Roz Roz

 ये रोज़-मर्रा की ज़िन्दगी

खूबसूरत भी, बदहाल भी

Toh kya hua

 छोटा सा घर, नन्ही सी बगिया

खुला आसमान, प्यारी सी दुनिया

संजोके ये लम्हे सीये, सो हैं

तो क्या हुआ, जीये तो हैं

दौड़ें क्यों, हमें चलने का शौक है

आँगन हमारा फुर्सत का चौक है

पीछे हैं छूटे, सुकून पीये तो हैं

तो क्या हुआ, जीये तो हैं

Terrified

 Hey babe,

I’ve been reading all these news and stories

of people finding their people dead

and I’m just…fucking terrified.

I’m terrified of that fate for both of us

but mostly for me.

These days my imagination finds me in that moment

and life races on a rewind track.

I watch all our moments of togetherness and separation

and I’m filled with regret.

After all, when you look back from the enormity of death,

not being together seems stupid, doesn’t it?

Why was that work trip so long, why was that meeting at night

why was that weekend tolied away, why did I sulk that time?

And for the moments that are together,

was physical presence enough?

Here in my imagination

my anguish screams at the present moment of us side by side.

“Turn around and face him, take his hand!

Breathe in the fragrance…time is slipping sand…”

But I do nothing, I don’t want to spread my freaky panic

I soothe myself that there’re years and years.

I know. I know. I know that’s bullshit.

It doesn’t matter how many seconds or centuries there are.

For when death does part

every second of the past counts

each one becomes a memory to treasure.

Then depth matters, intensity matters. Loving hard matters.

And you’re right, it’s okay to take this leap of faith

to break out of this fucking blight.

We’ll get there.

But meanwhile,

can we hold on a bit more tightly tonight?

Carefree

बेपरवाह खुशी लिए जो उड़े जा रहे हो तुम

फ़िक्र में तुम्हारी कोई और मरा जा रहा है

बेबाकी में अपनी जो जीये जा रहे हो तुम

ज़िम्मों में तुम्हारे कोई और दबा जा रहा है

Connoisseurs

We make some sort of friends throughout our lives. But we still call the ones we made in our early youth our actual friends. We meet and recount those same stories again and again. Stories of innocence, bravado, carelessness, gall, audacity, stupidity, masti, hansi, khushi, shararat. Why do we keep going back to hear what we already know? Because these friends are connoisseurs of us. They are the timekeepers of our past selves that was made of something wonderful. And through their stories, that wonder, that experience of us being more than what we are today, is kept alive. They are our witnesses. And we are theirs.

“मुझे मुझसे मिलने के लिये

एक पुराने दोस्त से मिलना पड़ता है”

आगे

 ज़िन्दगी में देखने को नज़ारे अभी और भी हैं 

हमारे हिस्से के बचे मैखाने अभी और भी हैं

रुके हैं तो मतलब ये नहीं कि चलना नहीं आता 

जीने को बचे सफ़रनामे अभी और भी हैं

Blog Tense

I miss my blog friends. I miss the blogging world. I miss those nooks and crannies of the internet where lonely souls found each other, away from the prying eyes of the flamboyant citizens of facebook. I miss chancing upon inspired writing, encompassing emotions, and life caught in crisp phrases. I miss the windows into the spirits of poets and philosophers who had become friends without ever setting eyes on each other. I miss going back to a post and finding comments, a coming-together in tiny digital scraps. It was an exciting treasure hunt, almost like a game of tag. I miss discovering new blogs through theirs, like meeting friends of friends. I miss how their creativity fueled mine, how their writing gave me a diverse palette and showed me that beauty has many forms and there are many techniques to express it. I miss how we became better together. I didn’t know then that we needed each other.

Now about a decade has passed. We all have become embers, trying here and there to take a breath before fading again. We revisit the old nooks and crannies, trying to dust off the cobwebs. We find unseen comments posted ages ago. We try to reach out, and miss each other by years. Building a life gets in the way.

I wish I could live life again, instead of just building it. I wish I could get to know them again and find comfort in each other’s experiences. So what if whatever we churn out is crap. Creating is a gift unto itself. I wish we would come back together and start weaving stories again. There is no us without even one.

I miss my blog friends.

चमन में इख़्तिलात-ए-रंग-ओ-बू से बात बनती है

हम ही हम हैं तो क्या हम हैं तुम ही तुम हो तो क्या तुम हो

- Aziz Nabeel