Internet ka Sundar Kaand

Phone ke tukde par 
Wifi ki batti lagakar
jalaya hai signal
Bhar diya hai charge se 
phone ko upar tak
Internet ka sundar kaand 
shuru kiya hai

Youtube ki agarbatti
side mein jal rahi hai
naye ganon ki scent se
poora kamra mehka rahi hai
Pandit ji ek-ek kar
naye mantron wala Tab
kholte gaye
instant hi kuch gram photos
humne fb ko 
bhog mein chadha di
Logon ne dheere-dheere
apni online chatai bichai
humne group chat ki 
pangat bithai
Kabhi-kabhi pandit ji
anti-virus scan alert ki 
ghanti bajate
Fb ki scroll down wali jhapkiyon se
wo logon logon ko jagate
Sabhi ka dhyan 
laga rehta paath mein.


Wikipedia ka path 
sabse mazedar tha
Dohe ke andar ek aur doha 
chupa rehta
Tabs ki shrankhala
badhti chali gayi
dhyan-magna hum 
is sundar kaand mein
utarte chale gaye.

Gyan ka dhuan jab
badh gaya kamre mein
to kisisne uthkar 
ek khidki khol di.
Kuch ka dhyaan 
aur batne laga
Nayi khidki par wo duniya ka 
Collosal gyan samjhne lage
Kuch oobh gaye
kuch sust padne lage
ungaliyon koangdaiyaan dilai
kuch itne jhuk gaye
collosal khidkiyon mein
chanchalta mein ganwa baithe
sara sundar kaand
Lekin kuch aise bhi the
jinka ab lagne laga tha dhyan
aisa ki aankhein band karke
FB se hi offline chale gaye.

Sandar Kaand ki 
yahi sundar baath hai
ki humein lagta hai
offline ho jane se 
koi humein dekh nahin sakta
jab hum chhupke apke 
kaand kar sakein
beech-beech mein aankhein kholkar.

At the Cafe, Always!

Writing with a pen which leaves blotched ink patches on the other side of the paper like memory of human life fading away or coming alive as each word is penned down remembering the best days or the worst, judging each moment for its truth on a new paper, especially a paper which blotched ink by my pen, holds me back before each word, for I can't pause on memory and relive my life through, for it will blotch the future of the notebook and mine. 

To save all the pages and my days intact, to write more on memory, I need to write fast. In doing so my future would be clean, white as a new sheet ready  to blotch, bathe or capture a new world of imagination .

In a busy Cafe, one would love to sip hot coffee and think each word before sacrificing it to the notebook.
But for me, either the coffee will go bad or the notebook will be filled. How much can you really follow down the memory lane sitting in a busy cafe with cups and saucers clinking and people rambling about their misadventures? How much can you really pen down worth sacrificing for a decent piece of literature without the coffee going bad and that too an expensive one?

Does one come to a cafe for their love for coffee and the exotic varieties they serve or to have conversations or to elevate moods after each sip or just for some space that lets you be amongst random residents of a nearby colony trying to get off the busy routines by visiting the cafe? 

As for me I just want to write. As for the cafe, it just wants me to bill for the coffee.
As for the paper, I need to turn it…

Jeevan pahad jitna hota hai

keval ek pahad

Choti tak pahunchna hota hai

Chadhte-chadhte talve thak jate hain

Badhte-badhte bhatak jate hain

Dholak ke bhajan-keertan yaad ate hain

Hey bhagwaan kehte-kehte hum chti tak ate hain

Pahad par mann ke gehre sannate hain

yahan jheengur bulate hain

Pahadon ka jeevan hota hai

keval ek jeevan

Pahadon mein rehne wale

nadi se milne ate hain

Ghaat par base log

pahad par teerth banate hain

Ghaat par mandiron mein 

Pahade padhe jate hain

Bas choti tak jana hota hai

aur neeche utar ana hota hai

E jeevan pahad jitna hota hai

Pahadon mein jeevan ka 

yatharth hota hai.

The waves are still moving

They move through the night

Every hour an inch closer to land

where humans stay

The rains are still pouring

every minute a droplet more

Where the rocks pray

the waves come and crash

the rains come in adash

Be there at that moment

And believe its truth.

A smile, a cry

A smile and a cry

follows a spell of a silent dry

eyes shut, leaving the sky

to blacken and arrive

from a corner of the eye

No meaning to derive

it's an abstract butterfly

with a smile on a wing

and a wing with a cry.

Yet there is a sky

to gobble in my breath

I think about why

a smile and a cry

can't be put togethere to a test

Some days make me think harder

some days just go by

My palms remain open

and my palm remain close

on some days

I am the abstract butterfly

sitting on a fence 

like a fence sitter

the profound width of the fence

is enough for a creature like me

enough to open up in harmony

the wing with a cry

with the wing with a smile.