Saturday 22 August 2015

Time: Prologue


Have you ever realized that time isn't moving? Of course you all have felt the eternity of time i.e., it passes so slowly that its impossible to bear it getting by. But that’s not what i am talking about. By not moving of time i mean the stopping of it, literally. 

Have you ever felt like you are looking at your watch and the hands of the watch aren't moving, none of them, at all? You look around and there is nobody, no society, no meeting, no commuting. Just blowing wind, rattling leaves, a train passing by probably a metro or a subway train, dogs lingering around a dump of litter but not making any sound, birds flying around a magnificent but abandoned sky scrapers as if they were providing us a scale for the greatness of these buildings, magnanimous factories expanded over a vast, ungodly surroundings, throwing black and grey smoke in the sky, white clouds perpetually eclipsing sun every now and then, and just you and no more. 

The Time is really not moving, neither on your watch nor in your consciousness. You wonder what’s going on but at the same time you don't bother to care. Perceptive of your surrounding still lost in a pensive state of pondering. A new awakening perhaps; because there is no time at that time. Everything has inertia at that moment but the time and also your sense of understanding. 

You haven't found happiness or love there but you are not sad anymore. The morbidity has lost with the time itself. Reality is different now. Its bright, everything is bright even the darkness.

Thursday 13 August 2015

Rumi’s Field

What is all that is wrong with this world? 

The world which we think we know so well or which we understand via experience and science. 

Is it possible as much clichéd as it may be that we could actually be living in a cat's or a dog's dream? 

What is that field about which Rumi brags about? 
Do the laws of physics apply there? 
Do the apples on the branches get hit by people with big heads there as a redemption from gravity? 

Ghosts and people must live in harmony there. 

That green and incredibly leveled grass in the meadow, those savanna-esque grasslands and the easily scalable ice-capped mountains with beautiful gorges and a crystalline river flowing in them, and the fresh water dolphins somersaulting out of the water, all of it in an existence beyond ours. 

There is no right or wrong there, no prejudice, no greed, no jealously, no possession, no pain, no grieve just bliss (not the kind you have on FB, twitter), actual, absolute bliss. 

Everybody is having an LSD trip every time but without esuriently swallowing one. Even the monsters are putting flowers in one others' hair there. 

God has no business being there, S/He is an ishmael over there. Just living in an old age home called The Heavenly Kingdom with pearly gates. People from the field visits her/him on her/his birthday i.e. every time S/He creates another universe. But that's all there is to her/him. The field has taken her/his progenies or creations to a dimension far from her/his domain which is almost everything. 

What do people do in this field? Is there any work there? If so then who assigns it? 

I doubt there are any ranks there. Hierarchy is an old concept of a festered world. But nothing rots here, everything is fresh, always. 

Everyone is here, everybody who wants to be here is here. It should have been crowded but it’s not. It’s open, open like a magnanimous heart, infinite. A paradox but not at all bewildering. 

There is no thin line between fact and fiction; there is no line at all. 

No lines, no queues, no coffee, no cigarette, no bear, no 'drinks on me'. 

P.S: मैंने रूमी को पढ़ा नहीं है, मैं सिर्फ बड़बोला हूँ|

Tuesday 11 August 2015

पल भर की कविता

कबूतर खड़ी है छज्जे पे कहीं, 
चुपचाप, शांत, ख़ामोश अभी, 
न गुटरगूँ, न मटर-गटर, 
सीधी... देख रही है दूर कहीं, 
समझ नहीं आता है पर कहाँ कहीं, 
क्यूँ की सामने हैं घनेरे पेड़ कई, 
क़लम निकाल के लिख तो लूँ ज़रा 
इसकी यह दुविधा ही सही, 
कम्बख़्त कॉपी ले कर झट से आया जब, 
फट से उड़ चली गगन में, 
फड़फड़ाती, सरसराती, ससुरी,
अब ख़ाली लव्ज़ हें जो एक याद पे निर्भर हैं,
नतीजों से परे ये पल भर की कविता यही।