Monday, December 21, 2009

And then I wonder, why?

In the face of gentle lies, I lie to see the pale blue sky,
To feel beneath my fingers - a tingle asking me to fly,
The cold, sharp and wet grass takes me by surprise,
I look below and then above and then I wonder why?
Why do I live in a world where cars move on roads?
Where people wearing shiny shoes are always passing by...
And dreams walk in svelte clothes while we watch in awe,
Seated in our new red chairs with a sparkle in each eye,
Can't I be the dream I lived when I was dreaming last?
Brave and smiling to face the end that was drawing nigh...
Then again and again the dreams seem losing charm,
When I let my mind run wild and let my silence cry,
Asking but the cosmic void if this is not a dream?
To breath and smile and walk - To be what they call I,
And take a chance with everyday to fight or fly or win,
To write a story in the end of great wonders with a sigh..
And yell out into the shimmering screens, into a hollow dark,
Where dreams dream of being me while staring at the sky!

-Anubhav

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Just watched the movie "Avatar" - a truly amazing spectacle and then was just wondering of various things about movies, how they take us into a different world which seems so much more exciting than our own... so just penned down some thoughts thereafter...

Thursday, November 19, 2009

Lonely woman


Lonely woman
Originally uploaded by Anubhav Kushwaha
Was just thinking about this woman who is probably confused, wants to do a lot and is feeling lonely... played with the colors and some expressions and this is what I got...

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Taking that step

You need hope, love and happiness,
To walk across and hold his hand,
He needs nothing to look at you -
And to ask for more of each of
What you don't have and crave for
But then you are still figuring
The odds that he is poorer than you
For only if he is more needy -
Will your ego let you take a step
But then you have to be selfless
For that leap can take you further
Away from the one that is walking
Towards you to hold your hands...

-Anubhav

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

Just some Haiku

Silent victories / In random evenings do galore / But at dawn they hide

Find a small shadow / Hide your weapons and yourself / Wait for life to pass by you

He smiles but only / Of rare moments telling him / Slowly goes blank again

 

Thursday, October 22, 2009

Thursday, October 15, 2009

If I were fungible what would you barter me for?

“If I were fungible what would you barter me for? Would it make sense to buy coffee or tea or any of your fast moving consumer goods with me? Would they sell it to you in exchange? Would it rather make sense to buy some time instead? Or is there something else that I am worth?” – What a thought to end your day with? Not wonderful, not pessimistic, just an introspective trail.

I looked at the wall, the floor, the table, the computer, the two markers (both red & black), the board pins and almost every significant article in the room - Significant in its essence to be able to capture an impactful region of the visible zone that my brain was processing. I was able to attach a “value proposition” or an “existence rationale” or whatever you want to put it as; essentially I was able to attach some worth to almost everything. I was able to say “if I did not have this, it is going to affect my life negatively (or in some cases positively)”.

Then I tried imagining those things looking at me - What was their perception of me? At first I said to myself “It doesn’t matter”, “I don’t care anyway” but then I let myself accept the premise that I do care for a bit. I thought about it for a while and I was not able to find a direct correlation with myself. I was getting answers like, “You are good with your peers”, “You are useful at your job”, “You sometimes come up with sketches that look alright” and so on. There was no direct “You are a table and I need a table” or “You are a keyboard without you I can’t type” type of a perception.

I was forced to think about it while driving home and eating my rather mundane dinner. Somewhere between the rice and crashing on my bed, I started thinking of other people and their perceptions from a third person view. It turned out that my perceptions were not very different from the perceptions of the tables or the chairs. I thought it but realized that the perceptions of the inanimate objects were my own imaginary perceptions and offered no real insight into human worth. It was one man’s opinion. That is when it struck me, human worth is usually just an opinion and it all depends on who you’re asking.

The dolphins might absolutely abhor our nuclear scientists. Most poultry would detest the person who introduced the idea of cooking... well I am digressing but therein lies my point. I would refrain from opining that it matters but I have a hunch that I might be on to something. So I think some more, and start reading some biographical notes. Let me take the example of Jean Jacques Rousseau, the influential philosopher and writer, who seems to be connected to most of modern human social thinking regarding politics or education. Now there may be a lot of people who think that his contribution was pointless or otherwise. Or let’s take Adolf Hitler for example, it is very likely that a lot of his colleagues thought very highly of him and to them he was worth his life. In my opinion, although his life might have impacted ours but our opinions today do not impact his life.

That brings me to be second point, self-worth of a human would usually be a reflection of their perceived worth by their peers and contemporaries. Which is what would have driven people like Adolf Hitler to be confident and determined to do what they wanted to do... The train of thought continues, leading one subtle turn to another and I finally ask myself, “Do I care for my perceived worth for people after I die?”, “Is my sense of strong or weak self-worth driving me to do things that would negatively impact the lives of others?”, “Is that something I should really worry about”, “What is my true worth?”.

On further introspection I circumvented myself to the proverbial finale. Eventually, I realized what truly matters, is our own opinion of our worth. Our true worth is determined by what we think our worth is. So if what really made Adolf Hitler happy was to do things that would lead him to world conquest at the cost of the lives and happiness of a large number of people, then that is what his fungibility would have bought him. That was what his true worth is. Sooner or later each one of us has to realize that they cannot package themselves in flashy wrappers and sell themselves as something that they don’t believe in. The mystique and gibberish would ultimately give way to the bold letters on the white board with someone chiming, “I told you so”, to someone else. Some people whose opinion might not even matter in the bigger picture and they would have wasted a significant part of their lives changing that opinion or keeping it influenced. The greedy algorithm would not work in this case and you have to delve deep. One has to visit every corner of their entity to find out what really makes them happy, what makes them go crazy, what makes them fall in love, what makes them wake up early, run faster than they ever have, yell out in pleasant approval... Find the thing that you think you’re worth, the thing that you think you should be perceived for and go do it.

If I am able to do that, I would have a consistent answer from the tables, chairs and my friends. I would have an answer that would make me smile and would not make me worry about what people say when I am not around. It is our own assessment of our capabilities and lives that will define our choices, our gambles and our parts in ramshackles. Everytime I ask myself the question, “If I were fungible, what would you barter me for?” and to begin with I would say, “I know for sure that it is not coffee or tea or any of your fast moving consumer goods...” And some day, I would say “I know for sure it is...”

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

उन सबको बिलकुल भूल गए

उस एक अमर कठिनाई का कुछ और ज़रा विस्तार करो,
जिसमे लय हो कर के तुम हर दिन ही तो कुछ भूल गए,
कुछ भूली बीती बातों का वर्णन तो एक बार करो,
या मृगत्रिष्णा में तुम अपने ऊपर से ही झूल गए

क्या मायावी वो चाहत थी की मिट्टी को अंगार किया
और लगे महल तुम कहीं बनाने, ले हाथो में धूल गए,
अपने छोटे से घर में तुमने साहस का आहार लिया,
पर शायद साहस की रोटी लालच में तुम तूल गए,

कहीं तुम्हारी चाहत है ये कुछ लोगो ने तुम्हे कहा,
पर तुम अपनी चाहत में उन सबको बिलकुल भूल गए,
औजार लिए वो हाथ तुम्हारा कील कहीं है ठोक रहा,
पर तुम उसके नीचे सी ये हाथ हटाना भूल गए...

- अनुभव

Monday, October 5, 2009

Bubbletoon


I finally started updating BubbleToon again. Check out the latest strip at http://bubbletoon.blogspot.com. I am wondering if I should start posting them here itself..

My spects on an old copy of The Alchemist

I realized that my spects have done me a lot more good than any of the other things that I have owned, so I thought of paying respect to this amazing piece of optical engineering.

Visit my flickr page for some more shots - http://www.flickr.com/screenedinnocence.com

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

उनकी ज़बान को पानी चाहिए

आज फिर तुम आये हो कुछ सपने बेचने,
पर तुम ये समझ नहीं पाते हो आज भी,
की तपतपाती धूप में इन भूखे लोगों को,
तुम्हारी हर बात एक सपना ही लगती है
उनकी हकीकत तुम्हारी हकीकत से बहुत दूर
अकेले बेचैन सी खड़ी है और चुप चाप
तुमको देख कर कुछ बोलना भी चाहती है -
पर उनकी ज़बान को आवाज़ नहीं पानी चाहिए...

तुम सोचते हो की आंसुओं पर पानी फेंक कर,
उनके दुःख को बहा दोगे और वो मुस्कुराएंगे,
तुम्हारे नंगे इश्तिहारों में उनके चेहरे,
कुछ बिकने योग्य संवेदना दिखलायेंगे,
जिसको बेचकर तुम्हारे ये सफेदपोश साथी,
तुम्हारे लिए एक अतुलित राज्य बना देंगे,
और फिर तुम्हे यहाँ इस मायूस से गाँव में,
इन भूखों के बीच बैठना नहीं पड़ेगा...

आज तुम एक बोरी चावल से खरीदोगे,
इनकी भूख, इनकी सोच और इनके वोट को,
पर तुम जानते नहीं हो की भूखे पेट,
सोचना कितना मुश्किल और बेवजह लगता है,
और शायद आज ये सब बिक भी जायेंगे,
इनकी मजबूरी ही ऐसी है और फिर कल,
जब तुम आराम से फलो का आहार करोगे,
तब ये लोग फिर से भूखे बैठे तरसेंगे...

और फिर भूख में भी ये सोचने लगेंगे,
की तुम झूठे थे, कोई भगवान् नहीं,
हर पल ही ये तुम्हारा तिरस्कार करेंगे,
और अगली बार ये चावल तो शायद ले लें,
पर ये बिकेंगे नहीं इतना तो तय समझो,
फिर भी किसी दिन अगर तुम यहाँ भूखे आओगे,
तो ये खुली बाहों से तुम्हे बुलाएँगे,
क्यूंकि इनका सच तुम्हारे सच से अलग है...

- अनुभव

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

मनुष्य हो ये ख्वाब है

मनुष्य ही तो हूँ मगर पवन बनूँ ये ख्वाब है
चले तो आंधियो सा मन, रुके तो आफताब है,
अलग अलग तरफ सही, अलग थलग सी लग रही,
इस ज़िन्दगी की रात में एक आदमी ही आब है...

जो मन से ही अनंत है, जो खुद का ही खिताब है,
समय के इस ठैराव में, जो एक ही सैलाब है,
फ़िक्र नहीं जिसे की वो मरे, जिए या गिर पड़े,
वो वक़्त के सवाल का मुंह तोड़ सा जवाब है...

जिसकी बात सोच कर, चाँद तक बेताब है,
अक्स के वज़न सी ही, समुन्द्र इज्तानाब है,
ख़याल जिसका कर के ही पहाड़ बढ़ नहीं सके,
सांस जिसकी चलने सी पल भागता शिताब है,

समस्त ताकतों का वो एक इज़तेराब है,
खुले हुए गगन को भी जो नापता हिसाब है,
वो ही तो है जो आज तक बना नहीं सके हैं हम,
आदमी बहुत से हैं, मनुष्य हो ये ख्वाब है...


- अनुभव

Monday, September 7, 2009

The child's roses and dreams

I was once strolling by the lanes in the city,
When I saw the little form, silent like a shadow,
She was holding on to roses, selling them off,
The bangles on her wrists had been broken -
The remains still dangled on, much like her,
She had questions in her eyes when she asked me,
To buy a bunch of red flowers for my lady,
I said I didn't need them, she said she did,
I was almost frozen when I wanted to cross over,
To the other side of the road where she won't -
Follow me, look at me, make me wonder why?
Instead, I turned around, looked at her again,
"Why do you do this little child?", I asked,
"I don't know", she said when I realized that -
She really didn't have a reason, she had hope,
That somehow she will manage to survive yet -
Another day in the gruesome world of hers,
So if roses got her that, it was roses,
Or it could be tulips, lilies or balloons,
Her dreams could not be beyond the life,
That she has, or that is what I thought,
So I asked her, "What do you want to do?",
She closed her eyes before looking at me,
She said, "I want to touch the blue skies -
- While, I am floating on the sea",
She had dreams much deeper than mine!
With so much meaning, such a wonderful want!
And I told myself that dreams are not like us,
They go to whoever has the heart to call them,
Not just to those that shall bear them fruit,
I bought a bunch of roses, I am not sure -
If that would change her life but mine -
It had changed in that moment of reality,
I knew I had to touch the blue skies,
One day, while floating on the sea...

-Anubhav

Thursday, August 27, 2009

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

Monday, August 24, 2009

I just hate it!

I have a certain flamboyancy about me when I try to talk about hatred. I have always felt that maybe a part of me is cynical, even pessimistic to bring about such elaborate imagery whenever I talk about or listen to something that talks about sheer hatred. It moved me to paint a certain picture of myself in my head. It was not a pleasant picture. So I decided to go buy some new canvas. I threw away my old cans of paints and I bought some of my favourite shades from Williamsburg. I decided to paint a new me. I had a green picture in mind. Why green? Well everybody is thinking green these days and if I am thinking of an image revamp, well why not make it green?

I placed my tools and the rest of the paraphernalia under my bed. Then, I waited for Sunday. Sunday is a good day to paint. Ever since I was a kid, I had this soothing picture of Sunday in my mind. A nice warm breakfast with no rush to go to school. No bread-crumbs on my fingers when I did that last touch to my hair with my hands. Finding myself watching television at 11 a.m. instead of looking at my shoes while being scolded by a teacher. A lot of time to watch the ants move around the house with their little boxes of food. I will talk about that on another day but the most important thing about Sunday was that it was the day when I did things that I liked to do and not what "they" liked me to do. Sunday was a good day to paint back then and I presumed that it had not lost it character.

Sunday started with good vibes. I was about to flip the brush and do the first touch thing. Something made me stop. Now there is one thing common about both introspection and conscience. They have a knack for bad timing. Just like in the movies when they get good people killed. When they make the protagonist tell the truth and be slapped. You get the drift! Something inside me told me to ask myself about the last picture. What was wrong with it? Was it not very much like most other people?

So I brought up pictures of my friends first. I looked at them patiently at first but I soon found myself sifting through them rather fervently. Everybody had the same ugly purple thing on their left shoulder and a giant yellow hate medal. They loved to hate something. They were passionate about their hatred. They loved to talk about it, form groups with people who shared their hatred, wrote about it, painted about it and most frighteningly loved to motivate people to build up a similar hatred!

I told myself that it was probably because I was looking at my friends and they are likely to have similar characteristics as me. I fixed my tunnel vision and I brought up pictures of great people in history. The freedom fighters, the world leaders, the CEO's of household-cleaning-agent-companies, the car makers, the person who invented the steam engine, Mr. Bell himself, all of them. I was flabbergasted, shocked beyond reasonable comprehension and very scared. There was that purple thing and the golden medal. They hated things with all their heart. The stronger their hatred, the deeper their strife, the more wondrous was their passion and accomplishments.

So I argued with myself that they hated bad things. They hated the dependence, the dirt, the distances, the week-long caravans, the lost letters and what not. So maybe it was fine but I knew just then that I had wasted money on the paint and the canvas. The brushes? Well yes, on them too. I realized that it was getting more and more difficult to paint a different picture. I had to find a precedent but there was none in sight. I looked up the news, the television and even the monthly magazines.

There was love. There was beauty. There was glamour. There was all the amazing stuff in the world but there was a problem. Every single of those was like a coin with a bad side. We hate authority, we hate diseases, we hate misery, we are the modern knights of salvation and the mercy killing vagabonds. We are connected to the roots of reality with our hatred for being disconnected. Our chivalry lies in our crusade against the abominations of our lives. Our salvation, in our antipathy towards the loathsome entities of the universe.

We are ready to get on the Yellow Submarine and go disrupt the blue meanies. The blue meanies are ready with their anti-music missiles to disrupt our singing voices. We are sprinting our hundred metres on a landmine while we ready ourselves to pounce on the title of the fastest man in the world. Each one of us has a hole in his pockets that connects us to the constant void of the universe. The void that is full of belligerence, racism, unending spite, bigotry, malice and thousands of conflicts that represent our combined hatred.

I look around to realize that most of our lives, our buildings, our friends, our festivals and our celebrations have a story of hatred woven into it. We tell it nicely, even gloriously but it is there and you cannot ignore it. It is such a deep part of our lives that we do not really see it as a bad thing unless we see the dark side. If we see it at all. If we are able to perceive it's darkness.

So I leave the purple thing on my left shoulder and I put on my golden medal. I walk out of the door while I am thinking of places where I have seen or otherwise felt a proximity to a place and time without hatred. I realize that I have read it in some fiction text, as a conclusion of some mythological stories, as a rare end of a fantastical animation series. They are our fairy tales! Our hope lies in the fact that one of those people got it right when they described their Utopian world and that it will happen. Till then let's tell these stories to our children so that they have peaceful dreams in their otherwise frightful lives. Let's tell them to ourselves and let our mind wander in the dream worlds. There is no point in painting a new picture. It is ironical to try that. So I write something to express my hatred for hatred. How is that for an irony?

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

The human endeavour for a perfect life

Tyler Durden would have you believe that "this is your life, and it's ending one minute at a time" and sometimes that is what really dawns upon you. When you are at the coffee shop, sipping your creamy latte with a bit too much of sugar and you see the wall clock in your cup. Your eyes drift towards the wall clock on the wall. It's been 20 minutes and you have been at your coffee, working on it like a connoisseur without the discrete faculties to tell a Nescafe from a Lavazza. Essentially, politely speaking, a not so good connoisseur. Yet, we let time crawl around us and sneak up behind our backs while we roll through the various mundane loops in our day; Almost every single day of our life!

The Tyler in my head often asks me, "If you wake up at a different time, in a different place, could you wake up as a different person?" and I quip back, "What difference would it make?". At that point, Tyler smiles at me and walks away. Usually he doesn't like confrontations with me, specially when he knows that I got the point.

At the many different junctures of my life, when I have thought about the possibility of being Super-man (and well occasionally Bat-man), I have always found myself feel more lonely than what I started with. This brings me to a realization that power, popularity or any such thing which we either idolize or fantasize about, are usually also associated with a down-side. The fact that Newton realized that every action has a equal and opposite reaction, probably has a corollary attached to it. That in order to push something up in our lives, something else must go down. We become richer and unhealthy. Or healthier and dumb. Or smarter and lonelier. You get the point. The fact is that all of us have yearned for that perfectly balanced life at some time or the other. At least most of us have.

I drift back to the coffee and the wall clock with Super-man lurking in some far-off corner of my head. "What difference would it make?", I ask myself as I visualize myself in a blue and red jump suit. I see myself sitting there and sipping my coffee. Occasionally flying around to do something fancy but mostly letting life pass by. So is that it? Even if I wake up as someone else, I would still have to experience my diminishing life-time-remaining balance. I would still have to fear the unknown. I would still have to do something that would eventually make an agent go, "Only human!". Why is it then that we yearn for some sort of completeness? Why is it that we want the spot-less whites and the sprawling house? The Tudor mansion, the office on the 73rd floor, the business class tickets, the refrigerator that tells me my schedule, the antique lamp or just a Rolex. Timeless desires? Or efficient targets that help us in procrastinating reality? The closer that we get to realizing that we are just fragments of entropy in the universe, the more something inside us nudges to wave it off as rubbish. So we set goals and tell ourselves, "The day I have the Ferrari, I will have a perfect life". We walk, we toil, we waste ourselves, empty our tender insides and become hollow so that we can fly better.

All the while there is something inside us that is waiting for a Trinity to come and tell us "I know why you're here, Neo. I know what you've been doing... why you hardly sleep, why you live alone, and why night after night, you sit by your computer.". Well something of that sort. Some angel of realization that will come and lead us to a light. Help us free ourselves from the bonds that we have so intricately worked ourselves into! We wait while we further tie ourselves down. Making gas engines, jet fuel, microprocessor chips, machine intelligence, sharper televisions and what not. The consumer inside us takes the front seat. It makes us the knowledge worker, the business leader, the evangelist, the stock broker, the slave to it's whim and the means to its non-existent end. What is it that we consume after all? How does the plush carpet make us a better human being? The earnest truth is that we don't ask ourselves these questions. We want things. We want them now. We want to see Wayne Rooney strike the 90th minute goal in full-HD wide-screen view. That makes us perfect. Helps us conform to the checklist of success that we as the human race so keenly maintain.

I do not stand in judgement of that being right or wrong. I do not have a better answer, to life's questions, than anyone else. What I do have is an opinion, a perspective. Something doesn't feel right in all of this. Something does not seem to fit. They say that our galaxy is just a tiny speck compared to the universe. The earth is a tiny speck compared to our galaxy, the milky way. And we already know that we are a tiny speck on our vast planet, Earth. So I ask myself, "What difference does it make if a tiny speck on a tiny speck in a tiny speck in the Universe wears a Prada?". Something tells me that it doesn't really matter. Something tells me that our search for the perfect life, the ulterior goal, the eventual balance should culminate outside of the conventional image of success. Something tells me that driving to work every day is equivalent to a predator running in the Savannah to hunt its prey. There is no glory in it. There is something that we are not doing yet, that we ought to do. Something that will make the tiny speck matter to the bigger whole. Something that will set a chain reaction to light up space. Something that will make sure that we as humans are not just fragments of entropy. What is it? I don't know. Not yet but let's keep searching. For there is always hope. And remember the what Andy said when Red told him, "Hope is a dangerous thing. Hope can drive a man insane.". He said, "Remember Red, hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies."

- Anubhav

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

The painter and the fly

The fly stumbled across the painter,
And she looked into his dreamy eyes,
His sun-dancing brows rather still,
His hands scattering colours on earth,
His arms weaving magic through air,
And yet his feet won't move an inch!
The fly as curious as impressed,
Stood still. As still as a fly can be -
The kind that wanders the world,
In search of nothing but the trap,
That would help her say good-bye...
And here she was looking wide-eyed,
At the colours forming shapes -
Circles, waves and curves on land,
As if embossed by nature's will,
"As if", she wondered, "But he's a man,
With tools, pretense and petty needs,
Someone who wouldn't know his shades..."
She wondered while she stared -
At his shaky fingers and timid form,
His warm, and distant smiling face,
The grace, with which he moved.
His solemn mood and sullen voice,
That hummed into the silent dusk,
Just when the fly could take no more,
And she stepped forth and questioned,
"What is it that you cannot draw?",
"Is there something that you can't?"
"A shape that you don't know of?"
Questions followed questions before,
He completed his startled move...
And stepped back to look at her,
The fly with the myriad questions,
And he cleared his mellow throat,
Before he managed to collapse,
Into the arms of waiting death,
A sudden lapse, his final fall,
Just after his last whispers,
That echoed through her tiny ears...
If you care to know his words -
I cannot quote but you can try,
To listen to the humming fly,
While she repeats his last words,
"I cannot draw her tears", he said!
This, all flies tell their brood,
The story of the painter and the fly.

Monday, May 18, 2009

We are mirrors

Then if you say so, is it not?
That each of us is a mirror,
To something inhibited deep -
Within the folds of our palms,
Beyond the wrinkles on our faces,
Isn't there a shimmer that I see,
Or am I seeing mirages again,
Far, few and some more now,
And yet I see reflections of you,
In yourself, every now and then -
So why deny that if I shoot you,
I still shoot a mirror, not you,
For you will live on and on -
The shattered mirror though,
Has a different story to tell,
It won't reflect you no more...

-Anubhav

Friday, April 3, 2009

गौरव को संभाव्य करो

एक वचन सच करो मनुज
कुछ अर्थ गहो शब्दों में अब
सब व्यर्थ नहीं ऐसा सोचो
कुछ आग भरो कंधो में अब

नमन नहीं हुंकार करो तुम
दान नहीं तुम दमन करो अब
बनता है बारूद सच शून्य ही
अपने सूक्ष्मकार से नहीं डरो अब

जब समानता मिले नहीं सहज
अंतरद्वंद्व पर संयम करो तब
क्रोध केन्द्रित करो शत्रु पर
विजय पताका हाथ धरो तब

पीताम्बर नहीं लाल रंगों मुह
विचार नहीं युद्ध करो अब
अंतिम बार अंतिम साँसों में
गौरव को संभाव्य करो अब...

- अनुभव

Sunday, March 29, 2009

क्या व्याख्या करू मैं इस संसार की?

क्या व्याख्या करू मैं इस संसार की?
कुछ अजब सी स्थिर इस मझधार की
शुरु से जो हो रहा है मुक्कम्मल
उस संताप की, सुरूर की, प्रहार की..

हर प्रारंभ के कोने में छुपते से
बेवजह छपते हुए इश्तेहार की
और अँधेरे में बैठे चुप से
बेबात की बात के उस सार की..

जिसकी तलाश है मेरे दोस्त को
वक्त की बुझती हुई उस मार की
जिसके थपेड़े आज भी हुंकारते
अफ़सोस के माहौल के उस तार की

आखिर चला जो आखिरी था आदमी
मन के उसके कौंधते विचार की
मशगूल जो अपनी तरह से हो रही
ऐसी ही एक बहकी हुई सी हार की

शाम को गोधुली में खोती हुई
एक आदमी की कोशिश एक बार की
क्या व्याख्या करू मैं इस संसार की?
कुछ अजब सी स्थिर इस मझधार की...

- अनुभव

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

Dying of hope

Of the myriad summer yearns,
Of the sudden wistful churns,
Of the world in dark satires,
Of the sullen silent fires,
Of the girl with grim eyes,
Of the dream of starry skies,
Of the signet on your name,
Of the rough and wasted fame,
Of the subtle-loud sunshine,
Of the things I can call mine,
Of the blots on cotton checks,
Of the pointy hairy wrecks,
Of the winding narrow roads,
Of the long forgotten bodes,
I am dying of the hope of life,
Of better things and beyond.

-Anubhav

Monday, March 9, 2009

Fate or them

Silence keeps the brood alive,
At least far from slit throats,
When they huddle to a corner -
And lay as almost dead, quiet.
Inexistence is a virtue, almost,
As they shudder at fate,
The unknown master that holds,
The strings of their lives -
Hostage to its own whim.
They ponder then in the moment,
Just before the judgment,
Of the hands in the cage,
Is it Fate or the hand,
That shall forsake them soon...
The question that we don't ask,
But one that we surely must,
While our brood is still alive,
If fate indeed is to blame...
Or are the hands that hold -
The mantle of our lives,
The true slayers of our kin.

- Anubhav

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

Friday, February 6, 2009