ज़िन्दगी भर तुमको चाहा , चाहेंगे तुमको ही

पर है कसम किसी और ज़िन्दगी में चाहेंगे तुमको नहीं

(to be continued)

Adjectives

Life doesn't care about adjectives. At best, a handful of adjectives in some permutation manage to closely describe one narrative of life as it has already taken place. But strictly only the past. Because the present is unfathomable - we being too busy trying to live it or survive it to even try understanding it. And the future, well, the future is the tricky mistress. It tempts you to dream, to paint a picture, to sandbox and call it a variety of adjectives - how things will be. But life carelessly, nonchalantly but almost deliberately brushes them aside and paints its own version of the future. By the time you finish grappling with it and are able to begin comprehending it, comparing it to your imagination, you realise how shallow it was compared to the depth of reality. You also realize how brutal reality is, and how life couldn't care less about the adjectives it was supposed to conform to. Maybe it throws a moment or two here and there to humor you, but the palate of life's art is too complex for us to label with mere names of colours.

Adjectives, you're more or less useless.

Change is a good thing

Change is a good thing.
What makes it hard is not the change itself, but our tendency to want to hold on to the unchanged
We resist, often illogically, to move away from how things "used to be" even if the past seemed highly imperfect and dissatisfying at the time when it was the present. It feels comforting, I guess, to hang on with screeching tooth-nails to the familiar, when facing the unknown.

I think we would do well to remember that "change is a good thing", because it is inevitable anyway. And because it is less work flowing with the current than trying to unsuccessfully swim against it.

Just saying.

Forever

I wrote your name
In my palm,
Everyday, until
it dissolved and wrote itself
Permanently
In the lines of my fate
Until, your name
Became my name
Until, it became
my fate.

So now, can I stop?
Is the pursuit really over?
Will you stay, like your name,
in my life
Forever?

Saans

Woh jo jalte hain chilman
Chiragon mein tumhare
Agan unko hamari aahon se mili hai

Ye jo barasti hai tumhare aangan mein barkha
Boondein use hamari aankhon se mili hai

Yoon to hum jal lete, ta-umr,
Aashiyan ko tumhare roshan rakhne - par afsos

Yeh jo ruk rahi hain, ab tak hamesha
Meri saans humein tumhari saanson mein mili hai

Words

Words are such disloyal friends. They have this stupid tendency to desert you just when you need them. They just run and hide somewhere in the folds of chaotic waves inside you, no matter how much you cry for them. They know they're there, they know what they mean and they know they're needed to stop things going astray, but they wouldn't arrive. Worse, they'd often send some foreign cousins of theirs to cover up- other words that have no clue what's going on and have no business showing up. And you're left cleaning behind the mess they make. Such disloyal friends.

And then, there are other times. When a truth, a forbidden feeling, an honest confession just appears from somewhere inside you. Words suitably accompany and just pour out of you, like they suddenly hate you and cannot stay inside any longer. And so you say stuff, out loud, stuff that leaves you defenceless and exposed. But the listener doesn't care. He's somewhere else, engrossed in some other words. He listens, he reads - probably - and he ignores. And you're left alone, vulnerable, staring at the vomit of stupid unrestrained words spread on the floor. Wondering whether you're not worth it or your feelings are meaningless. Or whether, words are being disloyal friends to your listener, abandoning him, leaving him speechless and unresponsive, when he really just wants to tell you how much your words mean to him.

Such disloyal friends.

Noise

That sinking feeling
At the pit of the stomach
Crowding around the gut
Climbing up to the brain
Squeezing all in its way
Pushing out every breath
I gasp, that sinking feeling
Is making me drown again

I sink, I swim, I fight
Till the sinking wins and I quit
What's the point, I ask myself
Life isn't worth the pain
Numbness takes over the limbs
The mind refuses to think
I walk alone, drowning
In cold November rain

I sink, till I shrink
Deeper and deeper within my shell
The only place still safe
The only place still sane
Alone, in the darkness, I question
Whereforth leadeth life today
But noise is drowning the inner voice
The noise mocks with disdain

Directionless, helpless, alone I wait
In deep safe corners of the cocoon
Either the noise itself will die
Or wash me over drown the drain
I cannot hear, in this noise
What the instincts want me to do
But logic asks me why even try
Life really isn't worth the pain.

Incomparable loves

Lots of loving lovable loves
Loiter around in the throes of the heart
Who is to say which ones are greater
Love is always perfect, love is always flawed

Pyaar to aakhir pyaar hi hai
Naapein parkhein kaise koi
Ishq waala love bhi love hai
Aur pyaar hi hai khamoshi ka saath

Loves, unlike lovers, do not hate each other
They're far too self-obsessed to even care
The love for the moon doesn't rival that for night
They both just ignite, they both are just there

Mere pyaar se tera pyaar na kam na zyaada
Gehraiyaan na naapi jaayein inchi tape ke bharose
Na gin sakte hain aansu, na lafzon ko wazan karein
Is jado-jahid mein aksar pyaar hi jata hai bikhar

Some loves are fleeting, some undying
Some flicker with the candlelight and the wail
Some weaken, some strengthen, some draw off each other
Some give life and some lead down a dark trail

Gusse se bhi pyaar hai, teri muskaan pe bhi marte hain
Teri aankhon ke kone ke jugnu pe bhi hain kaayal
Pyaar kaun sa is duniya mein mukammal ho jaye
sab kismat ka hai khel

Book Review: The Krishna Key

Ever since I finished reading The Krishna Key, I have been wondering why is it a work of fiction. The closest I've got is, "Because Da Vinci Code sold x million copies". But The Krishna Key is much more a book of history and mythology, and more precisely the grey zone between the two interpretational art/science forms, than the latter ever was. In terms of sheer quality of writing and narrative though, even Da Vinci Code was better than this.

Ashwin Sanghi has a reputation of his own, though Krishna Key had come especially recommended. It appeals, I am certain, to a certain reader demographic - the religious, the non-fiction-oholics, the conspiracy theorists. But it manages to sound a bit too contrived, too forced, and by the end too preachy for even a reader like me who likes narratives that try to find a hidden layer behind notions we have and the world we see around us. 

In brief, the book brings to fore the oft-repeated questions - Did Krishna really exist, or is it just mythology? Did Mahabharata really happen? It throws in tons of evidence, theories, stories and interpretations that make you want to believe in its hypothesis. The theories in itself are easily the most interesting part of the book, which makes me believe the writer should have chosen a better format than the force-fit fiction tale with too many stereotypical elements and "forced" surprises. 

The protagonists of the book are unlikely hero. The women of the story are smart and sharp, the men confused and the motivations laughable. For a fair while, you don't even realise who are supposed to be the leads, which in itself is not a bad thing.. Part of it is weak character development, some elements of which appear so late they appear forced. Mostly, I do not like the dialogue. The plot is kinda plausible, especially once it gets over the hindi-filminess of the first half. But the dialogue is virtually non-existent, because the monologues take it over. At a point, you wonder, why are they all running? What are they trying to get to? Why now? Why so urgent? Why so SERIOUS?

This book is great if you're interested in history, mythology, the one world-one civilization paradigm, the supremacy of Hinduism (in a very twisted way), and hell, who doesn't love a conspiracy theory. Dont read it for the story it tries to tell you though. Not worth it.

This review is a part of the Book Review Program for Indian Bloggers!

Nights

Exhausted
I fall down on the bed
But sleep evades
When will the questions die?
Unchanged
Stays the toughest one
Have I changed
Over years? Over weeks? Why?
Peace
Could probably be bought
Can faith be restored?
Should I quit, or should I try?
Tears
Appear uninvited anyway
And clean the eyes
Off hazy dreams that pry
Sleep
I still pray for
As answers don't come
In guilt, pain, confusion I cry.