हार के कहकहे

जिस ज़मी पर नीव रखी थी ,
वह मंज़र ही बदल चुका है,
जिस घात पे मेरी नाव बंधी थी ,
वह समंदर ही बदल चुका है,

कैसे अभियंता फिर निर्माण करेंगे ?
कैसे लहरों को पार करेंगे?

जब मै खुद को ही भूल चुका हूँ,
गैर मुझे क्या याद करेंगे?

जिसने जागीर मेरे नाम करी थी,
वह राजकुंवर ही बदल चुका है,
जिस दम पर शर्त लगी थी,
वह हुनर ही बदल चुका है,

कैसे फिर खुशहाली के वाडे करेंगे?
कैसे ऊचाईयों के इरादे करेंगे?

जब मै खुद को ही भूल चुका हूँ,
गैर मुझे क्या याद करेंगे?

खत्म, जितनी भी साँसें बची थी,
डूबने का क्रम अब रुक चुका है,
जिस आज ने मेरी कहानी रची थी,
वह इस दुनिया का कल हो चुका है,

मेरे वंशज मेरी हारों की किस्ते भरेंगे,
अंतिम संस्कार पुराने रिश्ते करेंगे,

मै खुद तो भूल जाऊँगा, मगर,
गैर मेरी असफलताओं की - बातें ज़रूर करेंगे .

My God died

I just finished a very disturbing book called 'Riot after Riot'. A collection of essays describing the major communal conflagrations in the country since the 1970s. Written by the eminent journalist M.J Akbar, the book is beautiful in language and raw in what the language expresses. I was shaken, rather I still am. The poem is an aftermath of this reading experience.

It was just a book, non-fiction
picked up, to satisfy a reading addiction,
my hands ran red, blood clotted and fresh
and the glue smelt - of rotting flesh.


scalding phrases of deliberate fires,
revealing truths of diabolical liars,
swords,knives,spears,stones, guns,
dead parents, killed children, raped nuns,

kerosene,LPG, moltovs, en masse rage
a murder book - page by page
a million answers for why a man dies,
the only weapon always used - lies.

there are idols,or there are none,
they read the namaaz, I sing a bhajan,
but religion is just a clever decoy,
the reverred scapegoat, the indicting ploy

hatered is cleverly festered,
wounds made, irritatingly pestered,
people killed, with a random roll of dice
a bigger move, a pawn sacrifice

halfway through and my belief crumbled,
asked about my opinion - mumbled,
a few more pages and I was in a daze,
lifelong convictions, lost in a bloody haze,

I knew the truth, at the revelation I cried,
I've always judged, but now I didn't know my side
I am guilty of having a religion,
I am guilty of belonging to a region

Riot after Riot, the wounds would never go,
I wanted the truth, but never so,
I want to unlearn, unread, I tried,
'twas, 6th of December,my god died.

Murder - by design

Another morning, I write an ambitious plan,

Look it over and burn it, without much pain.

A new foolscap, I edit as much as I can

And then, burn it again.

Listlessly, I flick on the TV,

Changing channels, from one babble to another,

Looking, but not daring to see

What is for sale, what is for barter?

The sound of the day, becomes a din

I get up from a waking slumber

To catch the noon sun pouring in

In daze, I dial the number.

And cut it, before a reply,

I kick myself to the Now,

Angry at the time I let fly

I’m late – there’s going to be a row.

Unmindful of what they’ll say,

I brush, shave, bathe, dress, drive,

Work – distraction, salvage the day

I think it’ll survive

To office, at least half a day,

Take calls, no, yes, yes, no, no

It’s a straight road; I still lose the way,

I try, cannot make myself go.

I drive around, streets, avenues, by-lanes, aimless

Sifting through the worldly grime

Junk food, coffee, cigarette – tasteless.

Look at my watch, it is leaking time.

I hear the waves, how far have I wandered?

I stop. Filled with guilt,

I feel squandered.

Stab, wrench, I bury it to the hilt

Orange blood, practised move – skilled

Heave out, let it be.

Another day killed

Buried at sea.

हिसाब

आज की कमाई -
रिश्वत के छह सौ रुपये
मंदिर की भीड़ में गिरा, मैंने उठाया एक पेन,
बड़े सा'ब की शाबाशी, शायद एक दिन की छुट्टी,
दिन की तनख्वाह - पचहत्तर रुपये
दोस्त की फर्जी एंट्री करने पर कुछ बढ़ा हुआ विश्वास
भिखारी को दिए दो रुपियों के बदले मिली दुआ
छह हज़ार रुपये अगले महीने वाले 'काम' के इंतज़ाम के लिए
चार गालियाँ
बच्चों का प्यार
बीवी की थकी आँखों में खेली हलकी सी मुस्कान
खुद के अक्स के सामने नज़रें झुकाने का एक और कारण

खर्चे-
थोडा सा ईमान
दस रुपये दरगाह की चादर में, दो भिखारी के हाथ में,
पच्चीस रुपये का किराना और सब्जी,
बूट पोलिश, कल ड्यूटी के लिए - दो रुपये
कमिटी की किस्त सौ रुपये
नोट रखने के लिए दस लिफाफे, पांच रुपये
एक और दिन

नुक्सान -
छह बीड़ियों से थोड़े और खराब हुए फेफड़े
इज्ज़त
एक आतंरिक कचोट,
भगवान् से डर
और कुछ बचे हुए आखिरी सपने
एक और दिन

जोड़ा जाए तो हिसाब बराबर ही बैठता है.

How to write modern poetry

You first need the feel, for the perfect brew,
kill all the happiness, before you let the words stew.

Rake up your past, for the bad moments you've had
for writing modern poetry, you need to be really sad.

If you've sinned - that's good, had a girlfriend - better,
write only when you're high or drunk, remember every letter.

Frustration is a necessity, depression an added advantage,
you should have suffered, that's the adage.

Now you have the feel, let me expound on style,
it has to be very very dark, the vocabulary vile.

Shit, fuck, bitch, fill it up with abuses
frustration ensures you find multiple uses

Shun structure, coherence, should be rife with grime
never write in verse, for there ain't a bigger crime.

you get all this correct, and the content doesn't matter
for all I care, get it written by the Mad Hatter

That's the feel, the style - content, and a promise of flattery
there you have it - the manual for writing modern poetry.

Appendix - I

Modern poems are best left unnamed,
but if there is some credit to be claimed,
then here are some naming rules,
and a few random name pools.

make it as arbitary as possible,
lose the words, just make it audible,
call it - fussss, baaraaooom, blam
cough, hack, drool, they love it at the slam.

or make it descriptive like hell,
*pointer- they really sell,
Like, an ode to the third turd in the pot,
or the aroma when the dead rats rot.

So, I guess you've learnt, the mane of a modern 'Pome'
just don't mention me, when you bring your laurels home.