Monday, July 27, 2015

मैन्नू मार क्यों नहीं देंदी

आज तू रोए या नाग पले ।
कत्लेआम हो या लट जले ।

 सड़को पर ख़ून बहे और जुनूँ ।

सस्ती दारू पीकर गाली दूंगा कुत्तों को।
चाँद पर रस्सी टांग कर,
इंतज़ार करूँगा ।

ख़ुदा तू चीज़ क्या हैं ।

________________________

मैं बरगद बन जाऊंगा, इस बरस ।
 पानी से कठोर, मृदु से मीठा ।

चुपचाप  किसी को मार दूंगा भीतर,
कमरे से निकल आऊंगा ।

चाबी अंग, मैं मृत ।

मेरे भीतर के जीव,
शराब पीने  आऊंगा ।
जाग जाऊंगा ।

________________________

ऐ मरजान वालेया ,
तेनु रब वेखेगा सुत्त्ता।

मेरे कोल तेरा जिन्दा दंद,
तेरे कोल जिंदा मैं ।

मैन्नू मार क्यों नहीं देंदी । 

Thursday, March 27, 2014

लाल लटटू


तेरे धोले दातां ने ख़ून चखया से कदे ,
के तन्ने कड़े भरा मेरी जाँघ में बुड़का।

आजकाल बजारा में लाल लटटू जले से,
आज भी माँ गाल में खड़ी रेह से,
आज भी उसने चोटी काढण का टैम  न लागता,
आज भी मरे काग,नालियां में सड़े से.

तन्ने ते कही थी के तू तितली पालेगा,
तन्ने ते कही थी तू शिकार करेगा कुत्ता का,
तन्ने ये पन्ने  ते भर दिए, अर बन्दुक भी.
इब्ब  नू बता तेरी बेबे कि मांग कुन भरेगा,
 रणधीर, म्हारा  ख़ून  कागा के ऊपर ऐ तरेगा। 

कुन से जंगल, कुन से शिकार माणस। के चाइये खात्ते - पीते घर के कुंगर ने. नु ऐ ते कोए  बन्दुक न था लेता। नु ऐ ते कोई ना लाग जाता रेहान खेता में भगौड़ा की तरीया। 

जिस देश ते मैं आया हूँ उड़े जंगल, पहाड़, गुफा, समुन्द्र ना से लुकण ताही। उड़े बस खेत से सब ख़ातिर। 

रणधीर बिजली था चाहे गाम ने कदे न देखी हो. तन्ने एक बात का बेरा से श्याम - जीब  गोली चल्ले से ते किसे एक गाम में एक माँ मर जा से. 

श्याम - मेरी माँ ते कद की मर ली, पर जद गोली चले हैं ते छात्ती पाटे से। 

हम माँ बनगे से रणधीर, या छाती पाटे से.

Tuesday, January 7, 2014

Peda Ni Matrabhasha

https://images-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com/gadgets/proxy?url=http%3A%2F%2F1.bp.blogspot.com%2F-4562nUYhAYE%2FUpdj8r6reqI%2FAAAAAAAAADE%2FiKCqLqDSc90%2Fs1600%2Findia-102191.jpg&container=blogger&gadget=a&rewriteMime=image%2F*
I found a misguided entry in a yellow pocket yesterday while taking breaths through a circular pipe of those fancy bell-bottom pants. 

That were dark grey until a few days ago and now changing colours to become green, maybe in love with the parrot stories I read.

My lover 
has a pony tail of two strings, that too colourful.

I remember a story teller who died talking about a love which he could never develop, for he loved talking more.

That was the last “Charan”, a storyteller from Rajasthan who decoded the mystery of talking trees and i mean literally. One day, he was passing through an old neem tree just outside his village and found the tree's sound to be different than the nearby banyan tree. 

He never found the difference between tree sounds, but that day - He did.

Being a storyteller, he was quite busy among the human languages and was proud of his forefather's story telling genius. He learnt the craft of telling a story in as many forms as possible since his training. He had the reputation of a hypnotist. In the manner you don't mind when a peacock eats a snake, the same way you don't mind when hypnotized women have self-orgasms. He had stories of all kinds but he had a conscious along with that. He knew that he is repeating his blood though it is good blood. 

But still.

In between, I love snakes more than peacocks.

People seldom focus on the impossible communication processes, hence we have no communication left today. The Charan once had heard from his grand father regarding a man who died in love with a tree.His grandfather had recorded that man's conversations and many stories with the tree. Charan always loved those stories of a still, lone man.

But that day the Charan while hearing the distinctive sound of the Neem tree, stopped and opted to talk to the tree. Hence, the Charan sat there for the next 12 years and wrote a scripture called “peda ni matrabhasha / Mother tongue of trees”.

It was never a complex system to understand the language of a tree but when he started intentionally decoding the form of language by his own understanding, he understood – how similar it was to the music they play in their village. Hence since that day, he became friends with a “Maangniyaar” - a local musician who used to sit with him twice a week under the tree to help him interpret its language.

The Charan soon became a versed man, and people called him mad. He decoded the laughter and death happening inside the tree and the times when a tree moves or shifts inside the earth to be a creature. Hence he started observing the changes in the tree.

But communication was to happen. He stood and tried to decode the sounds, shifts, improvements, climate changes and seasonal transformations but could not find a way to know the language of the tree- just the physicality or guesses. 

He became frustrated of being not able to talk to the tree.

One day, He felt alone and walked towards his village to meet his Magniyaar friend to talk about the unknown result. He really wanted to talk to somebody or may be, get drunk, wasted, abuse or hang himself. He walked like a retarded scholar, an ascetic, a scientist or an astronaut, who doesn't care about the walking. 

He stopped suddenly, turned and started walking again towards the neem tree. However, he crossed the neem tree this time, just went straight ahead, touched the Banyan tree and closed his eyes.

Night turned to day.

Day turned to night.

Again, night turned to afternoon when he eventually fell down.

“I saw a man at grant road station one day when I was on my way to Films Division. He was touching the peepal tree with eyes closed and listening to the tree, I felt eternal, surreal and human in ‘non-oxford terms’. 

The Magniyaar, brought him to his senses. The Charan, found differences when he started talking to the banyan tree, the differences in rhythm, senses, physicality , sounds and form of expansion of the tree itself. He started comparing both trees and hence codes started unfolding in front of him dramatically. He knew more than his musician friend now.

The Magniyaar couldn't understand anything and called him "mad". 
Let's laugh to that.

The Charan kept doing the same thing; he studied the difference between both of them and hence studied the language.

Next day, when he was touching the tree, he himself felt like a tree. Alone and strong!

He cried at the stories the tree told to him. About the years the tree was born in; an old, flying device of cow horns that 'he' had seen; the weekly meetings of dead musicians;  killing parrots to grow faster; a man who fell in love with his father and died; the silk vendor who once tried to have sex with him; homages to many thieves; magician, birds, black magic apprentices; the few love lorn women who hung on his barks; singing for constipation; rattling a snake to scare it, making jokes about the banyan tree, scaring the young ghosts, being alone and sad; the unexpected visit of old death-friends; shifting of trees; waiting and expecting for something always, and more.

They both cried, laughed, mesmerized and ...

The Charan heard the stories for many nights and days. He slept under the tree and felt the only home he had always imagined. The last night
, he brought some liquor on loan and asked his musician friend to come under the tree and play the songs for the tree.

They sang and danced the whole night.

Imagine the party.

In the morning, the Charan was off to a far land to speak to more trees, as he said. Hence in lieu of the loan, he left his “peda ni matrabhasha / Mother tongue of trees”.

This is being kept by the man who lent him until death. He knew the value of it, later stolen by the musician’s son and made music out of. They talked about the tales of witches, snakes, men and what not.

Forget about that!

What I know now is that the Charan had become a tree just outside the village and in the night recites the tale of a man who knew the language of the tree.

I really wished if he could be my grandfather.

Oh and,
to learn the language, go and touch a tree.

Ask the stories.



Tuesday, July 16, 2013

गीत

इस गीत ने इब्बे ही जनम लेना था,
युहें बनाना था, काली शयाही ने हर्फ़।

भरना था पानी घड़ों में,
सूट  ने गीली  छातियों पर ही चिपकाना था।

कद जाना के श्याह गालां  पे,
कदे काज़ल  भी बिखरना था।

यु रहना था बिना श्याम के,
इस जोबन ने गंडासे में काटना था।

मेरे जीने में, मेरे गाम की माटी,
मेरे मरने पे, मैं तू।
मन्नें ते तुझमें ही मिलना था।

Two pony tale of a dead child

I let it pass,
blink of stranger,
beat of unspoken lips,
hatred which just died,
across the bed.

I confess to leave it all,
mist on the dark shadows,
imagination of a perfect nation,
a strange smile of the shopkeeper,
two pony tale of a dead child.

I leave my life ahead of me,
to deny my existence,
1 find me strange to my own expectation.

Running along & finding myself,
slipped in hell and thought of bright stars.

Rum is the quest to be best,
it's dark to find the wooden nest,
over the mountain.
We have a life of slow trucks,
i shall, let it pass.

I am a wicked dead man,
just breating one more time,
count it last.

I start.

मेरे यार सुन

मेरे यार सुन।

हर रोज के कतल की बात,
हर रोज की आँखों का सहवास,
बहते दरिया से आँसू,
सजते बाज़ार का नाम,
नसे दृश्यों की सोचना,
बढ़ते संसार के काज़,
जीने से पहले के वादें,
वादों के रफ़्तार की रात।

पैगम्बर बन रायफल चूमना,
ज़िन्दगी के अधिकार की जात।

Monday, June 17, 2013

रस्सी

सुनो इन् दिनों कबूतरों ने पंख काट दिए हैं अपने ,
जिस खिड़की से बादल आते थे हमारे घर में,
उसकी दीवारों पर सीलन मर गयी है।

कमरें को मेरे वीर्ये की सुगंध और
 तुम्हारी  छातियों की खुशबु बहुत पसंद हैं,
ख़त में लिख हैं ये सब उसने।

हर कोई उस कमरें के खिलाफ हैं,
कमरा खमोश।
जहा दो सांसें नंगी रहती थी।

पंखा भी इंतज़ार करता हैं सफ़ेद साँपों का।

लोग कहते हैं, कमरें का ईमान मर गया,
सडको में मरते पाश की तरह.
इन् दिनों  इस गुफ्तगू ने दम भर ली हैं।
की पंखें से लटका लिया हैं कमरें ने खुद को,
वो रस्सी जो कोई जर्मन यात्री छोड़ गया था गलती से,
दरवाजे के पीछे जो पड़ी रहती थी,
उससे.

तोसका, उदास मत हो,
मुझे यकीन  हैं.
जब ओल्ड मोंक की महक उठेगी,
कमरा भाग के दरवाजा खोल देगा,
बादलों को बुलाएगा।

ये ओल्ड मोंक की बात नहीं, काले साँपों का पंखें पर झुलना नहीं,
ये ताकि शेर और तोसका नंगे पड़े रहे उस बिस्तर में,
और कहानियाँ कहे,

टोटका, परी, नाग, खून, होंठ और न जाने क्या क्या।
बस यु ही रहे नंगे।

कमरा  नापे, एक दुसरे को जियें।


 

Tuesday, June 4, 2013

ठंडा कफ़न

समझ के पार के पर्वत
जिस्म का गीत और लबो की मिठास

हर बरस पर्वतों पर बर्फ गिरेगी ,
हटेगी।

सूरज से प्यार, चाँद से सहवास,
इंतज़ार के पर्वत,
हर गति बढ़ते-बढ़ते ,
थक जायेंगे पर्वत, गुनगुनायेंगे।

नदी में मिलकर,
हमसे मिलने  आयेंगे पर्वत.
बिखर जायेंगे पर्वत,
ज़िन्दगी उगायेंगे पर्वत

किसी चोटी पर मेरा घर बसायेंगे पर्वत।

मेरे यार पर्वत,
क्या तुम मुझे बर्फ में ढँक लोगे।
ताकि मैं न सडू,
ताकि हर साल बर्फ का कफ़न ओडू,
हर साल बरसात भोगु,
धीरे-धीरे गल जाऊ,
मुझे नदी में मिलाओगे पर्वत।

तोते आँख नोच ले ,
गिद्ध मांस,
आत्मा बर्फ बहा ले जाये,
और हाथ, नरभक्षी भालुओं के लिए,
मेरी हड्डियाँ आदिमानव को दे आओगे पर्वत।

मेरे यार पर्वत,
बर्फ गिर दो , ठंडा कफ़न,
मुझे सुलाओगे पर्वत.

Thursday, March 28, 2013

ब्रह्म ज्ञान की बात,
सालों साल का धुवाँ,
खामोश जंगल।
Beep

मुझे सबसे गिला ये हैं,
जाम पिए जायेंगे युही,

मेरे कुछ दोस्त समझेंगे मैं हूँ,
और कुछ पी जायेंगे युही।

ख़ुशी के बाद होगी खुदखुशी,
यार, सब मर जायेंगे युही।
बदनाम होगा हर नाम शराब का,
हर शब् हम गायेंगे युहि.

मेरे न होने पर यही होगा दोस्त,
लोग आयेंगे युही, जायेंगे युही।

दिमाग का दोष हूँ मैं,
सच नहीं हूँ मै।
पनपते मेंदकों की तरह बरसात में,
हर रात पनपता हूँ मैं।
बरसता हूँ मैं, मेंदकों की तरह,
और उन पर ही गरजता हूँ मैं।
शोर हैं कितना आग़ोश में,
आक्रोश में, खोज में।
जिद हैं पैमाने की चाह।
शराब का दम भरता हूँ मैं।
दिमागी भाषा में सच लिखना,
शायर की कलम का दस्तूर है।

मेरे यार सुन, पहाड़ी सर्दियों में,
हम तेंदुवे  बनने को मजबूर हैं। 
मैं हूँ कफ़न में तुम्हें ढूंढ़ता ,
दोस्त जश्न में हैं मुझे ढूंढते।

कारोबार हैं जिस्म भी, समाज हैं,
भाषा , बोली, रंग, लज्ज़त , सब हैं। 
आज फैसला कर ले,
तू जियेगा या मै।

जो अन्दर सांस लेता हैं,
कोंन  हैं,
मैं या तु।

बंध गया हूँ मै विचारों में।
There has to be a namesake,
to kill the origin.

Before you die,
kill one.

It has been long,
Life is hiding.
Bring on the desires of blood.