तेरी हर बात में रात है. सर से घुंघराले अंधेरों का झरना ऐसे गिरता है जैसे क्षितिज पे रात का साया ढल रहा हो. और उस झरने में से झांकता है एक चाँद, हर उस चीज़ की रौनक लिए जो ज़िन्दगी को खूबसूरत बनाती है. ये जो होठो पे रातरानी की गन्ध सजी है, इतनी मंद है की समझ नहीं आता मुस्कान है या तेरा गुमान. और आँखें.. उफ़ ये आधी खुली आँखें.. ये नींद को सपने देखना और रात को मदहोशी सिखाती है. ज़ाहिर है, हम कभी जागना नहीं चाहते.
In all probability you have a face, and a mouth on it that could form intelligible words. I am not sure. I am occupied otherwise. Your wide child-bearing hips, accentuated by that narrow waist, are having a hearty conversation with my evolutionary needs. I don’t love you. I don’t want to flay your soul and carve it with an intellectual self portrait. I don’t want to let my ego destroy the person you represent to gratify my need for approval and conformity. And by destroy, I mean change it ever so little. No, I just want you. And this seemingly vulgar emotion of lust is my sincere attempt at respecting you as an individual; a confession that says I want you as you are. I want you in the capacity you excel at and trade it with my best. I want exactly what you are right now. Nothing else and not later.
“It is so difficult being an adult.. don’t you think so?”, she said, as I sat there, contemplating the question in my head. Utter chaos. It wasn’t a sudden realization of the hardships of adulthood. I am not naive or demented enough to believe it is easy. The problems with being in charge of your own life are so inherent to the act that you overlook them. Imagine if a child were born with a mild headache. He would grow up to realize that the feeling is indeed unpleasant, but would be incapable of disassociating the pain with his existence. And she sat there, asking the kid if he felt wretched because of the pain in his head.
अनजान है तू, खुद से, मुझ से, इस बहती सड़क से।
कोई दूरी लेकिन मुझे, दिखी नहीं तेरे मेरे बीच।
नज़रे मिली नहीं, पर हटी भी नहीं, जैसे पहरा हो रूह पे।
कोई शिकन लेकिन मुझे, दिखी नहीं तेरे मेरे बीच।
आवाज़ लगाऊं या, आँखों को कहने दू, किस्से तो बहुत हैं।
कोई अनकही लेकिन मुझे, दिखी नहीं तेरे मेरे बीच।
ना बेपरवाह हैं, ना ही बेक़रार हम, बस एक खिचाव सा है।
कोई तड़प लेकिन मुझे, दिखी नहीं तेरे मेरे बीच।
The beginning is slow. The influx is limited. A nudge here, another there; trickle by trickle, the fluid pours in but always remains contained. You believe the source will dry up and the leak will stop. But it continues. The well up becomes evident and you panic. The desperation to prevent the breach grows, because you are in control only as long as the dam holds. You attempt fixing the problem. Diversion doesn’t work. You try to block the source. Nothing works. The level swells and hangs precariously on the edge. Helplessness prevails; your rational faculties surrender and you choke. But you are still hopeful that the tide will subside. With clenched jaws, you recede into an isolated secure zone. You draw in a sharp breath and then you hold it. But that doesn’t stop the time like you wish it would. And then, the tear falls.