Ghughua Mana

घुघुआ मना, उपजे धना, बाबु  के  छेदाये  देनों  कान  दुनु  सोना ,

नव  घर  उठे  पुरान घर  खसे, नव  घर  उठेएएए –  पुरान घर  खसे.

(Ghughua mana, upaje dhana, babu ke chedaye denon kaan dunu sona,

Naw ghar uthe puran ghar khase, naw ghar utheee, puran ghar khase.)

There are certain games that are handed over from one generation to another, or even beyond, as is the case of one of my favourite childhood games that my daughter loves too. I remember having spent a very considerable part of my childhood at my grandparents’ place with my complete family: my uncles and aunts, and my cousins who made for the floating population of five by sixty one.

dadiji

I used to stick with my grandmother throughout the day because she used to take me to several places with her. In the evening, she used to play with me. Ghughua Mana was one of my favourites and I used to demand for it often. I don’t have a very photographic or precise kind of a memory, yet I remember the details of at least one instance of her playing ghughua mana with her favourite grandson (the only grand child she had around for a very long part of his initial days). It was in the room with the ventilator that opens into the garden by Bhagwan Das Chacha’s house. I may be wrong but I don’t remember anyone else from my family, at any time, playing it with me.

It’s  a very simple game in which the grown ups first lie down upon their back and take the child who demands for it on their shins by bringing them together. They rock the child gently while they sing the first line: घुघुआ मना, उपजे धना, बाबु  के  छेदाये  देनों  कान  दुनु  सोना (Ghughua mana, upaje dhana, babu ke chedaye denon kaan dunu sona). As they reach the last three words, they touch or pinch the child’s ear very softly. With the second line, things change. With नव  घर  उठे (Naw ghar uthe the child has to be lifted with the shins, and with  पुरान घर  खसे (puran ghar khase) it has to be brought down. The second नव  घर  उठेएएए (naw ghar utheee), as it has a longer ending, demands longer time with the child dangling in the mid air, and then पुरान घर  खसे (puran ghar khase).

[Once more I took help of <http://hindi.changathi.com/&gt; for the Hindi part.]

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What I See

Freshly cut, nearly ripe watermelon has a pinkish-red coloured core. This watermelon’s pinkish red was visible behind the grey and white masses of clouds seen over the black silhouette of the trees at the end of dawn. The sky, at places, was blue and greenish blue of different hues in the east. Yellow scars shining like one huge electric bulbs stretched from the earth to the sky on the southern sky, among the clouds as white as freshly pulled cotton.

house mosque

Now the sun has gone down the horizon. Only the vermillion is sprinkled over the western sky. One bright star, yellow and shining can be seen overhead. The hills that were greenish black have now become blue and greyish black. The same sun must set a bit later behind my house too. Behind the mosque that once had a palm tree – that isn’t any more – will set the sun. And the sky will become orange-red; as I remember it always used to be when I used to be there to look at the setting sun: the same setting sun that used to leave the stone of the ghatscape only with diffused light, or diffused darkness, and Gangaji from turquoise to blue-black.

From early dusk, to sunset to early evening – I used to sit either on the stone steps or on the railing around the steps leading to Gangaji in Kasi. I used to sit and think about the world, about myself, about myself and the world, and of my future. In the hindsight, how surprising it seems now that I had never ever dreamt of the quick succession of the events leading to the present time.

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Water bodies, I have read somewhere, have high concentration of negatively charged ions around them that give peace to the mind. The validity of this claim remains unchecked, scientifically speaking, but I must admit that I did feel free to think in peace by Gangaji. I used to think there. I used to think of the state of Godlessness, of the ambition of unambitiousness, of the fear of poverty and an inevitable death, of the hope of immortality (literal at first, then figurative).

I used to be young then: young and with a feeling of invincibility, of indestructibility and of absolute and unquestionable superiority over all. The feeling has remained like the marks of a rivulet’s bed in a dry summer, waiting for the next monsoon. Hope, like the pole star, shines constantly even if faintly. Hope of reaching the place that’s there, made and kept only for me, by me, in my mind’s world.

Descriptive writing, I’m not good at. It’s the introspective or logical kind that I do. I don’t know whether it’s normal or idiosyncratically abnormal: never have thought of the other kinds of life. I had always been and remain absorbed in myself, my past, my future, and, occasionally in my present, that I never thought of the life of those I came across in my non-solitary state. They came and went, without producing any effect on my mind that was absorbed in the world of abstractions: read and self-made. All the events of my past that I remember are oriented towards my own self; seen entirely from my perspective, with my own eyes only.

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Nature’s world

DSC00423

Wherever I look, my view is blocked

By things man made.

Nature’s world no more.

Gentle breeze pushing palm leaves down

It goes up, down and up and down.

The window panes hold ugly glass

Attempts to flow and merge with leaves.

It can’t, for softness merges not

With colours eye-biting dead.

The eyes run back to the world of leaves

Bouncing, flying freely under the sun.

Sap green, yellow and yellowish brown

Some dark green, shooting out of the stalk.

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Look

SAMSUNG

Thin wisps of grey clouds

Slide over white

Worn out of black overall.

Strong gusts of wind come

Buoying the leaves

Tossing limbs big and small.

Look now the sky,

All greyish black.

Clouds gliding over

One another.

Patter of raindrops

Falling on tin sheets

Beating them as drum’s leather.

Little droplets come,

Fall on my face.

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Why Give it a Name?

bvillea

Why Give it a Name?

A name and a shape,

Binding it with their bindings,

Take away all its buoyancy,

Its infinite range of directions

Into which it could

Have developed had it not

Been constrained

In its beginning.

Why is a purpose

Needed so much?

Can’t a purposeless

Growth of trees

Be imitated in

Poetry too?

Thoughts come, but

Haltingly. Not as

One wants them to,

For they are not

Slaves to one’s will.

At times they flow

Like the breaking up

Of dams

And then, there’s

Drought.

One binds and limites

By naming it,

By ending it.

Life like

A poem

Must have its freedom

If not to start,

At least to end, or grow

In a direction it wants.

To any length and breadth,

If not complete today

Neither tomorrow,

Nor  a day leter,

it may remain incomplete.

Open for all future

Completions

Fulfilments

Deletions…

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प्रस्थान

flameoftheforest

देखता हूँ पर्वतों को
पार खिड़की की कांच से
देखता हूँ गिरजाघर
लाल छत, सफ़ेद दीवारें.
झोपड़ियाँ, छोटी,
पेड़-पौधे
बाड़ पर चढ़ती लताएं
लाल फूलों से लदा
गुलमोहर
उसपर उगते लाल सूर्य को.

कोशिशें  कई  बार  कीं
बनाने की उन्हें
देखता आया जिन्हें
दो वर्षों से
पर अब
प्रस्थान.

Note: Thanks to <http://hindi.changathi.com>; that I was able to post my Hindi poem. I don’t know how to type in Hindi, although I write in it!

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बचपन

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छोटा सा ही था तब मैं जब
भाग भाग कर जाया करता
जमी रेत को खोद सीपियाँ
एक ओर मटमैली, गन्दी
एक ओर चिकनी, चमकीली
छोटी- बड़ी निकाला करता.
छोटे-छोटे नदी के घोंघे
(शंख बुलाता था तब उनको)
उन्हें साथ ले आया करता.

बहुत महकते थे वो सड़कर
छिप कर उन्हें साफ फिर करता
मोम जामे का थैला था एक
उसी में रहता था सब संचित
बच्चे का अनमोल खज़ाना

लाल रेत में छुपे हैं होते
छोटे-बड़े अनगिनत पत्थर
कुछ चिकने, खुरदुरे से भी कुछ
बहुरंगी, कुछ एक रंग के
बालू वाले की दुकान पर
फिंकी रेत से खोद, उठा कर

एक खज़ाना और बनाता
एक खज़ाना और बढाता.

गत्ते वाली कॉपी थी एक
कुछ पतली सी,
छिपा-छिपा कर रंगता उसके पन्नों को मैं
कुछ रंगों, कुछ चिन्हों से मैं.
कुछ कवितायेँ लिख रक्खीं थीं
उन पन्नों पर.

फ़ेंक आया वो सभी खजाने
सीपी, पत्थर, सब कवितायेँ
सब अनमोल
सब मूल्यहीन भी;
पड़े हैं अब भी, वहीँ पे शायद
इंतज़ार करते सब उसका
जिसके लिए खज़ाना हैं वो.

Note: Thanks to <http://hindi.changathi.com>; that I was able to post my Hindi poem. I don’t know how to type in Hindi, although I write in it!

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ज़िन्दगी

DSC01214

मिट गए पदचिन्ह कल के
धीरे धीरे,
छा गयी एक धुंध
वर्तमान की.
दौड़ती है ज़िन्दगी
एक याद से एक याद तक.
दौड़ता है आदमी भी
तेज़, साथ इस ज़िन्दगी के.
अब कहाँ है समय
थमने का?
ना रहा अब समय
देखने का, मुड़कर
पीछे.
दौड़ते रहो या कुचले जाओ
उस वर्तमान से
जो कभी थमता नहीं.

वक्त आता है वो के जब
रुक जाता है आदमी
और छटती है धुंध.
फिर है देता दिखाई
गुज़रा कल
धुंधला ही सा थोडा –
फिर दिखाई देने लगता
है अतीत
दूर से.
दर्द ना रहा अब,
छूट जाने का.
सिर्फ एहसास है
चलने का दूर तक,
देर तक,
समय की सड़क पर.
चला है आदमी जिस पर हमेशा.
चलते रहना है आगे ही,
अनुमति जो नहीं:
मुड़ने की,
थमने की,
जमने की
अगर है – तो सिर्फ …

Note: Thanks to <http://hindi.changathi.com>; that I was able to post my Hindi poem. I don’t know how to type in Hindi, although I write in it!

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कविता

M2 RD

दिन भर दौड़ धूप में जैसे
इस शरीर के साथ नहीं था.
इक मशीन के पुर्जे जैसा,
अपना था जो काम किया वो.
रात हुई अब थका हूँ लेकिन
आखिर वक्त निकल है कुछ
फिर मशीन के पुर्जे जैसा
लग कर कुछ पंक्तियाँ बनाने.
क्या कविता भी बन जाएगी
जीवन जैसी?
वाह क्या डर है!
जीवन जैसे एक गाली हो,
श्राप हो जैसे जीवन कोई.

आज मनाता हूँ मैं मन से –
मेरी कविता न बन जाये
जीवन जैसी,
खींचूँ जिसको, भागूं जिससे.
आज मनाता हूँ मैं मन से –
कम से कम इक चीज़ तो हो
जिसमें रस आये.
कम से कम
कोई छांव जहाँ विश्राम करे
एक पथिक क्लांत,
सारा दिन तपती धूप में जलकर.

Note: Thanks to <http://hindi.changathi.com/&gt; that I was able to post my Hindi poem. I don’t know how to type in Hindi, although I write in it!

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Metapoem

wild flr ylw

Many lines moulded

Many words spoken

Assorted images

Gushing out of geyser

Warm, burning, sulphurous,

Invigorating, scalding,

Born of the womb

Of the collective humanity.

Mind’s the fertile soil;

And the seed?

The seed is the

tree and the seed.

The seed cut and sown,

Every time a new one’s born.

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