The Village and Eight Lives of Badalpur : Episode 3

The Night of the Incident – Part 1

Find Episode 2 here : Episode 2 

The dead human body does not start disintegrating quickly. It did not at least in the case of Giridhar. It was a rotten mess. Much like his life. After life had start similarities. The following day was a plethora of emotions for the village. The killer was out alive. Fear was natural. What was also natural was the chaos that would ensue when Prajwal would find the body next to Titu.

**

The previous night after Giridhar had dropped Titu on the floor and hurried out the front door, Champa had done two things. She had finished eating the four chapatis from the plate while Titu lay on the floor crying for attention. She had then got up, picked the green shiny kurta and placed it right in the back of the alaa, where from it was invisible to a passing eye. Then she had smiled and caressed Titu. “Kahaan janam liya re tu…kapoot ke ghar kahaan phool khilta hai.. sab maaya hai..” (How come you ended in that family? Flowers don’t bloom in a thorny estate… It is all God’s will though). The poor child kept his cries at an incessant high, and continued sobbing for some time while Champa made milk for him in the kitchen.

Devesh walked in later with fresh meat from the day’s hunt. He looked frenzied and confused unlike other days. He had run into Giridhar on his way into the hut and had stopped for a momentary chit chat which was rudely denied. He was the last person to see Giridhar alive. Or so the villagers were supposed to think the following day.

“Ka hua.. Ei Giridharwa bada jaldi mein laga aaj saala…”(What happened? Giridhar seemed in quite a hurry) were his first words when he was inside the kitchen. The fumes from the freshly baked chapatis had filled the entire hut but the aroma was intense. Champa ignored the question and continue teaching Titu the nursery rhymes that every one learnt in the village when they were kids..

“Ek tamatar laal laal… uske andar laal laal..

hum bhi khayen… tum bhi khao.. sab ho jaayen laal laal”

(One red tomato… all red inside…

Let us share and consume… and be all red likewise ) 

She finished the rhyme with an evil grin on her face as she looked at Titu… “Ei.. tera baap kaisan tamaatar jaisa laal ho gaya.. dekha..”(Did you see your father walk away all red??) Titu never understood the metaphor. Or the evil grin. Devesh stood unmoved. The confusion on the face was now replaced with disgust.

“Kitni baar kahe hain amma.. bacha ke saamne itna mat bola karo.. Umar hone lagi hai sasure ki.. samajhta hai.. baap ko bak dega kisi din” (How many times have I told you mother? Not to speak such foul in front of the kid.. he is getting older..this asshole..  Will go complain someday)

“Arre abhi to bacha hai.. Deva.. par humne dekha hai shaitaan kutte ki aankh mein.. “ (He is only a child Deva.. But I have seen Devil in his father’s eyes)

“Amma.. kabhi kabhi to darte hain hum tohre se.. Us din to tum bhi wahin thi na.. Babuji ka haija to uparwaale ka diya hai.. kahe bakwaas karti ho..” (Mother, you scare me sometimes.. You were there in person that night.. Father’s illness was god’s doing… Why do you speak this rubbish?)

“Chhod pagla.. tu nahi samjhega.. Girdhar par shaitan ka haath hai…” (Let it go.. you won’t get it. The devil reigns over Giridhar)

Titu stopped lapping the milk from the flat bowl and looked up in dismayed affection.. “Humra baap shaitaan hai…” (My father is a demon..)with the smile of a six year old.. unaware of what he had just said. Both wondered if it was a question… perhaps.

“Hutt pagle.. Doodh pi.. chal chhode aata hun tere babu ke paas khaana khaaye ke… Amma tum bhi na..“ (Get lost.. and drink your milk.. I will go drop you at your father’s once I finish eating.. Mother.. you are a pain..) murmured Devesh in a fumbled voice and sat down next to Titu. Champa had poured the sabji and chapatis on a steel plate and Devesh started eating hungrily. What had happened in the morning today in the adjoining forest was equally horrifying. But mentioning it to Champa would mean more explaining and he was utterly tired since the events in the forest. He finished eating quickly and got up to wash his hands in the backyard. There was no light in Giridhar’s hut in the distance but he could faintly smell the weed. “Bastard has no vigour to work for the child but smokes weed like a chimney” he thought as he came into the hut.

Champa was still adjusting the shiny green kurta. “Babuji ka kurta kahe nahi jalne di us din tum.. ab isko kya saath le ke hi jaogi?”  (Why did you not let Father’s kurta exhume that day? Will you now die with it?) His frustration was valid. He lit the incense sticks and repeated the hanuman chalisa (a prayer to Lord Hanuman) in his customary speed as Titu started to snore lightly on the floor.

Devesh woke the kid up to drop him at his father’s place when Champa held his hand. “Let him sleep here tonight.. I don’t feel very good about the night sky.. there is no light in his hut and it would be filled with the smoke of weed.” The resistance was impregnated with purpose tonight. Like never before.

He pushed her back and woke him however. Titu was stammering in his sleep and his teeth made a weird clattering noise like kids’ do when they are bordering on sleep and wakefulness. He woke up with a start like a bad dream had come to an inconclusive halt. The dream would come back he feared.

**

As the moon started to cross in the second quarter of the night, Devesh and Titu walked humming tunes. Devesh hummed a tune he had heard recently at Lakhan’s shop on his radio on Vividh Bharti. Titu sang the recently learnt rhyme in broken verse “Ek tha tamaatar laal laal.. uska andar bhi laal laal… hum sab khaayen laal laal.. woh ho jaaye laal..” (There was a tomoto.. all red.. we ate it all.. and the tomato was all red…)Devesh did not care to correct the mistakes but lit a beedi on the way. He finished the song with a long burp and followed it with a ‘Hari om’.. It was a weird custom but everyone did it in the village. It was a noisy gratitude for a fulfilling meal to the Gods above… But tonight the Gods slept up above in their humble abode while demons walked on the streets of Badalpur.

“Chacha.. tani ta.. ruk jao.. mutna hai..” (Uncle wait a minute.. I have to take a leak) Titu complained holding his groin in one hand and tugging Devesh’s hand in the other. The undiluted presure on Devesh’s little finger hinted at the intensity of the impending interval and he stubbed his bidi under his Lakhani chappals.

While Titu relieved himself by the tree, Devesh jumped and picked him up and put him on the empty side of the road. “Pissing at the bottom of a tree in the night invites demons Titu.. you want them to come take you away?” he scolded the little kid. Titu just winked at him. Devesh could swear he saw a scorn on his face for a split second.

In the next few minutes Devesh and Titu reached Giridhar’s hut. There was a strong smell of weed. It seemed Giridhar was smoking two days worth of ganja. He left Titu at the door and walked away.

“Chal jaa.. apna babu ke paas.. aur so jaana chup chaap.. koi awaaj nahi.. babu soya hoga.. jagana mat” (Now go to your father.. And sleep quietly.. don’t wake him up and no noise..)He left with half a warning and half a suggestion.

Titu tried to push the door open but it was locked. Devesh had reached the end of the front yard and calling out for assistance seemed irrelevant. He went around and climbed into the window and quietly settled into the open floor in the hut. The room still smelled of the ganja.

From the corner of the dark room, Titu could see the burning end of a chilam. The scorn had returned on his face.

The Village and Eight Lives of Badalpur : Episode 2

The Murder

Find Episode 1 here : Episode 1

When Giridhar came home last night, he did not lock the door behind him. It was hot and humid and he needed something to quickly overcome reality. It was a daily affair. Dinner at Lakhan’s shop followed by the daily dosage of ganja in his chilam. He quickly lit it and opened the window looking into the backyard. The moon shone brightly and you could see the heath in the distance. A vast stretch of emptiness matched only by the emptiness of Champa’s heart; he thought. A bulky man in his mid fifties, Giridhar preferred the cool breeze directly on his skin, made moist by the humid night. The lungi had been overworn and adorned his waist snugly. The bright blue chequered fabric had lost its color mingling bleakly with the color of the faded walls inside the so-called ‘haveli’. It wasn’t one though; as it lacked the grace of the kings and the simplicity of the peasants. It was a mess. A cross hybrid between an unfinished hut and aspirational bungalow. There never was enough money to build houses in the village.

Titu was nowhere to be seen. Must be in Champa’s garden picking up ‘raatrani’ in the night. Raatrani was characteristic to the village – a flower which grew only in the night in this belt but the blossomed buds imparted a thick essence of sweet candor to the village. When dark descended, the sweet aroma rose unchained across the other houses in the village from Champas’ garden. It was the only place with a garden toiled hard in the day by Champa. He thought of her bending down to clear up the excess grass and chuckled a little. The ganja was starting to infuse with the blood.

He walked out quietly in the open; one hand on his lungi and the other holding the chilam. The tobacco burnt slowly and made light cracking sounds. “Eh! Even the ganja has gotten wet bahi***od”, he spat and coughed loudly.

A body moved in the distance to the other side of the wall and he thought he saw shiny green kurta fly across the distance. “Kaun hai re.. bho**dika”(Who’s there asshole?) he shouted at the top of his voice – half in fear and the other half in a tone of self assurance that all was fine. It wasn’t.

 “Ka hua Girdhar chacha?”(What happened Giridhari Uncle?) Barked Lakhan from the other side of the wall. “Kuch nahi.. laga konho hai… chilamiya aaj gadar hai saali!!”(Nothing.. I thought I saw someone.. The weed is pretty strong tonight) Giridhar shouted back.

“So jao chacha.. ihaan kauno aata hai raat ko”(Sleep uncle.. who comes here in the night?) Lakhan subsided the persistent fear and went back to swatting flies from his hairy tummy. Soon Lakhan’s snores started beating a rhythmic tone. The unquiet alibi of a village murder. Only if they had memory… or could testify.

Meanwhile, back in his hut Giridhar had finished the chilam and thrown it in the stash of other usable items he kept in the ‘alaa’ (square hole in the wall, primarily used as an inexpensive storage place). The moon had climbed up higher in the night sky announcing the arrival of the second quarter of the night into the eight lives of Badalpur. Only seven would witness the third. His son was nowhere to be seen. He walked in fast paces to Champa’s garden where upon noticing the familiar quiet, made way into the hut. Titu sat on the floor scraping some dried leaves off the bowl asking for more. Champa sat next to him with a hand fan to disturb the file of mosquitoes settling on Titu’s forearm every three minutes.

“Titu.. let us go home” Giridhar smacked without much introduction and dragged him against his will out the hut. He cried in protest but to no avail. Champa cast a loathsome glance on the semi naked torso but could not ignore the lustful stare her glance was matched by. She hated Girdhar’s guts, especially now that her husband was gone and her son spent most of the time constructing the small tree house for Titu.

“Kya budhiya… khaaye liya gobar? Hamre ghar chalegi to shahad pilaun?”(What’s up old woman? Did you eat your dog shit..?? Come to my place.. I will offer you honey) Giridhar broke into a deathly laughter and pulled Titu by his arm. While he was exiting the house his eyes caught something shiny in the ‘alaa’ and he froze for a moment. In the filtered light of the kerosene lamp he recognized it as the green kurta Champa’s husband wore the day he died.

In the moment of dismay and chill, he left hurriedly abusing something in his Pahari language. He dropped Titu to the floor and went back into the hut and locked the door - first time in decades. He washed his face with cold water and lit another chilam. He lay on the floor in complete darkness. The only light was from the burning embers of the chilam. His brain was exercising all possible emotions as a tear rolled down his left eye. He lifted his hand to wipe the unannounced tear when it hit something muscular in the background.

He felt a strong grasp twisting his arm and two other arms strangling his throat with effortless persistence. He struggled for four minutes before he breathed a silent exhale… life exit through the throat.. a painful mixture with the ganja.. The room was absolutely quiet and no one moved for the next few hours…

The assailant got up after some time and lit the unfinished ‘chilam’. A muffled cough echoed in the room for a while before the assailant sprinked the unlit ganja on his body, filled a glass of water and dropped the earthen pot on the floor… Lakhan’s loud snores never heard the muffled cry that was the last Giridhar breathed.. nor did his droopy eyes see the silhouette covered in shiny green exit the compound…

A cloud cover passed eerily over the moon as the third quarter of the night arrived into the village… Everyone was asleep except one.. for he lay dead on the floor..!!

The Village and Eight Lives of Badalpur : Episode 1

Pilot (or The incident)

Prajwal

Devika, Prajwal’s 12 year old daughter

Devesh

Champa – Devesh’s mother

Lakhan – tea shop owner

Sukhinder

Giridhar – Prajwal’s brother, victim.

Titu – Giridhar’s 10 year old son

Rains don’t come to these villages any more. Sweltering heat descends in the afternoon on the few tea lovers who flock the only tea shop in the middle of the village which serves savories (jalebis and samosas) as well. Padded fields on the other side of the road and a broken cycle wheel hangs from a distraught hook outside the tea shop; a reminder to the few old timers that this was a cycle repair shop. But there were no cycles here anymore after the rich flee to the cities. The wheel remained an item of utmost curiosity to the little child Titu born after the great fire. A rotund imagery devoid of poetry and prose synonymous with the very dark that engulfs the eight people who live in the village - four from the same family. A complicated hegemony of relations lying exposed as they choose to bid farewell to Sukhinder who leaves for the city today. Seven more to go – he thinks and waves at the bus as it comes to a screeching halt next to the aforementioned tea shop, creating a mirage of dust and smoke which settles snugly on the samosas.

Sukhinder lives alone in the hut adjoining Devesh’s behind the tea shop. Three houses in the village – each a landmark for the other and the tea shop. Ah! The tea shop – a giant fuck you to the huge coffee houses in the city with posh lighting and swanky floors. This is a hell hole of ever sweltering heat, drowsy flies resting calmly on the jalebis as Lakhan wipes the tea pot every afternoon at 2 pm in patient anticipation of the 6 people who drink tea everyday. His customer bucket decreases to five from today. He weeps no tear as death is a worse agonizer. There is hope still for Sukhinder to return. No one has returned yet in the past 15 years though. ‘Hope’, he thought is a treacherous emotion, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. It mixes with the pan as he cleanses it in the brown hued water from the borewell in the backyard.

The borewell was planted seven years ago when the village had enough people to warrant a political seat. Some call it government attention but the definitions are long lost. In the first year, the water was really clean and crisp but such was no longer the case. During the fourth year, after Devesh had lost to Prajwal during an arm wrestling game for the first time in two years, the water erupted a pale yellow. The borewell was scratching earth’s surface they felt – and the earth was too eager to stay quietly in the summer heat and every now and then found a way out through the water the borewell bore. A silent act of rebellion. Devesh’s father had planted the borewell in the village seven years ago when he was still alive. He was not any more. He died of haija outside the village borders which was no more than 3 kilometers. Devesh had gone himself to ensure he stays out and dies peacefully. Wrapped in five layers of clothing he carried his father and waited for life to flicker from his eyes under the starry night. It was a good night to die. He thanked the stars when he was completely gone and buried him in the ground he had excavated in the afternoon. He felt alive albeit guilty. Late in the night he stumbled into Lakhan near the tea shop. He woke not to console him but to scratch his big belly and ask in the most innocuous of tones “Dafnaaye aaye bhaiya? Chai banau?”

Prajwal was twenty seven but looked thirty five in the lungi and baniyan he wore all day. Unlike others who had hairy faces for wont of a barber in the village, Prajwal had a cleaner countenance (cleaner of course of the hair) and donned a dirty browning moustache alone. He wiped his face clean with a knife he cut onions with. He felt Champa liked her men cleaner. Champa was Devesh’s mother and a widow. And she was fifty three. But she was the second female in the village. The first was Prajwal’s twelve year daughter, Devika, from his now dead wife. Champa had grown intuitively fond of Devika as she grew older. She sat on the floor in the open hut as she blew air into the choolha making chapatis for Devika and Devesh. He chided her affection sometimes but loved the chubby kid to hangout in the garden every evening as she played with Giridhar’s son Titu. He was growing fast but the heat made it easier to not afford new clothes. Giridhar was an old ragged man devoid of hair on his head and emotion in his heart. His wife some said never died of natural causes unless beating her every night was natural in the village. She died shortly after Titu’s birth. Giridhar was only more irritable after the incident and spent his time swatting flies outside Lakhan’s tea shop. Occasionally he spoke with his brother Prajwal about his work. They grew rice and wheat in January every month and ate it through the year.

Giridhar breathed his last a night ago when someone strangled him to death in his sleep. It was the first murder in this quiet village of nine people. It would not be two days after today that Prajwal would find his brother dead who he assumed would be asleep otherwise under the influence of hashish the grew abundantly in his backyard.

But today was a different day. Everyone except the dead Giridhar were at the bus top wishing Sukhinder farewell as he boarded the dusty bus. He sighed as the bus leapt into the oblivion the villagers called the city. Prajwal started walking towards Giridhar’s hut complaining of his sadistic pleasures only to be repulsed by a stench of the dead. For the first time someone had died in the last three years. For the first time the cause was unnatural. Prajwal stood shocked at the door as Titu played with his dead father’s beard.

(To be continued)

Lessons from Paris

While sitting atop a small hillock outside the Dali museum and gazing far out at a city that seemed to be in love with itself I knew I would one day write about the inherent narcissism of Paris. In one of those astute moments of self realization, I even knew what I would write. I had it all figured out but the charm of the city is only seconded by the volatility of its soul which vaporises the moment you leave the place.

Alright! I will be honest with you. All the fancy crap you read above is a lie. I am doing this to appease a friend who I owe the maintenance of a soiled leather jacket. Let’s call this friend Avinash and let’s call this leather firm ‘Theo&Ash’. In case you are wondering they run a wonderful organization with one objective: Selling leather jackets in one of the hottest markets- India. When I say hottest I mean literally. Let us take a moment to wish them all the best. They are doing a great job. Till date they have sold 465 leather jackets.. which is 5 more than the bosses who have fucked me (this time - not literally).

While we are establishing facts, let me clarify a few. I did travel to Paris. Theo&Ash actually exists. Check out their site hereTheo&Ash. They do repair your leather jackets without charge if you are friends with them. I do own two of such gems, one of which I did soil on a plane.. Long story.. Some other time, unless you disregard this post as an attempt to publicise leather. I love animals. I actually am one of them. I work for a corporate organization.

Paris, for those of you who don’t know (and this includes the entire illiterate population of NCR) is the capital of France. Apart from the language French, which evolved as a tongue twister for the British, the city boasts of Eiffel Tower. It is like Shard went on a full on diet and lost all carbs….and bones were all that remained. The city hosts a hell lot of tourists every year. Pretty much more than the population of Iceland. (Wait for more imaginary adventures in Iceland in the next post). We reached Paris at 5 in the morning. When I say ‘we’ it was Abhinav, Anuj and Alex (names changed of course because their real names are pathetic loser types only). Also, Alex although is a girl’s name in German, we were travelling with a full on mallu who seems like he ate a heavy Sheikh in breakfast and forgot to digest him, which seems reasonable given that he could not digest even the preface of ‘Half Girlfriend’.

While we arrived in Paris early morning at the train station, our hostel bookings were valid from 1 pm in the afternoon. So we did what any first time tourist in Paris would do. Slept for 2 hours at the train station. Did I tell you that Gare du nord has a wonderful enclosed (read heated) waiting room for people who are on budget travel. They have nothing but love for their tourists, unless you are from England in which case.. ‘Go Fuck yourself you fries eating, beer mouthed pretentious oaf’… Paris is all about humility and simplicity. 5 French aristocrats choked on their Boreaux wine after reading the previous line.

Post awakening (which is also used to describe the 24^th year of Alex’s life when he learnt how to speak to a woman. It was the same year Abhinav realized he is not one…) we went straight up to the Louvre(pronounced as loo in French)… This confused Alex because he does not like going to the loo twice in a span of 1 hour. It will take a normal human being approximately 2 days to see everything in the museum. It will take 7 lives to appreciate everything to their rightful measure.. There are more paintings than the emotional baggage Aishwarya Rai carried from her previous relationship with Vivek Oberoi… But do take a look at Mona Lisa when you are there.. See what the fuss is all about. If you are tired you can sit down and appreciate some old paintings and the way light works on them… The realization is much stronger if you have flown in from Amsterdam…

Then there is the Arch de triumph. It is pretty much like India gate, except that they charge you 15 euros which is enough to buy Old Monk to drink through 2^nd October… Then there is a Louis Vuitton store on the same lane.. Specifically placed to mock you.. If you walk in you will see some people buying stuff… for their girlfriends… 2 min silence for 0.0005% of Zimbabwe’s GDP spent on a brown bag…

Then there is the Eiffel tower which you have to go to.. otherwise no one in India will believe you went to Paris.. We went there twice because we are pukka 2 times patriotic… One should definitely visit the Notre dam.. or take a walk along the river if you are feeling slightly adventurous.. If you are feeling snobby and pretentious order 3 bottles of wine. Drink it slowly like making love to the glass…

But the best part of the stay was the 'Three Ducks Hostel'… It was started by three dicks who we will not name for the purpose of convenience.. the hostel name is a typo though… It is not a funny story… The hostel however is amazing and the bar inside is splendid…You should try the beer from the tap… If the lady at the bar is happy she might even play a song for you.. or lend you her lighter…

Don’t go on their underground trains though.. they stink.. Literally... I would call it a cement fiasco...

Take a walk in some cramped streets away from the chaos of the city and you might just realise why it is called as the most romantic city… chaos and quiet exist in harmony…....Go on find some love and if you don’t you always have “Three Ducks.”!!

नज़्म

जो दिल में दर्द है , उतारो कागज़ पर -
तो नज़्म जनमती है ……
तब तक जलती है हर रोज़ शायर के ज़हन में।

यह कैसी आग है जो न जलाती है दिन में
और न रात को रौशन ही करती है ……
बस भभकती रहती है हवा में जूझते चराग सी।

नवजात ही होती है , कमज़ोर भी
पहले पहल
तराशना पड़ता है बहुत मोहब्बत से
हर रोज़
मानी सिखाओ तो नज़्म बोलना सीखती है ……
बात करती है तुमसे, कभी  डाँट भी देती है
भड़ककर।

पलती है हर दिन -
सियाही पीती है , बड़ी होती है ……
दो चार  यारों का काफिला बनाकर -
दीवान बनाती है, नज़्म।

मगर कुछ  ऐसी अनाथ भी हो जातीँ  हैं
जनमकर ……
ना मानी समझतीं हैं प्यार के ना
बात करतीं हैं पलटकर ……

बस मरे शायर सी ही
बाँझ होतीं  है ……
उनसे  कोई नज़्म नहीं पनपती।

मेरी ऐसी ही एक नज़्म
स्टेशन के पास भूली बिसरी
आज भी ज़ुबान ढूंढती है  ……
जिसको  हाथ फेरकर  सर पे , अपनाया था तुमने ……
मानी दिए थे।  

खिड़की

वक़्त की खिड़की पर कुछ लम्हें सुखाए हैं ……
जो कल रात तुम्हारे आंसुओं में गीले हो गए थे

हवा उड़ा ना ले जाए ; बस यही दर रहता है …
की ना तुम्हारे प्यार का वज़न है उनपर....
और ना ही तुम्हारी डाँट का डर ॥  

तुम्हारे जाने के बाद

तुम्हारे जाने के बाद , कुछ नहीं बदला ..

सूरज अब भी आता है हर रोज़ जलाने को .....
और चाँद हर रात जल के राख हो कर जाता है .....

तुम्हारे जाने के बाद , कुछ नहीं बदला ..
हाँ मगर इतना ज़रूर हुआ है…

की जिन साँसों को तुम्हारी खुशबुओं की शोहबतें लगी थीं ;
उनको अब सिगरेट के धुंए की आदत हो गयी है .....

तुम्हारे जाने के बाद , कुछ नहीं बदला ..

शाम अब भी पूछती है तेरी बाहों का पता।.....
और सुबह तेरे माथे का किनारा मांगती है .....
शाम को मैं  टाल देता हूँ 'कल आना' बोलकर .....
पर सुबह से रात का जलता धुआं छिपता नहीं

तुम्हारे जाने के बाद , कुछ नहीं बदला ..
हाँ मगर इतना ज़रूर हुआ है…

की मेरी सुबहें और शामें मुझ पे शक करने लगी हैं …
कल से शायद ना आएँगी ..  तुम्हारे जाने के बाद

लफ़्ज़ों के कारीगर

लफ़्ज़ों के  चार कारीगर सियाह रात में बैठे....
बुझती हुई अंगीठी में नज़्में  फूँका करते थे

बड़ी ऊँची अलावन  तपती थी.… भभक कर
उठती थी आग सर्द हवाओं में .....

ये काम अब धीमा पड़ गया है …… आजकल
मंदी है नज़्मों  के  व्यापार में ....

एक अमावस है जो आती नहीं
    की रात सियाह हो
    अंगीठी फिर से जले…

कोई नज़्म फिर से रौशन हो…।

अमावस पर कविता

रौशनी मद्धिम है आज फिर शहर में,
हवा दीवारों से चोटें खा के चीखती है अँधेरे में।
शायद चाँद ने वापस धोखा किया है ……  अमावस ही है। ।


कुछ बिका नहीं आज बाज़ारों में,
रोशिनी की ही कीमत लगाई है लंगड़े बनिए ने।
व्यापारी सारे भारी ही लौटे हैं घरों में आज। ।

कुछ चौदह दिनों में ही रोशिनी यूं खर्ची है निगोड़े चाँद ने,
गोरी का आँगन अंधेर लगता है आज।
इतनी बेफिक्री से तो अनाज ना खर्चा हमने भूखे बच्चों पर.....

(अधूरी)

नौ ....

नौ बरसों से जूझ रही है नज़्म,
अकेली, अँधेरी रात में  … चुपचाप
जैसे सगरेट लड़ा करती है तेज़ हवाओं से ॥

दसवें बरस जब निखरेगी तो…
गीत बनेगी गोरी का ....
फिर लाल पहन कर आएगी

और उसके ही पाँव में ये पाजेब सजेगी।