Whisps of Nirvana

So the city at times brings those rhythms of nights where you transcend your body all warmly tugged under those layers of furs and reach to that wild outside talking with wind with loud music behind. That excitement, thrill somehow penetrates deep inside each of your pores and you reach those colorful theaters with action and life – being out leashed right between those walls of darkness. There upon that platform you find yourself with that huge spot light creating a silver halo like that moon shimmering in that shady sky.

And once again those reflections and shadows enter your psyche making you see your own mirror image – out there in the wide cosmos. There are dancing people, nosing ones too. You observe the aging of time, your time reversal too. And yet, strangely, the thread of life – remains the same - glowing right there in the center of the circle – connecting all those dimensions of bifurcated terms to one unique self of yours.

And then you realize your social cipher vocation, endless vain research and those diving into spark lights – here in the present. You wonder, was it all worth it? Did I actually live it? Should I have done something else instead? Why am I not getting the right knit? And you get entangled in those nets of time only for a moment and then some other moment. You are still powerful and strong. You pull yourself from that fabric of right and wrong.

There you see a brighter self. The girl still erect in that night show shelf. There you see that strength to face it all. There is nature’s cosmic fall. And you enjoy the thrill of jumping from that cliff of ego - Right into that regenerating watery meadow. There you swim and transcend into some other time. There you undergo the journey of elemental self in rhyme. And there happens a rebirth – of bodiless creature - Having inside that fire, water, air, earth – yet with hollowed feature.

The hollow being keeps on getting its fill. It keeps aging in time’s mill. Each life-energy rotates that key. Each closure makes him free. and the being when realizes that mechanic entity. It seeks some other unmade city. All around was a land of zombies - Working so homogeneously with heterogeneous minds. But the spirit was the same – no spirit at all. all had huge egos despite of fall. There she escaped those dead spirits so alive. There she seeked another world – in her style.

In the shades of literature she found a new land.  She had epiphanies with cosmic hand. There she needed no more society. there was her – idealized society. But there was a loop- hole too. It was a utopia – in her craving’s lieu. After all, she was still inside her furs. There were no roads of real, no moon- bug spurs.

So there she iconized her reality, there she accepted the life of duality. The key was to be aware – aware of her mysterious secret. Bliss is nowhere but only inside it could be met - Inside those folds of literature, those slippery letters, and abrupt fracture. In those fragments of desires – was an invisible thread- of faith in cosmos, faith in her self. There it was – the linked up timeline -Those dreams of shadows and their wispy guideline. There she followed her guardian wisps. There she attained her inner bliss.

After all Buddha was not a deadly state of immortality. Buddha attained Buddha-hood right in his inner city. It is the state when one is content and aware – of cycles of life and death – one is bewared. And in each breath in and each breath out – one becomes a transcended stout. There in that micro moment between breaths –there happens the realization of mortality and wrath. There one attains freedom from it all. There one imbibes cosmic sound – stories of rise and fall. And there you get at peace with the time; there in your head is cosmic rhyme. 

written by - Mystical Wanderer

Flushed Dugs

Flushed dugs

 On Every night of thunders

Happens tectonic wonders

A tower standing all erect

Sparks a light so direct

Tower tries to touch the sky

There a cliff craves to fly

cliff has a jive as surface

it puddles inside its own face

on every thunderstorm

jive gets to roam

it shivers with that light

aah the awe of sight

lightening with light of tower

desire of plentiful shower

tower gazes into the mounting

making her suddenly spring

there she wants to collide

it promises a  thunderous ride

tower keeps rising with the sound

of jiggling cliff –so smooth and round

even more fascinating was her root

warm and cushiony it appeared – to suit

how the tower craved to locate

himself upon that cushiony state

but there was this distance in between

those facts all flowing in the stream

the facts were little cicadas

jarring all around right through Sparta

how the jarring disturbed this night

aah that tower touching the height

she wanted to touch it too

craving for some caress as woo

he however had some urgency

he was not sure of his fluency

so there he hastened up the tune

and mandolin went out of tune

his sudden jump increased the jarring

there he fell right into that stream

a sudden thunderbolt and the light was gone

the cliff was no more fawn

she became aware of the jarring too

alas!! There was no woo

and yet there was the golden time

when madoline was in sloshing rhyme

so there both gently lied down

watching that faint dawn

wishing for yet another such night

with some other desired sight

On Every night of thunders

Happens tectonic wonders

Mystical Wanderer

मेरा कोई नाम नहीं

मेरा कोई नाम नहीं

मेरा कोई नाम नहीं
मै अकेला हूँ
ज़िन्दगी की दिक्कतों को
मै अकेला ही झेलता हूँ
कहने को एक बड़ा सा परिवार है
मेरे लिए वो सिर्फ
मुसीबत का पहाड़ है
अब आप ही बताइये
कहाँ से लॉन इतने पैसे
घर में इतना खाना
मै लाऊँ कैसे
पिताजी की चिल्लुम
माँ का चश्मा
बच्चों के लिए रोटी
बीवी के साथ होना
कैसे करूँ इतना कुछ
कैसे लाऊँ सब कुछ
दिवाली भी तो आ रही है
और बेटी की शादी भी करनी होगी
सारी मुसीबतें
इखट्ठे ही आती हैं
इतनी सारी ज़रूरतें
आखिर कैसे पूरी होंगी
 शर्मा जी की बात
मान लेता हूँ
कर लेता हूँ चोरी
बड़े बड़े लोग
यही तो करते हैं
थोड़ी सी हेरा - फेरी
पर साली ये किस्मत
वक़्त पे साथ नहीं देती
ज़मीर की वो आवाज़
जान क्यों नहीं ले लेती
पर कैसा ज़मीर
कैसी अच्छाई
अरे बूखे पेट से पूछो
क्या होती है भूख
वो टूटे टुकड़े रोटी के
कितने कीमती होते हैं
उन्हें क्या पता
जो गद्दों पे सोते हैं
क्या जानते होंगे वो
ज़मीन पर सोना
बिना किसी नाम के
मौत से बत्तर
ज़िन्दगी जीना
उनके लिए तो ये सब
एक खेल है
कहते हैं
नीचे रहना नहीं सीखे
तो ज़िन्दगी फेल है
अरे खाड़ी पहन लेने से
नीचे नहीं आ जाते
खाड़ी भी तो
इतनी महंगी है
और महंगे हैं
वह शांत सन्नाटे
हमें तो भीड़ में ही
रहना पड़ता है
उस सड़क के
एक कोने पर
भूखे पेट ही
सोना पड़ता है
ये भी
अपनी अपनी किस्मत है
किसी के पास कुछ नहीं
कैसी के पास
सब है

मेरा कोई नाम नहीं
मै अकेला हूँ
और बेनाम हैं मेरे जैसे
कई लोग
जो उस सड़क के किनारे सोते हैं
पल में हस्ते
पल में रोते हैं

Written by - Mystical Wanderer

प्यार भरी बातें

हाँ देख ली दुनिया हमने
वो ज़िन्दगी उसकी रस्में
जी लिए वो झूठे रिश्ते
अधूरी बातें अधूरी किश्तें
ख़त्म कर दिया खुद को
उस दुनिया के झगड़ों में
क़ुबूल किया सब कुछ
उन टूटे सपनों में
जानते हैं सब झूठ होता है
वह प्यार वह धोखा
सब वक़्त का खेल होता है
पर फिर भी चाहतें हैं
वह सपनों सी रातें
कोई तो अब कर ले हमसे
प्यार भरी बातें

रखते थे दुनिया
को पैरों में हम भी

तब ज़िन्दगी में खुशियाँ थीं
और आते थे गम भी
किसी को रुतबे से
गले लगते थे
किसी को गुस्से से
अचानक भगाते थे
कोई हम से
बेइंतिहा मोहब्बत करता था
किसी को हमारा चेहरा
कुछ ऐसा अखरता था
पर ज़िंदगी चलती जाती थी
हर दिन हर रात
कुछ यूँ बदलती जाती थी
हर इच्छा हर बात
बदलते वक़्त के साथ
हम भी बदल जाते थे
कभी रोते पूरी रात
कभी हस्ते गाते थे
चलो देख लेंगे
कुछ और
टूटे कस्मे वादे
कोई तो अब कर ले हमसे
प्यार भरी बातें

कोई प्यार से पुकारे
तो कितना अच्छा लगता है
ज़िन्दगी में कोई आये
सच सपना सा लगता है
जीने को जैसे
मक़सद सा मिल जाता है
हर पल किसी का ख्याल
कुछ ऐसा आता है
तब दो निवाले
हलक से नहीं उतरते
जब तक उसके बोल
कानों में नहीं पड़ते
जीते हैं किसी की ज़िन्दगी
खुद को करके
उसके नाम
पाते हैं जैसे सब कुछ
साड़ी ख़ुशी
सारा आराम
हाँ हर ख़ुशी को
ख़त्म तो होना है
हर सुबह के बाद
रात को भी होना है
देख लेंगे फिर से
कुछ और सूनी रातें
कोई तो अब कर ले हमसे
प्यार भरी बातें

ज़िन्दगी भी कुछ अजीब होती है

कभी अकेली
कभी कइयों के करीब होती है
कभी मिलेगा सपनों सा
अनोखा प्यार
वो बाप का साथ
वो माँ का प्यार
कभी अचानक
कोई हमसफ़र बन जायेगा
कभी वक़्त सब कुछ
एक साया सा बना जायेगा
पर सायों के डर से
जीना थोड़ी रुक जायेगा
अरे ख़ुशी मिलेगी
तो गम भी आएगा
तो क्या बिगाड़ देंगे हमारा
कुछ रूखी कसमें
टूटे वादे
कोई तो अब कर ले हमसे
प्यार भरी बातें

Written By - Mystical Wanderer

The World Of Literature

Words Of Rent

Books have a strange transcending function. They make you travel through time’s many dimensions. There suddenly you enter the world of the author - at times into that given, at times you become its revived author. And then there are those moments of discovery, a meaning changed, and a feeling’s recovery. Also there are those folds of past. Of moments that were there but never last. There in before when you first entered that world – there in some other time – on bed all curled. But there is this ‘now’ another dimension-Same story, different construction.

So the books provide a nostalgic familiarity – to those worlds you loved and those of reality. The moments keep repeating inside or around- that fragrance of past, that haunting sound. And out of those many worlds it also has this unique quality –it gives you an escape from illusionary reality. There in real illusions you enter in fusions. With varied confusions, you undergo illusions. But each has its aromatic ambiance so different from the other, the fragrance of scents and slimy gutter.

You enter those dungeons of times, you listen to those imagined rhymes. You live life transcending your self – in each of those characters your individuality melts. There you become a collected self of numerous shades. There in fecundity your singularity fades. And you begin to love the magic of letters – to fly – your every particle flutters. You tend to attain some wings with many colors -many imaginations with time’s spurs.

History and ancient civilizations, emotions and repressed fascinations, the zest for life and craving of death – those songs of glory and trumpets of wraths – you listen to them all – being a part of every stall. There you live into those numerous bodies, many characters one embodies.

books are not just illusions after all. they have stories of real life rise and fall. There one finds an escape – into a theater without spade. It might cause many ambers inside your head – you may blush or out of anger – turn red. But there amidst those many stories – there are our ancestral histories . Those are  desires of men – being repeated through all times. They are mental creations –breathing in many rhymes.

Yes, the tempo changes – so do the language. But that is the only way, out of a heavy cage – the cage of time and numerous events – life is all dependency upon those words of rent. 

Written by - Mystical Wanderer

वो मदहोशी

शाम की अँधेरी ख़ामोशी
वो भीनी सी ख़ुशी
वो मदहोशी
अंधेरों में खोया चाँद वहां
सुनहरा, उजला, उड़ता सा धुंआ
समुन्दर की ठंडी हवाएं
चुपके से आएं
हौले से गुनगुनाएं
वो तेरा भीगा सा हाथ
हर वक़्त इक तेरा साथ
ठंडी रेत में दौड़ना हमारा
वो लहरों से बातें
वो प्यार ढेर सारा
कानों में तेरा धीरे से बुदबुदाना
यूँ करीब आ कर
सांसों से गुदगुदाना
आज भी हवा हम से
यूँ ही बातें करती है
आज भी वो लहरें
ऊपर से गुज़रती हैं
तू नहीं है
फिर भी है साथ
कैसे महसूस करती हूँ
वो तेरा साथ
कैसे लगता है
कि कोई कुछ कह रहा है
कैसे हर पल लगता है
कि वो ही पहर है
जब तू था साथ
हाथों में ले के हाथ
और हम हवा से बातें करते the
कभी तो हम खुश हुआ करते थे
शाम कि अँधेरी ख़ामोशी
वो भीनी सी ख़ुशी
वो मदहोशी

Written By - Mystical Wanderer

मुझे अपने बच्चे को दूध पिलाना है

मुझे अपने बच्चे को दूध पिलाना है

अरे भाईसाहब
कृपया ध्यान दें
मुझे अपने बच्चे को दूध पिलाना है
आप मुझे घूर सकते हैं
कल फिर ऐसा मौका
कहाँ आना है
मेरा बच्चा भूखा है
वरना मैं  इसे यहाँ दूध
कभी नहीं पिलाती
पर आप क्यों फ़िक्र करते हैं
आप मुझे घूर सकते हैं
और तो और
दूध पीते मेरे बच्चे को
पुचकार भी सकते हैं
अरे शर्माते क्यों हैं
आराम से सेंटी बजाइए
मैं  सुन रही हूँ
और मेरा बच्चा भी
और हाँ आपके साथ खड़े
वो अधेड़ उम्र के मुस्कुराते  पुरुष भी
तो शर्माइये मत
अपनी आँखें
अच्छे से इधर घुमाइए
अब क्यों लाज शर्म करते हैं
आप मुझे घूर सकते हैं
अरे भाईसाहब
कृपया ध्यान दें
मुझे अपने बच्चे को दूध पिलाना है






























Written By - Mystical Wanderer

Auden's Lullaby

Lullbye – an Auden's poem that begins with a remarkable set of intimate lines where he asks his gay beloved to rest his head upon his ‘faithless arm’. The mention of this specific adjective ‘faithless’ breaks the barriers of those Byronic verses where the poet never confesses his faithlessness, rather blames the other was the same. Unlike so celebrated Byronic parameters of loyalty and fidelity to one’s love for lifetime, Auden instead celebrated the fecundity of caress.

Being gay in 1930’s was not a simple position to hold. At that time such men used to hide their status to save their social role. Auden instead focuses on this moment and now and claims infidelity to be a construction of institutionalized core. Universal reality includes all disloyalties –as they are not wrong rather a part of humanity.

For him, what matters most is the intensity of passion – right in this moment. It is here that the love should be pure and strong – enough to last despite of numerous other stands. It doesn't matter how many flames a man gets into. What matters is this love – to make him get through.

One prime – most concern of Auden is time and the doings of time. He laments the fact that no matter how beautiful a person is or what kind of fidile/infidile relation he shares, every child meets the end of nature’s care. And there all beauty of childhood gets lost. There the person dies with all sickly frost. So why be obsessed with this idea of stability and permanence. Time changes so do beauty and those feelings immense.

He looks at the lover and prays in his heart- to let just this night – far off from time’s dart. Anyhow, the beauty or even feelings won’t last. But yes, this moment, this love he wants to retain even after his own last.

Usually avant- guarde poems included carnival desires of a poet, where he pleads his lover to stay in the moment and live for the passion rather than bothering about that outside world. Donn’es poem ‘hold your tongue and let me love’ deals with the same emotion. But Auden touches other strings. His is a post – intimacy poem where his emotion is intense and true. He wants good for his loves despite of all his guilt and mortal being. Anyhow notions like guilt are merely the products or constructions of some institutionalized prisonic ring.

He rather believes in the purity of sensations. Here in this moment – here – despite of numerous other affiliations. His next symbol become the roman goddess of love – Venus her name – but actions no more of dove. She rather seems grave to him. maybe still reflecting the mortality of skin. Nevertheless she sends her sympathetic blessings. But the poem has many more dressings.

He incarnates the body of a hermit – far off in some forest fit. The hermit suddenly underwent a sensation. Carnal ecstasy – with his fascination. This might seem misfit – the character of the hermit. But this is reality – this is what Auden wants to hit. And like the loner hermit he too feels lonely at other times. Not many options with his limited choice. But this one night he doesn't want to lose. These moments of love in his lover’s head he wants all fused.

He wishes him well for that outside world. He desires those windy dawns in morning on his curls. And he wants him saved from all the doings of time. Those dry noons, those insulting night’s rhymes.

But it is not god that he relies upon, not even Venus. It is he and his human love with which he wants him covered. His own love and assurance of it in all other times – despite of his intimacy with many other rhymes.

Yet, this one night is too precious to lose. Or think about future possibilities or his character as lose. Those things don’t matter to him much. It is rather the purity of emotion and touch. He wants still to save his lover from all possible issues. Yet he wants him to be satisfied with mortal rues. Maybe he hopes for his lover to not fall for that quest of never answered questions. Maybe , he himself wants to stay far off from such notions.

But here this night is what is precious to him as he has his lover. And doesn't want to lose a single whisper, kiss or love’s shower. So that mild embrace has all his longings and desires. it has his deep most passions – his innermost fires. The ambres of which are scattered everywhere – that society at large lensing his innermost urge.

 Written By - Mystical Wanderer

क्या आज भी तुम वैसे ही हो जैसे कल थे

एक मुद्दत के बाद
रु-बा -रु हुए हैं तुमसे
क्या आज भी तुम वैसे ही हो
जैसे कल थे
क्या आज भी
बारिश में तुम्हे गाना अच्छा लगता है?
क्या आज भी अचानक बिना बात
तुम्हे मुस्कुराना अच्छा लगता है?
आज भी तुम छनछनाती पायल के साथ चलती हो?
वह धुंधले से चाँद को देख कर
ख़ुशी से उछलती हो?
या अब नहीं रही तुम में वो बात
वो दिल से हंसना वो रोना बिन बात

इक मुद्दत के बाद
रु-बा-रु हुए हैं तुमसे
जाने चले गए थे कहाँ
फासले कैसे होते हैं बयां
जितना  बढ़ाओ
लगते हैं कम से
क्या आज भी
तुम्हारी आँखों में चमक सी है?
क्या आज भी तुम में वो अदा वो कशिश सी है?
आज भी तुम मुझे देख कर वैसे ही मुस्कुराओगी
या पेह्चानोगी भी नहीं
किसी के कानो में फ़ुसफ़ुसाओगी
या तुम कोई और बन गयी हो
वक़्त के बहाव में
थम सी गयी हो

इक मुद्दत के बाद
रु-ब-रु हुए हैं तुम से
क्या तुम पहचानती हो मुझे
कल हम तुम थे
क्या आज भी तुम्हारे कानों में
वो बाली चमकती है
चेहरे पे चमक
दिल में आग भभकती है
आज भी तुम सोती हो उस तकिये के साथ
जिस पे धीमे से मुस्कुराती थी
हर सपनो भरी रात
या तुमने नींद को कहीं पीछे छोड़ दिया
शायद ज़िन्दगी ने कुछ ज़्यादा रंग  दिया

इक मुद्दत के बाद
रु-बा-रु हुयें हैं तुमसे
ना देखा था आसमां
जैसे कब से
क्या आज भी तुम उड़ने की हिम्मत रखती हो
बहती नदी में
आज भी फुदकती हो?
आज भी ढलती रात में
तुम्हे कुछ नशा सा
 आज भी बादलों को देखना
तुम्हे अच्छा लगता है?
या बंद दीवारों को अपना बना तुमने
उन भीगे से गालों के ढलते यौवन में

इक मुद्दत के बाद
रु-बा-रु हुए हैं तुमसे
क्या आज भी तुम वैसी ही हो
जैसे कल थे एक मुद्दत के बाद
रु ब रु हुए हैं तुमसे
क्या आज भी तुम वैसे ही हो
जैसे कल थे

written by - MYSTICAL WANDERER

इस दिल का फरेब तुमसे नहीं हमसे है

इस दिल का फरेब तुमसे नहीं
हमसे है
और हमें शिकवा भी तुमसे नहीं
 हमसे है
शायद तुम सोच रहे होगे
की तुम सही हो
हो सकता है यही सही हो
आखिर हम तुम्हे आंकने वाले
होते कौन हैं
ज़िन्दगी की इस भीड़ में
तुम्हे अपना बुलाने वाले
आखिर हम होते कौन हैं

इस दिल का फरेब तुमसे नहीं
 हमसे है
और ज़िन्दगी का शिकवा भी तुमसे नहीं
हमसे है
वरना क्यों आज भी हम तेरी राह देखते
क्यों आज भी हर रात तुझे ही सोचते
क्यों दोहराते मन ही मन
वो वक़्त तुम्हारे साथ
क्यों करते चुपके चुपके
मन में तुमसे बात

इस दिल का फरेब तुमसे नहीं
हमसे है
शायद हमें प्यार भी तुमसे नहीं
 हम ही से है
क्यों सोचते वरना खुद की ख़ुशी
क्यों चोरटे वो ताने
वो गम की गली
तुम तो थे
और वो सब झूठे नाम भी थे
हाँ तुम्हारा साथ तोह था
और हमारे खोखले रिश्ते के कई नाम भी थे

इस दिल का फरेब तुमसे नहीं
हमसे है
शायद अब हम हम नहीं
कुछ कम से हैं
 वरना ना हम कभी तुम्हारे पास आते
ना ज़िन्दगी में वह ख़ुशी वह गम आते
ना जानते तुमको और तुम्हारा साथ
ना चाहते वो सब कुछ तुम्हारे साथ

इस दिल का फरेब तुमसे नहीं
हमसे है
शायद यही था होना
जो हुआ हमसे है
वरना क्यों हम ये कदम उठाते
क्यों तुमसे तोड़ते वो सदियों के नाते
क्यों ना माफ़ कर पाते
तुम्हारी लाखों खतायें
क्यों नहीं रहते तुम्हारे पास
जिसे हम इतना चाहें

इस दिल का फरेब तुमसे नहीं
हमसे है
क्यूंकि फरेबी नहीं होता
तो तुम में न खोता
वरना तो हम भी जानते थे
जीने की कला
पर हम तो चाहते थे
जीने मरने का सिलसिला
शायद तभी तुम ज़िन्दगी में आये
और बन गए वो अधूरे से साये

इस दिल का फरेब तुमसे नहीं
हमसे है
पर फरेबी ही सही
ये दिल तुमसे नहीं  हमसे है
और अब तुम हम में समां नहीं सकते
वो गुज़रा वक़्त वापस हम ला नहीं सकते
हाँ अलविदा कह सकते हैं तुम्हे हमारे साथ
वो धुंधली सी यादें वह भीगी सी रात

इस दिल का फरेब तुमसे नहीं
 हमसे है
फरेबी थे तुम
फरेबी से हम खुद से हैं
पर अब होगी एक नयी सुबह एक नयी शाम
और हम और तुम करेंगे एक लम्बा आराम
देखो देखो सुबह इंतज़ार कर रही है
हाँ शाम उसे धीमे से कुछ कह रही है
लगता है वो कभी साथ रहते थे
शायद उनमें आप रहते थे

इस दिल का फरेब तुमसे नहीं
 हमसे है
लेकिन आप ही के जैसे
मेरा दिल भी तुमसे नहीं
 हमसे है
हाँ अब है हमारा वक़्त अजीब
ना तुम हो जो मेरे करीब
पर दिल में फिर भी तुम ही रहते हो
फुसफुसा कर शायद कुछ कहते हो
और हम मुस्कुरा से देते हैं
रात के सन्नाटों में
देखते हैं तुमको सपनो में उन रातों में

इस दिल का फरेब  तुमसे नहीं
 हमसे है
चलो इसे भी माफ़ कर देते हैं
क्यूंकि इश्क़ हमसे तुमसे ज़्यादा
खुद से है

Mystical Wanderer

घर में लगा है दरवाज़ा

उस अँधेरी सी चौखट
की छोटी सी मुस्कान
घर में लगा है दरवाज़ा
मोहल्ले की आन
अब तो मुझे
कोई देख नहीं पायेगा
जो भी झांकेगा
वापस लौट जायेगा
अब मई चैन से सोऊंगा
और मेरे बच्चे भी तो होंगे
और फिर उनकी भी तो शादी करनी होगी
तब मई नयी दीवार बनाऊंगा
एक नया दरवाज़ा लाऊंगा

कल तक हम खुले में सोते थे
खुले आम जीते मरते थे
खुले में रोते थे
तब आंसू गिराने को दीवार नहीं थी
कभी कभी तो इसी बात पे रोते थे
पर अब दरवाज़ा आ गया है
अब रोने में मज़ा भी आएगा
खुल कर रोऊंगा आज
लेन - देन सब बाद में देखा जायेगा
जब रो- हंस के थक जाऊंगा
तो फिर खूब नाम कमाऊँगा
इतने पैसे कमाऊँगा
और सब को जलाउंगा
तब मैं नयी दीवार बनाऊंगा
एक नया दरवाज़ा लाऊंगा

अरे अरे ये क्या
ये बारिश कहाँ से आ गयी
अरे गीली चौखट थी
ये आंधी कहाँ से चा गयी
क्या करूँगा मैं अब
कैसे ये बात बताऊंगा
टूट गया है मेरा दरवाज़ा
अब तो मैं रो भी न पाउँगा
कितनी अच्छी थी न वो चौखट
इतनी मुश्किल से बानी थी
उसके बिना ना जी सकूंगा
ना मर पाउँगा
अब मैं उसका वो प्यार
कैसे भूल पाउँगा

अब मैं नयी दीवार बनाऊंगा
एक नया दरवाज़ा लाऊंगा



Mystical Wanderer

That Feminist Writing

Those bodily dressings...

So the other day while sitting in ccd, I was reading with a lot of concentration. I had my full focus right there in every line, only that sudden abrupt moment to make me go offline. A sudden glare of affection for some sudden moment, there on the other table , went my heart’s dent. Beauty indeed is one lusty abstract. It takes you to that world so vague, far off from facts.

So there collided my heart to encounter a spectacular guy. He was handsome indeed aah such venusian highs. But then I was a female and had all its courtly arrogance and ego. I went back to my work without a hint of try. But the guy too had undergone similar trailings. They were all magnatisms of the other sex.

So I -sitting oblivious of any such happenings - tried to focus on those same lines no more happening. But then he came suddenly with a vague reason. There I was caught – in those gestures with treason. Nevertheless i maintained that charm and stoic expression. But he wooed that conversation through a strange fascination.

So then the talks grew right in few moments. There in front of all – the staff and some audience. He offered his number - For some reason. But i had my very own illusions. So i maintained the lady like attitude. There I took his number - as a due. But no,  i didn’t offer my no. I said I would call him soon whenever in slumber.

And deep inside with an ego satisfied I sat there confidently. So what if weirdly dressed, I had then been approached formerly. And so i decided not to give my no. Cause then it would be considered a lady’s fall. So maintaining your respect comes from this society. whatever its notions are, whatever its artificiality.

But, I wonder, what if i provide my no. To him and interact – to find out who he is to be exact. And explore may be some unknown dimensions - Some new choices, some new functions. And undergo the sensations of going through his psychology. And map it all inside my head – like a piece of geology. After all, we are all – books – only with hidden pages. How would it feel to enter those different cages. And let those souls be out for some time. And create new songs with numerous rhymes.

So should I maybe give my no. To him and explore – those unknown blue depths, those magnificent shores. How would it feel to dive and lay there in the sand .how would it feel to hold a solid hand. But wouldn’t it be a challenge to my independent status? Wouldn’t it be a big question-mark upon my freedom – apparatus?

But then I want to call him mine too- If not mine, then of my my follower’s crew. What if he is worth a keep. But would I be able to tolerate in every instance – his peak. Men are once possessive lot I must say. Sugar-coated they come, lavish they lay. But when it comes to a single later stage – like that where the woman wants to leave that cage, well they outleash their real shades – black and red – knives and blades .

And I suddenly hear those shrills and cries in that house beside. This – this violence is man’s real side. They take out their love and take out their frustration. Woman – the sponge – his woman – his fascination.
and yet, I think I would give my no. after all.

Mystical Wanderer

Paid on both Sides

A coin is almost always – paid on both sides. It is always someone else’s property and lies in some other demise. Once in your pocket it brings in those joys and insecurity, it makes you worry and deems you in artificiality. It becomes your memento of success – that which glitters out in light. You tend to fall victim of that social construction so blind. You never realize the effects –after all you have no escape from it. Either go out and earn you bread – or at one place, all insulted - you sit.

I am sure, food was never priced the time it came into existence. Even man was a priceless creature once. More modernity, more is that superficiality – the doings of that single coin and that nature it did shun. Long back, stone and goodies were exchanged – barter system it was given name. But how about that age – when life was not a stage, when man was that basic essential being – far off from constructions and its doings.

Or were there always some kind of constructions? What was the name of the religion before religion came into existence. Was man still under some construction – may be some ancient institute that proves some kind of function.

Undergoing the transitions of dominant ideologies, one wonders what ‘is this psychology?’ Is it just to order and repress or is it to have some kind of chronology? But aren’t we dishonest and undisciplined by nature? or does that nature so punctual portrays our caricature? How about those sudden disasters that take away all life? they give it a new phase – in rambles and strife.  But many calls it reconstruction, calls it Shiva’s function. Why then is discipline such a huge issue. Or do those disasters also fit as time’s tissue.

The cycle or order is impossible to estimate. After all, history and religion also have their rate. The rates and values differ with time. Humans – their worth, their talent or those flattery lines. I wonder – where all the coin speaks. I wonder is it also in those emotions that it reeks. Those intimate moments have already been corroded by it. naked gestures have in their lap that coin – comfortably fit.

The crown of nature queen has an imprisoning poison in between - The powerful glitter of coin – blackening its every stream.

Written By - Mystical Wanderer

The Fecundity Of Time

At times i wonder, how exactly does my life work or am I even aware that I am alive and living my life in a particular way? It feels strange to reflect back upon my life so far and undergo a shocking journey through the passage of time. I mean, who would believe it is the same me who had undergone all those changes in that short intervals of time. It feels as if I have been changing selves all through my life – like that larva or even a snake which keeps on wearing and breaking free of various skins only to leave a dead carcass with a whole new skin with numerous colors upon the new scales.

So, what instills me to cause such huge changes? What motivates me to dive inside new situations right away? Aren't people usually uncomfortable with changes? How come i have had such a smooth way? But it wasn't smooth altogether. It has been one ride- full of intense sways. If only I had not been born with this basic impulse to follow my heart –and have that faith in its whatever way. At times I land up in strange valleys, some journeys take me to hilly ways. Each time i wonder, is it the right way? Or should i have stayed in that before, at least  it had that comfort of a common day.

And yet, its intensities that thrill me.. i somehow find out new ways – to be happy and feel good about life - To carve out my very own way. Those forests at times seem scary. So do those strange new places with cold days. But can life be any better than being in new situations and facing new challenges every day? True, not all like such changes. Many prefer their own fixed dimensions to stay. Yet, i believe in expanding.- expanding my spirit to all mystical rays.

So, there are some good experiences and some bad lessons too. Some people are very helpful. Some can drive your patience and life away. And yet, what is ecstatic is the intoxicant stage- the phase when you struggle to get up – and there you see that faint dusky ray. And there you lie all calm in the arms of night - Waiting for that dawn with a faint moon in sight. And there you wait for each morning and each evening. As every moment has its own stage. And you become both an actor and spectator. You become your very own creator. It is bliss to glide along with every moment. It is heaven right in this moment – this very way.

Or if you don’t like it still. Then better give your life a chance. After all, it is possible, to give every melody a little prance. And life becomes a huge stage – meant to be full of actions and sensations. Jump down from a mountain or sit back and have hallucinations. Dive deep into a river and flow with it to unknown destination.  Universe is bountiful of beauty. It is worth it to give a try to every possible way.

So I guess, the time is indeed some entity to either walk along or watch it glide past your way. So smile and change as required. Or the time would keep you at bay. Life is all about grabbing opportunities and expanding your own horizons - To travel to endless places and explore universal emotions. There in that outside, you undergo a journey all inside to your soul. There you find differences and similarities, there you feel the happiness so pure. You step out and drink that nectar out of that hilly spring. Feel the windy jolts and wonder at the beauty it brings. And in change one finds the only stability - To keep that insecurity away. And there one attains his entity to feel whole and be one with that moony ray. 

Mystical Wanderer

Enlarging Your Inner Self

The ecstasy of unison

There on a moony night, the two trekked up hillside. They kept walking till they reached that strange cottage. Neon shaded , full of people with strange attires. She knew she had to act brave. Upon him she had this strange faith. They were there for a purpose. To have that unique experience of union with nature. there the man gave them a drop each. Shiva’s trance suddenly was out of reach. That place had strange hallucinatory power. Was it the music or was it flower power. They felt it unsafe to stay there any longer. Off they began their journey to somewhere. Beyond that hill right in the middle of a narrow bridge – they sat down together to see that river below at rage. The river was stangely gothic that night. It wanted to engulf them with the bridge somehow.

They sat upon that moving bridge right in the middle. Facing it all like a nature’s riddle. It was one moment of awe – when that river they saw. Each holding hands the helplessness they draw. They rose up to further enter inside a forest, He with a tiny light – so florescent. Again and again he switched it on and off. There in the forest was a civilization at shroff. Amidst flowers and trees she saw humans and figures. There in those curves – she created her picture. The place was full of images so true. The world which seemed real few hours before – seemed like a futile crew.

There was the essential world – yes  , that forest world so true. There amidst those mountains she saw the image of Buddha – isolated from the crew. And yes, there was a star show too. The entire universe was suddenly so beautiful and a spectacular view.

He hallucinated upon her strangely. To him she became a snake so widely. Her every curve became the tangle of a snake. There she glided with his every vision’s take. Her moments became a snake dance to which he did prance. Her clothes became that scaly skin, to challenge his heart at stake. He ran suddenly behind a vixen – which he had encountered in his mind’s game. Horror was the feeling she suddenly entered – alone in a forest – was its name.

There with the light gone, forest turned strangely murderous. Everything was piney , even those sudden eyes in flashes and bursts. She knew she had to walk a certain way – in order to be safe. Alas the way had ascended – on its own – like a mirage day. Those plants on sides had hands to grab. Her feet were in danger – from those knifes to stab. She knew it was all in her hands – to stay scared or take an action. It was all a matter of fraction. She had to walk and not think for some time. What dare it was in her mental rhyme.

 She walked and walked praying inside. there she crossed that way and reached the other side. A new world was waiting for her trippy mind. There was a man with dark psy behind. And he had returned too to be by her side. There they sat together – with trance in mind. And there she closed her eyes all lost in the music. There she saw those beginnings and catharsis in series so strategic.

And there came a moment when trance became universal noise – gently transcending its form to that spiritual voice. Om-Om she heard around – Om was that universal sound. Enlarged and expanded she felt, in om’s sound she began to melt.  It felt so huge to be the size of the universe - To have that power to gift or curse. And there she felt what it felt to be inside a body. There she was enlarging with Om’s melody. She grew and grew till it was impossible to hold on – when spirit became too light and heavy – like a hollowed stone. And there happened that epiphany moment – only punctured with her mental dent. she was too week for the experience she felt. So back into the earthly world she dwelt.

World seemed strange and alien suddenly. And yet she had just now been the world so heavenly. She wanted to eat and sleep then. There was no he, no man. All through this she had been offered that fog. Again and again she had felt that smog. But now the world was transparent yet in mist. She walked like a zombie with a mysterious jist.

Alone she entered that forest into an isolated camp. She feared no forest, no dark vamp. She was the nature and the nature was she. She was the universe –a cosmos so free. And there inside the arms of night – slept that soul so bright – as if entering the arms of her beloved –there she slept in that cosmos as bed.

written by - Mystical Wanderer

That Luniac Mask

Based on Luigi Pirandello's play - Henry fourth

Masks – a stage prop being used ever since theaters came into existence. But is it only in theaters that one wears masks? Are we not performing numerous roles during numerous situations of our lives? Luigi Pirandello’s play - ‘Henry 4^th’ deals with the same criss-cross of reality and illusion, sanity and madness, truth and fictional fusions. So what is life all about? Should one be blunt about everything and be real about those real motives repressed inside or should one appear to be true in order to match the society in which one resides? Can time be frozen and lived on till eternity in the shape mind set and shape? Should one avoid all types of change and nature’s facade?

The play deals with an actor and historian in 20^th century who took his role of Henry 4^th of Germany too seriously. Having met an accident during play, he lost his memory and got locked into those prisms of time and character forever.  His nephew Charles -de- Nollie assured him comfortable ambience by succumbing to his madness. He created a stage set up of the fort of Henry 4^th for him with his private four counsellors to take care of him along with a servant John.

The play begins with the entry of one such counsellor Berthold who undergoes difficulty in getting his role of Henry’s counsellor in not exactly a play but a play that is reality for a madman.  The other three counsellors assure him that even they are not sure of their roles and they always need Henry's cue to act according to his desire.

Enter Donna Martilda – Henry’s beloved when he used to be sane, her daughter – Frieda –aloso fionce of Charles De Nollie, Belcredi – Martilda’s lover and therefore Henry’s competitor and doctor genoni – a psychopath – there to treat Henry 4^th so that he attains his senses after a risky shocking experiment of making him encounter both his past and present at the same time – by bringing both Martilda and Frieda in front of his eyes.

 It is strange – that woman instinct – that always tell a woman some kind of hidden reality inside her lover’s heart. It is this instinct that had assured Martilda that Henry had infact recognized her. She had all reasons to believe so as henry had made sure she gets it. he had taken her to an isolated corner and said, ‘ does she love her daughter?’ she was shocked – all confused  between real and illusion.

The audience is repeatedly shocked with stunning revelations time and again, the most significant being the moment when henry reveals to his counsellors that he is all lucid and has been acting inswane since many years. Everyone gets shocked with such a strange possibility of a person voluntarily accepting masks of madness and fixidity of time. It is there that he reflects that for him the entire world is mad as madman is someone who is not aware of his masks. In a way, everyone wears some kind of mask in reality and it is he who despite of being considered a madman – is however aware of his own mask and is also proudly able to see beyond others’ masks. For him, madman is someone who tells truth but the world cannot digest truth and hence one is given this category of madness. Madness in real is being unaware of both your reality and illusion – like that priest in a story who was once smiling in his dream but moment he woke up and noticed a child observing him, he brought back a ,mask of serious expression upon his face. Henry identified with that mask and said only difference between that madman and he was that the priest was unaware of his voluntarily assumed mask, but he instead was well aware of what he was pretending and what he was not.

Pirandello had huge issues with doctors of his time maybe because of their inability to treat his mad wife. His anxiety appears time and again with his personal views vocalized by Belcredi’s opinion about doctors and the comment that it is better to have lawyers rather than doctors in those times. Also, the doctors plan to shock henry was efficient enough to turn him mad a second time. How do you expect a person living all frozen in layers of time – to face 20 years loop one shocking time.

The stage setting had one significant prop of portraits of martilda and henry  in their costumes of Tuskany and Germany respectively.  The portraits emerged as dissimilar to setting that came out through Berthold’s eyes. Henry called those portraits mirrors and reflected upon his ill fate due to his actions in previous times. He said that maybe the pope had cursed him to stay 26 forever far off from the doings of time. In his acts he pleaded sorry and asked once again for the moment of time. Yet in reality, he was scared of changes and that fast pacing – fecundity of times.

After 12 years, he suddenly had attained back his senses , only to lament the changes of times. His beloved was taken, and so was his world and those anciemt rhymes. He had no more attention, no more acceptance of his own self in his times. He needed no more changes, no more pacing intensified times. So he opted to stay mad forever and play with those illusions of those around. He continued to prefer a lantern than blinding lights and maintained that 11^th century rhyme.

The doings of time yet appear, especially when one finds that portrait and those in real. when the picture resembles more to Martilda’s daughter and in illusion mixes all real. it is through costumes that they had planned to bring henry back to sanity. It is through costumes that henry was living in the garbe of insanity.

Frieda’s yellings on encountering Henry horrified him and he for a moment went back to his mad – stage where he grabbed her to hold on to that once clutched reality. However, he soon escaped in pretentious self and with his valots’ help managed to hold others back who had reveled themselves in order to be at frieda’s aid. But ofcourse, Belcredi managed to escape and for this he paid a huge rate. Henry stabbed him to revenge his state as Belcredi was the one responsible for his fate. It was Belcredi who had long back pricked henry’s horse in order to attain Martilda. For that Henry finally stabbed him hard out of his insane crusade. And there laughed out at peace. Telling his valots to hold on, they would all now face the same fate.

The play might seem a shock to be digested - a play plotted with play inside play - Each character with his own reality, each with his own theatrical state. What is significant is the themes involved – those of time and those masks with numerous shades. The urge to hold time and stop the time’s shifting crate. Those doings of our roles and characters portrayed .the battered emotions, reality – on trade.

Each of us have our own illusions, each have reality’s varying notions. Those masks we wear voluntarily, those that are imposed by social fusions. The play portrays the frozen time – deep inside the psyche of characters. And yet that need to change with time – human cycles and their structure. The reality –changing with changing times - Old hair, youth lost and changing paces of time, Those who get lost in those illusions and those who are unable to hold back time with their own rhymes.

So do we really require masks or is it ok to have multiple selves of numerous times. Is life really a theatre or theatre more life like? Do characters need author or author can on his own all decide. What does it take to have a play - Mere masks or the puppets of Time?

A madman at times speaks more truth then those considered as sane and civilized. Who knows who is foolish or who is in turn pretending to be wise. This world is full of maskd – those varying colors and voice. Right behind the palest shade is hidden something dark – which masks its shade – so bright. With past we might stay connected but present is more alive. To stay in illusion or become illusion - It is all the work of mind.

Some try to follow cyclic history-  it has fixed actions and an end to time. How difficult for some it becomes – to take decisions with varying times. Lucky in waiting for godot was lucky – as he needed not to decide. All his actions were the master’s decisions – the game of the playwright. And yet the three others had this issue with life. To time pass and do some action, while waiting for death – is a real strife.

So what should one do – to act or stay inside? is that wide strange world mutable enough or that enclosed illusionary fort – a better reside? For our madman – it was better to stay fixed – capping that fiction in real life. Is it too difficult to live or is it the problem with illusions outside? But the fort is also an illusion. So is all outside. The real challenge lies in living – right in every actor along with the power of a playwright. So masks if one has to wear, so be it – to whosoever’s despise. It is when a person is bare most naked that he is considered to have a mask to reside.

written by - Mystical Wanderer

Those Bricks and Walls of Bishop's Monument

Now can you see the monument? It is of wood
built somewhat like a box. No. Built
like several boxes in descending sizes
one above the other.
Each is turned half-way round so that
its corners point toward the sides
of the one below and the angles alternate.
Then on the topmost cube is set 
a sort of fleur-de-lys of weathered wood,
long petals of board, pierced with odd holes,
four-sided, stiff, ecclesiastical.
From it four thin, warped poles spring out,
(slanted like fishing-poles or flag-poles)
and from them jig-saw work hangs down,
four lines of vaguely whittled ornament
over the edges of the boxes
to the ground.
The monument is one-third set against
a sea; two-thirds against a sky.
The view is geared
(that is, the view's perspective)
so low there is no "far away,"
and we are far away within the view.
A sea of narrow, horizontal boards 
lies out behind our lonely monument,
its long grains alternating right and left
like floor-boards--spotted, swarming-still,
and motionless. A sky runs parallel,
and it is palings, coarser than the sea's:
splintery sunlight and long-fibred clouds.
"Why does the strange sea make no sound?
Is it because we're far away?
Where are we? Are we in Asia Minor, 
or in Mongolia?"
An ancient promontory,
an ancient principality whose artist-prince
might have wanted to build a monument
to mark a tomb or boundary, or make
a melancholy or romantic scene of it...
"But that queer sea looks made of wood,
half-shining, like a driftwood, sea.
And the sky looks wooden, grained with cloud.
It's like a stage-set; it is all so flat!
Those clouds are full of glistening splinters!
What is that?"
It is the monument.

     -'The Monument' 

by- 'Elizabeth Bishop'

Being so fond of historical monuments, I at times wonder – is it the fixed and dead that I like the most? Or it it history – shades of ‘good old days’ that fascinate me the most? Do I have a problem with fluidity that I seek that eternity? Or is it just the fact that I love some ancient culture and it’s creativity. And do others also transcend to those times like I do whenever I am inside those walls of a monument? Or it just me who gets that ethnic scent.

And there I landed up with Bishop’d beautiful poem. It rhymed up the process of construction of those monuments in an imaginary hymn. Was she present there during the formation of such a structure. Or is it all her imaginary architecture?
Elizabeth Bishop – a poet known for less words but more of her background work. Her visual tones, her honest smirk – all talk about but one thing in common – those changes of time – and how one’s mind spuns.

While giving birth to this poem, like always, she had her model and a sketch. a crisped blue paper on table, with a rough sketch in her notebook to match. The paper symbolized sea and crisps were it waves on flee.There she talked about the way a monument is given shape. Ironically, her building has no fixed shape. It is made up of wood to one’s surprise. It has no limited hood, is it wise. So a monument is not one fixed time. It grows and gets re-chiselled every time.

It’s a product of wood – open to all time’s altering. Many try to see it, with all its faltering. Like a moon which seems different from different positions. It is also this object which undergoes revealing fissions. Distance plays a vital part. A closer view varies from that of the far away start. So the structure includes misplaced blocks in a random descending order. It has no fixed dimensions, except that sea and sky in spur.

Both sea and sky represent waves and turmoil. They show the doings of time. Like those clouds that keep changing their formation. It seems her monument changes its shapes and its interpretations. She tends to focus upon a vital point. The monument has no one history, no single joint. It’s all about a moment and one’s views - As many observers, as many hues.

 The wood has its own holes and faults. Those are spectators’ jolts. How come there are no marble and all its adornments? Why of all she chose wood and its atornments. Wood I guess is the symbol of ordinary - Which presents art and its history. So a piece of art is not something unusual from start. It rather emerges out of everyday life. The added notions provide it auras of joys and strife.

May it be a poem, a painting, a sculpture or a monument - Each remains eternal and changes with time’s sand. Closer you observe more you can come close to its reality. However, the essential self remains hidden under those masks of artificiality. It is all always the beginning of an artistic process. It is either some agreed with interpretation or a struggle with a huge mess. That quest for the truth of that monument. Alas, it s made up of wood like a temporary tent. It keeps on changing its shape and shades. Even that sea and sky has fewer shapes.

The sea represents the reality of time. Alas, it could not be understood – the waves’ rhyme. Is it because we always remain too far from reality that we can’t understand that sea? Is it because of our numerous interpretations and that urge to clear artificiality? Our possible understandings take the shape of fixed wooden blocks – with which we try to estimate that monument – within several no. of blocks.

Alas, it is impossible to get to the soul of art. It is after all – always on start. It remains something – to be altered with time and spectator’s distance from object. Take it or leave it – its for each of us – to accept. So call it a painting or call it a piece of literature – its always some broken hazy image – a jig–saw puzzle coming under some possible caricature.

WRITTEN  BY - MYSTICAL WANDERER

उस मक़बरे के पास

आज अचानक उस मक़बरे के पास
देखी इक नयी दीवार
लगता है कोई नया मरा है
पुराने के साथ कुछ नया पड़ा है
पर क्या फ़र्क़ पड़ता है
क्या फ़र्क़ पड़ता है की वहां
अब एक नहीं दो मुर्दे गाड़ी थे
क्या फ़र्क़ पड़ता है की उनके
नाम भी नहीं दिख रहे थे
कौन आएगा उनको पूछने मरने के बाद
कौन करेगा उनको
इस दौड़ती ज़िन्दगी में याद

आज अचानक उस मक़बरे के पास
देखी इक नयी दीवार
शायद कोई दो आंसू कुछ समय तक गिराये
शायद किसी रूह में ये दिन समां जाये
जब हाथों से दफना दिया उसको
जिसके साथ जीते थे कभी तोह
शायद वो पल उसे तब याद आएं
जब न रहे वह मुर्दे न उनके साये
पर कब तक रहेंगे ये मुर्दे याद
ज़िन्दगी में रोज़ आती है एक नयी फ़रियाद
किस किसको यादों में ज़िंदा रखेंगे
आखिर कब तक मुर्दों में खुद को रखेंगे

आज अचानक उस मक़बरे के पास
देखी इक नयी दीवार
लोग कहते हैं मरने के बाद
भी रूह ज़िंदा रहती है
वो देखती है सब कुछ
और रातों में कुछ कहती है
अरे पहले ज़िंदा लोगों की तो सुन लो
किसको ज़िंदा रखना है किस को मुर्दा
ये तो चुन लो
कोई तरसता है तुम्हारे कुछ पलों के लिए
किसी से मिलने को आप तरसते हैं
देखते ही देखते ज़िन्दगी गुज़र जाती है
और लोग बिछड़ जाते हैं

आज अचानक उस मक़बरे के पास
देखी इक नयी दीवार
शायद कोई और प्यासा मरा है
शायद किस्मत ने उसको भी ठगा है
या शायद वह यही चाहता है
मौत से लड़कर कोई कहाँ जाता है
और मौत के भी तो कई नाम हैं
लोग कहते हैं
ये सबसे उम्दा आराम है
ना नाम ना काम ना कोई लड़ाई
ना कोई इच्छा ना देनी किसी को सफाई
अरे भावनाएं ही तो नहीं होतीं
तो दर्द भी होता होगा कहाँ
मिटटी में मिल जातें हैं सब
कुछ पलों में जहां

आज अचानक उस मक़बरे के पास
देखी इक नयी दीवार
पर अब कहाँ दीवार रहेगी
मरने के बाद कहाँ कोई बात याद रहेगी
अब तो चाहे दफना दो
पड़ोस के उस जानी दुश्मन के साथ
चाहे लौटा दो
वो छीनी  ख़ुशी, वह खोया प्यार
अब कहाँ कोई तकलीफ दे पायेगा
मुर्दा है वो
यही तो ज़िन्दगी को
टक्कर का जवाब दे पायेगा
यही तो है ज़िन्दगी को मतलब देने वाला
हाँ यही है उन लकीरों से दूर
मिटटी में रहने वाला

आज अचानक उस मक़बरे के पास
देखी इक नयी दीवार


























written by - Mystical Wanderer

Way to Happiness

Its funny how each of the poet and writer wants to find that one solution – that one way – to attain happiness. And yet, all one writes about is human miseries, those plights of separation and desires of human creations. It becomes an eternal process of sickness and healing – each offering his own set of solutions, his own limited ceilings. Some find solace in nature, for others domesticity is a blissful sight. Some desire endless wandering, some have post modernist distorted sights.

So the question remains – what is peace? Where is happiness? Is there any possibility of bliss? What is emancipation? Imaginations keep tossing numerous toasts for some consumption – some create heaven and hell and get lost in human junction. There are people who try to find answers in the stars – astronomy and similar fictions. In monkeys does our specie collide – this is science’s function.

So here arises a confused head – attracted to many planets of large suction. They jump and collide, yet find no decent solution.  Some try to have that blind faith deep inside the lap of conservative dominance. Some try to isolate from this all – out into that nature immense. People claim to have seen sprits and those forces beyond human apprehension. While some simply smile and shun those acclaimed narrations.

Yet world remains distorted amidst numerous pieces of stories – all overlapping each other causing difficulty becoming obstructions in some or the other orbit and its function. Mind tries to find one workable model of universe and its functionality. Yet others deny life and its so called artificiality. Saints or criminals, common men or gypsies – all grab hold of a stereo-typical category and try to justify their own side. And yet, there comes a point where all faiths collide.

And then there is another group of those who deny to compromise. They detest all categories and enhance their own size. They consider themselves unique with their own collection of colors. A piece from here and a piece there and they define their own selves. And yet they remain isolated in that large world so used to categorization. And all their lives they seek to find their own utopian nation.

There enters various institutes to define those things considered ‘normative’. And all there lives people try to mould themselves to that constructed shift. They feel out of place, and remain dissatisfied. All their life gets wasted to reach that mirage of far sight. Struggle and struggle and yet the journey has no end. It all is after all about journey – becomes the stand. And then the man dies – rest in peace – says the world. There in soil rests those decayed ashes – all curled.

Its funny how people spend their life preparing for their dream death. In each moment we die while trying to figure out the rest. And there die their once seen dreams post-phoned to that ‘one day’. When all their priorities would be met with and they would have their heart’s say. Some things get fulfilled while others die with him. lost in those moments when they were dreamed to be amiss.

In imagination and desire gets lost those golden dreams. But is it possible to reach beside every dream’s stream?  So you convince yourself with here and now. Atleast this is good and you are managing it all on your own somehow. And yet that glitch inside to do what you desired. To do justice to that amber inside – all fired.

You look at the moon and visualize your mansion in its darker sight. Bit far in now but surely one day you would reach. But the dream repeats till the time you forget to dream at all. and life becomes maintaining your laboured halt and stall. And you consider it your reality with all your faith in fate. And none tries to change one’s given state.

And then in between enter those dark times, where man loses his rationality and blame Hellenic powers to blind. And guilt and other such concepts enter – making one’s life a panther. One sighs and complains or others he blames. Or some still know how to pretend. They call it an adventure sport – every bend. But the pain remains – thrusted between those lines – which enters one’s psyche during those twilight rhymes.

Some try to ignore it all – the trivialities of life. They live only in fictions – with those characters of literature of other times. And there they find no real threat but a mere relief. After all it was all a piece of literature – an awe created in every dream. And yet, whenso called reality hits them in real, they are taken aback – blaming it all upon those books which never taught him to deal with real ship-wrecks.

So what is that ideal solution to end all these mysteries, to put an end to categories and finish those gyres of histories. I guess,  we are well efficient to choose one of these choices. Yet if you are uncomfortable with these then there is only one option. Mind it, it has huge blames on auctions.

So the challenge includes getting aware of the fictionalities of these fictions and yet being mute about it. to work under a system and along with these functionalities – sit. To understand the practical effect these notions have upon our life and the harm caused to deny these all openly. After all literature is a bundle of opposites but meaning is impossible without its curry. So be aware and step out into a fictional world – and here I sit whirled – with yet another created definition, being fully aware of its impermanent station. 

 Mystical Wanderer

Bishop's Travels

Travel – a theme I had always been fond of. Literature – something that i got affiliated with during the course of growing up. A perfect blend of both of these attributes – I found in Elizabeth bishop – a poet who travelled all through her life. Having undergone a troublesome childhood and life, she was a poet in full spirits when it came to writing about life. All through her life she had a problem with several realist writers who used to write things that were not required to be said so openly. And yet, not only was she one honest poet but had confessed numerous realities in her poetry – both about the society she used to live in and her private life.

Having been rejected for three years she finally succeeded into getting recognized as a profound writer in New York Times all through her life. Initially she was considered to be a dark and elliptic writer but gradually readers adapted her style. Being friends with a no. Of writers, editors and considering letter- writing as the best medium of having literary flights – she was able to give a vivid descriptions – both of her life and her imaginary flights.

In her ‘questions about travels’ she gave a reflection of every traveler's eye-sight. The world one spectates or the one in memory’s light. The home one has left or the home that one seeks to find, those travels that give rest or that imagination without any real test. It was all – well condensed into those few of Bishop’s lines.

She wonders about that basic dilemma of choosing between travel and a stable life. Whether living at strange places has any familiarity then an unknown inner-sight. Whether one should physically see new places or If imagination a better place to reside. Was it worth all its efforts after all, those were mere mementos of objectified times. Moments and moments – all captured with those limited literary device. Or if those emotions were a huge opportunity cost to have no permanent place to into which one can hide.

She ends her poem openly, without giving any fixed premise. But one line had her heart – the place where she did reside. ‘home- wherever it may be’ called her voice. Who knows where it was – her inner voice.

She saw world as a mirror – reflecting back her inner sigh. Wherever she travelled, she picturized her own eye-sight. What new the world had to offer –was her only plight. And yet she explored herself – in all through her travels – with all her might.

Being a female travel had many challenges and social plight. But her lesbian status relieved her from that offensive sight. And she travelled full power – all through the world, making numerous places her home – to reflect upon life all curled.

It is during her long stay in Brazil that she wrote the most about travel. Imagine her reflections at fruitations when she was finally stabilized .so here she meditated upon her life and wrote those 19 poems and a story – in a short memoir – her 15 year long laboured history.

She was not an idyllic product of romance and fantasy. It was in reality and illusions she attained ecstasy. She wrote about downtrodden, isolated marginalized. She reflected upon their deep-most plight. In the robes of childhood she draped those women and their plight -  Almost always at subversion to those horrorful games of dominated fight. Her victims had the tool of imagination. And yet it was all her very creation. In locks and chains of words and grammar, she made her characters imprisoned in reality- far from glamour.

In one of her poems she treated the grandmother and her grand daughter,The elder one with tears ready to slaughter. The child was lost in her own world of imagination. The old woman was lost in her own tragic emotion. She was forced to hide her tears in front of the child. The child had her own escape in her wild flight. She drew a sketch of a house with a man. Grandma knew – crying was on ban. A hole on the roof leaked a drop. Resembling those tears on lady’s cheeks, yet, on paper a blot.

The child was oblivious of its symbolic relation - The pain to be identified and her grandma’s isolation. She drew yet another sketch, with another home and another man. She expected the lady to see it as their stem. But the fate was decided – for people like them. Each painting full of tears – aah the cyclic stem.

 But the child was lost in her world of illusions. Those beggars on streets full of fascinations. They expected a miracle out of the man standing in a balcony - A buttered loaf of bread and coffee with a warm penny. But the hopes were turned down, as crumbles appeared, A drop of coffee – dealing with their fears. There was no miracle that day, but the child was still in spirits. She dreamed of her place out of imaginary hits. And there in a balcony was she all filled. With gallons of coffee was she no more chilled. But there she knew – it was all a dream. Coz there she saw people in a thirsty stream.

They tried to quench their unlimited thirst- with those shadows of treasures of miracle – burst.

But all that child had was wait – an endless wait –while she was sitting inside a dentist’s  state. She was waiting for her aunt to return from check up room. Her eyes filtered those people like broom. Grownups despised her senses and spirit. There those magazines – she gave them a hit. Those images of grotesque with dark out leashed. Those unattractive breasts and ugliness outreached. She hated it all – the world of elders- how she despised to be amidst those peddlers. And yet she had no option but to wait for her aunt, till she realizes her status of being the same, she had to otherwise chant.

Amidst hopes and despairs bishop tried to find her entity. For her, every place was her own city. Those voices unheard and places that were felt – inside her poetry they were all melt. And there happened the alchemy of her innermost desire – those that she observed and those that she fired.  And there was born an eternal traveller –right in her times – to our own – like interstellar.

MYSTICAL WANDERER