गुफ्तगू....ज़िंदगी से

 कुछ खास नहीं, बस आम सी बातें,आम से जीवन की, जो मन से फिसल कर निकली हैं...

सरपट दौड़ती ज़िंदगी के,
छालों भरे पांव से लिपट गयी मैं,
रुको !दो घड़ी,
कुछ सांस ले लें,
हम भी, तुम भी,
कुछ गुफ्तगू कर लें,
हम भी,तुम भी
आगे भी क्या बेदम दौड़ना है?
या फिर समय की गति को तोड़ना है?
हांकती गयी तुम,
और मैं भी दौड़ी बदहवास,
सोचा कम और भागी ज़्यादा,
कभी  ठिठकी, तो ठेल दिया,
कभी मुड़ी, तो धकेल दिया,
कभी दोराहों पर भटकाया,
कभी पतली गली में पटकाया,
कभी मकां छुटा, कभी साथी,
कभी दीया गिरा ,कभी सरकी बाती,
भीड़ बहुत थी,
क्या दूल्हा!  क्या बाराती!
मुखौटे सभी सजे हुए,
खिलाड़ी सारे मंजे हुए,
मुस्कान थी ,या नश्तर की धार?
नृत्य या धोबी पछाड़?
अजीब अंदाज़ था टोकने का,
हरी झंडी की आड़ में रोकने का,
भलाई और भरोसा कब का राह छोड़ गए,
सच्चाई और शर्म कब का मुँह मोड़ गए,
अब सांझ के झुटपुटे में थोड़ी रोशनी उधार लें,
अपनी झुर्रियों के साये में बैठ पांव पसार लें,
गिले शिकवे सब बिसार लें,
मेरी आंखों में मोती,
तुम्हारे बालों में चांदी,
अपनी अमीरी के साथ ,
आहिस्ता चलते हैं!
हम भी ,तुम भी,
हाथों में हाथ डाले,
जब तक हाथ छूट न जाये!!

Memory Lane

As we age, the urge to reconnect with the past becomes stronger. Some images are still clearly etched, while most are not. Eyes go misty and a lump forms in the throat as we reminisce of the days gone by with our friends and family. A photograph ,a card, a notebook, a box of knick knacks, a dress buried in the wardrobe, an equipment lying in disuse ...any of these can be a trigger to take a trip down the Memory Lane. I am currently visiting my hometown Patna...need I say more ?!☺️

Memory Lane

I didn't find it on Google Maps ,
The broad street , or was it narrow?
Was it straight or meandering?
Lined with homes with open doors,
Winds zinged through uncurtained windows.
Dusty images of people long ago ,

 Smiling eyes, questioning eyes, quarrelling eyes ,

Basking in lemony winter sun,
All enveloped in warm cotton wool. Laughing voices ,shrieking voices, carefree voices ,
Sailing across cool terraces,
All muted in layers  of felt .
A patch of green, a thatch of blue,
A batch of fragrant white,
All colours watered and pale.
I wipe my glasses ,
I strain my ears,
Trying to catch a glimpse,
Trying to snatch a note,
Of my receding past,
When I turn the corner
of my Memory Lane!!

Amaltas

This time of the year when the mercury is soaring and the earth bakes brown, you come across a very pleasant sight in most Indian cities - the flowering amaltas trees. Despite the blazing sun, the bright yellow flowers come as a respite, reflecting the indomitable spirit of Mother Nature. I clicked the pictures below on my way to work.

At the cost of ire of purists, I have chosen to use the name amaltas over laburnum. Few names have a very lyrical and poetic ring to it, like  gulmohar, maulashree, kachnaar...and amaltas! I thought it was a shame not to use it in the Indian scenario.

Amaltas

The gown is glittering gold,

Spangled with shiny yellow pearls,

Held in strings and streamers,

Ribbons and festoons.

Showers of topaz and citrine,

Cascading to the scalloped hemline.

Gilded eardrops drooping heavy,

Turning crystal chandeliers crimson.

Bits of sunshine woven in the veil,

As dripping silken rows,

Darting light as winds whistle.

Radiant amber beads ,

Swaying and sashaying.

Woodsy fragrance gently wafting.

Delicate bells almost tinkling,

As she tiptoes onto the stage,

Blinding spectators with brilliance,

To hear the proclamation,

"Winner of  Nature's Beauty Pageant,

Amaltas !!"