वो हमेशा कहा करती थी मेरे शहर छोड़ कर जाने पर बारिश होती थी।
मैं कहता शायद आसमान का दुःख बरसता है तो वो डांट देती। कहती की ये उसके आंसू थे। उसे रोते देखूंगा तो गुस्सा करूँगा ये सोच कर वो अपने आंसू मेरे आने से पहले आसमान के काले राख से रँगे बादलों में भर आती थी।
आज 7 महीने हुए उसे गए।
थोड़ी देर में मेरी भी ट्रेन प्लेटफार्म नॉ 4 पर आ जाएगी।
फ़िलहाल तो मैंने अपने सामान को कस कर पकड़ रखा है और उपर बादलों से टिप टिप बूंदा बाँदी शुरू हो चुकी है।

Scrolling through the by lanes of the city, I was soaking in every smell, every little detail that I came across. This was to be the last dussehra in my hometown, before I left this place for higher studies.
his eyes, i saw, were fixed on the balloon in my right hand a little inappropriate for my age.
he was more than happy when I handed over the balloon to him, his eyes gleaming with excitement of the new found toy.
his father, apprehensive, reached out to his wallet, handing me a ten rupee note. "keep this" he said "you are like my son"
"its okay uncle" I said "he must be my brother's age".
they walked away, with the spring evident in the kids walk...I could not see, but I am sure he was smiling...my day was made, and so were bitter sweet memories.
that was the last dussehra I ever spent at home

क्यों ,आज भी
फर्क पड़ता है
क्यों ,
 जब कुछ भी नहीं बाकि रहा है
 तम्हारे मेरे दरमियाँ
 क्यों, आज भी नज़र ढूंढती है
 तुम्हारे चेहरे पर ढल रही वो मखमली धूप
 क्यों,आज भी
खलिश सी एक घर कर जाती है
 हर शाम
 क्यों ,आज भी
याद तुम्हारी आती है
 मैं पूछता हूँ खुदसे ये सवाल
कई दफा
 यूँ ही,
बार बार
क्यों, आज भी,
 यकीन कर पाना मुश्किल है
तुम्हारा मेरा अब एक दुसरे से वास्ता कुछ नहीं
 कुछ भी तो नहीं
 बहुत मुश्किल है अब
 सब कुछ पहले जैसा हो पाना
 फिर क्यों आज भी
एक उम्मीद सी जिंदा है
 और सोचता हूँ मैं
एक बुरा सपना है बस ये

A borrowed camera - II

23 days. a borrowed camera. i am a tourist in my city. A city whose lanes i can almost sleepwalk through. around a thousand snaps. 60 selected for the final shot.
lots if editing. i toggle with new techniques. head banging. reading books.(thank you Sonal Kashyap Photography ) sleepless nights.
i see my collection, i feel happy.
i go through it again. and then, all over again, a strange sense of restlessness grips in.
only this much i could manage ??
is this all i am capable of ??
i ask to myself. i don't respond. i can't.
no. i have to click more.
the near orgasmic sound of the shutter being pressed.

i live for it. i crave for it.

a borrowed camera. light fades out before i can actually click anything. slowly, the dark creeps in, as does the night.
no trace of sleep in the eyes. its been like this since last an year n half.
its three in the morning. i am restless, after clicking around everything i could lay my hands on. macro shots, uselessly clicked for the heck of it, close up shots, for the fun of it.
its chilling cold outside. maybe, 5 degree Celsius and its foggy.
i start reading "dr jekyll n mr. hyde" but there' something which holds me restless.
soon, i am battling the cold outside. fingers exploring the consoles through a layer of leather. my cheeks can feel the brush of the wind. even though it's supposed to be daybreak, it's unbelievably dark.
i stop at a chai wallah, thinking i might get to click something. i order the kid for a cup of tea. click a few pictures. a sweeping thought of going back home comes to my mind. i just dont pay heed to it.
steering through the fog i can hear a cacophony of noises. its a bus conductor shouting. I follow the sound, board a bus.
i don't know where this might take me to. the conductor is still faraway, busy issuing tickets.
a song plays in the background, as i clear the lens of the camera with my muffler.

"phir se ud chala
ud ke chhoda hai
jahaan niche main
ab tumhare hawale hoon hawa"

you'll torture 6 people to death. taken.
you'll castrate them to death. agreed.
but wait, weren't the culprits in the infamous Delhi 1978 case- ranga and billa hanged to death.
didn't the same fate awaited the rapist of isha shanbaug, the Mumbai nurse.
rapes still do happen and at a much increased rate.
this girl, damini, took all the precautions we could have expected her to take. she was with a trustd male friend, it was not dark at night and she certainly didnt had the so called provocative clothing, and it was not a private taxi where the incident took place, it was a goddamned public transport bus.
you can change 1 thousand display pictures, but think for a moment, and think logically, if a rapist will think of your display picture before committing such a heinous crime ?? do i see you nodding your head in no ???
there is death penalty for so many crimes, and a life imprisonment for murder. but people do murder each other.
tomorrow, we'll have a new ruling govt with a new set of ministers. a new system. you'll kill these 6 people, tomorrow 60 more with be born again, with a much more retarded mentality. it's not a solution, anymore
change yourself, people. it will take time. 60 0r maybe, 100 years.
and it won't begin with those stupid candle light marches. certainly not. the change of perspective has to come from within. a lot needs to be done. 

Six months. And a lot of 'life'.
yes.
i guess that kept me busy and away from my blog all this time.
i remember, and since the blog is about nostalgia, how i kept planning and actually executed all of those plans to update my blog.
how encouraging it was to log in to the account and see the number of page visits augmented.
when all i did was to make the blog reach out to public and every response email would pop butterflies in my stomach.
in fact, it was for the sake of this blog i actually penned down a lot of things, which are now in a diary that's pages must have yellowed, locked in a dark cupboard.
i still remember the day paulo coelho retweeted the link to my blog.
how good those old days were !!
everything was going on fine. there were days i had to control the urge to post something thinking too much of any thing good is bad.
Then, LIFE happened.
one thing led to another, i met new friends, lost a lot of them, got over a few things in life and it was my blog who actually helped me do that.
not to forget my now not so new found interest - photography.
circumstances made me travel, which i did and what came out was a collection of some beautiful, some not so beautiful pictures.
failure, success, dejection, appraisal- last few months have been very special to me.
so has been moving on to this new place, some three thousand kilometres away from a place called home, meeting new people and finding a way to match the frequencies of weirdness we all have.
its really exhilarating when i introduce myself as a writer and blogger.
its really very tragic when i realise i haven't written anything in past 6 months.
it took me a lot of effort, and a herculean one to stop procrastinating and post something. to be frank, i was apprehensive if i would be able to write again; get that flair back.
somewhere, i wanted it to come from within. that moment of discomfort when one really needs to let it out.
luckily, i got it today when i ran halfway back from my hostel.
while writing this i can feel an aura of happiness all around me, most probably borne out of  satisfaction as much as i miss my tattered battered black keyboard.
now that my keys are getting accustomed to this keyboard, and my brain is busy looking for stories to share i find it difficult to choose which one to on with.
i tell my brain to control the excitement as the librarian blows out the whistle to alarm.
the time is up for today, the day is over. i want to go on writing. it's a new 'life'. it's a new start.
hopefully, i'll be back tomorrow, with more things to write, more stories to share, more poems to sing.
after all, too much of any thing god is bad.

untitled-I

छिटपुट हुई बारिश के बाद खिली आँखों को चुभती चटक धूप...साईकिल से, पैदल...स्कूल से घर लौटते बच्चे....
अजीब सी ठण्ड लए वो हवा ...जिससे लड़कर, बहकर, अमलतास के फूल पीले गुच्छों में झड रहे थे..
सब कुछ सामने ही तो था आँखों के फिर भी ऐसा लगा जैसा कुछ भूला हुआ सा याद आ गया हो...या शायद ऐसा कुछ, जो यादों के बिखरे पन्नों से फिसलता जा रहा था...
एक अलग सी बेचैनी, बेवजह ही सही, ...समय के समुद्र सी अथाह ....जिसका कोई ओर नहीं था...कोई छोर नहीं...

rendezvous

I
Seven years
after seven long years
We shall meet
i find my legs running
my heart
skipping a beat

II
as i sit into the bus,
and it's wheels roll
a snapshots of images, from the years went by
a melange of memories, my mind recalls.
those early days
when everything was free
the sun rose and set
we could sit and relax under a tree.

III
now i have stepped,
out of the bus
i walk towards the address
finding my way, through the ruckus

i call you,
in excitement i don't want to miss
panting, out of breath
i wonder, wouldn't it be a bliss.

i forget my way
lost in my path
i ask a shopkeeper
'keep walking', he barks

a mess it has become
as i can feel my nerves against my forehead
thumping vigorously
i enter the building- fondly painted red.

IV
we shook hands, we hugged
none of us the same.
but a vestige of old times,
we all loved.

we spoke,
with pauses longer than the words
we smiled,
the way we did with pure hearts

V
on a railway station
we are,
a brief meeting
after all those years it was

you get a ticket and ask for the trains
this must be a dream
lingers in my brain.

we change platforms
and run in haste
you have to catch up your train,
and i too have a lot to catch up with you, but i refrain.

VI
i walk out of the station building,
i can hear the whistles blow
though we promised we shall meet
in life, one never does know.

A winter poem

An evening it was,
december was the month
and everything seemed
to wrap in a blanket of cold.

stillness, all around
melancholy, of death
smoke, as if arising fom a pyre
filled the grey sky

everything lay silent
motionless, numb
an uneasiness enveloped the ambience

the sun eaiting to be set
caste a gloomy shadow
and a vacuous dark
finally seemed to spread.

was it the end of the world ?