EK KHWAISH…

Chhedi ek guftgu bande ne Apne parvardigar se,
To pucha Bande se khud Khuda ne
‘bata kya hai teri khwahish?’

‘Banade mujhko itna be garaz, ki pyar Dil khol kar karu
Par Dil de kar Dil Lene ki aas na rakhu
Jab Dil tute to shikwa ke bina duaaon Ko Ada karu
Aur jab sachha saathi mile, to tujhe shukriya kahu’

Sunkar khwahish hua Khuda hairaan

‘Aisi takat to mujhme bhi nahi ki puri karu teri ye aarzu
Yeh hai teri khud hi se khudki ek Jang,
Tolna hoga khudko, banke khud hi ek tarazu.

Jeet hai mushkil, par nahi hai namumkin
Jab utarle yeh taleem apne zehen me to ana milne ek baar,
Azad Mai bhi Azad tu bhi, kyonki tab tu hoga khud apna Parvardigar

poem ©Nirav Shah

Photo : Liane Metzler

Ek sunheri raat…

Ek arse ke baad mile yeh dono in sitaron ke tale,
Kitna kuch kehna hai ek duje se,
Phir bhi hain dono ke hoth sile,
Mann me ek hi sawal ‘Kahan shuru karu, sun ne batane ko hai kaee kisse !’

Par lafzon ka kya kaam yahan,
Jab aankhe khud hai is Dil ki Zubaan,
Bina kuch bole, dono hain nayi yaadein batorte.
Par afsos, Dunya ka hai dastur ki guzarjati har aisi sunheri raat,
Na chahte hue bhi chhodna hoga dono ko ek duje ka saath.

Par mayus nahi hain dono aaj yahan,
Kya pata kis mod pe, kis raah pe,
Fir miljaye yuhin kabhi dono inhi sitaron ke tale…

Image credits – Benjamin Davies

The long night

A wistful smile here,
A tight hug there..
His signs of leaving were everywhere.
.
.
.
Each day feels like an eon since he left,
Even if it’s only two-score moons nonetheless.
The days seem endless,
The nights are long,
She awaits the return of her lover long gone.
.
.
.
Tonight is another such night beneath the crescent moon,
her gaze lingers far into the gloom.
“Come back…” she whispers into the caressing wind,
Even as it It carries back the soldier’s undaunted response…
.
.
.
“I will” says he, soothed in the tiny nightingale,
And so ended another night of wait,
Even as the fading stars heralded the coming of another day…

Will he , won’t he!

Aniruddh continued musing even as he stepped out of the restaurant onto one of the cobbled by lanes of Jaipur. He was besotted with her. He felt that he had finally found someone who actually understood him, at a time when he had given up all hope.

She had a rich laugh that still rang in his ears. He still remembered how she loved his latest podcast on the forts of Rajasthan. For someone who did not understand Indian history much, she had surprisingly remembered key details of the podcast and eagerly waited for the next one, wherein he was going to expound on the secrets of the Jantar Mantar. She had in the passing asked him not to give up on his passion. After all you had food bloggers, fashion bloggers and then there was this niche stream of history aficionados who were trying to make it to the mainstream of blogging for Indian history. He was one of them.

He trailed along, slowly reflecting on his own twisted past. His had been a failed life of a brilliant engineer who had passed with distinction. He had worked tirelessly for nearly 6 years in some of the most prestigious firms, in pursuit of money (as money for him equated to happiness) then. Money had helped him afford fast cars and luxury stays in fancy resorts. His wardrobe then was bursting at seams with Rohit Bal rubbing shoulders with Armani. There was an entire wall with an enviable collection of perfumes, right from the exotic fragrances of middle east to the classy Issey Miyake and Perry Ellis. After all he believed that women liked men who lived the high flying life. At least that’s what Dan Bilzerian had taught him.

But still he had been unlucky in love. Women were attracted to him, but later he realized that it was not him but his pseudo rich alter ego to which they were attracted to. He was unable to have meaningful conversations with them, and always the relationships would fizzle out even before he could feel his heart flutter.

He realized that he did not love himself, so how would any woman come to love him. They were far more intelligent then men ever could be, as far as matters of heart were concerned. So two years ago he sold all that he had, and dived into his passion which was history, and so began his journey as a history blogger.

The last two months had been magical. He had finally found Anna in his life. She liked him for who he was. He really felt that this time the relationship was for keeps. It would be a very special woman who would actually compliment someone who called history blogging as a caree——

WHAM…the bus hit him at his pelvis throwing him some 20 yards away and he crashed into a brick wall, shattering his spine and cracking his skull. His gut had spilled out on to the road even as he lost complete consciousness.

The sirens blared, as Aniruddh was taken to the nearest hospital that could treat trauma cases. Doctors wheeled him in and checked his vital stats. He was declared brought dead.

Annirudh himself hovered inches above his body, in his metaphysical state. He was mildly piqued by the entire sequence of things. Death had always fascinated him, especially what would happen to a person after death. But to actually go through the process, and to realize that he still retained a sense of his past memories, in a way disappointed him. Death was not the final frontier after all.

The doctors came in again. They could feel a very faint pulse, and began to revive him in earnest. He had half the mind to ask them to stop. What was he to do with a broken body in a world where anything less than an Adonis body was body shamed and a specially-able person was still treated with pity.

The pain solely returned to his consciousness, as the doctor’s labor bore fruit. He struggled hard. There was no point to this exercise. He did not wish to live the life of an invalid, especially when he had finally found true happiness, just before it was so cruelly taken away from him.

But the pain would not go away, and Aniruddh could not keep his eyes closed any longer. He took a long gasp and opened his eyes. A dream. No a nightmare. He could not decide which. It was 6 in the morning and his entire bed was in a disarray, as if he had really lived each and every moment of his dream.

His mobile pinged. His manager was asking him to send an update on yesterday’s site visits before he resumed office.

He ignored it. In the drafts, he saw the email wherein he had half typed his resignation. He only needed to click on send and that would be it. In the back of his mind he wondered if he was a bigger invalid than the broken Aniruddh of his dreams.

His thumb hovered on the send button, even as the sun rays streamed through the windows of his penthouse.