Nijaaz

sunke,
dekh ke,
aur dil se haar ke,

ek ghar hi hai,
jo panaahata hai,
yahan hum,
kisse kahein,
zehen ka dard.

-----------

I listened, saw,
and the heart conquered me,

But, only home
gives you shelter?


Ah, here! Whom should I share with,
the agony inside.


-------------------------------------------------

Sikander, mukander,
aur jahaan ki fateh,
kaisi thi yeh bani mufeed?

haar to khudee ki thi par,
mil gayi is dil ko jeet


PS: Gulaal might make you think.

Paint me Yellow

I always believed there were two kinds of men in this world- men who go to their deaths screaming, and men who go to their deaths in silence. And then, I met the third kind. - James McKinley (Superintendent in-charge, Lahore Jail, 1922-1923).

Tujhko zindagi baad-e-fanaa milegi Ashfaq, tera marna tere jeene ki badaulat hoga - AshfaqUllah Khan

I love India, my desh, the motherland. And so I believe do a number of people I know around (exceptions ignored). Despite a bouillon of corruption, religion, politics and a braced administrative set-up that we complain about the des. Why though? Why does a string inside always enchants past times; and a hope of being there for the rest of my life. The cool breeze of the monsoon, the chill of the morning winter, everything so mundane only adds to it. But why do I feel withdrawn all the time, ignoring all these problems? In fact, I sometimes tend to even disagree that India has all these problems when someone takes over with arguments in favor of staying outside India. Is it just because I've grown up there? Or I've spent almost a quarter of my life there? I am asking this question to myself. Don't have an answer yet, and even without one, the feeling only gets stronger.

How about those sons of the land who made it what it is? The trio of Bhagat Singh, Chandrashekhar Azad, Rajguru. The numerous other freedom fighters? Were they happy in their times from the things around them? I bet not. Caste, religion, Indians working for the Brits and their no support for freedom, poor quality of higher education? Probably they planned on domestic problems after weeding out the bigger one? But, they still held their ground, struggled, loved everything Indian and brought a change.

In a meta-sense, I guess, the feeling is the same. You love someone, and you are willing to do anything for them. You stay with them in whatever conditions are of present. You try to live in time in a hope that things would improve. And you go all out. But, you don't run.

Hold, don't run. Hold. Strive. Emerge. Live.

Zindagi, khudi,
aur mere yeh sawaal,
ghar ki roshni, aur pakiyat,
ek hi manzil hai yeh

-G Singh, San Jose, 18 Jan, 2009

Raqeeb

In its woe,
the heart whined,
allow me to open the pages,
from confidant to beholder, can I?

I stare,
amused,
whom to confide in,
the tender piece losing itself,
in the revelation


Urdu/Hindi

Dard mein, dil ne teh kiya
kitaab ka har safaa khol kar
raazdan se raqeeb bane

Par
Bayaan kare to kaise
raaz hi to
iska wajood hai

-GS, San Jose, 7th January 2009

A distant come back

A reverie,
You,
And I caress life.
Startling,
the mind reckons else

Time,
I fail to seize.
Eternity,
is not acquiesced.

Alone, I reverie
Hard, but,
Umpteen lives,
and delicate threads to wind

-G Singh, San Jose, 22 Dec, 2008, 11:14 PM

Spurt of 12/3

Light
is beauty disguised
Sun
is burning too

Day
is hope concealed
truth
persists in dark, the night

-gs, 11:43 PM, SJ

Spurt of the day

Chants around,
she teaches,
how to live,
the lady called life

Sadness dying,
happiness inundating,
I wonder,
how to live?

-gs

Run-away sons

We have been witnessing a lively city coming to a halt - Mumbai, though only temporarily. No doubt the city exemplifies courage and resilience, coming back to complete shape every time some monkeys created havoc.

Indrani recently questioned - Where are the sons of Mumbai, the so-called Shiv Sena and MNS activists? What happened to them when there is a real need of them to come and save their bleeding mother? Sadly, they probably are amongst those children of the mother who don't listen to her, to her cries, to her grief. Rather, they often make her cry - cogitate just a few weeks in the past. The doleful truth is, that some loving and caring sons like Hemant Karkare, and the hundred other jawans of army and NSG, have to fight when the run-away sons don't turn-up. And ignobly perhaps, when they do turn-up too. These sons are not even worth being known as sons, just a bunch of ungrateful cowards. I don't see a difference between these cowards, and the cowards who attacked the beautiful Taj and other parts of Mumbai.

From the sludge of politics, religion, culture and sabhyata, who will stucco the wounds of the mother, the sons who died, or the cowards alive?

May peace be bestowed on the land. Impotently enough, another type of coward inside cries out for the brethren who have seen it, and taken it on their flesh. May the fragrance of your burning flesh awaken the ones still in siesta.

-G Singh, San Jose, 4:53 PM, 29th Nov, 2008