होंटों पे मुस्कान लिए,
आंखों में चमक,
चेहरे पे खुशी लिए
गीतों में झनक,
ज़िंदगी की चाहत में,
युही चलते रहे,
पर सीने में जो दर्द हैं,
उसका क्या करे.
सूरज आज भी उगता हैं,
हमेशा के जैसे,
चाँद आज भी छुपता हैं,
हमेशा के जैसे,
ज़िंदगी चलती जाती हैं
और हम भी साथ चले,
पर सीने में जो दर्द हैं,
उसका क्या करे
हर गम को हम,
गले लगते हुए,
जीलेंगे हम,
गुन गुनते हुए,
भुलादेंगे हम
मुस्कुराते हुए,
पर सीने में जो दर्द हैं,
उसका क्या करे
Monday, April 21, 2008
Saturday, April 19, 2008
अकेलापन
आज के दिन,
अकेले गम मैं डूब गए हम,
उसकी याद आयी,
पर वह ना आयी,
दोस्तों ने मिलकर,
एक बोत्तल शराब पिलाई,
शराब मैं हम डूब गए,
गम डूब गया,
यादें डूब गई,
पर आंखें बंध करते ही,
उसका चेहरा नज़र आया,
और शराब का सारा नशा डूब गया.
अकेले गम मैं डूब गए हम,
उसकी याद आयी,
पर वह ना आयी,
दोस्तों ने मिलकर,
एक बोत्तल शराब पिलाई,
शराब मैं हम डूब गए,
गम डूब गया,
यादें डूब गई,
पर आंखें बंध करते ही,
उसका चेहरा नज़र आया,
और शराब का सारा नशा डूब गया.
Lalitha
What can I say about Lalitha? That she had a pretty face, a beautiful smile and a wonderful sense of humour? Or that I loved her more than I ever knew?
I met her at the age when most boys hate girls and vice versa. We had just shifted from Bombay to Poona at the beginning of the summer a little before my eighth birthday. While my family was busy unpacking and settling in, I, like any adventurous young boy went about exploring the new neighborhood. There was a river running behind the neighborhood that greatly excited me so I went rushing to see it. As I climbed around the walls of an unoccupied house that sat right on the bank of the river, I could see sitting far away with her back facing me a young girl. The sun was setting behind a hill across the river. She sat on the grass facing the river with her knees upto her chest and her hands around her shins. Her head was turned sideways resting on her knees. She was staring intently into the scene in front of her.
“What’re you staring at?” I said, a bit too suddenly and a bit to loudly with the intent of scaring her a bit (like any evil little boy). But she just calmly turned her head around and looked at me. That’s when I first saw her face. At 7-8 not many boys find girls pretty, but even they know an angel when they see one. She had one of the prettiest faces I had ever seen and her radiance was heart warming. At that age it could only be compared to a glass of hot chocolate on a cold winters night. She then smiled at me. “What’s you name?” she asked ignoring my question. I was still a bit shocked at why this girl was not the least bit startled, but it also brought about a bit of respect for her. “Chetan”, I replied. “What’s yours?” “Lalita”, she said. And that was my first meeting with Lalita Chowdhary. It was also the beginning of the most beautiful relationship of my life.
The most joyful moments over the next four years were times I spent with Lalita. We went to the same school, but at school we would almost never acknowledge each other’s presence in front of our other school friends. But there’d always be a sly smile sneaked in here and there behind their backs as if we shared some great secret that could never be revealed. Evenings after school would be spent on the riverbank playing some game or the other. Games like sitting on the branch of a tree overhanging the river and pretending it were the deck of a ship (she would always be captain). Or making a bon fire and dancing around it like little red Indians (she would always be the chief).
Lalita was the sweet little child that everyone loved. Whenever some aunty in the neighborhood baked a cake or something, Lalita was always welcomed to help. I always tagged along, more for the cake than the intention of helping. Lalita would slap my fingers if I tried to eat some before time. The aunty would just laugh. I would sulk a bit, but then I’d always forgive her because when it would be time to eat she would always give me a piece before eating herself.
Lalita had become an integral part of my life. But even though we had become best friends that did not mean we had to be with each other all the time. There was no sense of dependency on each other so there was no reason to cling to each other. Of course if there was a choice we’d always choose to be with each other, but that was never mandatory. That is probably one of the reasons that kept our relationship very balanced. Obviously as children we never thought about all these things. We just did what we liked. And we liked being with each other.
Then one day when I was 12 my father announced that he had got transferred to Los Angeles and that we would be moving there very soon. I was so excited about going to live in the U.S. that I never thought about losing a friend. She was so excited for me that she didn’t either. She told me of all the places that I should see, like the beaches, Hollywood and Disneyland. We agreed to write each other letters once a month. With that deal set on the banks of the river where I had first met her four years ago, we said our goodbyes and I left. There was not one bit of sadness because we never felt that our friendship had ended.
Once I moved to the U.S. I followed the pact and wrote letters to her every month. And she would promptly reply. I would tell her of all the new things that I was learning about the U.S. About the schools, about the other kids, about life there in general. She would tell me about the happenings in the neighborhood, the changes in the city and her progress in school. Slowly as we grew, in a couple of years the letters became more intimate as we began to realize what we meant to each other. She would talk about how stupid the other boys in her class were and that I was far better than them. I would return the compliment saying, I’d saw an angel on T.V and she reminded me of her. We never proclaimed promises of being in love and spending the rest of our lives together. Maybe we both knew that we were too young to do that? Or maybe we both knew that some things don’t need to be said? I’m not sure which one.
Either way, the letters went on for a while. But in the January of my third year in the U.S., I became very busy with school and sports that I missed writing one. I felt very bad about it and promised myself that I would never do that again. The next month I wrote her apologizing for the missed one. But she never replied. I continued writing for some more months but still got nothing. I wondered whether she was all right. Was she angry at me? Or was she just tired from how intense school was getting. Had she broken her hand or something that prevented her from writing?
That summer my family planned to go to India and visit Poona. I made up my mind to go and visit her. I eagerly waited for school to end and summer to start. I couldn’t wait to get to Poona and meet up with her on the banks of the river. When we finally reached, I didn’t even bother unpacking. I just straightaway went to her house. Her mother opened the door. She stared at me for sometime trying to recognize me at the doorway. When she finally did, a tear welled up in her eye. She held me like a son and started crying. I got a sick feeling
Lalita had died. She had fallen very ill last November. She was bedridden and she fought the illness for a couple of months. Her mother said there was something that gave her strength to fight. But then she lost that strength and passed away. I was completely stunned. It was beyond my comprehension. At the same moment that I completely understood my own deep love for her, I also had to understand that I had lost her forever. I felt I would never recover.
Life moved on. I went back to the U.S for another year and then moved to Bangalore. I completed my engineering and in the process I fell in love again. And yet again I lost when her parents got her married to someone else. But everything I know about love, I knew by 16. You may think at 15-16 what does one know about love. But love is not only about knowing or understanding. Above all it is about experiencing it. Without even knowing it, two 12 year olds experienced it long before they understood it.
I’m 26 now. Last February, I happened to go to Poona. I went to visit the old neighborhood. I went around the now dilapidated old house to the riverbank. There in my mind came images of a boy walking up behind a girl about to meet her for the first time. They grew up a bit and danced around a fire with no inhibitions and complete innocence. They sat on a tree branch, the boy holding the girl not to make sure that she didn’t fall but to make sure that he didn’t. And the girl let him. Then there was a very excited discussion between the two on the banks before they said goodbye to each other not knowing that they would never meet each other again.
The sun was setting behind a hill across the river. I sat on the grass facing the river with my knees up to my chest and my hands around my shins. I rested my head sideways on my knees and stared intently at the sunset. Then for the first time I said something that I had never said before. “I love you Lalitha”. I couldn’t help but cry.
I met her at the age when most boys hate girls and vice versa. We had just shifted from Bombay to Poona at the beginning of the summer a little before my eighth birthday. While my family was busy unpacking and settling in, I, like any adventurous young boy went about exploring the new neighborhood. There was a river running behind the neighborhood that greatly excited me so I went rushing to see it. As I climbed around the walls of an unoccupied house that sat right on the bank of the river, I could see sitting far away with her back facing me a young girl. The sun was setting behind a hill across the river. She sat on the grass facing the river with her knees upto her chest and her hands around her shins. Her head was turned sideways resting on her knees. She was staring intently into the scene in front of her.
“What’re you staring at?” I said, a bit too suddenly and a bit to loudly with the intent of scaring her a bit (like any evil little boy). But she just calmly turned her head around and looked at me. That’s when I first saw her face. At 7-8 not many boys find girls pretty, but even they know an angel when they see one. She had one of the prettiest faces I had ever seen and her radiance was heart warming. At that age it could only be compared to a glass of hot chocolate on a cold winters night. She then smiled at me. “What’s you name?” she asked ignoring my question. I was still a bit shocked at why this girl was not the least bit startled, but it also brought about a bit of respect for her. “Chetan”, I replied. “What’s yours?” “Lalita”, she said. And that was my first meeting with Lalita Chowdhary. It was also the beginning of the most beautiful relationship of my life.
The most joyful moments over the next four years were times I spent with Lalita. We went to the same school, but at school we would almost never acknowledge each other’s presence in front of our other school friends. But there’d always be a sly smile sneaked in here and there behind their backs as if we shared some great secret that could never be revealed. Evenings after school would be spent on the riverbank playing some game or the other. Games like sitting on the branch of a tree overhanging the river and pretending it were the deck of a ship (she would always be captain). Or making a bon fire and dancing around it like little red Indians (she would always be the chief).
Lalita was the sweet little child that everyone loved. Whenever some aunty in the neighborhood baked a cake or something, Lalita was always welcomed to help. I always tagged along, more for the cake than the intention of helping. Lalita would slap my fingers if I tried to eat some before time. The aunty would just laugh. I would sulk a bit, but then I’d always forgive her because when it would be time to eat she would always give me a piece before eating herself.
Lalita had become an integral part of my life. But even though we had become best friends that did not mean we had to be with each other all the time. There was no sense of dependency on each other so there was no reason to cling to each other. Of course if there was a choice we’d always choose to be with each other, but that was never mandatory. That is probably one of the reasons that kept our relationship very balanced. Obviously as children we never thought about all these things. We just did what we liked. And we liked being with each other.
Then one day when I was 12 my father announced that he had got transferred to Los Angeles and that we would be moving there very soon. I was so excited about going to live in the U.S. that I never thought about losing a friend. She was so excited for me that she didn’t either. She told me of all the places that I should see, like the beaches, Hollywood and Disneyland. We agreed to write each other letters once a month. With that deal set on the banks of the river where I had first met her four years ago, we said our goodbyes and I left. There was not one bit of sadness because we never felt that our friendship had ended.
Once I moved to the U.S. I followed the pact and wrote letters to her every month. And she would promptly reply. I would tell her of all the new things that I was learning about the U.S. About the schools, about the other kids, about life there in general. She would tell me about the happenings in the neighborhood, the changes in the city and her progress in school. Slowly as we grew, in a couple of years the letters became more intimate as we began to realize what we meant to each other. She would talk about how stupid the other boys in her class were and that I was far better than them. I would return the compliment saying, I’d saw an angel on T.V and she reminded me of her. We never proclaimed promises of being in love and spending the rest of our lives together. Maybe we both knew that we were too young to do that? Or maybe we both knew that some things don’t need to be said? I’m not sure which one.
Either way, the letters went on for a while. But in the January of my third year in the U.S., I became very busy with school and sports that I missed writing one. I felt very bad about it and promised myself that I would never do that again. The next month I wrote her apologizing for the missed one. But she never replied. I continued writing for some more months but still got nothing. I wondered whether she was all right. Was she angry at me? Or was she just tired from how intense school was getting. Had she broken her hand or something that prevented her from writing?
That summer my family planned to go to India and visit Poona. I made up my mind to go and visit her. I eagerly waited for school to end and summer to start. I couldn’t wait to get to Poona and meet up with her on the banks of the river. When we finally reached, I didn’t even bother unpacking. I just straightaway went to her house. Her mother opened the door. She stared at me for sometime trying to recognize me at the doorway. When she finally did, a tear welled up in her eye. She held me like a son and started crying. I got a sick feeling
Lalita had died. She had fallen very ill last November. She was bedridden and she fought the illness for a couple of months. Her mother said there was something that gave her strength to fight. But then she lost that strength and passed away. I was completely stunned. It was beyond my comprehension. At the same moment that I completely understood my own deep love for her, I also had to understand that I had lost her forever. I felt I would never recover.
Life moved on. I went back to the U.S for another year and then moved to Bangalore. I completed my engineering and in the process I fell in love again. And yet again I lost when her parents got her married to someone else. But everything I know about love, I knew by 16. You may think at 15-16 what does one know about love. But love is not only about knowing or understanding. Above all it is about experiencing it. Without even knowing it, two 12 year olds experienced it long before they understood it.
I’m 26 now. Last February, I happened to go to Poona. I went to visit the old neighborhood. I went around the now dilapidated old house to the riverbank. There in my mind came images of a boy walking up behind a girl about to meet her for the first time. They grew up a bit and danced around a fire with no inhibitions and complete innocence. They sat on a tree branch, the boy holding the girl not to make sure that she didn’t fall but to make sure that he didn’t. And the girl let him. Then there was a very excited discussion between the two on the banks before they said goodbye to each other not knowing that they would never meet each other again.
The sun was setting behind a hill across the river. I sat on the grass facing the river with my knees up to my chest and my hands around my shins. I rested my head sideways on my knees and stared intently at the sunset. Then for the first time I said something that I had never said before. “I love you Lalitha”. I couldn’t help but cry.
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