It was a dream,woven with love and care,
It was a dream,turned to reality, they shared,dream grew in to tree, so tall
with time, with the insults
Grew stronger like a wall,
It knew it’s fate,
It knew it’s past,
But it put up it’s shoes,
And moulded in to it’s cast……
Little was the dream,
But bigger it aimed,
Like a candid picture framed,
It never wanted to be tamed,
But, the world was not that space,
It was not a safe place,
They tamed it, put it behind the bars,
To rescue it from the cruel war,
But it found it’s way out,
It’s rebel was it’s silent shout,
after all,through the hard times,it survived
This rejected dream always revived
Monthly Archives: July 2018
It was a dream,woven with love and care,
आज-कल का ट्रेंड सब पर भारी है,
हर कोई बन रहा राइटर और कोई कर रहा शायरी है।
कुछ लोग सिक्स वर्ड स्टोरी तो कोई दो शब्द लिख रहा है
पर मतलब कोई नहीं समझ रहा है।
कोई अपने आप को drenched thoughts बोल रहा है
तो कोई इंसोमनिक राइटर हुआ जा रहा है।
पर वो सुख और सादगी को खोता जा रहा है
हो रहे है कोलबोरशन और
नई कहानियाँ लिखी जा रही है।
और यह ट्रेंड तो सब पर भारी है
लोग ख़ुद को दे रहे टाइटल और ख़िताब है
पर सच्चाई से तो वे भी अनजान है
अंग्रेजी का प्रहार लगता है हिन्दी साहित्य पर भारी है
कुछ मोड़ लिया हमने अपने आप को कुछ इस कदर
ना तो शोहरत न अब रही नाम की फ़िकर
हम तो बस अपने जज़्बात लिखा करते है
नाम और शोहरत से अपने आप को कुछ इस कदर दूर रखा करते है
ना जाने कब कोई लांछन लगा दे
क्या पता कब कोई कॉन्ट्रोवर्सी में ही फ़सा दे
हम तो बस अपनी दुनिया में मग्न है
तब से तो बस जिंदगी में अमन है
All my fountains were in you. That is why we died. I shouldn’t have kept begging for more. It only made things worse. You were too busy reading dense books with incomprehensible words. You only saw romance in the rhythm of Garvey’s words. One day you’ll realize that I too am intelligent. I know everything you are talking about, when you talk about it, it’s not that I don’t. It’s just that laying next to you showed me that worldly intelligence is so null. And now that I understand that, I don’t bask in the satisfaction of knowing things, people and facts anymore. Instead, I love.
“Did you write my letters,” Ankit said scrolling up and down his Twitter timeline on his archaic white MacBook.
“Yeah they’re in the first drawer,” I said, “I finished them after my last class.”
The dusty dorm room was scattered with papers and books. No room for 9 a.m. conversations over last night’s pizza. Just hushed tones and backlash from ignorant social media posts. We met in high school. When all I needed was a bright smile and sweet words to keep him infatuated. Today, my relevance is granted by writing letters to legislators on his behalf. Studying his rhetoric and understanding his foresight to make sure I’m doing what he asked me to as good as possible. I was too embarrassed to tell him I just wanted what we used to have. So, I was a concubine to the liberation of his mind instead.
“I’m going home for my mom’s birthday this weekend,” I blurted out while sliding on yoga pants, “She’ll love to see you.”
“I’ll come,” he said not looking up from the computer screen.
“Alright, I might leave a little early to get my hair done.”
“Hopefully you’ll stop putting that perm in it,” he laughed.
“I don’t get perms.” I snapped back, “If you knew anything about women, you would know that.”
What he did know about women is that when we love, there is no end to it. And even when things are bleak, the slightest bit of hope sustains us. Ankit came over to my mother’s smiling widely and full of life. Roses were in his hand for her. He smelled of my favorite cologne of his. We ate fried foods without regret and played an aggressive game of Pictionary. He ran his fingers throughout my freshly pressed hair as we set in the living room with a few of my guy cousins playing the video game. I felt at home which is all I really asked for lately. Until all of my comfort was shaken apart when he whispered in my ear.
“You know,” Ankit said as the music and laughter throughout the house got louder. “It worries me to see my people so oblivious sometimes.”
Exhausted, I responded, “What do you mean?”
“Look at how your cousins are drinking and playing 2K while police are killing them in the streets.”
“Really? Right now?”
“I’m just saying,” he paused, “It’s hard to not think like this when you’re fighting so hard.”
“Yeah but you know what babe?”
“People don’t need lectures as much as they need love.”
There’s this girl behind the bar and I think she must be the new Cafe coffee day because they took down the We’re Hiring sign out front and I’ve never seen her here before, and that says something because I come once sometimes twice a week. The only reason I don’t have a lot of patience right now is because she keeps dropping the portafilter (you really have to get it in there right and pull like your life depends on it) and the partially packed espresso is all over the floor and it’s distracting me from the conversation I’m trying to hack. I’ve been listening to the couple sitting at the table in front of me for awhile and I’m doing that thing where my headphones are in and sometimes I type so it’s very, very inconspicuous. But, I’m listening. Hard.
We’re at CP my favourite place, come here all the time. I like it because it’s quiet. It’s not the place you go to have a serious conversation so I don’t know why they’re here. Maybe they don’t know. It’s more like a library with a coffee bar and (now) shitty Cafe coffee day. I like the quiche they make on Wednesdays and I like how I don’t have to order a soy cappuccino anymore they just bring it over. I know what you’re thinking, soy, but one time I tried it just for the hell of it and I’ve never gone back. I don’t know what else to tell you. It’s a beautiful Tuesday morning and the birds are singing so lovely I swear they opened the window in here just for them. I would have sat outside at one of the European type tables, it’s that kind of nice with the sun and the breeze and the girls in sundresses, but I had to charge my computer first, and now I’m pretty hooked on this heated conversation…
“I’m not ready,” he says, pulling his face down with the weight of his fingertips. He is facing my direction so I’ve been observing and so far I notice his hands. He likes to run his fingers through his hair and play the piano on his thighs.
I can’t see her face but I know she’s pretty. Something about her hair maybe. It’s a soft, golden blonde and it looks perfectly straight and perfectly cut and you hope that it’s natural even though you know that it’s not. I can’t see her hands but her left foot has tapped at a steady tempo for the last hour. Maybe it’s the one thing keeping her from ripping his eyeballs out.
“I’m keeping it,” she says, tapping.
“You are, Arjun. I’m telling you right now that you are.”
I don’t know whose side I’m on. I don’t know if I have any strong beliefs about it I’ve never really thought about it. That’s the thing about being a guy I guess. You don’t have to think about it until something like this happens.
I take a quick look around to see if anyone else is doing what I’m doing. There’s an older guy in the corner with a newspaper and a chocolate croissant left untouched, but I doubt he can hear much besides his nasal breath and ruffling papers. There’s a woman at the table next to him with black and gold-rimmed glasses and a cat necklace (she’s a regular too but we’ve never acknowledged it), and I know she’s preoccupied with what is supposedly a novel about the fourth dimension. And really that’s it, just us, except for the Cafe coffee day teaching the new Cafe coffee day how to make a latte and I hope they’re not listening in on this because she needs focus!
“You know how I feel”
“You know I disagree.” His fingers playing piano. “There are other options.”
I do like Arjun and he says all of this in a very matter-of-fact manner I really don’t think he’s trying to make her upset, I think he’s trying to be honest, but what do I know? Her left foot has picked up the pace, double-time, and I find myself bracing for impact.
“I’m having the fucking baby, Arjun!” she screams. She stands up and in one fluid motion throws her hot, black coffee in his piano-playing lap. He, more or less, screams too.
“You’re fucking crazy, Ankita!”
Now everyone is doing what I’m doing.
The old Cafe coffee day runs to the couple’s table, while Ankita runs out. For someone who just burnt his scrotum, he is awfully calm now. He takes the napkins and thanks the old cafe coffee day and pats his lap and takes a deep breath. He runs his fingers through his hair and gathers his things and leaves just as quickly. I stare at the empty table with the wet napkins and the spilled coffee and the ultrasound photos she left behind and I’m not sure I like Arjun anymore. I don’t know what to think so I just sit for a while.
Eventually, I pack up my things because I tried to leave an hour ago but Arjun and Ankita happened. It’s still a beautiful day, despite the mood here at CP, and I could use a little fresh air. As I’m wrapping my headphones and taking my last, lukewarm sip of coffee, I hear the all too familiar sound of a fallen portafilter.
I swing by the bar on my way out to grab a breath mint.
“See you next week.”