Ink Stained

आज इतनी धूप क्यू है, हवा के साथ,ये धूल क्यू है, मुझे तो चलना सीधे हैं, मेरे खिलाफ इसका रुख क्यू है? यू ही चलते हुए इस धूप में, बिना टोपी और शूज़ मैं, मेरे साथ या मेरे खिलाफ ये लू है, आज इतनी धूप क्यू है? यू ही चलते हुए हवाओं में, क्या नज़र आया इन बंद आंखो से, मेरी ही तरह एक मुसाफिर, पर वो इतना खुश क्यू है? कपड़े हैं पुराने से, धूल में सने हुए, पर उसके चेहरे से कुछ और ही लगता है, धूल से गंदा,पर वो हंसी क्यू है? शायद कुछ पा लिया है उसने, शायद कुछ खास हो वो, या वो लौट के आ रहा है,पाके अपनी मंज़िल को, इसीलिये शायद इतना खुश वो है! उसको देखते हुए आगे निकल गया मैं, और वो मुस्कुराते हुए, हाथ हिलाते हुए, पीछे निकल गया क्यू है? कहाँ से आया था वो, कहाँ था जाना उसको, कभी नहीं जान पौन्गा, क़ी वो इतना खुश क्यू था! पर मैं चलता रहा युही, मुझे तो चलना सीधे था, हवा के साथ,ये धूल क्यू है, आज इतनी धूप क्यू है??                                         

       As the droplets of heavy rain descended from the window of the bus, I missed my camera more than ever. The yellow bright streetlight from the many minuscule lenses of small droplets of rainwater, which try hard to stick to a dirty glass, but are forced by the blows from above (the flow of rain) and the pull from below (of gravity) to not let stay; would've made a beautiful shot.        But it seems this scene is the one that can never be shot perfectly or never be shot at all. However hard you try to focus, however firm you try and hold your hands, however close, however far you keep your lens, this shot is next to impossible.        Haven't we all been on that glass once in our life, or twice or even more. However hard we tried to stick to the thing we loved the most, to the interest which was most beloved to our hearts, we had to in the end, let it go. Be it the butt of the last cigarette or be it the history less...

       I being a Marley fan always thought this to be a song made by a cool singer for a cool topic. Well, it's not cool to be offensive though to a certain womankind. But then today I read about what it really means. It says, "no woman? don't cry." in a certain Jamaican vocab of which Bob Marley was a container of, and this was written for his wife Rita Marley who underwent great austerities with him until he was not successful.       As the world celebrates the respect and love towards a a certain sect of Homo Sapiens usually characterized by long hair and a warm heart, I recall my life, pressing on the rewind button and counting those kind on my fingers. well, I certainly have very few a fingers to count that.       I remember her doing my hair, washing me, cooking for me, being my support, wiping my tears. She even fought a teacher for me. She who made a hell lot of sacrifices for me. She who even before my birth fought with her...

           I've come up to the third year of graduation and consider myself a grown up man. But this status was booked up in the registers long back ago in the July of 2010 when we were all promoted to the topmost level of the ladder we'd been building for past fifteen years of schooling. We were all in the senior most class. But as Uncle Ben said, "With great power comes great responsibility"; so did come big course, big subjects, bigger equations, bigger sums, bigger diagrams and along came bigger chiding, bigger beatings on making small mistakes. One such giver of big to small was our chemistry teacher, Mrs. Dixit.            What a scary figure she was. A Humongous Deathtrap, wrapped in an Indian clean saree, which was just enough to cover her big belly. Her arms, sandwiched between a set of perfect biceps and triceps built over the years exercising on students' backs. Her voice had that Hitler quality of making one weep ...

               Have you ever excavated the dreams behind your conscious mind; somewhere in between your cerebellum and oblangata , where your thoughts not very primary breed; with a pondering spade? It happens most of the times when with a pencil in your hand and not a very lucrative bulk of course in front of your eyes, you throw in the first blow of the spade to find a dog. A cream coloured labrador, cuddly and obedient; not very big, not very puppy. The dream you had since the day cookie ran away.                 The other blow brings in another more vital object of which you were recently parted, and which was dearer to you than most of the pretty faces you know. A white, smooth and beautiful cuboid with a silver htc engrave on its black shiny screen. The dream of owning it back. Or maybe an MRF bat. A heavy well greased bat, in perfect shape, with a red grip just as the God himself used. Or maybe comi...

   This year I've written no letter for you, this year I didn't buy you a gift, this year I didn't buy the cake(that was by mistake though) but this time, I've just given a thought far from the real realm and seen what life would've been without a second dad dangling around.     Well, first of all,  I would've had all Maggis and chocolates alone. I would've never met with that accident, the scars of which still remain. I would've never faced the humiliation of not scoring an equal enough marks from hussain ma'am and the likes. But this side of the seesaw is on the upper end. What's on the other heavier side is much more in quantity and quality.       I would've never learnt how to ride a bicycle or the scooty; I would've never gotten two birthday gifts in an year(yours and mine if you remember); I would've never got an upper hand in maths or computers; I would've never been in a safe and happy environment without a hostel; I wou...

     When we first met in the spring of 2011, we hardly knew what each others background was,  or motives were, or even names for that matter. Then,  I don't know how, we struck off so well,  and today, our names are more often called together. This post is dedicated to my best friend and my brother for all intents and purposes, Shivanshu, who turned 21 in reality today and 20 on papers.     Shivanshu is just like an elder brother to me. Whenever I was confused, infuriated, mad, sad, sick, he was there. All the fun exploring of Delhi I've done, I've had this bus-pass-buddy with me all along. Or chronicles are so vast and diverse and interesting that if one goes in to write a book on it, it would definitely sell better than "the monk who sold his ferrari". I mean the instances were so insane that only he, or I could've only beared them. I remember this instance, just four days before our exams, we stood on the bus stand in front of the...