Sighing Winds

The sighing wind in the dead of night,
Yet never sighs away feebly a name,
To make her sleep soft and light.

The rustling leaves on the untrodden way,
Yet never foretell the fading footsteps,
To check her bay-an endless stay.

The fragrant jasmine in full bloom,
Yet never adorns her graying hair,
To awaken her from sleeping doom

The pearly dew scattered at dawn,
Yet never shimmers the dying hope,
To sweep her desires yonder yon.

The trees with bare stretched arms,
Yet never crucifix her tangible dreams,
To free her from feigning phoney charms.

Nostalgia ( Dhaniye ki Chutney)

Till date I've felt so ascertained of this proud possession 'Sumeet Mixer and Grinder' that despite its slow functioning I never ever think of departing from it. The mixer-grinder was the first gift my husband had presented to me, sensing the drudgery of grinding the masala or the chutney on the age old silbutta. It had been occupying the most prominent seat in my kitchen for the past thirty years. But, just one question," Arre, tumhari chutney to badi achchi bani hai...silbutte par pisi kya tumne?...Bhai, silbutte ki chutney ka swad hi kuch aur hai. Meri sasu ma to bas silbutte par pisi chutney hi khati hain." This pageant could have gone on for the next half an hour, had I not interrupted her in the middle of her eulogy," Nahi to, maine to khud hi Sumet Mixer-Grinder me pisi hai!". "Achcha, tabhi mujhe swad thodi alag si lagi!"- This epilogue was enough to crash that song of praise. I was left with two choices only- either to bask in the praise or to sulk at the inefficiency of my mixer-grinder. I force-snubbed the idea of re buying a silbutta by convincing my rebellion mind that silbuttas are not at all hygienic and they are sound polluting also. But actually the truth was that the maid's forbidding eyes just flashed before my eyes, enough to abort the idea before its execution.
The mixer-grinder's motor, has now started making more sound while running as if mimicking and laughing at my helplessness (Reminds me of Lalita Pawar) yet its sweet bitter utility cannot be undermined.
 (to be continued.....)

MOKSHA

मुझे नहीं चाहिए मोक्ष
मैं गरल पी कर भी
मुर्छित अर्धचेतन
रह जी लूंगी
नेत्र मूंद
तुम बनो समाधिस्त
रहो ध्यानमग्न।

मुझे नहीं चाहिए मोक्ष
हलाहल से घायल
कोलाहल में पागल
हो भी जी लूंगी
वाक्पटु बन
तुम दो व्याख्यान
रहो आत्ममग्न।

मुझे नहीं चाहिए मोक्ष
कर्मभूमि की ललकार में
पराजय का घूंट पी
कर भी जी लूंगी
छद्मवेशी बन
तुम करो प्रस्थान
रहो आत्मस्वतंत्र।

मुझे नहीं चाहिए मोक्ष
कटाक्ष-उपालंभ
की दोधारी तलवार
बीच भी जी लूंगी
जन्म मरण से
तुम हो स्वतंत्र
रहो आत्माभिभुत।

मुझे नहीं चाहिए मोक्ष
मान अभिमान
के आडम्बर में
घुट कर भी जी लूंगी
पराया बन
तुम लो मुहँ फेर
रहो आत्मतुष्ट।

SHE DWELLS IN THE LINES

She dwells-
In the broken lines of her palm,

The lines forming a maze of figures.

She finds within there-

A circle like the whirlpool
She stand there on its edge
She bends to take a peep into it
Ah...she is engulfed by it.

She moves on the-
Two lines parallel like a rail-track
She ponders and moves
The track never reaches its end
Worn and torn, she keeps moving on.

She clambers onto the-
Three lines like a mountain peak
She pants and gasps
And, the cliff gets steeper
She stumbles and slips down .

She confines herself to-
The four lines like the walls
She fidgets for the door
The rusty latch never gives away
Her fingers get bloodied.

She dwells-
In the maze of lines on her palm,
The broken lines join together.

She wears them like wings,
And soars high in the vast
Freeing herself, finally from
All the lines and confines.