Pull

It was a metal and glass door , as they are wont to nowadays .
The glass wasn’t transparent .
Large red letters asked people on the outside to “Pull”.
So , it was perplexing to see a group of people , waiting patiently outside .
He lowered his legs from the noisy bullet , and looked at himself in the mirror. Passing a hand over his slicked hair , and stood up to see all eyes staring at his golden bike. He loved it . His golden shoes and the gold spray paint all over his 350cc new Royal Enfield.
Gold chains swishing from his hip , the crowd parted as he swaggered up to the door and pulled with all his might.
The door handle , smoothly detached itself and he stood holding a steel handle , with two screws hanging morosely .
“It is locked from inside , bewakoofa( you moron !).” Someone screeched . Others sniggered and looked away.
Not done yet , he set about trying to fix the handle in place , by screwing on with the aid of his bike key . Two minutes of this jingling -jangling and the door flew open .
Our gold clad man was flung to a side and a 7 foot tall Punjab Police constable breathed fire into the crowd ” Who is breaking the door ?”
The crowd shrunk away and pointed at the gold guy , slinking in the shadow with the uprooted handle clutched dolefully in his hand .Telling all .
“When they write pull , never pull . Only knock .” he bellowed. The gigantor took the handle , and ushered everyone in ,with a nod of his mighty head.

The sunset

The phone rang .
“Yeah , Ma.”
“Hello!1 Bubu . You sound tired . where are you ?” Unnecessary questions . She knew already what was the matter .
“How many days ?”
“What ?”
“How many days’ worth medicines are still with you ?” A sharp inhalation . Then a resigned sigh .
“How did you know ?” She sighed .
“I just know Ma .” She was already mentally calculating how many days the courier guy will take to deliver city manufactured medicines to this remote hamlet.
” Ten days’ more .”
“Ok. Plenty of time .”
“Thank you bubu. I hope this will not be too much trouble .”
“Ma!!”
“Thank you my piece of moon . I cannot thank you enough .”
After Ma had hung up , she tried visualising . Ma must be sitting on her bed , with her knitting . Baba must be in the next room , roughly , five feet away , also on his bed , all his medical books and precious english literature scattered in a million words around him , trying to make sense of all the information gathered over a lifetime . Surgical procedures , names of glaciers in Himalayas , Battles from half a century ago , Fromme , Sonne , Bulge , Siege of Leningrad or was it Stalingrad ? She couldn’t confide in her spouse , could she ? Ma had to confide in an offspring sitting 3000 kms away , in a city that spoke a language Ma could never comprehend .
She looked out of the window . A brilliant orange orb was going down. Splashing the skies in waves of yellow , red and ochre .

Admire

Yeah , I admire the way
some words you say
Some ideas bother
crawl and fester
others are flighty
butterfly beauty

I admire how words
sharpen into swords
capable of wounding
slicing, compounding

Some quickly reach ,
the heart of the matter
some take ages ,much
like the proverbial hare 

Must admire
that even in slumber
words dont tire
never retire 

Soldier ants
astride plants
reach the sap
almost asap 

Admirable
a miracle !!

My favourite aunt

My favourite aunt sat on a humungous four poster bed . She had it brought all the way from her family mansion in the village and had it reassembled in the centre of her bedroom . Then , she had an assortment of mattresses placed on it . Then , came her favourite floral patterned bed sheet. Large purple flowers with a showy yellow centre . Dots for pollens , large parrot green leaves , red and pink butterflies darting in and out of this dense foliage . It was like sitting atop a jungle .

Then she had a hubble -bubble . She would shout for the boy , and he would rush in , blowing gently at red hot embers of burning cow dung cakes . He would reverentially place them in a scrubbed brass pot , and tobacco and water in other two interconnected pots . It was an intricate process, very fascinating to watch . Then he would yank a crisp hanky out of his pocket , place it gently on the mouth piece and take a gentle , a very gentle drag . Satisfied , coughing , he then would proffer her the tube . She would accept , like a high priestess , and he would bow away , his eyes streaming , red with smoke .

There was a rumour that this aunt was a" begum "of sorts , in her village . No one knew for sure . It was Kolkata , the metropolis , and a great leveller. Others said she was just a rich heiress. Either way , we knew she had migrated from Bangladesh . She spoke fondly of her village "haveli" , and stories of fabulous wealth .

She had a shrine to her selection of Gods and godmen installed in her room . A huge bunch of thick handmade incense sticks would burn at this altar , all the day long . That made her room real smoky . The Hookah and the altar .

I have vivid memories of entering her room , and seeing her sitting atop that mound of a bed , cross legged,black  curly hair open  , clad in a handloom saree , wreathed in smoke .  She reminded me of the character absolem created by lewis caroll

Then there was the steady stream of tea and snacks . Her kitchen was like a factory , manned by her ageing , widowed sister. There would be smells of mustard oil tadka, fish being fried and rice boiling  , sounds of hissing , crackling  and cookers whistling all the time .

Millions of  rosogolla , kachagolla and myriad varieties of sondeshes found their way into the house. As if that was not enough , visitors from the villages brought naadus and joynogorer moas.

Crabs crawl desultorily inside buckets.

When papa comes home

when papa comes home
Maa sings in the shower

When papa comes home
delicious smells emanate

when papa comes home
long rides are taken

when papa comes home
grandpa comes over

when papa comes home
we race in the garden

when papa comes home
we play hide and seek

when papa comes home
we paint the cycle

when papa comes home
we play ball , dawn to dusk

Anuttarit sawalein.

उस दिन भी किसीने पुछा था
"फिर ?"

पंजाबी में पूछते हैं
"होर ?"

एक और कहानी को
शुरू करने का
आमंत्रण

उछली गेंद को
न पकड़ी जाये
तो अच्छा

हर बॉल कैच
करना हर किसी के बस में
नहीं

कई बॉल
मिटटी में
दफ़न होते हैं

ये तो मेंढक भी नहीं
कि बारिश में
ज़िंदा हो
टर्राने लगें।

मेरे आंगन की धरती
ऐसे कितने सवालों
से पाटी हुई है। 

safar

 या तो आँख में किर्च थी
या शीशा गन्दा
मिटटी की लकीर थी
या रेंगता परिंदा

मुझे कुछ दिखा न था
पर फिर भी समझ थी

कितने समझ को हम
सन्नाटे में समेट लेते हैं
उबलते सवालों  को धैर्य का
गिलाफ ओढ़ा देते हैं

सुबह कब शाम हो जाती है
और शाम रात में तब्दील

जो बहार से देख रहे होते हैं
उन्हें लगता है , बस यही है
हस्र , इन्तेक़ाम , मामला
दफन हो गया ,

हर सन्नाटा शांति नहीं होती
यह समझ कुछ के पल्ले
पड़ती है

बाकी आगे बढ़ जाते हैं
बेफिक्री की मोटर पर

मगर सड़क जब मर्ज़ी
सोये भूत की तरह
जाग सकती है

अपने किये का शीशा दिखा
सकती है
पासा जो पलटा
रूख जो उल्टा
तो रिवर्स कैसे करोगे
बीते समय को ?