मुस्कुरा देना

आज बीती गम की शाम सही, 

इस रात को भी बीत जाने दो

कल फिर एक नया सवेरा आएगा, 

खुशिया भर के लाएगा

कल फिर बारिश होगी हल्की हल्की, 

फिर फूल मुस्कुराएँगे 

भावरे भिन्न भिन्नाएँगे, 

चिड़िया चह चाहाएँगे

गीली मिट्टी की खुश्बू लेकर, 

ताज़ी हवायें आएँगी 

छू कर तेरे गालो को, 

तेरे बालो को उड़ाएगी 

फिर चूम के अंखियो को

तुझे प्यार से जगाएगी

तुम बीते कल को भूल कर, 

होठों को तिरछा करकर, 

चलो, ग़लती से ही सही 

मगर थोडा मुस्कुरा देना, 

ज़िंदगी को सबाह देना

इस नये दिन को दुआ देना

जिस ने गुदगूदाया तुम्हे,

वक़्त बे वक़्त हासाया तुम्हे

झूठी बातें बोल कर

जिस ने हौसला दिलाया तुम्हे

अपने ही अंदर छुपे 

उस सरकार को सदा देना

तुम बस …… एक बार मुस्कुरा देना

एक बार मुस्कुरा देना 

Like a Rainbow

She is like that flower
Drenched in the rain
Warm, moist, wanting
Eyes closed, but yet not
Lips like petals, tender, lazy
Shy, shining, wet, inviting
Enticing, calling out the sun
“come out and shine on me” She says
“through the stained glass window”
“filter your rays, paint me a rainbow”
 

I am the bee, that shiny stud

That sits on her nose
My eyes locked, lost into hers,
Mesmerized, spellbound, melting
My lips desirous, though left wanting
Wish I could glide along those tresses
Careless, casual, desultory
Fallen across her visage
Painted in beautiful colors
Like the rainbow

I wake her up and hum her my best ode

She pretends asleep

smiling, twitches the corner of lips, cheeks glisten

I walk my fingers over her belly

she wriggles, she writhes, crackles and giggles

and shakes her body like a jelly

Heavenly, luscious, divine, Irressitible

I pull back, I try to, but I can't hold the sting

violetty blue to orangish red, grows on her my hickey

Like a rainbow

Lament of the group chat leaver.

mohabbat karne waale kam na honge

teri mehfil mein lekin ham na honge

-               Hafeez Hoshiarpuri

Translation:

You will never be short of people who love you

However, I will not be there in that gathering anymore

For the past few days, this above couplet from Mehdi Hassan’s smash hit rendition has been stuck somewhere in my heart, and keeps oozing out of my lips and ringing in my ears. Just like an adamant child throwing a tantrum, it does not budge off from there, follows me wherever I go, and I tried hard, but it just does not just go away. I think, this has to do with an old habit, and since old habits die hard, I know this one will not go away without taking a part of me with it, and when it does, I know it will end up hurting me badly.

Many moons ago, in one of my earlier lives, when the world was kinder and I was a just another wise old fakir, whose blabbering went unnoticed, I had, in an extinct language, once said:

“The bruises on my feet tell the story of all those beautiful places that I have visited,

and the bruises in my heart tells the story of all those beautiful people whom I have betrayed”

How true that saying was then, and how true that saying is even today!

How true, though I do not think anyone heard me that time, and maybe that is why no one used to judge me by my utterings. It must have been late in the evening and I was probably walking in a dimly lit deserted street with that quintessential bowl in my hand, singing my heart out, wastefully entertaining people with my muse; people who probably had better things to do, than to listen to my gibberish. Nevertheless, I kept doing that, while humbly accepting, thanking and blessing my almsgiver for not throwing their leftovers into the bin, but into my bowl.

Although that old fakir has died long ago and although his soul has changed bodies, gender and moved on, the core of it has more or less remained the same, albeit with time and along with the depletion of the ozone layer, this soul too is a bit adulterated. I must admit, that in this birth, I may sound suave and look classier, but I am also sillier and crasser than ever before. What I have gained in my appearance, I have lost in my outlook.

Earlier, I used to walk along the streets in my haggard, torn unwashed one-piece cloak, singing soulful couplets to naïve ears, while allowing them to accumulate punya in return to dropping a morsel of their leftover food into my bowl. I used to be stoned, mocked at and forbidden for my dirty cloths, the odor and those dread locks. No one paid heed to the words of wisdom that I poured out.

Nowadays, I strut with stylized swag, my face glows with artificial radiance, shampooed tresses sway in the air, and a fake scent gives credence and acceptance in this worldly place. I entertain my frenemies with my wasteful creative banter, and whatever is remaining of my dying cherub on the various online chat groups. I provide these so-called sensible and mature, friendly enemies with just the right amount of gentle banter to keep them cheerful during the drudgery called workday; load their weekends with juicy supplies of my antics to gossip on my back, all this; all while knowingly getting myself labelled immature, crude and lacking in etiquette.

I was never accepted then, and I still am not.

I guess it is time to take refuge in the first line of my long lost couplet. It is time to move on. Move on to another beautiful place, where again I will entertain people, just to end up ridiculed, punished, stoned, crucified and ultimately be praised and resurrected in absentia.

Yes, it is time to move on, not because I like it, but because my soul says so. My soul asks not for redemption, but for more pain and I ought to give it what it seeks, because only I can suffice my need for pain, no one else.

As I leave and go without any explanations, I know my chat buddies will brand me an absconder and accuse me of being a betrayer. Little do they know that a betrayer goes through more pain than the one who is betrayed.

If you are the betrayed one, the whole world around you, including time comes to your rescue; empathizes with your situation, helps you fight the pain, applies remedies to your bruises and carries you to healing.

At the same time, how harsh life turns out for the betrayer! How harsh, that the world that was once your friend whom you entertained and performed for, this same world now gathers on your back, gossips about you, mocks you in their little private parties and discusses stories of your leaving while you are left fighting your demons all alone, in solitude. It is harsh, because not only those exes, but your own soul, your own conscience, and the passing time, puts you to test; it fills you with guilt, kills you from inside, keeps the scars alive, just to remind you of your betrayal. How harsh. How so very harsh!

Time to leave. Time for more pain.

The Al Ghariya Incident

The one about desi maal.

It is March again, and only my God and the walls of my house know how much my household hates the first two weeks of this month. This is the time when schools conduct final exams for the year. The lads hate it because their iPad time is squeezed from hours to minutes and their playtime is shortened to the least possible. Mommy hates it because she is juggling hard between fulfilling the needs of her three boys, tutoring/preparing the two lads for their exams, and ensuring that I am nowhere near the lads’ study table. I hate it because I am banished from the living room and also because this period is an anniversary and a grim reminder of a silly event from the past.

This happened last year, that is, when my elder one was in 5^th grade. By this time my situation was not as worse as it is now. Until February last year, I was allowed to tutor math to my younger lad, that is additions and subtractions only, but not multiplication or anything to do with English grammar; and also allowed to assist my wife in tutoring the elder one on ad hoc basis, on easy subjects especially when she had any important or unavoidable task in the kitchen or bathroom to attend to. Albeit part time, both I and my kids took great pride in it, because they still believed that I was intrinsically intelligent and knowledgeable as I had graduated in Civil Engineering from a prestigious Engineering College (their grandmother kept telling them that) and I was working on a large city development project (I kept telling them that). That was it! Then came March.

It was one of those hateful days in the beginning of March, it was final exam time, and I had just walked in home form another hectic workday of crushing candies, watching raunchy Bhojpuri videos and pampering my boss’s ass. You never know how time flies when your eyes are stuck on a Bhojpuri bhabhiji’s hip gyrations and your ears are lost in decoding the double meanings in her song. Needless to say, by the time I regained my senses and decided to drive back home, all my colleagues had already left and the office lights were switched off. It was pitch dark, and with great difficulty I managed to locate what I believe was the washroom door next to my boss’s cabin and peed into the first thing that felt and smelt like a urinal. Anyways what I intent to say is that I was late, pretty late, and that it was a tad bit later than what the definition of late actually is.

That day as I entered home, I saw a disaster struck Mommy with volcanic fumes and what not ejecting out of her ears, teaching math to an almost sleepy kid, who appeared equally disaster struck and holding back a tsunami, waiting to break free from his eyes. The younger one though had fallen asleep on the recliner.

I took a few steps in and my lad jumped off form his chair and ran towards me, hugged me and asked how my day was. I replied back saying “Very hectic son, very hectic and busy. I am so tired”. Mommy, the tutor looked up at me without lifting her head, with the sightline above her glasses, her eyes filled with aggravation, as if accusing me of coming home early and causing disruption to the kids studies. It is only when I enquired “What’s for dinner?” that she realized that it was already past 8:30PM. She got up and ran into the kitchen begging “Half an hour just give me half an hour”. I somehow dragged myself to the master bedroom to freshen up and change as my son zipped past me into his bedroom and in no time started to play on his Xbox.

Although I was home, I was not quite done with watching my favorite videos, as those holi and choli numbers kept lingering in my brain. I quickly changed into my nightwear and switched on my laptop, plugged in my headphones and got lost in my Bhojpuri world.  Never realized when I got into the groove, and posited myself into an imaginary hammock. I placed my feet on the computer table and slouched myself in to the chair with my head resting back lazily in the cup of my arms. Swinging in my imaginary hammock I hummed ‘maal desi maal desi maal desi maal’ with my eyes closed. Never realized that someone opened the door of my bedroom and entered in. Never realized that, that someone was my 10-year-old son. My trance was broken only when I felt his little warm hand on my shoulder. I jumped off the chair, scampered for the controls, couldn’t locate them, and in the process ended up dropping the mouse and breaking it. Nevertheless, I somehow managed to shut off YouTube and stand straight in front of my son and ask him sternly “What are you doing here, don’t you have anything to study?”

He said “I want you to explain me this desi maal thing”

“What?” I screamed back in a hush voice with my eyes almost popped out and shock written all over my face.

“I won’t explain anything to you. Go back and study” I said

He screamed “Amma, look this papa is …….”

I stopped him midway “No beta no. Don’t tell Amma. I will tell you everything. All that you want to know about desi maal” and I took a deep breath and began.

I started with explaining him that desi meant anything that is local and therefore anything Indian for Indians was desi, and that maal meant merchandize or product. So the term desi maal actually only meant any product that was Indian. He didn’t seem convinced with that answer. He seemed rather lost with that explanation and stared at me like I had gone crazy or what.

I always knew that my lad is smart kid, and so I couldn’t trick him with a placebo, and so I started explaining about the real stuff. I started with explaining him about UP, Bihar, Nepal Border, the language Bhojpuri, taught him a few Bhojpuri phrases and reached to the festival of holi, ched-chad, Devar-Bhabhi relationship, Mahua TV, traditional Bhojpuri numbers remixed into bollywood item numbers etc etc. I even sang to him two lines from my own Bhojpuri compilation:

Hamar padosan chamiya badi hott lage loo

Desi gori choriya, Europan lage loo

Chamiya ka jobanwa, atom bomb laage loo

Dilwa kare dhak dhak, humka shock lage loo

The explanation must have lasted for some 45 odd minutes, at the end of which I was feeling great and accomplished. For the first time in my life I felt that I had actually transferred important knowledge to my progeny. It was a masterstroke, and my chest bulged with pride. Pride, that I had actually explained something as complicated as this to this gulf-bred kid. But the gulf-bred kid seemed more lost altogether. He looked back at me with blank eyes, as if I have been talking to him in gibberish or some alien language and showed absolutely no sense of gratitude for the immense knowledge sharing that had just taken place.

It was exactly at that point that mommy called out saying that my dinner was ready, and this lad grabbed the first moment of my distraction, sneaked out, and ran away. I thought he ran away to play his Xbox, but he actually ran down to his Amma.

I stood there thumping my chest, brimming with pride and oozing self-love.

My self-admiration vanished as I opened my eyes and turned myself to walk down to the dining table for having dinner. Mommy stood there with disgust and disdain written all over her face and spewing dragon like fumes from her nostrils. One sight, and I shuddered with fear. I looked for a leeway, but she had already cornered me.

She screamed “What is this? You can’t do even one thing properly? That kid has his math finals day after tomorrow, and all I wanted you to do was help him revise the chapter on decimal system. You couldn’t even do that much? And what rubbish have you been talking to that little 10-year-old kid? How irresponsible and immature can you be man?”

That was it.

:-(