Wednesday, April 2, 2014

a dream called sleep

'It's been how many years?', looking at her birthday cake which has her name engraved, she wonders. It always rains. It rained that very evening too. She is a fool. She thinks, it's a sign that someone is watching her over. God? One cannot be sure of 'God' unless you have seen him with your naked eyes. Have we? Sure, we have. We have seen him in our day-to-day life, in amidst of chaos, when someone makes our moments, fills our day with their warmth. We have felt his presence in all of those things, which pauses the moment and makes us smile. Haven't we?

She fooled you too.

Cutting the dream-sequensque nonsense, she realizes the unusual, now. It was a call from a dear friend. This dear friend was completely unaware of her birthday (how very special) morning, invites her to an intimate poetry-recitation session in remembrance of Bhagwat Rawat. After a moment's pause and not getting a response, he asks, 'you know him?' Hungrily, munching on her multi-fucking-grain bread, she says, 'not heard of him'. No prizes for guessing, he was kind enough to divulge details. Right before disconnecting the phone, she conveys disappointment on his ignorance of her birthday. (Secretly, she enjoys making her friends feel guilty). After making him feel guilty, she disconnects and starts to day-dream about the evening. Maybe, he would recite a poetry just to.. She is day-dreaming.

She is an idiot.

It's just rained and drizzling at the moment. She has this thing for drenching self in rain rather hiding under an umbrella. She calls it ecstatic. She is delusional. Swirling-up her mustard-yellow long skirt, gets into an auto, reaches at venue. It's one of the 16 storey building in Oshiwara and it has a lift too and it works fine. To her, a lift that works fine is a luxury, she can't afford. You didn't know? It's an another story, a long one at that. She will tell you the 'story of a lift', in another story. Not in this one. Yeah, 'my ground-my rules' and all that bull.

Gathering is exact intimate, her friend assured of. Like-minded lunatics. Teasing each other for not being in touch, we start laughing. Swallowing up every word of Rawat's poetry, she keeps asking about the poet and his life. His poetry just redefined the simplicity of words and the ways to communicate it. Here, sharing her most favorite:

चिड़ियों को पता नहीं

चिड़ियों को पता नहीं कि वे
कितनी तेज़ी से प्रवेश कर रही हैं
कविताओं में।

इन, अपने दिनों में, खासकर(specially)
उन्हें चहचहाना था
उड़ानें भरनी थीं
और घंटों, गरदन में चोंच डाले
गुमसुम बैठकर
अपने अंडे सेने थे।

मैं देखता हूँ कि वे
अक्सर आती हैं
बेदर डरी हुईं
पंख फड़फड़ाती
या अक्सर मरी हुईं।

उन्हें नहीं पता था कि
कविताओं तक आते-आते
वे चिड़ियाँ नहीं रह जातीं

वे नहीं जानतीं कि उनके भरोसे
कितना कुछ हो पा रहा है
और उनके रहते हुए
कितना कुछ ठहरा हुआ है।

अभी जब वे अचानक उड़ेंगी
तो आसमान उतना नहीं रह जाएगा
और जब वे उतरेंगी
तो पेड़ हवा हो जाएंगे।

मैं सारी चिड़ियों को इकट्ठा करके
उनकी ही बोली में कहना चाहता हूँ
कि यह बहुत अच्छा है
कि तुम्हें कुछ नहीं पता।

तुम हमेशा की तरह
कविताओं की परवाह किए बिना उड़ो
और बेखटके
आलमारी में रखी किताबों के ऊपर
घोंसले बनाकर
अपने अंडे सेओ।

न सही कविता में
पर हर रोज़
पेड़ से उतरकर
घर में
दो-चार बार
ज़रूर आओ-जाओ.

The pulse at the back of her neck is throbbing. She is marveled.

We talk about poetry the whole evening till midnight, while it's pouring heavily outside. Stealing her quiet moment, she realizes, poetry makes this world worth to live in. She is nuts.

One of the click from the evening. Meet Dhani, Rawat's granddaughter (and, most prettiest sight ever):

It's midnight. 'Quite an evening', she whispers.

She is quiet. She is sleeping.

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