes. Places visited, objects collected and adorned. Slivers of ordinary things made meaningful through ornate display. Family photos stare back at me. They are the eyes of a home, even when it is empty. These photos remain witnesses to a life of love lived well. To strangers they show synopses of our family history beaded over the decades. For my sister and I, they are windows flung open into our past. 

I cry. The past swallows me as I walk through empty rooms. The photos spill their stories, chapters of them, in my lap. The brimming minutiae of the room, neatly lined TV remotes, meticulous grocery lists, instructions to servants, fill my head with memories of gestures and micro patterns of life that I haven’t noticed. Until now.

Closets of neatly folded shirts, pyjamas and hanging belts: I can’t bear to look at them. Why haven't you cleaned these out? I am angry at my sister. These are lies. All these make it seem he is here. But he is not. 

I know this because he died in this very room, on this bed next to this closet. I was there. And I had held his hand as he did. 

Clean this place up, I tell her.  

But the photos won't let us go. So we take them off the walls, remove them from the bed stand, lower them from shelves from where they stare at us. Smiling, laughing, moments of lifetime compressed into a few sheets. Once we take them down and distribute them between us, the apartment becomes bearable. Less personal. Silent. 

On my way out, on an impulse, I run my hands over the of the hallway wall. Suddenly, the whole apartment shimmers, all the walls come forward and embrace me- one last time. Something has seeped into them. 

Pinned

Like butterflies to cork boards, we are pinned to a moment in time on the chart of history.
We are sentient creatures who see our place on the chart. 
And we know we are pinned to it. 

Accepting this is the beginning of wisdom. 

Rejoicing in it the beginning of freedom. 

"Think of Death"

Seneca quotes Epicurus as bidding us to think of death. He goes further to claim that it is a wonderful thing to learn thoroughly how to die. To think of death, he says, is to think on freedom.

Life long learning amounts to nothing. You get no credit for actions taken casually, even if these are momentous and consequential. An examined life, one of reflection and action that changes your habit, the habit that becomes character, the character that seeps into the crucible of your soul: that is all you get credit for. 

If that leaves a wonderful legacy in the world, a fortune, a place in the heart and memory of others, you are lucky. 

If your endeavors and your passions leave no mark in this world and no one knows of your soul's work, you can not have regret. "I leave no trace of wings in the air, but I am glad I have had my flight." Tagore (Fireflies)

Of all the billions who have lived, the sentient creatures who walked the earth, and looked at the stars and wondered of their brief time on this speck, you are one of them. That should be lucky enough. Gratitude for our existence should help us think of death - and our freedom. 

No Reply

It was already past midnight and the New York midtown streets were empty from a light summer drizzle. She accosted me right outside my hotel as I stepped out in search of a quick snack before retiring to the bed. The boy walking behind her was no more than eight and he swung a long key chain to amuse himself. She was a middle aged, white woman, slightly overweight with a face that seemed to have dried up from crying spells. She showed me a big scar on her head where a section had been shaved off to get to a clean incision. She showed me some dollar bills and mumbled a story of how she was stranded without medical help. She was from St Louis. She asked for twenty seven dollars - an oddly precise amount - for her medical care. Upon seeing my skeptical face, she changed her request: she needed money for the boy and she had not eaten.

I looked at her and wondered: was this a practiced act right down to the scar and dried tears? Was the boy in on it? I looked at the boy. He was nonchalant, probable having witnessed many such pleas during the day. 

"I'll buy you dinner, but no money" I declared, thinking I'd flush out her intent. To my surprise, she agreed. Was she is telling the truth? or may be she was settling for anything at this late hour? Even a meal would do. 

Right across the street corner was a food truck with halal offerings. I bought her a plate of chicken and gyro with rice. She took it thankfully and I walked on in search of a sit-down restaurant.

About an hour later, with my appetite satiated from a greek salad and tea at an all-night cafeteria, I wandered back to my hotel. There she was working the same street corner - the boy seemed as energetic as ever, though lost in himself. I approached them and asked her whether they had eaten. She seemed hesitant at first or was it my suspicious mind? She replied the meal was delicious but the chicken was a bit spicy for the boy. I bent down and looked straight at the kid. "Did you eat?" He looked back at me blankly. "Did you eat?" I asked again. 

He said nothing, turned away and followed his slowly shuffling mother who was already crossing the street. I stood there in silence. 

Face it

The truth that trumps all other truths. 
A truth that you can't escape. 

Doesn't matter whether you accept or reject it. Who cares if you shout at it and fight it. Get mad at it. Laugh or cry at it. Beg and plead with it. 

Some say accepting this truth is the only path. But even your acceptance doesn't matter.

Look at it as you would at: the open sea, a thunderstorm, a sunset or a meteor blazing the sky. But with out any emotion. Behold it like a silent movie. After the emotion it evokes has washed over and gone. After the tears have dried up, the laughter has ceased and all thoughts have drained from your mind.  

You and your mortality - are one. At best, you can simply face it.

With death, I'm well acquainted

My life spoke of it often.

- Amrita Pritam