Aaj subah naashte mein ai khuda tu itna kar
Biscuti se chehre hon aur muskurahaton ka ghar
Ek hansi jo chini mein ghuli hui si ho
Aur ek nanhi si jo doodh se dhuli si ho
Mil sake to saath khasta sa bhi ek khwab ho
Aur garma garm pyaar ki chaunk behisaab ho
Side mein kuch bikhre lamhe sek jinmein pyaar ki
Toast pe ho angdai leti
Lekin subah aur sab, na jaane kyun the so rahe
Apne khwab dekhte wo sab kahin the kho gaye
Chule pe pakti zindagi mein thandi karke pee gaya
Basi sa kal ki namuradi, do nivalon mein nigal gaya
Halak mein ek dard tha
Sachai thodi tez thi
Main akela chal pada
Khali nashte ki mez thi
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Saturday, May 16, 2009
The Dot...which signifies an end and a beginning
I am delighted at the election results. What a resounding slap to those with regional interest. To the religious sectarians. And all because of the power of a silent majority. The power of the dot.
Rahul Gandhi with boyish charm and a disarming appeal, through blogs n bhashans, through action oriented decisions has made a difference. He did not give in, he did not give into Mayawati or the vily Amar Singh, to Lalu or the left.
For once the Congress did not get into bargains. While Manmohan a little old school still tried to defend his regional partners, I loved it when Rahul said we will look for new partners and alliances. In with the new out with the old!!
For once watching a shame faced Lalu, Maya, Amar n Karat delights me. It is a slap in the face of these power mongers. Whose outdated policies only think of their own survival. A slap from the hand which pressed the button!!
BJP targeted Manmohan as weak, Mayawati was busy packing bags for Delhi, Amar uncle was thinking will he play Circuit in Munnabhai 3!! But ye public sab janti hai!!
In hindi there are two words Sata(politics) and satta (gambling). For those who differentiated between politics of a kind and another there is victory for those gambling with our futures there is none.
As Nandan Nilekani says "India today must exploit, the dividend of its demographics, the rich ideas of its youth. We have limitless potential which can only come from an education of the masses, from building our infrastructure. "
We need to create a nation of hope, where people benefit from social welfare schemes. We need a justice system that is swift and free of consequence. We need policies that do not create slums and shanty towns but centres of excellence, a country where entrepreneurs are appreciated, and enterprise is rewarded. We need change too.
Sonia Gandhi must be very proud, she has nurtured both a party from the edge of despair and a son far removed from politics to the centre of it.
A dot will end this post but another dot will be not the end but a begining for our nation.
Rahul Gandhi with boyish charm and a disarming appeal, through blogs n bhashans, through action oriented decisions has made a difference. He did not give in, he did not give into Mayawati or the vily Amar Singh, to Lalu or the left.
For once the Congress did not get into bargains. While Manmohan a little old school still tried to defend his regional partners, I loved it when Rahul said we will look for new partners and alliances. In with the new out with the old!!
For once watching a shame faced Lalu, Maya, Amar n Karat delights me. It is a slap in the face of these power mongers. Whose outdated policies only think of their own survival. A slap from the hand which pressed the button!!
BJP targeted Manmohan as weak, Mayawati was busy packing bags for Delhi, Amar uncle was thinking will he play Circuit in Munnabhai 3!! But ye public sab janti hai!!
In hindi there are two words Sata(politics) and satta (gambling). For those who differentiated between politics of a kind and another there is victory for those gambling with our futures there is none.
As Nandan Nilekani says "India today must exploit, the dividend of its demographics, the rich ideas of its youth. We have limitless potential which can only come from an education of the masses, from building our infrastructure. "
We need to create a nation of hope, where people benefit from social welfare schemes. We need a justice system that is swift and free of consequence. We need policies that do not create slums and shanty towns but centres of excellence, a country where entrepreneurs are appreciated, and enterprise is rewarded. We need change too.
Sonia Gandhi must be very proud, she has nurtured both a party from the edge of despair and a son far removed from politics to the centre of it.
A dot will end this post but another dot will be not the end but a begining for our nation.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Glumdog millionaire
My son today asked me what kind of a dog was a slum dog. He is 6 years old and I guess the hype has got to him too. I smiled and explained the concept to him. A person who leads a dogs life and lives in a slum...(and then thought to myself)...a person we meet everyday. At street crossings vending bootleg books or fresh graveyard flowers, at airports with trolley stands and markets with DVD portfolios, at restaurants with table swabs and chaiwallah stalls with grimy glasses.
As India steps out of a capitalist kennel it seems preened for a global dog show, then how can it expose its slumdogs to the world. We rant and rave about poverty pornographers. Poor Danny Boyle. He must be amused at a raving Bacchan and a giggling Barkha Dutt who seemed to almost gush over the sweet Dev Patel and his mosquito marne wali mom, or a Chaste Anil Kapoor who spoke of charity. The man made a movie but stirred a hornets nest amongst the glumdogs.
A friend of mine once told me our social conscience ends at our doorsteps. All semblance of hygiene and health leaves us as we set out. For the world outside is a slumdog world. Where we squeeze ourselves into the last second of a green light, when we slip the 50 rupee note to a traffic cop, when we break a cue to get ahead, where we bribe touts for passports and turn a blind eye to a wrapper thrown on the seat.
As long as we can push an electronic power window as a veil across this reality all is fine. Tu kaun main khamakha...(who are you and what do I care)...Beggars used to first moan and make faces, now they rattle your window or run a dirty cloth on your wind screen. They have found a way to invade your world. And a quick shoved 10 rupee note buys you a minute of peace till the next crossing. And the next invasion.
We the glumdogs lack a civic sense, we are all slumdogs, apathetic to our surroundings. Which have been pissed upon by politicians, bastardized by our bureaucrats and exploited by the establishment. Each year the same road is reconstructed, the same drain dug up, but as long as I can squeeze past it with a deft driver I am spared the need to step out, question, confront and take action. And spoil my schedule. I am so busy earning my next meal (albeit a five star one) that these things don't count. They will slip away into the slums they come from and hopefully be reborn as Gandhians someday or be relocated outside city or civil limits.
The truth is, slumdogs dont die. Slumdogs grow up in the shit and the squalor. As fetters corrode the flesh, persecution corrodes the mind. They live in such apathy that they learn only one code. The code to survive...the next day, the next riot, the anext raid, the next eviction. Whatever it may take. If a package needs delivery, the price is asked not the content. If a job needs to be done it must be done, or someone else will take it.
And this code makes them servants to a bigger dog. The three headed dog that guards the gate to Hades( allow me the mixing of genres and metaphors) . They find rabid causes to make them bark at. They mix a heady concoction of power, position and paisa. That is all they look for. There impotency is translated into a rage that can shake the universe. The slumdogs together can change the course of an election. A few dead in a booth capture makes no difference. they see death so often that they do not value life. And that gives them a strange power over the glumdogs. You and me who go about our humdrum existence. Complaining, complaining and criticizing, criticising and critiquing. We who blame the universe for our woes. We who have had a collar of class around our neck so long that even if its not there we feel a leash straining at us. A leash of propritey, of dignified behaviour, of things done and not done!! In a streetfight we always lose. In a manicured lawn, they find no entry. Adn so we mark our territories with grime and gore and gates and guards.
But between the dogs of India we despise the full moon night or a movie that shines a light upon us . And when it happens we collectively howl at the source, hoping the spotlight turns away and we can all go back to our own personal slums... secure in the anonymity, the apathy.
As India steps out of a capitalist kennel it seems preened for a global dog show, then how can it expose its slumdogs to the world. We rant and rave about poverty pornographers. Poor Danny Boyle. He must be amused at a raving Bacchan and a giggling Barkha Dutt who seemed to almost gush over the sweet Dev Patel and his mosquito marne wali mom, or a Chaste Anil Kapoor who spoke of charity. The man made a movie but stirred a hornets nest amongst the glumdogs.
A friend of mine once told me our social conscience ends at our doorsteps. All semblance of hygiene and health leaves us as we set out. For the world outside is a slumdog world. Where we squeeze ourselves into the last second of a green light, when we slip the 50 rupee note to a traffic cop, when we break a cue to get ahead, where we bribe touts for passports and turn a blind eye to a wrapper thrown on the seat.
As long as we can push an electronic power window as a veil across this reality all is fine. Tu kaun main khamakha...(who are you and what do I care)...Beggars used to first moan and make faces, now they rattle your window or run a dirty cloth on your wind screen. They have found a way to invade your world. And a quick shoved 10 rupee note buys you a minute of peace till the next crossing. And the next invasion.
We the glumdogs lack a civic sense, we are all slumdogs, apathetic to our surroundings. Which have been pissed upon by politicians, bastardized by our bureaucrats and exploited by the establishment. Each year the same road is reconstructed, the same drain dug up, but as long as I can squeeze past it with a deft driver I am spared the need to step out, question, confront and take action. And spoil my schedule. I am so busy earning my next meal (albeit a five star one) that these things don't count. They will slip away into the slums they come from and hopefully be reborn as Gandhians someday or be relocated outside city or civil limits.
The truth is, slumdogs dont die. Slumdogs grow up in the shit and the squalor. As fetters corrode the flesh, persecution corrodes the mind. They live in such apathy that they learn only one code. The code to survive...the next day, the next riot, the anext raid, the next eviction. Whatever it may take. If a package needs delivery, the price is asked not the content. If a job needs to be done it must be done, or someone else will take it.
And this code makes them servants to a bigger dog. The three headed dog that guards the gate to Hades( allow me the mixing of genres and metaphors) . They find rabid causes to make them bark at. They mix a heady concoction of power, position and paisa. That is all they look for. There impotency is translated into a rage that can shake the universe. The slumdogs together can change the course of an election. A few dead in a booth capture makes no difference. they see death so often that they do not value life. And that gives them a strange power over the glumdogs. You and me who go about our humdrum existence. Complaining, complaining and criticizing, criticising and critiquing. We who blame the universe for our woes. We who have had a collar of class around our neck so long that even if its not there we feel a leash straining at us. A leash of propritey, of dignified behaviour, of things done and not done!! In a streetfight we always lose. In a manicured lawn, they find no entry. Adn so we mark our territories with grime and gore and gates and guards.
But between the dogs of India we despise the full moon night or a movie that shines a light upon us . And when it happens we collectively howl at the source, hoping the spotlight turns away and we can all go back to our own personal slums... secure in the anonymity, the apathy.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Mumbai Meri Jaan
I have sat for 2 full days next to a TV set. Where various channels speak in various voices. While E24 and India TV are supremely irresponsible, some others try to maintain a voice of reason. When a beleaguered husband is asked about his missing wife and what he will tell his daughters, even NDTV steps out of line. Barkha is an extremely responsible journalist so I can forgive her this error.
Times NOW and Arnab Goswami have stood steadfast in the midst of this all. When his own journalist was about to divulge sensitive information he stopped her. When Narendra Modi spoke some channels including his blacked out his venomous poison.
Where are Raj Thackeray and Balasaheb! I keep getting sms's to that effect. Whatever happened to those who were baying for the blood of the partisan ATS? Maybe they are satisfied that some stray bullets have done what they perhaps wished for silently.
The lies that we are fed in the name of politics are laid bare but then we will again pick up our laptops and lives and our burden with it, log into living and log out of this horrible scenario. We have to earn a living out of work. Not from spouting platitudes and accusing political parties. Not from playing a blame game or protecting vote banks.
I think we have been let down by the state. We need a new Agency to fight terrorism something run as a civilian corporate initiative. For we saw on live TV how with impunity Politico's treat the police. Abu Azmi from the SP walked past a cordon line as he wanted to go into the lobby of the Taj. As if the hotel was open for dinner again. He had a journalist asking him inane questions along the way with him offering equally inane answers. Heres a sample: he had come to offer food to an MLA of his party and check on his well being!! How stupid and appalling is that. And when a policeman asked them to go behind the cordon line, his tone was to be heard...He would have shortly asked for the cops rank and name to admonish him later...till he realized he was on camera.
Such is the state we live in!! All forms of communication are given to rumor mongering. Mails on how this is a Mossad-VHP conspiracy and equally that it is a Pakistani attack and we should vote for the BJP have hit our inboxes. We have had sms's on signing petitions and marching on Wednesday to the gateway. I think the time for marching is over, it is the time for action. And we will turn as a nation to those who can deliver us that.
To our commandos and forces, we have faith in the allegiance you bear to the flag, to the Taj and Oberoi we are humbled by your ability to serve others before yourself even at the risk of death.
Declare an Emergency, let the people of this nation get a secure nation before casting a ballot. For we cannot let Bombay become Bali as Suheil Seth rightly said.
Mr Shivraj patil hope you have enough suits for the press conference!
Times NOW and Arnab Goswami have stood steadfast in the midst of this all. When his own journalist was about to divulge sensitive information he stopped her. When Narendra Modi spoke some channels including his blacked out his venomous poison.
Where are Raj Thackeray and Balasaheb! I keep getting sms's to that effect. Whatever happened to those who were baying for the blood of the partisan ATS? Maybe they are satisfied that some stray bullets have done what they perhaps wished for silently.
The lies that we are fed in the name of politics are laid bare but then we will again pick up our laptops and lives and our burden with it, log into living and log out of this horrible scenario. We have to earn a living out of work. Not from spouting platitudes and accusing political parties. Not from playing a blame game or protecting vote banks.
I think we have been let down by the state. We need a new Agency to fight terrorism something run as a civilian corporate initiative. For we saw on live TV how with impunity Politico's treat the police. Abu Azmi from the SP walked past a cordon line as he wanted to go into the lobby of the Taj. As if the hotel was open for dinner again. He had a journalist asking him inane questions along the way with him offering equally inane answers. Heres a sample: he had come to offer food to an MLA of his party and check on his well being!! How stupid and appalling is that. And when a policeman asked them to go behind the cordon line, his tone was to be heard...He would have shortly asked for the cops rank and name to admonish him later...till he realized he was on camera.
Such is the state we live in!! All forms of communication are given to rumor mongering. Mails on how this is a Mossad-VHP conspiracy and equally that it is a Pakistani attack and we should vote for the BJP have hit our inboxes. We have had sms's on signing petitions and marching on Wednesday to the gateway. I think the time for marching is over, it is the time for action. And we will turn as a nation to those who can deliver us that.
To our commandos and forces, we have faith in the allegiance you bear to the flag, to the Taj and Oberoi we are humbled by your ability to serve others before yourself even at the risk of death.
Declare an Emergency, let the people of this nation get a secure nation before casting a ballot. For we cannot let Bombay become Bali as Suheil Seth rightly said.
Mr Shivraj patil hope you have enough suits for the press conference!
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Record player
I was 17 when I listened to my first record. It was in park Street Calcutta at the house of Sanjit Basu. Debating rival from school, admired friend over letters. In those days it was possible to be Pen pals!! It was our face book or email!! Babu and I would write 4 page letters extolling on the virtues of Debating, the walls of school, the teachers, the tutes, the morals.
But when i heard Pink Floyd or backward child or Harry Belafontaine come to life on that Machine it was a joyous experience. The familiar scratch of a protesting needle. The steady turn of the LP, the warm voices almost a touch away!!
I could not afford a record player then, we had an old broken down 2 in one. With no top, it had got burnt I remember or broken!! I then heard a record player at my ex father in laws house. He played Zorba the Greek!! Again their was a connect I cannot put my finger on!!
or can I!!
I hate perfection, I love the little quirks, I enjoy the possibility of the needle getting stuck. I look out for the scratches they make life more real I guess!!
Day before I purchased a Project studio debut 3 Turntable. It is solid and nice. The cartridge I was told is the key, the needle. I had but one record at home, an old one I bought from France. That too in a jumble sale. And the kind store owner gave me a Eva Cassidy record.
I got home, my excitement is indescribable now. But my heart was racing. I connected it, sat on the terrace and listened. The warmth, the scratch, the flawed reality of a record. Black and etched with lines. If I place my palm on the needle will it read it too. Will it run over my scratches and whisper them aloud?? Or will it cover my hand with a black lacquer, a fine shiny surface!!
Fields of Gold and Somewhere over the rainbow, Eva Cassidy and Good wine for company. ..a perfect evening, where I wish the record of life had remained stuck!!
But when i heard Pink Floyd or backward child or Harry Belafontaine come to life on that Machine it was a joyous experience. The familiar scratch of a protesting needle. The steady turn of the LP, the warm voices almost a touch away!!
I could not afford a record player then, we had an old broken down 2 in one. With no top, it had got burnt I remember or broken!! I then heard a record player at my ex father in laws house. He played Zorba the Greek!! Again their was a connect I cannot put my finger on!!
or can I!!
I hate perfection, I love the little quirks, I enjoy the possibility of the needle getting stuck. I look out for the scratches they make life more real I guess!!
Day before I purchased a Project studio debut 3 Turntable. It is solid and nice. The cartridge I was told is the key, the needle. I had but one record at home, an old one I bought from France. That too in a jumble sale. And the kind store owner gave me a Eva Cassidy record.
I got home, my excitement is indescribable now. But my heart was racing. I connected it, sat on the terrace and listened. The warmth, the scratch, the flawed reality of a record. Black and etched with lines. If I place my palm on the needle will it read it too. Will it run over my scratches and whisper them aloud?? Or will it cover my hand with a black lacquer, a fine shiny surface!!
Fields of Gold and Somewhere over the rainbow, Eva Cassidy and Good wine for company. ..a perfect evening, where I wish the record of life had remained stuck!!
Monday, June 2, 2008
IPL: Mano-Ranjan aur hum sab ka baap!!
A last ball win, to a team with more balls than many others, a tournament comes to an end, Shane Warne gets a new lease of life, forgotten are the sexual escapades and the sms legends of yore, there is a full page ad advertising his solution to hair loss, do not be surprised if soon he sells you life insurance, bank accounts, clothing etc. There were posters held up at the finals saying India's next coach, Shane Warne!! The players rejoice, Yusuf Pathan gets a recall to the team, Goni is not a word for a sack but a Punjab player we all admire. Dhoni displays strength and character in adversity. He sure will be a great captain and will handle the BCCI well.
Evenings will never be the same again. Catatonic cricket viewers will go back to triple cut soaps and serial killers. Panchvi Pass will probably do better. Dus ka dum will entertain us with the Bad Boy of Indian Cinema, Salman Khan. Even the Gods bow to cricket, Sony decided wisely to launch the show post IPL, Salman deigned to perform and promote his show in the finals. perhaps the only battle this year that Shahrukh King Khan lost will be to our collective cricket obsession for he decided to take Cricket head on with his TV show and failed.
I have a confession to make. I was an IPL skeptic !! I never thought it would work. My reasons were the following.
- We do not have city loyalties
- We hardly know the players
- Our stadiums lack infrastructure.
- We can handle one a few matches at a time but 2 months of cricket??
All these points are true!! But what came as a slap was the public's answer
- We do not have city loyalties but we are loyal to cricket
- We hardly know the players but we are sick of our old icons and need new heroes to worship.
- Our stadiums lack infrastructure but our drawing rooms are airconditioned comfort zones and this was entertainment for viewers at home, who cares if the stadiums were filled on purpose or otherwise.
- We can handle only a few matches at a time but for 3 hours its the best entertainment we can get. A movie each day with new heroes and villains, saviors and vanquishers. All packed into a 3 hour spectacle with bikini clad babes and background music scores.
In the wave of cricketainment the Aarushi murder case, Lalit Modi's past convictions, Karnataka elections, American primaries, the Grover murder all were sidelined. While the public made merry, Bookies made 20,000 crores, BCCI made 350, cricketers made 3 to 4 crores each.
Life returns to normal but there is talk of a women's league, an international IPL etc.
Mano aur Ranjan ka baap has sown his seed and taken care of our needs every night!!
This conjugal bliss between spectator and sport will sprout a hundred new leagues, sponsorship deals etc. And we will wait for the next IPL!!
Congratulations aap baap ban gaye hain!!
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Journalism ko Kyun Mara
The double murder in Noida has suddenly filled the headlines. The news channels who were making do with controlled IPL reporting have been unshackled. In self righteous indignation they scream from the rooftops. Headlines after headlines are vying for attention!!
"Papa tune kyun mara" says AajTak. A multiple award winning news channels whcih doubles up as manohar kahaniyan for the starved masses.
Sample an excerpt. A frail looking driver sits behind a computer generated graphic PAPA TUNE KYUN MARA!! Blood splattered on the graphic. Two journalists bristling with moralittude (i know its not a word but then this is a journalism of invention so why can't I invent a word).
Journo: Sandigh mujrim Hemraaj se aap kab mile (When did you last meet the supposed criminal Hemraj!! )
Driver: Sahib hum to sirf 2 minute ghar mein chabi lene jaate the (I only used to go into the house for 2 minutes)
Journo: Yani aap ko Hemraj se milne nahin diya ja raha tha. Kyun? (SO you were not allowed to meet Hemraj. why??)
Driver: Nahin aisa nahin tha, hame toh abhi bhi vishvas nahin hota ke ek baap apni beti ko mar sakta hai!! (No it wasn't like this, I still cannot believe that a father would kill his daughter)
The journalist thinks on his feet. Thsi man is a plant, he will spoil the slant of the story, the fatehr is a depraved maniac and nobody can convince him other wise. Journo makes another attempt or two to put words into his mouth!! But the driver though frail sticks to his guns. Frustrated the journalist changes tac.
Journo: Aap ko studio mein kisne bheja, sandigh mujrim ke parivar ne??!! (who sent you to the studio, a member of the family??)
Drver: Renu ji ne (Renu did)
This is a crucial fact, he is now ready to hang the driver
Journalist: RENU KAUN HAIN (WHO IS RENU??)
In the 2 seconds before the driver answers the pause is pregnant with possibiliites.
(Renu is the missing link. Renu is perhaps the 3rd lover. Renu is the neighbour who is the doctor's admirer...Renu)
Driver: Renuji...aapki studio ki incharge (Renu is your studio person)
While the journalist fumbled, paused, found a new tantalizing thread and bumbled on, his compatriot in her shrill rabble rousing voice gave us some more gory details!! graphics replaced the dumbstruck man.
I switch channels. One shows images of the dead girl's mother. Under it they play the song from Taare Zameen Par ..Tujhe sab hai pata meri ma!! (Mom you know everything!!). Some editor and reporter must be gloating at the beauty of the communication. This is his/her masterpiece!!
A third has two people in a makeshift court where the alleged killer, the girls father is shown as a still in the katghera (the witness stand).
I sit and think of free speech and what Oscar Wilde said," “The public have an insatiable curiosity to know everything. Except what is worth knowing. Journalism, conscious of this, and having tradesman-like habits, supplies their demands.”
I want to launch an investigation: Journalism ko kisne kyun mara!!
Friday, February 8, 2008
दुबई कि यादें (memories from dubai)
मेरा एक घर था घरोंदा था आशिअना था
बड़ा छोटा था और बेहद पुराना था
अब रेत के किले में बैठ कर याद करता हूँ
वो बारिश कि बूँदें
वो चीटियों जैसी गाड़ियों कि कतारें
कोई किसी जल्दी में नहीं
सबको ये यकीन कि पह्नुचेंगी कहीं
मैं चाहता था तेज़ रफ्तार
तेज़ ज़िंदगी, तेज़ और तेज़
अब उस तेज़ी में गिरफ्तार
याद करता हूँ वो धीरी पकती दल
पड़ा था जिसमें सालों का प्यार
वह हस्ती सुबह वह झिलमिल दोपहर
यहाँ बस तेज़ रौशनी है
बदन कटती धुप दिल चीरती हवाएं
सब धोके का सहारा लेते हैं
झूटी सर्द से घरों को ठंडा करते हैं
फिर भी दिल जलते हैं
रेत का क्या पता, कुछ ठोस नहीं होता
बंजर ज़मीन पर बंजर सुनसान इमारतें
इमारतें हैं घर नहीं हैं
मेरी खिड़की से दिखती ज़िंदगी
बिकती बनती बिगड़ती पा इन्दगी
शीशे से सब कितना दूर सा लगता है
या दिखता है अपनी ज़िंदगी का अक्स
ये चुब्ती है वो नर्म कितनी थी
ये रेत है और वो मिटटी थी
बड़ा छोटा था और बेहद पुराना था
अब रेत के किले में बैठ कर याद करता हूँ
वो बारिश कि बूँदें
वो चीटियों जैसी गाड़ियों कि कतारें
कोई किसी जल्दी में नहीं
सबको ये यकीन कि पह्नुचेंगी कहीं
मैं चाहता था तेज़ रफ्तार
तेज़ ज़िंदगी, तेज़ और तेज़
अब उस तेज़ी में गिरफ्तार
याद करता हूँ वो धीरी पकती दल
पड़ा था जिसमें सालों का प्यार
वह हस्ती सुबह वह झिलमिल दोपहर
यहाँ बस तेज़ रौशनी है
बदन कटती धुप दिल चीरती हवाएं
सब धोके का सहारा लेते हैं
झूटी सर्द से घरों को ठंडा करते हैं
फिर भी दिल जलते हैं
रेत का क्या पता, कुछ ठोस नहीं होता
बंजर ज़मीन पर बंजर सुनसान इमारतें
इमारतें हैं घर नहीं हैं
मेरी खिड़की से दिखती ज़िंदगी
बिकती बनती बिगड़ती पा इन्दगी
शीशे से सब कितना दूर सा लगता है
या दिखता है अपनी ज़िंदगी का अक्स
ये चुब्ती है वो नर्म कितनी थी
ये रेत है और वो मिटटी थी
Friday, November 16, 2007
Gogurgaon.com
As you drive into Gurgaon, concrete fists start appearing in a straight line. Its as if you are seeing a 3d X-ray of a patients spine. Or a communist rally against the mass industrialization of the city.
Dust clouds are everywhere, the familiar whirring of jackhammers and pneumatic drills have replaced the chirping of birds or the barking of dogs.
I am in Gurgaon to attend a convention for our company. I see BPO bound Qualis' driving data crunching dilettante's to their destiny. Packed like peas they share sandwiches, smokes and yes even shawls. It is a strange camaraderie borne out of despair.
Gurgaon is the mecca of materialistic bliss, the page 3 celeb of India's achievement story. Here apartment complexes rub shoulders with malls and multiplexes, brushing away the small hutments that appear like a rash in between.
I see a few rickshaws( adult tricycle's used for transport if I can call them) in the midst of a sea of cars, buses, autos, cabs. They take my mind to a story I read a while back. Some months ago a gang of Gurgaon killers, whose parents had sold their tracts of farmland and drunk away the money. These young men were uneducated, unemployed and the stillness of their life in the midst of the bustling pace of Gurgaon had jolted them to action. They found a pastime that gave them potency and power. They drove cabs and murdered unsuspecting passengers. The first for 40 rupees!! 17 murders later they languish in jail. Perhaps content in the certainty of an end to their story. They will either hang or get life imprisonment. Their families since the discovery of their deeds have disowned them, but destiny had disowned them long before.
My friends in Bombay often nervously joke of how beggars have graduated from requests to threats, from gestures to noisy assaults on your window, from cupped hands to ring clad fingers clenched into fists rapping an incessant beat till you relent. The conversation ends with similar thoughts: will they soon just block your way to demand their keep. How long before the marginalized stand at the gates of mecca?
Soon the metro will run smoothly over the elevated MRT tracks, erasing the erratic bumps on the road. The dust clouds will settle and many more will flock to the land of opportunity.
As I gaze out of my car I see a rickshaw that leisurely makes its way to a nearby market. I am sure they too will disappear of the roads soon, bowing to the demands of a nation racing against time to save the rest of the world some time. Below the rickshaw is an advertisement dulled and scratched: Moving houses contact "gogurgaon.com "
Dust clouds are everywhere, the familiar whirring of jackhammers and pneumatic drills have replaced the chirping of birds or the barking of dogs.
I am in Gurgaon to attend a convention for our company. I see BPO bound Qualis' driving data crunching dilettante's to their destiny. Packed like peas they share sandwiches, smokes and yes even shawls. It is a strange camaraderie borne out of despair.
Gurgaon is the mecca of materialistic bliss, the page 3 celeb of India's achievement story. Here apartment complexes rub shoulders with malls and multiplexes, brushing away the small hutments that appear like a rash in between.
I see a few rickshaws( adult tricycle's used for transport if I can call them) in the midst of a sea of cars, buses, autos, cabs. They take my mind to a story I read a while back. Some months ago a gang of Gurgaon killers, whose parents had sold their tracts of farmland and drunk away the money. These young men were uneducated, unemployed and the stillness of their life in the midst of the bustling pace of Gurgaon had jolted them to action. They found a pastime that gave them potency and power. They drove cabs and murdered unsuspecting passengers. The first for 40 rupees!! 17 murders later they languish in jail. Perhaps content in the certainty of an end to their story. They will either hang or get life imprisonment. Their families since the discovery of their deeds have disowned them, but destiny had disowned them long before.
My friends in Bombay often nervously joke of how beggars have graduated from requests to threats, from gestures to noisy assaults on your window, from cupped hands to ring clad fingers clenched into fists rapping an incessant beat till you relent. The conversation ends with similar thoughts: will they soon just block your way to demand their keep. How long before the marginalized stand at the gates of mecca?
Soon the metro will run smoothly over the elevated MRT tracks, erasing the erratic bumps on the road. The dust clouds will settle and many more will flock to the land of opportunity.
As I gaze out of my car I see a rickshaw that leisurely makes its way to a nearby market. I am sure they too will disappear of the roads soon, bowing to the demands of a nation racing against time to save the rest of the world some time. Below the rickshaw is an advertisement dulled and scratched: Moving houses contact "gogurgaon.com "
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Chak De Disc 2
My dear friend in Australia, Mitu was kind enough to send me a DVD of Chak De through its director Shimit Amin. I met Shimit (a woody allenesque man). Got him to autograph a copy!
I was so excited to watch it that I bought an HDMI cable and linked the projector. My 5 year old son who has seen the movie twice jumped with joy at every goal India scored. We hugged like it was all happening infront of our eyes. I need to thank Shimit for the many hugs and innocent kisses I got because I could tell who would score next in the film!!
I then saw DISC 2 the extra's. DO NOT MISS THESE!! There are gems in the deleted scenes and many stories that never unfolded on the real screen. Like the taming of the dreaded 3 senior players, which makes the dahi chawal reference so much more significant! The Antakshari session, the Aliya Bose playing truant piece, Nethra meeting her dad the groundsman! But most of all what touched me was the Gul Iqbal story.
The famous parent tag which she has to get rid of!! With the Germany-India semi final. A thriller that ends with a penalty shot in the last 2 minutes of the game.
I messaged Shimit saying he needs to amke a directors cut, what he wanted. I don't know if he ever will. Please see the second disc. The interviews are fun but I can tell you the real thrill is in reliving the whole process of the two years it took to make the movie, the casting the rehearsals etc. WOW what inspiration.
Everyone has a movie inside. I have many stories but still wait for my movie to shake me up!! For my muse to whisper the narrative one night to me. To awaken charged with the unshakeable belief that I must do it NOW!!
All this business of the discs set me thinking. About our lives and Disc 1 that plays out each day for all to see, neatly edited. While Disc 2 stays hidden somewhere. With all our extra's. The fight you had at home in the morning, the barb someone made to you about success, the poem you learnt in class 1, the dirty song you used to sing in college, the one hidden road you know to nowhere in particular, the job you almost took, the rbonze medal you won.
Keep an eye on your own disc 2, share it with people sometime. They will know you better!
I was so excited to watch it that I bought an HDMI cable and linked the projector. My 5 year old son who has seen the movie twice jumped with joy at every goal India scored. We hugged like it was all happening infront of our eyes. I need to thank Shimit for the many hugs and innocent kisses I got because I could tell who would score next in the film!!
I then saw DISC 2 the extra's. DO NOT MISS THESE!! There are gems in the deleted scenes and many stories that never unfolded on the real screen. Like the taming of the dreaded 3 senior players, which makes the dahi chawal reference so much more significant! The Antakshari session, the Aliya Bose playing truant piece, Nethra meeting her dad the groundsman! But most of all what touched me was the Gul Iqbal story.
The famous parent tag which she has to get rid of!! With the Germany-India semi final. A thriller that ends with a penalty shot in the last 2 minutes of the game.
I messaged Shimit saying he needs to amke a directors cut, what he wanted. I don't know if he ever will. Please see the second disc. The interviews are fun but I can tell you the real thrill is in reliving the whole process of the two years it took to make the movie, the casting the rehearsals etc. WOW what inspiration.
Everyone has a movie inside. I have many stories but still wait for my movie to shake me up!! For my muse to whisper the narrative one night to me. To awaken charged with the unshakeable belief that I must do it NOW!!
All this business of the discs set me thinking. About our lives and Disc 1 that plays out each day for all to see, neatly edited. While Disc 2 stays hidden somewhere. With all our extra's. The fight you had at home in the morning, the barb someone made to you about success, the poem you learnt in class 1, the dirty song you used to sing in college, the one hidden road you know to nowhere in particular, the job you almost took, the rbonze medal you won.
Keep an eye on your own disc 2, share it with people sometime. They will know you better!
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Spinning around
The class is filled with a variety of people. Some body shapes distinctly have never been to a gym before. A few look toned and gladiatorial. They could walk out of the spinning class and straight to a Miss India contest.
In the midst of this I stand a new initiate. The music blares I am on a stationary cycle. As the beats thump thump a steady rhythm I look around and see sweaty bodies dripping the sins of yesterday's chocolate mouse, or the ghee dolloped biryani.
After 45 minutes I am light headed; possibly I would have been in Bandra by now if I had cycled. But here I am attempting a new world record in spin cycling, my wife who has just had a baby 3 months ago, smiles at me in encouragement. Through the sweaty haze I look around. The man next to me seems so desperate for company that he makes every attempt to talk, to me, the petite girl across from him , another person who has missed a class before, perhaps this is as much a social outing for him as an exercise regimen.
A housewife who has suddenly woken up to her reality pedals across furiously. Furious at herself for just letting it all go, furious at her husband for not having enough time, furious at life having given her the short shrift.
A super well built amazonian who is scared she is becoming too muscular, a merchandiser counting shipments and orders along with calories.
In the light headedness I see a vision, of life in Mumbai. Everyone furiously pedaling, their wares and goods. Sweating profusely yet maintaining the perfect look. And in the end still at the same place where they started.
My vision clouds further, I am in a park in Lucknow, grass unmowed for kilometres, my father taking an unhurried walk. People exchanging greetings, sharing newspapers, some leisurely doing yoga. Mostly the people are old, time is for them a throwaway commodity, a few young girls accompany their parents, their frenetic pace is in keeping with our time, a few college graduates with degrees and no jobs hang around playing romeo to these mobile Juliet's.
1,2,1,2,1,2,1,2 the trainer exhorts.
That's what we are, singles and couples, singles and couples...
1,2,1,2,1,2,1,2 he barks
Divorce rates are up, uncoupled singles are copulating with new partners!!
And suddenly the class is up!
I would have been in Mahabaleshwar by now!! With a cool breeze in my hair. I could have stopped on the roadside and had a hot cup of sweetened tea. An odd shaped stone would have bounced across the road. Some cows would have brushed against my cycle.
The air conditioned sweat drips down my brow. A hand towel shakes me back to reality. And as I leave class I cannot help but gaze at the slim mobile phone in the hand of the obese man running on the treadmill as he negotiates his stocks and shares through the dizzying sensex.
In the midst of this I stand a new initiate. The music blares I am on a stationary cycle. As the beats thump thump a steady rhythm I look around and see sweaty bodies dripping the sins of yesterday's chocolate mouse, or the ghee dolloped biryani.
After 45 minutes I am light headed; possibly I would have been in Bandra by now if I had cycled. But here I am attempting a new world record in spin cycling, my wife who has just had a baby 3 months ago, smiles at me in encouragement. Through the sweaty haze I look around. The man next to me seems so desperate for company that he makes every attempt to talk, to me, the petite girl across from him , another person who has missed a class before, perhaps this is as much a social outing for him as an exercise regimen.
A housewife who has suddenly woken up to her reality pedals across furiously. Furious at herself for just letting it all go, furious at her husband for not having enough time, furious at life having given her the short shrift.
A super well built amazonian who is scared she is becoming too muscular, a merchandiser counting shipments and orders along with calories.
In the light headedness I see a vision, of life in Mumbai. Everyone furiously pedaling, their wares and goods. Sweating profusely yet maintaining the perfect look. And in the end still at the same place where they started.
My vision clouds further, I am in a park in Lucknow, grass unmowed for kilometres, my father taking an unhurried walk. People exchanging greetings, sharing newspapers, some leisurely doing yoga. Mostly the people are old, time is for them a throwaway commodity, a few young girls accompany their parents, their frenetic pace is in keeping with our time, a few college graduates with degrees and no jobs hang around playing romeo to these mobile Juliet's.
1,2,1,2,1,2,1,2 the trainer exhorts.
That's what we are, singles and couples, singles and couples...
1,2,1,2,1,2,1,2 he barks
Divorce rates are up, uncoupled singles are copulating with new partners!!
And suddenly the class is up!
I would have been in Mahabaleshwar by now!! With a cool breeze in my hair. I could have stopped on the roadside and had a hot cup of sweetened tea. An odd shaped stone would have bounced across the road. Some cows would have brushed against my cycle.
The air conditioned sweat drips down my brow. A hand towel shakes me back to reality. And as I leave class I cannot help but gaze at the slim mobile phone in the hand of the obese man running on the treadmill as he negotiates his stocks and shares through the dizzying sensex.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Mobile Mantra
Its 10 past 10, you remember the meeting was at a quarter to and then panic strikes: What will one say!! Imagine coming face to face with the grumbling MD, this was an important one. And out you whip your mobile messiah, lies that lie close at hand. Stuck in traffic, was unable to get through, bad signal area!! Absolution and that too anonymously. Mobiles have not only given us instant communication but instant communion and confessional as well.
What if mobiles could talk to each other. Share the true thoughts of their owners. The millions who have no fingerprints left and no conscience.
SMS: Grt party last night (Mobile: Yup he smsd 30 ppl about the bad food!)
SMS: Sorry not too well going to bed early (The wife’s just offered him sex after a decade !)
SMS: Stuck in traffic (Still at home)
SMS: Lets catch up soon!! (don’t want to see you in a hurry)
SMS: Can we delay by 15 minutes (The presentation is still not ready)
SMS: What are u up to ?? (I’m bored with my lunch date/my work/ my life)
Could we do all this face to face, or have mobiles helped in removing our conscience as well. How many times has truthfulness, been replaced by 160 characters of pulp fiction. I once had a colleague who even found a novel way of sending sympathetic messages of self pity to dear friends that unfortunately made there way to me her bosses phone! If her phone had a conscience it would have died on her. I have classified my mobile friends into categories.
Forwarding friends: The ones who have the maximum spare time on there hands! Either they are out of work or out of whack or disguised employees of mobile companies!!
Spelling bees: D 1 who kild d dctnry
Hindi homelands: Zinke msg bhasha ki instant khicdi karte hoon aur grammar ka bhi!
Below jobs: The blackberry keyboard texters under the rim of meeting tables!
Perpetual procrastinators: I’ll get back to u!
There are many more but let this not dissuade my friends from sending me congratulatory messages on this column!
Beep beep : Oops that’s my mobile! Kindly pay ur bill by today or phone will be disconnected
Got to go!!
What if mobiles could talk to each other. Share the true thoughts of their owners. The millions who have no fingerprints left and no conscience.
SMS: Grt party last night (Mobile: Yup he smsd 30 ppl about the bad food!)
SMS: Sorry not too well going to bed early (The wife’s just offered him sex after a decade !)
SMS: Stuck in traffic (Still at home)
SMS: Lets catch up soon!! (don’t want to see you in a hurry)
SMS: Can we delay by 15 minutes (The presentation is still not ready)
SMS: What are u up to ?? (I’m bored with my lunch date/my work/ my life)
Could we do all this face to face, or have mobiles helped in removing our conscience as well. How many times has truthfulness, been replaced by 160 characters of pulp fiction. I once had a colleague who even found a novel way of sending sympathetic messages of self pity to dear friends that unfortunately made there way to me her bosses phone! If her phone had a conscience it would have died on her. I have classified my mobile friends into categories.
Forwarding friends: The ones who have the maximum spare time on there hands! Either they are out of work or out of whack or disguised employees of mobile companies!!
Spelling bees: D 1 who kild d dctnry
Hindi homelands: Zinke msg bhasha ki instant khicdi karte hoon aur grammar ka bhi!
Below jobs: The blackberry keyboard texters under the rim of meeting tables!
Perpetual procrastinators: I’ll get back to u!
There are many more but let this not dissuade my friends from sending me congratulatory messages on this column!
Beep beep : Oops that’s my mobile! Kindly pay ur bill by today or phone will be disconnected
Got to go!!
Lingweenie
I have discovered a series of articles I had written for The Week magazine, these were about 2 years ago. But it seems the intention though honourable from both ends never got us to a concrete end. So here they are posted and preserved. May the be of some purpose to someone this week or the next or whenever...
LINGWEENIE
Children are angels till they find words!! My son has crossed that laxman rekha, he is all of 3 and a half years old and as such it is time to pattern the syllables escaping his lips, Its time to look for a school. The search begins and the fear hangs over our head like the sword of Damocles. My wife has been fretting and fuming for a few centuries saying we need to see the schools, I’m a little amazed as I existed in a time when there were no options you either went to the Girls school or Boys school and the maximum choice was Hindi Medium or English and Government or Private.
As such I surveyed a certain number of schools and was amazed to see the various options available: Australian curriculum, IB, Marathi, Hindi, English medium, schools that take children from particular communities, others that encourage pin code segregation. Imagine a child talking to another: I’m Mumbai 53 U are ? Mumbai 61! Oh sorry my mummy and daddy only allow me to speak to 55 and 54. There birthday parties are nearer to our home!
Schools with playgrounds, schools that our multi storeyed, schools that ensure international placements to universities, schools that have uniforms, schools that interview children who are 3 , schools that interview parents till 3 (pm) and schools that expect parents to attend schools as well.
Having assumed some semblance of a scholarly concerned father I attend an orientation by one school. The teacher starts in earnest, “ Werlcome tyu the bestest school in town! For the sake of not torturing your ears I will keep it short. The teacher had an accent picked up between the French and American embassy and I have it on good authority that her visas to both were rejected. But 10 points for imagination! She even found r’s to roll in words that don’t contain the alphabet.
I also noticed a unique fact, the school took great pains to say that they do not discriminate between boys and girls and your child will always be looked after. He will grow up to be strong of will, he will discover new things, he will play and learn…Some prejudices are better removed from the mind rather than paid poor lip service to.
I hastened to her after the session: Madam when will you put up the interview list
Dunno as yet will get back to you asap!!
MY mind processes the don’t know and says so should I call back
Yep If u wanna!!
I imagined my son walking in and say: Gu morn da! He would have willingly participated in the murder of the language as I knew it. But look and listen, the words have changed. A wedggie is not a short form for a plant eater but a crease riding your butt leading to strictly non vegetarian thoughts. Ginormous is not a double patiala peg of gin but something bigger than gigantic and enormous. Chillax, is not the ax murderer who got locked out on Christmas day but hanging out with friends. These words are real and they exist and each generation adds its favourites to the chain of spoken word, but the murder of the existing words is a crime we commit daily. Primary school teachers who are irrigating the fertile soil of imagination have a responsibility to them as well, to speak the language as it was meant to be, to strain the influence of the affected affluence of sources and let the synthesis of cultures do its best to grind a few syllables together and create a new word when the child has a mind of his or her own.
My son goes to a simple school now and each day I spend some time trying to inculcate in him a love for the language I have learnt to express and absorb with.
Call me old fashioned but I am not a lingweenie and look that up in an online dictionary before you cast aspersions on my sexual prowess in any way!!
LINGWEENIE
Children are angels till they find words!! My son has crossed that laxman rekha, he is all of 3 and a half years old and as such it is time to pattern the syllables escaping his lips, Its time to look for a school. The search begins and the fear hangs over our head like the sword of Damocles. My wife has been fretting and fuming for a few centuries saying we need to see the schools, I’m a little amazed as I existed in a time when there were no options you either went to the Girls school or Boys school and the maximum choice was Hindi Medium or English and Government or Private.
As such I surveyed a certain number of schools and was amazed to see the various options available: Australian curriculum, IB, Marathi, Hindi, English medium, schools that take children from particular communities, others that encourage pin code segregation. Imagine a child talking to another: I’m Mumbai 53 U are ? Mumbai 61! Oh sorry my mummy and daddy only allow me to speak to 55 and 54. There birthday parties are nearer to our home!
Schools with playgrounds, schools that our multi storeyed, schools that ensure international placements to universities, schools that have uniforms, schools that interview children who are 3 , schools that interview parents till 3 (pm) and schools that expect parents to attend schools as well.
Having assumed some semblance of a scholarly concerned father I attend an orientation by one school. The teacher starts in earnest, “ Werlcome tyu the bestest school in town! For the sake of not torturing your ears I will keep it short. The teacher had an accent picked up between the French and American embassy and I have it on good authority that her visas to both were rejected. But 10 points for imagination! She even found r’s to roll in words that don’t contain the alphabet.
I also noticed a unique fact, the school took great pains to say that they do not discriminate between boys and girls and your child will always be looked after. He will grow up to be strong of will, he will discover new things, he will play and learn…Some prejudices are better removed from the mind rather than paid poor lip service to.
I hastened to her after the session: Madam when will you put up the interview list
Dunno as yet will get back to you asap!!
MY mind processes the don’t know and says so should I call back
Yep If u wanna!!
I imagined my son walking in and say: Gu morn da! He would have willingly participated in the murder of the language as I knew it. But look and listen, the words have changed. A wedggie is not a short form for a plant eater but a crease riding your butt leading to strictly non vegetarian thoughts. Ginormous is not a double patiala peg of gin but something bigger than gigantic and enormous. Chillax, is not the ax murderer who got locked out on Christmas day but hanging out with friends. These words are real and they exist and each generation adds its favourites to the chain of spoken word, but the murder of the existing words is a crime we commit daily. Primary school teachers who are irrigating the fertile soil of imagination have a responsibility to them as well, to speak the language as it was meant to be, to strain the influence of the affected affluence of sources and let the synthesis of cultures do its best to grind a few syllables together and create a new word when the child has a mind of his or her own.
My son goes to a simple school now and each day I spend some time trying to inculcate in him a love for the language I have learnt to express and absorb with.
Call me old fashioned but I am not a lingweenie and look that up in an online dictionary before you cast aspersions on my sexual prowess in any way!!
Saturday, September 8, 2007
Going for a song!!
Saturday nights are battles for the remote. I was at my father in laws house and he had invited some friends over. We were moving from Idol to Sa Re Ga Ma Pa. At Idol I noticed Emon being eliminated. Prashant and Amit Paul remained composed and so did the young Emon. People muttered under their breath about biased voting and not fair. We also switched to Voice of India where apparently a Saradr singer is making waves in his community. But somewhere beneath the surface can we not see what is going on.
Regional states which have been marginalized of an identity are finding a new way to express themselves. The sms vote at 3 to 6 Rupees makes for great empowerment. Shillong, Darjeeling are becoming a reality, a living breathing entity beyond the customary bamboo dance shot in national integration videos. So as judges grind their teeth and fans react to their idols exit, the faces in Shillong and Darjeeling will be glowing tonight. I remember when we were shooting Public Demand and would travel to Ambala, Shimla, Ajmer the response would be much better than jaded Mumbai and Delhi. The urge to be on camera, to share the spotlight, to be noticed was so much more. And so the magnified resposne via sms!!
When Debojit won Sa re ga ma pa year before it was the same thing. The only fallout was that everyone from Assam still expects him to perform for free their as they CREATED him.
I recently heard that Hindi literacy numbers have improved due to a small innovation in Chitrahaar; it runs with subtitles like a karaoke song. Of course the added benefit is that some parts of India can appreciate the wonder of new age lyricists and can invent their own langaguge: Zubi Zubi, Ding Dong, Pant bhi sexy, Dhamaal, etc.
If Prashant teh sepoy wins the further marginalized will express their voice, I fear they may not have enough mobiles between them. Amit Paul will bring Shillong into the mainstream!! While perhaps better singers fall at the altar of mobile manipulation. 50 lakh smses for Prashant. Lets do a back of envelope calculation!! 50,00,000 X 3= 1.5 crores. Split this into 10% for the rights holder, 30% for channel, the rest split between servcie provider and technology provider.
And if this is per episode!! lets make the regions war for more as everybody hears the cash register ring!! Right now talent is going for a song, or an sms!!
Regional states which have been marginalized of an identity are finding a new way to express themselves. The sms vote at 3 to 6 Rupees makes for great empowerment. Shillong, Darjeeling are becoming a reality, a living breathing entity beyond the customary bamboo dance shot in national integration videos. So as judges grind their teeth and fans react to their idols exit, the faces in Shillong and Darjeeling will be glowing tonight. I remember when we were shooting Public Demand and would travel to Ambala, Shimla, Ajmer the response would be much better than jaded Mumbai and Delhi. The urge to be on camera, to share the spotlight, to be noticed was so much more. And so the magnified resposne via sms!!
When Debojit won Sa re ga ma pa year before it was the same thing. The only fallout was that everyone from Assam still expects him to perform for free their as they CREATED him.
I recently heard that Hindi literacy numbers have improved due to a small innovation in Chitrahaar; it runs with subtitles like a karaoke song. Of course the added benefit is that some parts of India can appreciate the wonder of new age lyricists and can invent their own langaguge: Zubi Zubi, Ding Dong, Pant bhi sexy, Dhamaal, etc.
If Prashant teh sepoy wins the further marginalized will express their voice, I fear they may not have enough mobiles between them. Amit Paul will bring Shillong into the mainstream!! While perhaps better singers fall at the altar of mobile manipulation. 50 lakh smses for Prashant. Lets do a back of envelope calculation!! 50,00,000 X 3= 1.5 crores. Split this into 10% for the rights holder, 30% for channel, the rest split between servcie provider and technology provider.
And if this is per episode!! lets make the regions war for more as everybody hears the cash register ring!! Right now talent is going for a song, or an sms!!
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Bhaag Lo
Zindagi ki har paristhiti mein humare paas do raaste hote hain : Bhaag Lo ya Bhaag Lo!!
Aajkal bhaagne se rishta zyaada hai. Wazan kuch zyada ho gaya hai is liye bhaagna padta hai, biwi ke comments se, doston ki muskurahat se, producers ki nazar se. Kabhi kabhi sheeshe mein mujhe achambe se dekhte us pratibimb se jo kabhi main tha.
Har shehar hum par apni koi chaap chor jaata hai. Lucknow ne mujhe zehniyat di, Dilli ne maulat, Mumbai ne daulat. Lekin har shehar suut samet apne asal ki wasooli bhi karta hai. Lucknow thoda meherbaan tha, usne zyaada kuch nahin maanga, kuch bachpan ke romance, kuch school ke jhagde, kuch medal jo main jeet na paaya apne paas rakh liye.
Dilli connection ka shehar hai. Das saal mein dus dus percent lete lete usne mujhse bahut kuch wasoola. Sabse pehle to mujhse masoomiyat cheeni. College ke dino mein lagta tha ki ek hur pari milegi. Woh aasman se zameen par tapak kar mera haath thaam legi. Lekin aisa na hua, panchi ko dana daala to gaya, lekin phir hur hur karke mujhe dara bhi diya gaya. Accha hi tha, maine apne aap se kaha, daane ke neeche humesha jaal hota hai.
Alhadh pan se jawani tak ka safar badi teezi se nikla. Lekin ekdin pata chala. Hum bade ho gaye hain. Kaam samhala, naam samhala. Phir dilli ne dastak di. Ama mian, zara kuch apna bhi chodte jaao. Baut kuch chora. Kuch aur rishte girvi rakhe, dosti mein bhool huyi, shadi mein chook. Lekin itni maulat milti gayi ki har bhool chuk maaf ho gayi.
Phir 99 mein Mumbai ki taraf udaan bhari. Daulat aur Shohrat dono payi. Saccha Pyaar bhi mila. Mujhe laga ek naya sapna shuru hua hai. Dheere dheere is shehar ke thekedaar bhi aa gaye wasooli karne. Pehle waqt chin gaya. Phir chain. Jaise kisi local main achanak chain kheench di ho kisi ne aur lambe safar par sota passenger sakpaka ke uth jaaye.
Main aaj bhi Mumbai mein hoon. Bhaag daud ke is shehar mein Bhaag leta hoon. Har roz din se joojhta hoon, samay ke court mein duhai deta hoon, kuch lamhe de do apnon ke saath, apne aap ke saath. Faryaad suni nahin jaati. Kaha jaata hai ye sab tumhare haath mein hai!
Zindagi ki har paristhiti mein humare paas do raaste hote hain : Bhaag Lo ya Bhaag Lo
Bhaag lete lete main ek Mahal main pahunch gaya hoon. Jaise hi seedhe chadta hoon peeche ki seedhe gir ke gayab ho jaati hai. Uski jagah kuch aur chehre aa jaate hain. Hanste chehre, hairaan chehre, tareef karte chehre, tareeqi chehre.
Koi aur chaara bhi nazar nahin aata. Badhte jaoo, chadte jao.
Andar se ek awaaz kuch kehti hai, lekin matlab samajh nahin paata:
Bhaag Lo, Bhaag Lo, Bhaag Lo.
Aajkal bhaagne se rishta zyaada hai. Wazan kuch zyada ho gaya hai is liye bhaagna padta hai, biwi ke comments se, doston ki muskurahat se, producers ki nazar se. Kabhi kabhi sheeshe mein mujhe achambe se dekhte us pratibimb se jo kabhi main tha.
Har shehar hum par apni koi chaap chor jaata hai. Lucknow ne mujhe zehniyat di, Dilli ne maulat, Mumbai ne daulat. Lekin har shehar suut samet apne asal ki wasooli bhi karta hai. Lucknow thoda meherbaan tha, usne zyaada kuch nahin maanga, kuch bachpan ke romance, kuch school ke jhagde, kuch medal jo main jeet na paaya apne paas rakh liye.
Dilli connection ka shehar hai. Das saal mein dus dus percent lete lete usne mujhse bahut kuch wasoola. Sabse pehle to mujhse masoomiyat cheeni. College ke dino mein lagta tha ki ek hur pari milegi. Woh aasman se zameen par tapak kar mera haath thaam legi. Lekin aisa na hua, panchi ko dana daala to gaya, lekin phir hur hur karke mujhe dara bhi diya gaya. Accha hi tha, maine apne aap se kaha, daane ke neeche humesha jaal hota hai.
Alhadh pan se jawani tak ka safar badi teezi se nikla. Lekin ekdin pata chala. Hum bade ho gaye hain. Kaam samhala, naam samhala. Phir dilli ne dastak di. Ama mian, zara kuch apna bhi chodte jaao. Baut kuch chora. Kuch aur rishte girvi rakhe, dosti mein bhool huyi, shadi mein chook. Lekin itni maulat milti gayi ki har bhool chuk maaf ho gayi.
Phir 99 mein Mumbai ki taraf udaan bhari. Daulat aur Shohrat dono payi. Saccha Pyaar bhi mila. Mujhe laga ek naya sapna shuru hua hai. Dheere dheere is shehar ke thekedaar bhi aa gaye wasooli karne. Pehle waqt chin gaya. Phir chain. Jaise kisi local main achanak chain kheench di ho kisi ne aur lambe safar par sota passenger sakpaka ke uth jaaye.
Main aaj bhi Mumbai mein hoon. Bhaag daud ke is shehar mein Bhaag leta hoon. Har roz din se joojhta hoon, samay ke court mein duhai deta hoon, kuch lamhe de do apnon ke saath, apne aap ke saath. Faryaad suni nahin jaati. Kaha jaata hai ye sab tumhare haath mein hai!
Zindagi ki har paristhiti mein humare paas do raaste hote hain : Bhaag Lo ya Bhaag Lo
Bhaag lete lete main ek Mahal main pahunch gaya hoon. Jaise hi seedhe chadta hoon peeche ki seedhe gir ke gayab ho jaati hai. Uski jagah kuch aur chehre aa jaate hain. Hanste chehre, hairaan chehre, tareef karte chehre, tareeqi chehre.
Koi aur chaara bhi nazar nahin aata. Badhte jaoo, chadte jao.
Andar se ek awaaz kuch kehti hai, lekin matlab samajh nahin paata:
Bhaag Lo, Bhaag Lo, Bhaag Lo.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
Teeja Rang
I have now seen the movie Chak De twice, each time the song Teeja tera rang tha main toh plays, it touches a chord. Initially I didn't get the word, till I realized its significance. Teeja rang, the third colour of the flag, the green in our flag that connotes the Indian farmer or as many say the Indian muslim. Our founding fathers chose our flag with care. Our politics is based on subtle messages, we as a nation hate being direct so if peace was the white then the saffron and the green symbolized the two communities that make the largest part of the nation, and the white probably was a hope for relations between both communtiies to be peaceful. Or so I feel.
The song means a lot to a secular muslim. I have been bought up by parents who respected religion yet rejected its impositions. We didn't pray 5 times a day, yet we observed Moharram and celebrated Eid, we also celebrated Diwali, Raksha Bandhan, yet avoided Holi as we found the muck raking mixed with the colour strange. I remember how the Nukkad Ahuja Speaker would cough to life on Holika night and blare bhajans in praise of Sri Krishna and film songs in praise of the latest heartthrob. We absorbed influences from all around, we sat at tea time and discussed God, religion, physics, particulate matter etc. Many years later I won an episode of Antakshari purely due to the songs I heard on Holi.
We travelled to school in a cycle rickshaw that was communal harmony at its best. A christian boy from near Gadbadjhala, the sons of a Halwai from Aminabad, a Hardware merchants son near Latouche road.
We would all bow before every church, every temple on the way. There were never too many mosques on the main road. When the rhetoric around Babri/Ram Mandir changed to a shrill cry for blood, small children roamed the streets of our locality with Gadhas shouting Mandir wahin banayenge. These were the same children who would play marbles all day outside our house and watch Chitrahaar on Thursdays in a community viewing at ur house. Earlier they used to run out when we caught them playing marbles as they would block our main door, now they played with a laconic ease. As if they were marking their territory. It was around this time that my father fortified the windows at home with a solid grill.
Years passed, occasionally i felt this label appear like a hidden attack of a dormant virus. When I searched for a house in Delhi my muslimness showed up!! When I spoke English in the traditional muslim community in Chawk they laughed at me for my alien behaviour. I have attended weddings in Gurdwaras and temples, sat through Havans in Bihar, attended Church services. I am the loudest in the cinema hall singing the national anthem.
Yet somethings changing, today in Mumbai I feel the lack of a certain rootedness. I am neither a devout Muslim nor an athiest. I try and follow reason and logic, a religion called humanitarianism. There is a sher I like " Ghar se Masjid hai bahut door chalo aisa kar lein, Kisi rote huye bacche ko hasaya jaae"
Yet with each Hyderabad blast, and failed bombing in London, with each deportation I feel the walls keep closing in. This city knows the language of money and hard bargains, nobody discusses religion or identity. Those who do are labelled intellectuals. Where does a secular person go!! What does he do to spread the word of oneness. With a polarized nation what do those who do not pick a side do? How do i prove my secular credentials?
I have no answers instead when I hear the song somehow I feel a tinge of remorse
mitti meri thi tu hi wahin mere ghee aur churee
wahin raanzhen mere wahin heer
wahi savaiyaan wahin kheer
tujhse hi rooth na re tuzhe hi manana
tera mera naata koi dooja na jaana
teeja tera rang tha main to
jiya tere dhang se main to
tu hi tha maula tu hi aan
Maula mere le le meri jaan…….
Maula mere le le meri jaan…….
Maula mere le le meri jaan…….
The song means a lot to a secular muslim. I have been bought up by parents who respected religion yet rejected its impositions. We didn't pray 5 times a day, yet we observed Moharram and celebrated Eid, we also celebrated Diwali, Raksha Bandhan, yet avoided Holi as we found the muck raking mixed with the colour strange. I remember how the Nukkad Ahuja Speaker would cough to life on Holika night and blare bhajans in praise of Sri Krishna and film songs in praise of the latest heartthrob. We absorbed influences from all around, we sat at tea time and discussed God, religion, physics, particulate matter etc. Many years later I won an episode of Antakshari purely due to the songs I heard on Holi.
We travelled to school in a cycle rickshaw that was communal harmony at its best. A christian boy from near Gadbadjhala, the sons of a Halwai from Aminabad, a Hardware merchants son near Latouche road.
We would all bow before every church, every temple on the way. There were never too many mosques on the main road. When the rhetoric around Babri/Ram Mandir changed to a shrill cry for blood, small children roamed the streets of our locality with Gadhas shouting Mandir wahin banayenge. These were the same children who would play marbles all day outside our house and watch Chitrahaar on Thursdays in a community viewing at ur house. Earlier they used to run out when we caught them playing marbles as they would block our main door, now they played with a laconic ease. As if they were marking their territory. It was around this time that my father fortified the windows at home with a solid grill.
Years passed, occasionally i felt this label appear like a hidden attack of a dormant virus. When I searched for a house in Delhi my muslimness showed up!! When I spoke English in the traditional muslim community in Chawk they laughed at me for my alien behaviour. I have attended weddings in Gurdwaras and temples, sat through Havans in Bihar, attended Church services. I am the loudest in the cinema hall singing the national anthem.
Yet somethings changing, today in Mumbai I feel the lack of a certain rootedness. I am neither a devout Muslim nor an athiest. I try and follow reason and logic, a religion called humanitarianism. There is a sher I like " Ghar se Masjid hai bahut door chalo aisa kar lein, Kisi rote huye bacche ko hasaya jaae"
Yet with each Hyderabad blast, and failed bombing in London, with each deportation I feel the walls keep closing in. This city knows the language of money and hard bargains, nobody discusses religion or identity. Those who do are labelled intellectuals. Where does a secular person go!! What does he do to spread the word of oneness. With a polarized nation what do those who do not pick a side do? How do i prove my secular credentials?
I have no answers instead when I hear the song somehow I feel a tinge of remorse
mitti meri thi tu hi wahin mere ghee aur churee
wahin raanzhen mere wahin heer
wahi savaiyaan wahin kheer
tujhse hi rooth na re tuzhe hi manana
tera mera naata koi dooja na jaana
teeja tera rang tha main to
jiya tere dhang se main to
tu hi tha maula tu hi aan
Maula mere le le meri jaan…….
Maula mere le le meri jaan…….
Maula mere le le meri jaan…….
Friday, August 31, 2007
Superman Returns: a late post
Its the longest standing relationship we have had, its a mutli coloured multi layered relationship, with a man of steel. We may have forgotten him for a while but it comes back to you like cycling. The curl down the forehead the all familiar S sign, journalists jostle to add spice to the sound bytes that bored starlets offer, many chests have an uneven S splayed across them, some the effects of toil at the gym the other of a surgeons scalpel.
If you were a superhero what powers would u like, what does S stand for on supermans chest...behind me the theme music of superman plays loudly, its almost uplifting and so is the escalator conversation... Who is that, what's she wearing, is it a fake, give me a man any man will do....
Do we need superheroes, or idols at all. Is there any sense in believeing....
My son often runs around with bedsheets wrapped around him, it reminds me of similar games I had played. But he is now easily bored. He can choose between vampire slayers n web slingers, his problems r more complex and so is his world.
For me I could wrap my troubles up in a bedsheet around my neck and fly away into a land of make believe. I was robin hood, green arrow, daredevil, batman. Believeable superheroes but never a superman. That you couldn't be but could only aspire to...it was the holy grail.
The movie is good, to a superman fan who knows his invulnerability infront of our mortal fears and his vulnerability to our mortal love resonates. Yet for a generation whose idols change as oftwn as there underwear it is a quick fling that doesn't last beyond 2 hours. Where is the long lasting impression that cinema used to etch on the canvas of our mind.
My son has switched loyalties again. Its now X men. Kaching his wolverine claws rip through imaginary air.
Yet sometimes I am his secret super hero. When I fix a broken toy, or lift him sky high and catch him before he falls. Or when I pass a difficult level in a game.
I hope this love affair lasts forever and before mortality gets the better of me I can etch a few legends in his mind and in a few others.
If you were a superhero what powers would u like, what does S stand for on supermans chest...behind me the theme music of superman plays loudly, its almost uplifting and so is the escalator conversation... Who is that, what's she wearing, is it a fake, give me a man any man will do....
Do we need superheroes, or idols at all. Is there any sense in believeing....
My son often runs around with bedsheets wrapped around him, it reminds me of similar games I had played. But he is now easily bored. He can choose between vampire slayers n web slingers, his problems r more complex and so is his world.
For me I could wrap my troubles up in a bedsheet around my neck and fly away into a land of make believe. I was robin hood, green arrow, daredevil, batman. Believeable superheroes but never a superman. That you couldn't be but could only aspire to...it was the holy grail.
The movie is good, to a superman fan who knows his invulnerability infront of our mortal fears and his vulnerability to our mortal love resonates. Yet for a generation whose idols change as oftwn as there underwear it is a quick fling that doesn't last beyond 2 hours. Where is the long lasting impression that cinema used to etch on the canvas of our mind.
My son has switched loyalties again. Its now X men. Kaching his wolverine claws rip through imaginary air.
Yet sometimes I am his secret super hero. When I fix a broken toy, or lift him sky high and catch him before he falls. Or when I pass a difficult level in a game.
I hope this love affair lasts forever and before mortality gets the better of me I can etch a few legends in his mind and in a few others.
Monday, July 2, 2007
Dil hai Chota Sa
Somehow in the hustle bustle of life I managed to stop by and catch clips from Indian idol on Tata Sky. After the usual bicker and banter of judges a girl called Richa was voted of. As she tried to compose herself the strains of a song started in the background. Dil Hai Chota Sa Choti si Aasha.
Charon taraf ka mahaul kuch sanate sa tha, jaise awaazon par tala lag gaya ho, jaise andar se kuch toot sa raha ho. Udhar ek cutaway mein Javed Sahib ki aankhon mein ek aansoon dikha, idhar Richa ke chehre par se 2 boondein girin. Na Jaane kyun mujhe laga jaise mere ghar se door, zameen se ladti samundar ki lehron ki kuch boondein meri aankhon mein bhi aa gayi.
2 saal pehle India's best ek Reality hunt ka main bhi host tha. Jab pehli baar Famous Studio mein wo saare naujawaan mile the to unke chehre mein mujhe ek aaina dikhta tha apne beete huye dino ka. Koi bhatinda se to koi indore se, koi ma ka bandha taweez gale mein latkaye koi girlfirend ki picture purse ke kone mein dabaye aaya tha. Sab star ban na chahte the. Khush tha mein ki inka raasta shayad mujhse aasan ho. Waise uparwala mujhpar kafi meherbaan tha, ek din mein radio jockey, 2 mein Tv host, 3 mein ek company ka maalik...par shayad itna bada risk, Mumbai aane ka dar mujhse saha nahin gaya tha. Dilli mein khush tha, jab kismat ne mumbai ka rukh kiya to main haath thame chala aaya.
Pehla round tha, sab Mumbai ke nashe mein choor, Sitaron ke banglon ki sair karke, man hi man apne bangle banaye aaye the us round ke liye. 2 ghante tak toofan chalta raha. Koi naachta, koi gaata, judges bhi taaliyan marte, darshak ringmaster ki awaaz sunte hi taaliyan bajate, placard uthate.
Lekin aakhir humein 4 logon ko alvida kehna pada. Ek ek naam aisa lag raha tha jaise umar qaid ka farman court se jaari hua ho. 22 saal ke ladke secondon mein bilakte, sabki aankhon mein ek dar, agla naam mera na ho. Mujhe yaad hai woh raat main so nahin paya tha. Us din ek pal main bacchon ko bada hote dekha tha.
Agle 4 maheene mein meri chamdi bhi moti ho gayi thi, lams ki nami jaati rahi. har shoot par mein sochta kya behtareen ant hua show ka, aaj TRP aur aayegi. Show khatam hua, jaise laga gudde gudiya ki shadi ke beech kisi ko homework yaad aa gaya ho. Gudiya ka makeup adhoora reh gaya, gudde ki sherwani cheen li gayi. Kal ke bacche, zameen se uthaye huye, aasman par chadaye huye, apni jagah dhoondne lage us aasman mein, ab pata chala ki wo to poore brahmand mein phaila hai. Jitna apni jagah dhoondte utne chote hote jaate. Apni nazaron mein girte jaate. Lokhandwala market mein Mumbai ke anek berozgaar har shyaam matar gashti karte hain, ya phir zindagi ke maayne dhoondte hain, sachai se kuch aur ghante chup jaate hain. Aur phir ghar jaake apni tanhai se jhoojte hain. Ye sab mujhe wahin milte.
Kuch aaj Tv par hain, kuch filmein kar rahe hain apne balboote par. Kuch ghar wapas chale gaye hain. Aaj jab milte hain to ye manjhe huye Mumbai ke industry wale hain. Na woh sharm hai, na woh ehsaas, sab busy hain, sab ke peeche producer daud rahe hain, sabki film bus kal hi lagne wali hai.
Bache!! Kya shabd hai, kis se bacchei hain, kya bachaye hain jo hum inko bacchei kehte hai!
Aaj phir Indian Idol dekha, ek aur out hua, Anu ji ne acting karke apna gussa dikhaya, bichare itne bure actor hain ki koshish karke bhi sahi expression na de paaye. Anchors mein Husain ne ladki ko rulane ki koshish ki , wo nahin roi, baap ki tasveer dikhayi, wo nahin royi, doston ne thama, lekin wo nahin royi!!
Sab hairaan the, lekin sab bhool gaye the, ye bacche shayad itna ro chukke hain ki aansoo hi nahin bacche.
Chote se shehar, choti si aashayein, aur kabhi kabhi industry ki sacchai se jale registan jaise judges ke chehron mein ye bacche bhi ek pal ki barish karte hain, lekin phir registan ki jali huyi zameen ko apni sachai yaad aati hai, aur wo usse peekar sukhi ho jaati hai.
Charon taraf ka mahaul kuch sanate sa tha, jaise awaazon par tala lag gaya ho, jaise andar se kuch toot sa raha ho. Udhar ek cutaway mein Javed Sahib ki aankhon mein ek aansoon dikha, idhar Richa ke chehre par se 2 boondein girin. Na Jaane kyun mujhe laga jaise mere ghar se door, zameen se ladti samundar ki lehron ki kuch boondein meri aankhon mein bhi aa gayi.
2 saal pehle India's best ek Reality hunt ka main bhi host tha. Jab pehli baar Famous Studio mein wo saare naujawaan mile the to unke chehre mein mujhe ek aaina dikhta tha apne beete huye dino ka. Koi bhatinda se to koi indore se, koi ma ka bandha taweez gale mein latkaye koi girlfirend ki picture purse ke kone mein dabaye aaya tha. Sab star ban na chahte the. Khush tha mein ki inka raasta shayad mujhse aasan ho. Waise uparwala mujhpar kafi meherbaan tha, ek din mein radio jockey, 2 mein Tv host, 3 mein ek company ka maalik...par shayad itna bada risk, Mumbai aane ka dar mujhse saha nahin gaya tha. Dilli mein khush tha, jab kismat ne mumbai ka rukh kiya to main haath thame chala aaya.
Pehla round tha, sab Mumbai ke nashe mein choor, Sitaron ke banglon ki sair karke, man hi man apne bangle banaye aaye the us round ke liye. 2 ghante tak toofan chalta raha. Koi naachta, koi gaata, judges bhi taaliyan marte, darshak ringmaster ki awaaz sunte hi taaliyan bajate, placard uthate.
Lekin aakhir humein 4 logon ko alvida kehna pada. Ek ek naam aisa lag raha tha jaise umar qaid ka farman court se jaari hua ho. 22 saal ke ladke secondon mein bilakte, sabki aankhon mein ek dar, agla naam mera na ho. Mujhe yaad hai woh raat main so nahin paya tha. Us din ek pal main bacchon ko bada hote dekha tha.
Agle 4 maheene mein meri chamdi bhi moti ho gayi thi, lams ki nami jaati rahi. har shoot par mein sochta kya behtareen ant hua show ka, aaj TRP aur aayegi. Show khatam hua, jaise laga gudde gudiya ki shadi ke beech kisi ko homework yaad aa gaya ho. Gudiya ka makeup adhoora reh gaya, gudde ki sherwani cheen li gayi. Kal ke bacche, zameen se uthaye huye, aasman par chadaye huye, apni jagah dhoondne lage us aasman mein, ab pata chala ki wo to poore brahmand mein phaila hai. Jitna apni jagah dhoondte utne chote hote jaate. Apni nazaron mein girte jaate. Lokhandwala market mein Mumbai ke anek berozgaar har shyaam matar gashti karte hain, ya phir zindagi ke maayne dhoondte hain, sachai se kuch aur ghante chup jaate hain. Aur phir ghar jaake apni tanhai se jhoojte hain. Ye sab mujhe wahin milte.
Kuch aaj Tv par hain, kuch filmein kar rahe hain apne balboote par. Kuch ghar wapas chale gaye hain. Aaj jab milte hain to ye manjhe huye Mumbai ke industry wale hain. Na woh sharm hai, na woh ehsaas, sab busy hain, sab ke peeche producer daud rahe hain, sabki film bus kal hi lagne wali hai.
Bache!! Kya shabd hai, kis se bacchei hain, kya bachaye hain jo hum inko bacchei kehte hai!
Aaj phir Indian Idol dekha, ek aur out hua, Anu ji ne acting karke apna gussa dikhaya, bichare itne bure actor hain ki koshish karke bhi sahi expression na de paaye. Anchors mein Husain ne ladki ko rulane ki koshish ki , wo nahin roi, baap ki tasveer dikhayi, wo nahin royi, doston ne thama, lekin wo nahin royi!!
Sab hairaan the, lekin sab bhool gaye the, ye bacche shayad itna ro chukke hain ki aansoo hi nahin bacche.
Chote se shehar, choti si aashayein, aur kabhi kabhi industry ki sacchai se jale registan jaise judges ke chehron mein ye bacche bhi ek pal ki barish karte hain, lekin phir registan ki jali huyi zameen ko apni sachai yaad aati hai, aur wo usse peekar sukhi ho jaati hai.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Parinde
Jab se main is shehar mein aaya hoon charon taraf dekhta rehta hoon, lekin parinde nazar nahin aate. Shayad suraj ki tapti roshni mein woh dikhte nahin the ya aasman ki taraf aankh uthane ki himmat nahin thi.
Ab jab naam aur shohrat kama li to paya ki parinde sirf uchaiyon par nazar aate hain. Shayad unhe bhi ye shehar nazdeek se bhata nahin hai. Aaj ghar ki uchaiyon se mein dekhta hoon. Kabhi kabhar mere kamre ke bahar ek chidiya chehkti hai, Kabhi tote nazar aate hain, kabhi cheel, kabhi ghar ka khabri kabootar nazar aa jata hai.
Parindon ke paron mein safar ka ehsaas ho jaata hai. Wo bane hain udaan bharne ke liye. Apne ghar ki grill se jhankta hoon, sab dikhta hai lekin aankhon ke nazdeek nazar aati hai woh grill jo shayad mujhe shehar se mehfooz rakhti hai ya shehar ko mujhse!!
Yahan saiyaaz bhi kai hain. Wo jo parindon ka shikaar na jaane kab se karte aa rahein hain. Na inke paas anaaj hai, na jaal bichaya hai. Inke paas aasman mein kabhi udne ka certificate tha, shayad hawa ke thapedon se gir kar, saham ke, ye ab aasman mein udte nahin. Lekin certificate hai sahab. Thoda dhundla hai to kya hua, certificate sab dekhna chahte hain.
Main sochta hoon ki jab ek parinda apni pehli udaan bharta hai, usse sirf ek ehsaas hota hai, shayad hawaein us se baate karti hain, shayad uske pankh raat ko taqiye ka kaam karte hain, wo apne armanon par sota hai. Aur jab jagta hai to pehli yaad hoti hai us sapne ki jismein, har shehar ke toote raste, har building mein ladte insaan, har dhuan ugalti chimney ko chalaang kar wo udata hai, kismat ki rekha ke aage...
ye parinde kabhi kabhi hi nazar aate hain...zyadatar mein bhi us road par chalta hoon, lekin na jaane kyun aajkal main apne bacche ko wo kagaz ki chidiya banana sikha raha hoon jo bachpan mein maine seekhi thi
Ab jab naam aur shohrat kama li to paya ki parinde sirf uchaiyon par nazar aate hain. Shayad unhe bhi ye shehar nazdeek se bhata nahin hai. Aaj ghar ki uchaiyon se mein dekhta hoon. Kabhi kabhar mere kamre ke bahar ek chidiya chehkti hai, Kabhi tote nazar aate hain, kabhi cheel, kabhi ghar ka khabri kabootar nazar aa jata hai.
Parindon ke paron mein safar ka ehsaas ho jaata hai. Wo bane hain udaan bharne ke liye. Apne ghar ki grill se jhankta hoon, sab dikhta hai lekin aankhon ke nazdeek nazar aati hai woh grill jo shayad mujhe shehar se mehfooz rakhti hai ya shehar ko mujhse!!
Yahan saiyaaz bhi kai hain. Wo jo parindon ka shikaar na jaane kab se karte aa rahein hain. Na inke paas anaaj hai, na jaal bichaya hai. Inke paas aasman mein kabhi udne ka certificate tha, shayad hawa ke thapedon se gir kar, saham ke, ye ab aasman mein udte nahin. Lekin certificate hai sahab. Thoda dhundla hai to kya hua, certificate sab dekhna chahte hain.
Main sochta hoon ki jab ek parinda apni pehli udaan bharta hai, usse sirf ek ehsaas hota hai, shayad hawaein us se baate karti hain, shayad uske pankh raat ko taqiye ka kaam karte hain, wo apne armanon par sota hai. Aur jab jagta hai to pehli yaad hoti hai us sapne ki jismein, har shehar ke toote raste, har building mein ladte insaan, har dhuan ugalti chimney ko chalaang kar wo udata hai, kismat ki rekha ke aage...
ye parinde kabhi kabhi hi nazar aate hain...zyadatar mein bhi us road par chalta hoon, lekin na jaane kyun aajkal main apne bacche ko wo kagaz ki chidiya banana sikha raha hoon jo bachpan mein maine seekhi thi
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