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 ?

of thoughts into exile: Shivdeep lande

“He came, he saw and he fell short of conquering”
This age old adage comes to mind when one thinks of now former city sp of Patna, Shivdeep Wamanrao Lande.
No one remembers clearly when did he actually take charge of his post but when he did it was with élan. Newspapers were suddenly so fondly painted with the pictures of this stylish young man, taken in various poses at various places. Places the man raided. Places like cyber “sex” cafes, fake cosmetic factories, factories where children worked.
Weeks passed and newspapers piled on. So did this man’s achievements. Stylishly dressed in his khaki uniform, he was an extension of bollywood cops of the likes of singham and dabangg into real life. His valor must be praised for he dared to put his hands into the vicious circle of black marketing and other under the table work, something nobody before him had the guts for.
His was an aura that seemed to transcend all barriers of social life. He made his numbers public so that anybody in distress could call him and on more than many occasions it was the girls who solicited for his help. A man with a rank, he was a nightmare to the street hooligans- those who rode their bike in “lahariya” style and taunted girls, made ugly remarks.
He thrashed them, beat them up, and summoned them.
As the months passed, his popularity increased and so did the infamy. More than his work it was his style of work that goaded many.
He began to attend school functions and inauguration of sports meets. He was the face of a ramp shows and cultural programs. He, over a period of months became a celebrity. Camera persons and news reporters flocked him where ever he went. He was snapped  all over as if paparazzi followed him everywhere.
Last month, he raided a record 27 illegal proceedings.
This week, he was transferred.
He was asked to pack his bags to araria, a small district of Bihar in the foothills of Nepal.
What was his fault??
That he dared to expose the vicious circle of crime readily flourishing in the underbelly of the city and around.
Was he a threat to the police nexus, which despite seeing a hundred problems turns its back to rest in peace (pun)?
Or that he was given the title of super cop- a man who could do anything to save the people of his city?
The reason might be any but what disturbs me more is the reaction of people. The way they have responded to his transfer is insulting to every one of us, as individuals or as a society.
Girls and parents of girls gathered together outside the man’s gate and pleaded him not to go. They believed he was the savior of their girl’s dignity.
Is this how weak have we become that we need another man, whosoever he may be, to protect the dignity of our daughters?
Why do we need to rely upon other shoulders, however strong they may be to defend what’s ours?
If newspapers reports are to be believed, then before mr. lande took over, every girl of Patna was raped or at least was tried to rape in almost every street of Patna.
Is this true?
And as they say, nemesis can be delayed but it’s inevitable. He had to be transferred, if not now then may be next year or a year later.
This comes at a time when the chief minister of bihar, mr. nitish kumar is busy producing the report card of his tenure.
Doesn’t it raise a question on its integrity?
Why do we need to engage in imbecilic idol worship and disregard what’s important and matters most?
There’s a why to everything prevalent around.
Why am I not getting my answers??

An open letter to Ajmal Kasab

Time, as they say, is the master of all.  Three years, three long years have so blissfully passed that it’s impossible to think of our existence without you.
Three years ago, on an old November evening of 26/11/ 2008, you with your impaling bullets landed at the VT station, Mumbai and entered straightaway to our hearts. Your blue Armani t shirt and beige cargo pants we all still fondly remember. 
the courage you shot millions of innocent or to put it bluntly, dumb Indians whose life are of no value, with was almost gladiatorial as the AK 47 in your hand that seemed no less than a scepter. 
Court cases, numerous proceedings and the usual political stuff followed after the massacre you and your friends dared to. Your story was so truth defying that some even wanted to make a bollywood potboiler on it.
But you were and still very much are profusely valiant, for it’s not a kid’s joke to enter a country, kill a couple of high rank police officers and a few other hundred people and still hold one’s head high in public just on the account of being a teenager.
We even provided you with  lawyers. not one or two but three , someone to talk on behalf of one who killed and conspired to kill millions others. Doesn’t that sound lame if not quadriplegic that we wanted you to defend you, one who has a visible proof of being mercenary??

Three years, for three long years, we have fed you the most exotic of Indian dishes from biryanis to aloo dums. 
And as you may have heard during your stay in India, we Indians religiously follow the adage “atithi devo bhava”. In English it means, the guest is god. But sadly, you can’t appreciate any of these since you only speak, read and write in Arabic. 
We in India are not much of a technology freak but we have installed CCTV cameras at some places to show off and some of them actually work. Fortunately or unfortunately, blame it on your bad (or was it good?) luck, one of them mistakenly caught you (sic) while you were on the killing spree. But videos can be distorted with. They can be altered and even be animated. You have a valid reason to be free.
To me, you are a celebrity-ette. Newspapers carry your photographs, everybody from our PM Manmohan Singh to the teas stall boy discusses you as you pass your days, lost in the solitary gloom, perhaps thinking of future plans for mass destruction.
Sixteen crore. Sixteen crore is the amount we have spent on you during the past three years. But in a country where ministers so proudly engage in scams worth a couple of thousand crore, sixteen crore is really a minuscule amount. Isn't it ??

Judiciary in India is supposed to be the highest of all but some political parties, for their own benefit tend to influence its decisions. Thus, you with your distant cousin from the world of terror, afzal guru relax in a Indian jail, partly sure that both of you will walk away someday, breathing fresh air, on the wobbly promise of human rights.
America has already finished off your grandpa Osama, but you need not to worry as you will be pretty safe in Indian jails.
As I end this letter, I pray to the god almighty for your long, happy and prosperous stay in India ahead.
Jai hind! 

Nostalgia

A smell sometimes
takes me back to the times
i don't know of
or i don't clearly remember

sometimes, while walking through the lanes
i can smell the fragrance
unsure of what it is
but it evokes a sense of deja vu

on a November evening, when it's not that cold
i freeze in my way, the moment, i feel the smell
restless, i become, and try to remember
but fail, and move on.

a rain of dispair

the October sun
shone high in the sky
the sun, of a sepia tone
till the clouds came by

clouds of hope, they seemed
but weren't
clouds of rain, uncertainty
they were

they brought with them
the rains of death
and not of belief,
that was shattered

monstrous, ferocious
vehemently dark and gray
they cast a shadow,
a shadow of gloom and dismay

they thundered, and roared
and rained till dark,
and it has rained ever since
to wash away my hopes, miles apart