Daayra

दायरा


बिना शब्दों के गीत गुनगुनता हूँ जो
उनकी धुन किसी को सुनाऊं कैसे?
खुली आँखों से जो देखे हैं सपने
उस मंज़र को यूँ ही भूल जाऊं कैसे?


एक राह पर अकेला चल पड़ा हूँ मैं
बेमाने रिश्तों में बँध जाऊं कैसे?
पीछे छूटे जो कभी चले थे साथ
खोने-पाने का हिसाब बताऊं कैसे?

कुछ आँखों में बस गया है जो पानी

चाह कर भी उसको सुखाऊं  कैसे?

चटक कर टूटीं चूड़ियों की तरह बिखरे 

सपनों के उन कतरों को उठाऊं कैसे?

वो लोग जिन्हे मैं समझूं अपना
बेगानों सी बात करें, ये सहूँ कैसे?
उम्मीदों की गूँज जो कानों पर पड़े
बिना कुछ कहे कुछ कहूँ कैसे?


कटी पतंग ज्यों उड़ती है हवा में
उस बेफिक्री उमंग से बहूं कैसे?
कल्पना की परिधि से परे 
दायरों में बँध कर जियूं कैसे?

Antaheen

अंतहीन


गयी रात अपने मंन में झाँक कर देखा मैंने
परछाईयाँ कई, धुन्दली धुन्दली सिमटी सी
दीवार पे लगे शीशे में अपने अक्स से लगा कहने
अंतहीन सन्नाटे में यादें कितनी बिखरीं थीं


रात के तकिये पर, बिना सिसकी, बिना आहट
आँसू सूखे, खिड़की से बहती हवा, सहलाती थी
सिरहाने रखी तस्वीर, एक बस वोही थी राहत
बेचैनी, तन्हाई... आँखें खुली सोते भी


फिर मुलाकात हुई बिछड़े, दफ़्न कर दिए जज़्बातों से
अकेली तन्हा रात में, यूँ खुद से बात करते ही
लॅब्ज़ भूलने लगे, काट रहे थे जो कपड़े पहने
मुझे भी कोई जाने, समझे, यही आरज़ू मेरी भी


एक रूहानी तपिश बुलाती, खींचती अपनी ओर फिर एक बार
साँसों की मद्धम आवाज़ बहकाती, सपने दिखती सी
उठ जाऊँ, जागूं, ना मानूं अब इस अंधेरे से हार
ढूंढता अपनी पहचान था मैं कल भी, हूँ आज भी

Slice of Life - art for everyone

Slice of Life is an interactive community for all those who are in love with art... I am a part of this movement that believes in making art accessible to everyone - to practice and participate. We hope you can be a part of this creative movement too - irrespective of where you are and how much expertise you think you have!

Please visit our website: https://sites.google.com/site/efilfoecils/ 

History

Slice of Life was founded in September 2006 in Bangalore by a group of enthusiasts who feel that a dash of creativity can make life a more beautiful, filling even the most ordinary days with joy. Most members are not professional artists, and have no formal training in the art forms. But it has never kept us from enjoying the various things we do - theater, short films, literature (reading & writing), dance, music, painting, pottery or cooking.  Do visit our interactive blog: http://slice-of-life-graffiti.blogspot.com/   

Members bring in our ideas and energy to this forum which encourages creative expression. And an informal, inclusive approach to various endeavors keeps the fun alive at all times!  

Join Us

Being a part of the group is simple.  Just send us an email with a brief introduction about what your artistic cravings are. We'll find a way to collaborate. Please forward the email to friends who may be interested. You can also look us up on Facebook!

The Religion of Age

[Short Story (Fiction), Copyright, Puneet Gupta, 2010]

I am sitting on one of those stone parapets just outside the Pantheon in the historical city of Rome. It's about two in the sunny, yet breezy afternoon. After my seventh pizza slice in the last two days, and having walked a good five kilometers from my hotel, I need some rest. Like any tourist to the city, I am ready with my city map, sunglasses and loose change of Euros. I buy a Coke and return to my spot. As I sit facing the temple built by early Romans to honour all their Gods, I cant help but notice that the facade is in shambles. I guess that it would perhaps be from years of neglect or over-exposure to the elements. The Roman authorities surely deem it necessary for it to be restored to its glory by a touch here and a brush-up there. What a pity, I think. Just then, my phone starts to vibrate in my pocket. I fumble, but I am too late. The call was from home. Surely Swati, my wife, has something to say.


I swear silently under my breath. It would be a few minutes until she tries again, suspecting that I might be eating or be in some sacred chapel where phones are not allowed. It is of course a lie, a convenient one, that I have fabricated for my benefit. This is my break from the humdrum of my own town. Although commissioned to attend a series of business meetings in the city, I have a lot of time to explore the city. Today is one such day, and I am glad that it can stay that way for the next few minutes. I know what Swati would have something or the other to say about kaka.

I hover around the souvenier shops for a few minutes, noticing how the unsuspecting tourists around me give in to the cover-up of ongoing repairs with expected naivete. They hide their disappointment in a wide grin as they pose in front of the heavily scaffolded building. Deciding against taking a picture of my own here, I instead get myself a picture postcard, carefully guarding my wallet which I have carefully snuck inside the front pocket of my trousers. This is the "City of Gods", I am told by many. But I dont feel like it. Most of the time I am scared roaming the streets - suspecting everyone around to be a hoodlum. "Is this what happens to heritage as it ages and grows old? Does it lose all its relevance from the throes of the contemporary world? Is it so difficult to keep the past intact, undamaged?"

The phone rings again. This time, I answer immediately. I tell my wife how much I miss her, and ask her again what she wants me to buy for her. She seems irritated by that question and does not answer. I know the sound of this lull only too well. Yet, I press on for her to tell me what the matter is.

"He is so harsh sometimes. Does he even think that I am a human being too?"

"Who? Are you talking about kaka?"

"No, I am talking about the milk-man. Of course, I am talking about your father"

"What happened Swati? Tell me"

"Well, I got up a little late today. Its Sunday, you know. And the breafast wasn't ready by 9. Thats my sin. Its like a jailhouse here. I cant take it any more"

"But you know that he likes his food on time"

"I knew that you would take his side. All he does is lie in bed and complain all day. I am not his servant. He will get food when I can get it ready. And dont you defend him"

"Swati, I know that he is fussy. But he is old and not doing well since so many months"

"You dont have to remind me. I am the one cleaning up after him. The sheets dont even last 3 days. And the whole room stinks. I hate being in that room"

"Relax... I know its difficult. I will talk to him after I get back. Dont be upset. Please"

"You better do. And arrange for a servant or a nurse to clean him and feed him. I am done and over with it all. After all, I have a life of my own"

" Listen. I know its difficult. But its just a matter of time. Its not going to last forever. You know that, dont you?"

"Yes I do... He is already seventy eight, and.... Anyways, how are you doing?"

"I am good. You say. Anything else you want to talk about"

"Nothing. You just need to be back in time for 22nd. You remember, right?"

"Of course I remember. Did you talk to the priest about the arrangements?"

"Yes, I did. Last evening, he had come over. And we went through the list of things to be arranged for the puja and the luncheon aferwards"

"Did kaka say anything?"

"Not really. But he was all into the priest's nose about what he thought was the right way to arrange for a Shraadh. Like always... Anyways, I just want that the Shraadh for your great grandfather to be done right. After all, we want his soul to rest in peace"

"Yeah. Anyways, make sure that my aunts are both invited on phone. They might throw a tantrum otherwise. And clean up the living room to make space for the puja"

"Sure, I would do that. Dont worry. Anyways, I need to go now. Looks like kaka is getting all fidgety about his evening tea. My God, he is just impossible"


With that, the line goes dead. I think about the Shraadh next week. In our family, like most Hindus in North India, there are a few auspicious days of the year where we conduct several rituals to express our respect to ancestors. According to our religious scriptures, a human soul has to wander about the various worlds after death and suffer due to past karmas, and the act of conducting a Shraadh for a deceased ancestor is a means to alleviate the suffering.

A sudden squeal of laughter form a group of excited tourists from China brings me back to the cobbled pathway in front of the Pantheon. My attention is again drawn to the bandaged exterior of what surely has been an imposing building. I quietly mourn how the fast unscrupulous world of today had gotten to the beauty of the old world dignity. A passer by asks me to take a picture against the backdrop of the building. As I retun the camera to him, he thanks me with a broad smile. We strike up a conversation. He is an art collector and works as a writer for a living. He is intrigued by India, he tells me. I tell him that I find Rome fascinating, though quite distressed by the sheer neglect of the ancestral heritage.

"Yes, I think its sad. We rarely appreciate what we have, leave alone taking care of it while we have it. Its the relics of the past that we run after, clamoring to take care of it with great fervor. So many such precious jewels have been lost and continue to be lost every day. Its sad sometimes to see that the dead and buried receive more attention than old and living. And its not just buildings..."

We shake hands as he hurries to catch a waiting bus. I stand there, reflecting on his words. I look at the dilapidated structure one last time, and with a sigh I turn back and start the long walk back to my budget hotel. Its not my city, and its not my heritage, I tell myself. In three days time, I would be back home and it would all be back to normal again. We'll pray during the Shraadh for my great granfather with fervor. Even kaka wouldnt fuss about. And I would talk to him about the nurse. After all, Swati and I do have a life of our own...

Color Coordinated...

[Short Story - Fiction - Copyright - Puneet Gupta - 2010]


I smile at funerals.

It is universally accepted that deaths are sad. Very sad indeed. It is to commemorate this sadness that people dress up (or down) in dull clothing. The color pallette is appalling - pale white, off-white, light brown, beige and grey. Occasinally, some mourners would don bright whites too, just like they show in films. I mean Bollywood films. Though the heros and heroines of the tinseltown also wear spotless whites on Holi. But a funeral is different - it is social protocol to wear nothing bright. Being here today reminds me of an old friend. The guy can not understand such protocols to save his life. And that is ironical, considering that the people who would attend his funeral then would follow the very same protocol that killed him in the first place.


The mourners, like always, wear a solemn expression today. My uncle by the bedside is wearing an expression of loss, as if his old two-wheeler has been stolen. The two aunts sitting by the makeshift shrine are whispering insane trivia about the various steps of the ceremony into each others' ears. The one in the white sari believes that the dead body should be anointed with mustard oil before putting the vermillion. But the one in the off-white sari thinks it should be the other way round. They are both not wearing any jewellery. But that does not bother me. I wholeheartedly support my grandfather who is insisting that the AC be switched on to keep the body intact in the dry summer heat. He has been terribly composed, considering the tragedy that has befallen. After all, he must not have wanted to see this day.

Some people are not looking directly at the body, which is placed prominently in the center of the prayer hall. The hall is actually our drawing room. It looks much bigger without the furniture. Those gathered in the house talk about how the death was so unexpected. Countless narratives of the past fill the silences. Silences are still aplenty. And quite awkward for the ones less intimate with the bereaved.

Soon, the priest from the neighborhood temple takes over. He recites sacred verses that no one understands. Actually, having studied in a Vedic school, I personally know most of the hymns that the priest is currently molesting. But I wont be the one to interrupt. I wonder if he had ever been to a school. He has a very pronounced belly, which he unsuccessfully tries to cover with his brown silk jacket. I dont know how he is able to stand being in that get-up in this heat. Perhaps the AC is cooling down the room. I feel more at ease, although I am beginning to stiffen up a bit. Its quite a bit to go through right now.


Waiting for the aarti to get over, the men stand by the entrance in their jaded attire. I dont know why, but it irks me quite a lot to see the lack of colors around. The children are all cooped up in the second floor bedroom. They are not supposed to witness the holy ablutions of the body. My father is busy consoling my mother, who seems to be crying relentlessly. She does not care how her hair is sprawled all over her forehead, or how saliva is dripping down the right side of her face. My father gets her some water. He looks like a defeated man. My mother gazes expectantly towards me. May be she wants me to reach out and tell her that it is going to be okay. I cant do that. I dont know how to help. I stay put and hope that time does have magical healing powers.

Two hours have passed. All arrangements have been perfect- the virgin bamboo ladder and the white cloth for the deceased. Even the dead ones are in dress code. The cloth is wrapped around the loins and the torso after the water from River Ganga has been sprinkled over the body. The water smells a bit of plastic. Perhaps because it was brought from Haridwar two years back by my grandmother. The same water was used for her last year when she succumbed to a heart attack. There are some things set aside to be given away to the lower castes. They are represented today by the son of the dhobi, waiting outside the house on the stairwell. He would take home a set of stainless steel utencils, few coconuts, some beetel leaves, condiments and a few handfuls of basmati rice. Of course, a envelope containing two hundered and fifty one rupees would also be slipped into the bag of rice. Their blessings are important.


They are finally preparing the body to be taken to the cremation ground. My uncle has arranged for a van to carry the body. They tie thick rounds of the sacred thread on the linp forehand of the dead body, which they arrange daintily on the ladder. I feel a sudden lightness in the air. There is a fragrence of incense sticks that fills me up. My brother, who has been silent this whole while, is now decorating the body with flowers - not the usual marigold garlands. These are the pink and orange bougainvilleas from our garden. They brighten the whole world around with their splendid colors. My brother has always known that they are my favorite flowers. He is the only one who really understands. I thank him silently for giving me a perfect farewell.


I smile at funerals. Today is no different...