तुमने जलाया था
कि राख हो जाऊं
मैं कुंदन निकला
********
You lit the fire
to turn me to ashes
I realised
I was gold dust.
***********
Gold dust and blobs look like ordinary earth/blobs before they are refined, then torched, and emerge as pure gold. This 24-carat thin gold is called Kundan in Hindi.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eg1X6SKfTQo
https://www.youtube.com/shorts/X8zRP7w_2n0
I realised today that it is harder to let go of a friendship than it is to let go of a relationship.
In a relationship, all said and done, we retain a sense of self. In friendships, we give without accounting, we accept people as they are, and we do not always expect friends to be polite or even not rude.
But suddenly, one day, they are exceptionally insensitive, and we find ourselves shocked.
Then, we sit down and ask self an honest question - "When was the last time this friend was a "friend"? When did I last feel nice while interacting with them?"
For me, that answer was "15 years". The last positive memory I have with this friend is from 15 years ago. For one and a half decades, I had been pouring into this friendship, without even pausing to think.
When a romantic relationship goes bad, I usually say, "I love you very much, but I respect me more." With startling clarity, I realised that it was time to say the same thing to a one-sided friendship too. And its really, really hard.
"औरत को बांध कर मारना चाहिए। फिर वो कहीं नहीं भाग सकती।" - अमृता प्रीतम की कहानी "मैं सब जानता हूँ" में ठेकेदार ने ये बात कही थी। और कल, फेस्बूक पर एक औरत ने यही बात लिखी।
ये बात सच है। बच्चों वाली औरत बच्चों को छोड़ कर कहीं नहीं भाग सकती। फेस्बूक वाली औरत ने लिखा, "पर एक दिन, अगर मैं मुंह खोल दूँ तो?"
मैं उस औरत को बताना चाहती थी, कि मुंह खोलने से दिन शांत हो जाते हैं और रातें और भी काली।
पर मैंने कुछ नहीं लिखा। हर औरत की रस्सी भी अलग होती है, और उसकी गांठों का कसाव भी अलग।
मुझे तकलीफ इस सोच से है, कि एक इंसान को बांध कर मारने की इच्छा है। उस इच्छा का होना भर ही मुझे समझ नहीं आता।
इस सोच में, बच्चे प्रेम का प्रतीक नहीं होते। औरत को बांधने वाली रस्सियाँ होते हैं - जो बच्चों को कभी नहीं होना चाहिए।
*********
"A woman who is tied before she is hit is not able to run away. You should tie a woman down with children before hitting her." - This was a line in a short story by Amrita Pritam.
And last week, this was written by a woman on Facebook.
It is true. Women with children cannot run from bad marriages as easily. That is why men have suicides and women have autoimmune disorders. We cannot die.
The poster on Facebook wrote, "But what if I were to open my mouth one day..?"
I wanted to tell that woman that it won't change anything. It might make the days more peaceful but the nights will become darker and more unpredictable.
But my issue is not with the comment, or the possibility of opening the mouth. My issue is with the core thought process that wants to tie up another human being and beat them. With embedded sadism that is so mainstream that it finds acceptance in our daily conversations!!!
In this destructive thought process, children are not a symbol of love or union. They are tools of manipulation. Ropes that bind a victim and make her helpless. And children should never be that.
I want to call out this embedded sadism. But don't know how.
ਬੂਹੇ ਬਾਰੀਆਂ
ਆਪਾਂ ਬਨਾਏ ਤੇ ਸੀ
ਹਵਾ ਦੇ ਆਨ ਜਾਨ ਲਈ
ਪਰ ਇਸਤੇਮਾਲ ਕੀਤੇ
ਸਾਹ ਘੁੱਟਣ ਨੂਂ
Boohe Baariyaan
Apaan banaaye te si
Hawa de aan jaan layi
Par istemaal kitte
Saah ghuttan nu
***********
Doors and windows
were made
to keep the air flowing
but were used
to suffocate.
जितना सुधार दिया है खुद को मैंने
उतना तो मैं खराब भी नहीं था
जिस बेरहमी से तोड़ा है ज़िंदगी तूने
उतना बड़ा तो मेरा ख्वाब भी नहीं था
- From the Insta of Saima123. Don't know the name of the poet.
मैं हल्दी सी हूँ।
चोट लग जाए, तो खुद को पीस कर चोट पर लगा देती हूँ,
और सारा दर्द सोख लेती हूँ।
I am like turmeric.
If you get hurt, I will crush myself and apply a poultice
To take all the hurt away.
*The translation does no justice to the original.
Punjabi version:
ਮੈਂ ਹਲਦੀ ਗੰਡੇ ਦੀ ਪੋਟਲੀ ਹਾਣਿਆ
ਕਿਤੇ ਲੱਗ ਜਾਵੇ ਸੱਟ
ਤੇ ਆਪ ਸੜ ਕੇ
ਸਾਰੀ ਪੀੜ ਪੀ ਲੈਸਾਂ।
Main Haldi Gande dee potli Haaniyaa
Kite lagg jaave satt
Te aap sadd ke
saaree Peed Pee Laisaan
My Insta trying to warn me every day:
Me, who sleeps at 3 am every day and is completely fucked up for entirely different reasons:
That crime is my fave genre is obvious.
This series of short stories and novellas from the golden age of crime - early 1900s, has been quite the favorite.
Unfortunately, I did not enjoy the 4th book quite as much as the others.
Child's play by Edmund Crispin and Passengers by Ethel Lina White stand out.
As for the other stories, the less said the better. The longest story in the book is Shadowed Sunlight (or something similar). The plot is great but the execution is excruciating.
I also used to love the language in writing from this time. These stories, maybe it was just me, missed the mark on that too.
I would not recommend this as the book with which you start the series. And if you miss this one, you wouldn't have missed a lot. But if it is in your hands, give it a weekend. It might be a good weekend read.
मांगी - तांगी हुई सी कुछ बात
दिन की झोली में भीख की रातें
मेरी दहलीज़ पर भी लाई थी
ज़िंदगी दे गई है सौगातें
************
चाँद तन्हा है आसमान तन्हा
दिल मेरा है कहाँ कहाँ तन्हा
बुझ गई आस, छुप गया तारा
थरथराता रहा धुआँ तन्हा
ज़िंदगी क्या इसी को कहते हैं
जिस्म तन्हा है और जां तन्हा
हमसफ़र कोई 'गर कोई मिले भी कहीं
दोनों चलते रहें यहाँ तन्हा
जलती बुझती सी रोशनी के पड़े
सिमटा सिमटा सा इक मकां तन्हा
राह देखा करेगा सदियों तक
छोड़ जाएंगे ये जहां तन्हा
***********
टुकड़े टुकड़े दिन बीता, धज्जी धज्जी रात मिली
जिसका जितना आँचल था, उतनी ही सौगात मिली
रिमझिम रिमझिम बूंदों में, ज़हर भी है और अमृत भी
आँखें हंस दीं, दिल रोया, ये अच्छी बरसात मिली
जब चाहा दिल को समझें, हंसने की आवाज सुनी
जैसे कोई कहता हो, ले फिर तुझको मात मिली
मातें कैसी घातें क्या, चलते रहना आठ पहर
दिल-सा साथी जब पाया, बेचैनी भी साथ मिली
होंठों तक आते- आते, जाने कितने रूप भरे
जलती बुझती आँखों में, सादा सी जो बात मिली
**********
आगाज़ तो होता है अंजाम नहीं होता
जब मेरी कहानी में वो नाम नहीं होता
जब ज़ुल्फ़ की कालिख में गम जाए कोई राही
बदनाम सही लेकिन गुमनाम नहीं होता
बहते हुए आँसू ने कहा आँखों से थम कर
जो मय से पिघल जाए वो जाम नहीं होता
(How much I LOVE this sher)
दिन डूबे या डूबे बारात लिए कश्ती
साहिल पे मगर कोई कोहराम नहीं होता
*******
बैठे हैं रास्ते में बयाबान-ए- दिल सजा कर
शायद इसी तरफ से इक दिन बहार गुज़रे
****
मेरी तरह सम्हाले कोई जो दर्द जानूँ
इक बार दिल से हो कर परवरदिगार गुज़रे
*******
Today, in meditation, I got to speaking about space - that dead place just beyond our atmosphere.
"I have told you before - there is no such thing as a dead place. You have just not tapped into the consciousness that exists in those entities yet. They are not talking to you. Does not mean that they are not talking."
The rocks, the nebulae, the darkness, the galaxies - they are all ALIVE?
There is no other way of being. How can a dead thing revolve? Rotate? How can it maintain consistent movement around a central core? How can all these entities remain moving in synergy, if they are not syncing with each other? What is the source of their endless energy?
They are all conscious. They are all communicating. You have experienced the Universe as a dark place, but it is, in fact, full of light. You know it to be dead, but it is alive and pulsating. Your consciousness is limited. Think of it as two radio stations not being able to listen to each other because they exist on different frequencies. It is similar. The radio stations CAN learn to sync with each other.
Human consciousness does not sync with animal or plant consciousness either. In fact, without spoken or written senses, it does not even communicate with other humans. But these other conscious entities are sentient. They are ALIVE.
What then, is the best way to communicate with the Universe? To make our connection with that large world outside richer?
What will you do with richer consciousness? Have you ever considered tapping into the consciousness of your fellow living beings? Humans and non humans? It is there, just believe it. You may not be able to sync with it just yet, but it is there. Humans have known it before. Energy has always known it.
"When I am dead, my dearest.." was read many years ago and immediately became my most favorite death poem.
Today, i read another great death poem by the same poetess, and I so want to share both of these:
"The cells remember," they say.
I believe them
Because there is pain
even where
there is no memory.
Then it is the cells, innit,
that need to scream their pain away
And heal?
The cells will release
Their pain
in microcosms of quarks
That we cannot see
but we will know
when its done
because the water
will feel clean.
And the cells
will breathe
freely again.
