tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62502404870548681762024-03-14T00:07:00.197+05:30Life... or something like thatसिद्धार्थ के बुद्ध बनने की कथाSidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397001870740084397noreply@blogger.comBlogger314125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6250240487054868176.post-46301790482677621852024-01-04T22:19:00.001+05:302024-01-04T22:19:30.652+05:30Go away and come back 24 years ago!<p> You know a sure shot sign of old age? You start remembering a lot of your days bygone. I guess I have always been very old. And yet, I get older each day as I reminisce the past more!</p><p>And lately, I have been thinking which was the best year / period of my life. As 2023 was ending, I was certain that this would not be the best year despite my best publication record thus far, good investment decisions, and lovable travels to almost every corner of India. I think the past two years were marked by a lot of material or worldly gains but a lot more inner turmoil, a sense of loss, and getting past many personal attachments.</p><p>Well, I kept scanning the life for a patch of an year where I would want to go back again and again, nostalgically at the least if not with a time-machine too. Maybe 2016 with a lot of international travel and teaching in Thailand? Or 2018, when I got a lot of what I could ever ask for? Or 2014 with mental peace, promotion, and political wishes fulfillment too? Perhaps none of these years!</p><p>What about IIMA days? Despite the nostalgia painting those days in a lot of happy colors, I am certain that I do not want to re-live those days again. And neither the school days, which I enjoyed a lot but the childhood trauma also never left my side. </p><p>Finally, I could zero-down on one year / period which I would love to go back to. It was around 2001, when I was in Lucknow University. The study load was low and expectations were even lower. I was sitting in business with Papa and had more money than I needed. I had little responsibility in business so I had enough carefree time too to read all the books and to hangout with all the friends. Early morning walks, daily Ganjing with Gunjan, late night beside Gomti with Parimal. I was in the prime of my health. Lucknow was easy going and easier on our two-wheels. Love life was nowhere on the horizon and that was also great in a sense, because there was nobody to worry about.</p><p>But you know what? I think it would be true for everyone. Not 2001 precisely. Duh! But perhaps the age of 18-22. That is when, after all, your life path is decided and you make all the good and bad decisions and you live with all of those. Perhaps its not the year that I miss. It's the age. </p>Sidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397001870740084397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6250240487054868176.post-33894772411406919052023-12-13T22:30:00.001+05:302023-12-13T22:41:41.279+05:30The Beautiful Strangers<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
This post is pending for very very very long. I should have not written this post. I should have rather found those beautiful strangers and thanked them in person. But then, they won't remain that much of a stranger. Will they? So here are some stories from my life, when I met them for the first and the last time in life. The time, when those strangers were kind enough to do something that made them so beautiful forever, at least in my memories.<br />
<br />
***<br />
Those were the beautiful days of teenage. I had just gained permission to watch a movie - ALONE. I ran to the nearest theater and to the earliest show. It was the matinee show of the newly released <i>Kareeb </i>at Sahu cinema. However, the movie and timing and place were all irrelevant. I reached the place some 20 minutes before the showtime. Excitement, you see. So as I sat in my seat somewhere in the middle of the hall, two young guys - 8-10 years older to me - sat next to me. I was looking around and observing people and so were the two guys. They were also in a great mood, looking around and making witty commentary. They caught me smiling at their jokes and we exchanged glances, smiles, and some words of niceties. That was all the introduction we had.<br />
<br />
After a while, all the lights lit up and intermission flashed on the screen. The two guys ran out for something. I sat there only and looked around for a patty plus cold-drink guy - the matinee luxuries I had promised myself. However, the vendors were difficult to spot and call from the middle of the rows. The audience was back in the hall by now. The two guys were also back in their seats, with patties and cold-drinks. I sat patiently and promised myself that treat will come at the end of the movie.<br />
<br />
Just then, the two guys had some eyes roll between themselves. One of them ran out of the hall again. I couldn't figure out why but well, I was more focused on trailers for now. In few seconds, the running guy was back with additional patty and cold-drink in his hands. For me. He handed it over to me with such brotherly authority that I couldn't refuse. With great hesitation, I tried paying them. And one of them told me, a little angrily - apne bade bhai ko bhi paise doge kya?!! I had a heavy heart and the greatest ever snack of my life. So great that even 25 years later, it is fresh in my heart! </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Perhaps there are more stories. Perhaps there are more beautiful strangers in my life. There are many more beautiful acquaintances. Some day, maybe, you will read their stories too!</div>
Sidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397001870740084397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6250240487054868176.post-46643437163570626472023-12-04T17:41:00.001+05:302023-12-04T17:41:33.937+05:30Unbeing dead isn't being aliveSo, like each year, this year's course of international trade ended in August. And, like each year, students asked if I will be offering more courses. And, like each year, I told them what all I can but I won't offer. But unlike each year, our conversations didn't fizzle out. Some students made a WhatsApp group and we continued our discussions on *life, the universe and everything* - from geopolitics to batch politics, from economic gap to generation gap, and from campus food to *the restaurant at the end of the universe*. <div><br /></div><div>And we were not limited to WhatsApp only. Like an old man, ^no one should be alone in their old age^, I thought. And hence, we met every once in a while. And as the boys were exhausted after the last CAT, we met on the following Monday. At my home. With Snacks. From Adda. And coffee. Home-made. And we had free-wheeling chat for, maybe, 3 hours. Or may, a decade. I don't know. But we talked a lot. Or rather, I talked a lot and the guys were sweet enough to tolerate me for mere samosas! </div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, our discussions drifted from CAT and career prospects to culture at IIMs to country's culture! And perhaps many other things in between. And in that flow of discussions, someone asked - Why do some people drift away? In that moment, a thousand thoughts and a million memories whirled away through my mind. I answered him something. Perhaps something like - well, people grow apart. Sometimes, their use for each other comes to an end. Sometimes they get too busy in their new life. Sometimes, they want to get rid of their old life. Sometimes people burn the bridges. Sometimes their own "karma" burns those bridges. Sometimes, relationships are killed actively and sometimes it dies of that passive disinterest. </div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe I didn't say any of it. But I thought of it all. And then I thought of something even worse. You know, it is good that sometimes, people drift away. You know, it is worse that sometimes, the relationships die and yet, people do not drift away. We just keep walking with a dead relationship on our shoulders and keep dying each day with a dead relationship on our heads. Perhaps it is better to drift away than to die each day. And yet, here I am with so many of them.</div><div><br /></div><div>P.S. - To make sense of * and ^, you may want to read, respectively, The Hitchhiker's Guide to The Galaxy and The Old Man and The Sea.</div>Sidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397001870740084397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6250240487054868176.post-23044374372377504692023-09-05T12:49:00.004+05:302023-09-05T12:49:53.132+05:30Teacher's Day<p> 2010 - Day of Convocation from IIMA</p><p>2023 - Sir's visit to IIMI</p><p>18 years of knowing Sir and glad to inform that his energy, wit, and wisdom have only grown to inspire us more! </p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4WSsnFA-cfi5rrtgaF5F1bVimpfFmqZiIjzAkK0SIOoVGJDxy0PIR-62XHA6sci98qwLeftVUYdlxVVBsIFGeSt2vef-5BjXpTugGTXGJ_7DMkVVf3AAd4mB6dxpOJe4CsLZ3iR5QbLCCT8PIifmr-Iui7tdgK22_6ysboJ8jJdGgFBxr8-lsOgc_3_I/s2048/DSC05719.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4WSsnFA-cfi5rrtgaF5F1bVimpfFmqZiIjzAkK0SIOoVGJDxy0PIR-62XHA6sci98qwLeftVUYdlxVVBsIFGeSt2vef-5BjXpTugGTXGJ_7DMkVVf3AAd4mB6dxpOJe4CsLZ3iR5QbLCCT8PIifmr-Iui7tdgK22_6ysboJ8jJdGgFBxr8-lsOgc_3_I/w640-h480/DSC05719.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT7Qao5F6IDDSSUkomtvkWpGr7yWJvtGAlZWoj17if5JkntxzWFiU-opGKjgpV3hldgZ4F-mhVGcHZLNwuQZZ6ev5U1-n_2vMm8NP_tui8H8b5_Rg8Oh3feb7oFRjyDYt-aUV5vosNT7ZklaIW_J1aGQVqjDOwcL2jjIStb14POpkO3PRu-H7uYWG0hFY/s4608/IMG_20230901_200433.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT7Qao5F6IDDSSUkomtvkWpGr7yWJvtGAlZWoj17if5JkntxzWFiU-opGKjgpV3hldgZ4F-mhVGcHZLNwuQZZ6ev5U1-n_2vMm8NP_tui8H8b5_Rg8Oh3feb7oFRjyDYt-aUV5vosNT7ZklaIW_J1aGQVqjDOwcL2jjIStb14POpkO3PRu-H7uYWG0hFY/w480-h640/IMG_20230901_200433.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div></div>Sidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397001870740084397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6250240487054868176.post-39270102561719073282023-08-18T23:19:00.002+05:302023-08-24T23:51:13.917+05:30करोगे याद तो हर बात याद आएगी... आज की रात हमको कहीं और होना था। इस ज़िन्दगी और इस शहर से, इस जगह और इस वुजूद से बहुत दूर। शायद, बीस साल दूर - वॉकमैन पर, भूपिन्दर की आवाज़ में, ये सुनते हुए कि "करोगे याद तो हर बात याद आएगी" (https://youtu.be/W7d34RW_P9Q).<div><br></div><div>पुराने घर की छत पर लेटा हुआ मैं। अपने घर के अकेले तख़त पर अकेला लेटा हुआ मैं। Emma के दौर का मैं। वहाँ से कैसे 20 साल गुजर गए, पता ही नहीं चला। कितने शहर गुज़र गए, समझ ही नहीं आया। और हज़ारों शहरों से परे, लाखों लम्हों के बाद, यहाँ फिर से एक कमरे में अकेला लेटा हुआ मैं - Emma से लेकर तुम तक भटकता हुआ मैं। Bhupinder is still singing - निग़ाह दूर तलक जा के लौट आएगी...</div>Sidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397001870740084397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6250240487054868176.post-22485228987951282232023-05-17T13:18:00.002+05:302023-05-17T13:18:15.324+05:30ओले से मतलब, बातें बेमतलब<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">This blog is for writing, <a href="http://the-fifth-eye.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">the other blog</a> is for photography. What happens when you want to post a photo there with a small caption and that caption extends itself to a whole poem? Do I post the poem here without the photo and the photo there without the poem? Why not post both the photo and the poem in both places? After all, I listen through photography and I paint through poetry!!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">उस दिन जो घिरा था बादल </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">कैसे टूट के बरसा पागल </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">उसने फिर बरसाया ओले </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">जैसे कोई दिल को खोले </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">मेरे हाथ आया इक ओला </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">ठंडा गीला, मुझसे बोला </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">मैं तो भंगुर, बना बरफ़ से </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">आता हूँ मैं उसी तरफ से </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">जिधर गयी थी प्रिया तुम्हारी </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">जिसकी याद ना तुमने बिसारी </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">वो भी थी तुमको ही रोती </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">थी जीवन के सुख क्षण खोती </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">सुनो तुम्हे तो सब ही पता है </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">उसकी फ़ितरत, नहीं खता है </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">तुम ही कर लो उसको कॉल इक </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">रिश्ता फिर से करो अलौकिक!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">थोड़ा चकित हुआ मैं, बोला </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">सुन, तू तो है भंगुर ओला </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">शाश्वत प्रेम का तुझपे असर क्या </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">रिश्तों की गर्मी की खबर क्या </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">फिर से उन आँखों में खोना </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">मतलब बेमतलब का रोना </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">जिसने तोड़ा मेरा भरोसा </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">उसको न कोसा न बोसा </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">अब जा पिघल, तू फिर से जल बन </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">नदियों में मिल फिर बादल बन </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">उसके घर की तरफ तू जाना </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">तो उसको फिर ये बतलाना</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">रस्ते बिछड़ के फिर नहीं मुड़ते </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">दर्द पुराने यूं नहीं उड़ते </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">रखेंगे उनको यादों में</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">लेकिन उनसे अब नहीं जुड़ते!!</div></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheYYNJcZxcvQumqy_VONexQA3KaDzKUzxJX86wKvE3ldNHSxmopyNq9y9LPVEg_4yAjsuQn_IkT5SXQE16UcrtA7O1Uxj8q8MB6i7DyPHjUaArlR6-pO1KHJdkgPOJyEvBpf2ft9qECsOa-bcvmWK0nChKiZvI-M3Ro_45iiDoWE2GIP4DFzvl-x9I/s3889/IMG_20230430_122018__01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3889" data-original-width="3048" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheYYNJcZxcvQumqy_VONexQA3KaDzKUzxJX86wKvE3ldNHSxmopyNq9y9LPVEg_4yAjsuQn_IkT5SXQE16UcrtA7O1Uxj8q8MB6i7DyPHjUaArlR6-pO1KHJdkgPOJyEvBpf2ft9qECsOa-bcvmWK0nChKiZvI-M3Ro_45iiDoWE2GIP4DFzvl-x9I/w502-h640/IMG_20230430_122018__01.jpg" width="502" /></a></div><br /> <p></p>Sidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397001870740084397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6250240487054868176.post-75830277891075153932023-02-14T18:21:00.000+05:302023-02-14T18:21:02.061+05:30That special day<p>How to make a day special? </p><p>A worthwhile 14 February is when I receive two books on three of my favorite topics! </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0TzEvPP_4prgY6f7gGd7_C9fzdDI54LlhQiLtjxKqY5nkrcLBg7iRlB_vX4Zi65HkZhWGxCVBoB2O1M8iMJMsJIV9SfofIqeA-kURBI2IUMc2AOeXGRQtNQcfsXU6B8VkqLtASQU2OJC2huHq7dlnKvKIH8Avy0OuK0RByGXwlnpPeF10UtIeG9A_/s3279/IMG_20230214_141022.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3279" data-original-width="2410" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0TzEvPP_4prgY6f7gGd7_C9fzdDI54LlhQiLtjxKqY5nkrcLBg7iRlB_vX4Zi65HkZhWGxCVBoB2O1M8iMJMsJIV9SfofIqeA-kURBI2IUMc2AOeXGRQtNQcfsXU6B8VkqLtASQU2OJC2huHq7dlnKvKIH8Avy0OuK0RByGXwlnpPeF10UtIeG9A_/w294-h400/IMG_20230214_141022.jpg" width="294" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiS1Juv7pUX7-IA8yIou3mzM6ha39FipqY_mbHLj92O450XrJ9vEGyooT2dISgRIfvVcb3N92M2tsp9qhyBrgHnxfaxuJkLzk-N7q2qx3bIWia23y_QD_b2H_Tg6Qag5-KSF-a3Cnb2Fg9DxjBxc2UodxuHsZKpuajSL9EGIdUNgP2O89BsWZHrV6k/s3623/IMG_20230214_141017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2602" data-original-width="3623" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiS1Juv7pUX7-IA8yIou3mzM6ha39FipqY_mbHLj92O450XrJ9vEGyooT2dISgRIfvVcb3N92M2tsp9qhyBrgHnxfaxuJkLzk-N7q2qx3bIWia23y_QD_b2H_Tg6Qag5-KSF-a3Cnb2Fg9DxjBxc2UodxuHsZKpuajSL9EGIdUNgP2O89BsWZHrV6k/w400-h288/IMG_20230214_141017.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></div><br /> <p></p>Sidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397001870740084397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6250240487054868176.post-8825223380496878842022-11-13T20:05:00.007+05:302022-12-28T09:59:57.056+05:30back to what it had become<p>Once someone analyzed my blog posts for each year and told me, my writing has declined in frequency.</p><p>Once that someone asked me to write more and, sort of, became the motivation to write more. </p><p>Today, I noticed, I am back to the same frequency as I had fallen to. </p><p>Every day, I notice that Life, or something like that... is back to what it had become.</p><p>Anyway, don't go counting now. Just know that I am fine.</p><p>It's my superpower after all - I am always fine!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCq3XYXr5sBpmRxB_tgN3EwQqSZrSfmE7V3mKrp5jyCKQRmjZJvj1lvamMuwHUeksG5X7GpL0r-_W5na_DWuquXCq3bv6f_bvL_kPU1Wi70HU5t6nUQOjf7Mmc7DmRjlc7zeEB7RdNN1ezcKGCFECa1Kc4SBHJiPsziYNcLHkr-o8D9rufzMo3gkYj/s600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="337" data-original-width="600" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCq3XYXr5sBpmRxB_tgN3EwQqSZrSfmE7V3mKrp5jyCKQRmjZJvj1lvamMuwHUeksG5X7GpL0r-_W5na_DWuquXCq3bv6f_bvL_kPU1Wi70HU5t6nUQOjf7Mmc7DmRjlc7zeEB7RdNN1ezcKGCFECa1Kc4SBHJiPsziYNcLHkr-o8D9rufzMo3gkYj/w544-h305/images.jpg" width="544" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Sidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397001870740084397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6250240487054868176.post-40419110748255970972022-11-01T16:23:00.000+05:302022-11-01T16:23:03.696+05:30Sweet November<p><b>November!</b> </p><p>The month of nostalgia for me. Well, every month is a month of nostalgia, if you are old enough. But even by my standards, November is more special than others. For this is the month that contains most of my sweetest (and some saddest) memories. </p><p>It is the month of promotions. The month of writing CAT. The month of ruining CAT and cracking CAT. And then, the month of changing the track of life forever. </p><p>The month where food palette changed to include Chowk's Makkhan. The month where dew drops started to increase. The month where the school times changed for an extra 15-minute nap. </p><p>This was the month when Meha met an accident and we thrashed the car that hit her. Sounds scary? It was. But that was also the beginning of an 11-year long love-story of Gunjoo and Meha (which culminated in their marriage btw)!! Not everyone in my life-story is sad, you see!</p><p>It is also the month of most of my birthday treats with friends because October was always lost in Dashehra-Diwali vacations. The month of ice-cream statue of liberty, the month of picnics and group photos, the month of sitting beside the rivers or in sunlight or below stars, all for no reason. </p><p>It is the month of the first kiss and the biggest break-up, both of which incidentally happened on the same date, years apart. November is the month of some of the most-treasured peoples' birthdays and little wonder, the most-treasured ones hurt the most too.</p><p>And November is the month of the sweetest hint of pinkish-winters that I love. While everything of the above is lost for long now, I am thankful for those winters still somewhere round the corner. And for those memories of the Sweet November!!!</p>Sidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397001870740084397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6250240487054868176.post-3869230349801533152022-10-13T16:55:00.003+05:302022-11-01T15:01:56.860+05:30उस मन में किसका ध्यान था ...<p>Aaj Karwa Chauth hai. The day of fasting for the long life of love (or, at least the life partner, as the two <strike>need not be</strike> are not the same often)! </p><p>A friend from Lucknow has been constantly posting for 2-3 days now about his experience around the festival. Frantic, frequent, festive details. Fumbling, flabbergasting, funny details. Factual, fanciful, factitious details. </p><p>And what do I do? What else can I do but reminisce? After all, nostalgia is my destiny, remembering is my curse.</p><p>I remember the time when someone wanted to fast for me. It felt awkward. The same awkwardness, when someone touches my feet. I feel humbled by the burden of greatness thrust upon me by the act of touching the feet. Same way, I felt humbled by the tinge of divinity seen in me. What did I do? </p><p>Well, whatever I did, I wrote about it, albeit long after. </p><p>You know, I imagined, if she still fasts for someone else! What if she fasts for someone else but, while fasting and praying, thinks of someone else? Well, maybe, that is how I live on despite no such intentions!</p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">याद के जंगल में अब </p><p style="text-align: center;">कोई नया साया नहीं, </p><p style="text-align: center;">बाद उसके इन नज़ारों </p><p style="text-align: center;">को कोई भाया नहीं । </p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>तीज पर या चौथ पर </b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>उस मन में किसका ध्यान था ? </b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>उम्र बढ़ी बोलो किसकी </b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b>जब उसने कुछ खाया नहीं । </b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">उसकी कुछ बातें नयी </p><p style="text-align: center;">तुम ही सुनाओ ऐ रक़ीब, </p><p style="text-align: center;">बस पुरानी बात है </p><p style="text-align: center;">मैं और कुछ लाया नहीं । </p>Sidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397001870740084397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6250240487054868176.post-63835047763758262692022-08-12T22:07:00.001+05:302022-08-12T22:08:25.481+05:30An idea whose time never came!<p>It was a day in making for many days now... Today, I tore off all my personal diaries. All 8 diaries. 20 years of writing. About a thousand pages. Everything. </p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnIm82qEqFggQPRwyn4LUbbeK7FFKSZpMvEQYykXcwgfRb1SwGQIMoSHRTxBe0UQCldnip5VZ2kNagIa0Xa-SxvEgg3ddsScR1sA4PcCcmtuTZKHXWJ1aLZldsDUfjz4AckhjtSjrwHv-UPloWoFJinwfs3KdietiYf2ETa1gvkLETREHQqaP9sHHE/s4608/IMG_20220812_155050.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnIm82qEqFggQPRwyn4LUbbeK7FFKSZpMvEQYykXcwgfRb1SwGQIMoSHRTxBe0UQCldnip5VZ2kNagIa0Xa-SxvEgg3ddsScR1sA4PcCcmtuTZKHXWJ1aLZldsDUfjz4AckhjtSjrwHv-UPloWoFJinwfs3KdietiYf2ETa1gvkLETREHQqaP9sHHE/w640-h480/IMG_20220812_155050.jpg" width="640" /></a></p><p>In between, I looked at some pages. Somethings were always fresh in memory. Some faded thoughts reappeared. Some forgotten names were recalled. Almost everything made me a bit of emotional, a bit of nostalgic, a bit of sad, and a bit of irritated. There were friends, strangers, estranged friends, friendly strangers, teachers, students, loves, laughs, moments, fights, loves, kisses, hugs, tears, and everything that had been there in the past 20 years! </p><p>While tearing everything away, I kept some random pictures or thoughts in between. Like, in the struggling years, a page had only this written - "I am an Idea whose time has not come!". Another page had random thoughts written, like this one: </p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg94j93K_9h_tVnaVagfjstYqz_2we5TKzPwNaxFugQc22fDeOqMRHCO4SxWsnu5Gn7rj9xb_UisrXvezC6_8PPScsnS7qGbzazWhOOkETCOCVCdsTkmjaU2NzvOd0LW2_O81D9yy2p7PVES5ZI5nBvzxjTFn4HSGGLCc121ialPga6BwyHqBkUzOCW/s3185/IMG_20220812_161407__01.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2487" data-original-width="3185" height="501" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg94j93K_9h_tVnaVagfjstYqz_2we5TKzPwNaxFugQc22fDeOqMRHCO4SxWsnu5Gn7rj9xb_UisrXvezC6_8PPScsnS7qGbzazWhOOkETCOCVCdsTkmjaU2NzvOd0LW2_O81D9yy2p7PVES5ZI5nBvzxjTFn4HSGGLCc121ialPga6BwyHqBkUzOCW/w640-h501/IMG_20220812_161407__01.jpg" width="640" /></a></p><p>And I wrote not on pages and margins only but sometimes, even the diary covers had some messages. Like this: </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiezpmpDDbAP4ZRMkJhMSGD_tK15JK-O-iAKayRM9DJCMzh_ML0ZTrTUk1js6dMaCEGy6lKdTF9LZyz4EvvMsVcXMTj8F0b4wWGe41J51XgQM-WoMPpZSDgCIhul-eKQEkE1S-O7xjO7UNJvgu4esRjrE0uVihCXWKBl04Xuk5aPA2HJb7kk69d7nZz/s4608/IMG_20220812_172328.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiezpmpDDbAP4ZRMkJhMSGD_tK15JK-O-iAKayRM9DJCMzh_ML0ZTrTUk1js6dMaCEGy6lKdTF9LZyz4EvvMsVcXMTj8F0b4wWGe41J51XgQM-WoMPpZSDgCIhul-eKQEkE1S-O7xjO7UNJvgu4esRjrE0uVihCXWKBl04Xuk5aPA2HJb7kk69d7nZz/w300-h400/IMG_20220812_172328.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">And in between those pages, there were the stories of my Lucknow days, when life was shaping up, my IIMA days, when life was full of events and challenges, my longing for Lucknow and then, disenchantment with Lucknow, Indore and IIM Indore days, my travels to different places and for different purposes. There were the stories of all the love I got, all the love I missed, all the loves I kissed, and all the love that couldn't be. There were the lists of my happiest memories and the best moments of life and the best people in my life and the loveliest loves of my life and the superpowers I want and the places I wanted to visit and the milestones I wanted to cross.... </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">In essence, like I wrote in this <a href="https://life-or-sth-like-that.blogspot.com/2009/12/autobiography.html" target="_blank">blog post here</a> about my autobiography, today - I destroyed all the notes for that story. Pretty soon, I am planning on deleting on a lot of other stories and stuff as well. Why - you ask? Because I am an idea, whose time never came. And never will. At the end, all that remains is this - a bag full of wasted life, forgotten memories, and ideas, whose time never came!!!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE_SSdFIdp5SKVkSxoXL0KVS1KF6_26MQAzMwuKX4Iro4jQDz1b7uonSoqywgAdGI6ND80SdEmnrJP9eGQa-aR4oEo4I8Gf7sSbkz8v64RiqfPFBrrz1mU-NUdwG1wRqi3B14QpIn5UPUO7r-v6J4MqfAxdmP9Ej_kJyqHKflYj5Wbzt84-gr3bEDm/s4608/IMG_20220812_171500.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE_SSdFIdp5SKVkSxoXL0KVS1KF6_26MQAzMwuKX4Iro4jQDz1b7uonSoqywgAdGI6ND80SdEmnrJP9eGQa-aR4oEo4I8Gf7sSbkz8v64RiqfPFBrrz1mU-NUdwG1wRqi3B14QpIn5UPUO7r-v6J4MqfAxdmP9Ej_kJyqHKflYj5Wbzt84-gr3bEDm/w480-h640/IMG_20220812_171500.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><p></p>Sidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397001870740084397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6250240487054868176.post-44846753545926031302022-08-06T17:44:00.002+05:302022-08-06T17:44:25.906+05:30Nanaji<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Aaj Nanaji ka birthday hai. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">It used to be a special day for all of us in the family. I don't remember when it ceased to be special. Nanaji is no more. I don't even remember when did he pass away. All I remember is that I was heading to take a class that morning when Didi called. I took the class, I took the lunch, and the day went on as usual. I did not meet him in his final few years. I guess it all went downhill after he moved away from this room, where the picture below was taken. After that, distances were huge and he was not himself ever again. <span style="text-align: left;">I was not close to him in his final years and did not see him in his final days. I don't know what would we have discussed in those days, as he was more bitter than usual and forgetful too.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_xuHTW6EX1haxCMnreIOhGlC7vGwpShVcBJDnkB1ZUOPYGkYRnAyF2tuF_akdOoO6QQYBadQ_9wfI5x2A3hdHp3rPi8jqxSLldkHW7SDYROwUAGYHQUCCkKFEgk-dKwZBgWosgcncnd2T9ZDkOo1TR1W2XeWwQCJW-mBe47RQXtBBmiKSy7Vibuoa/s1151/Nanaji.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="940" data-original-width="1151" height="326" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_xuHTW6EX1haxCMnreIOhGlC7vGwpShVcBJDnkB1ZUOPYGkYRnAyF2tuF_akdOoO6QQYBadQ_9wfI5x2A3hdHp3rPi8jqxSLldkHW7SDYROwUAGYHQUCCkKFEgk-dKwZBgWosgcncnd2T9ZDkOo1TR1W2XeWwQCJW-mBe47RQXtBBmiKSy7Vibuoa/w400-h326/Nanaji.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />I am also forgetting things now, some by design, some by default. But I remember that growing up, he had a huge influence on me. He told me tons of stories, I asked him tons of questions, and we spent so much time in intense discussions that the others in the family often wondered what we two had to talk about. Today, I also don't know what we had to talk about but all I remember is that those were some of my best discussions. <p></p><p>Somethings that I do remember are that he wrote accounts, exercised daily, had a poor childhood, dropped out of school after his mother passed away, rose to the middle class with hard struggles, and loved Raj Kapoor. In fact, he was my window to Raj Kapoor songs and also, to Kundal Lal Sehgal songs. That is why I learned a lot of RK songs in my early years.</p><p>Yesterday, I heard a lot of those same songs again.</p><p>Yesterday, I sang those songs till my jaw hurt.</p><p>Yesterday, I wish I could sing a few more songs with Nanaji.</p>Sidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397001870740084397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6250240487054868176.post-36344551615894447362022-03-08T17:30:00.003+05:302022-03-09T14:18:29.743+05:30जीत जाओगी अगर तुम हार जाओ<p>एक उम्र आती है जब व्यक्ति यह समझता ही नहीं, स्वीकार भी कर लेता है कि उसका जीवन, उसके अनुभव अद्वितीय नहीं। यह सब कोई न कोई और जी चुका है, कोई न कोई और कह चुका है, कोई न कोई और लिख चुका है। जब भी अपने जीवन को देख कर कुछ लिखने का मन होता है, याद आ जाता है कि यह तो कोई और ही लिख चुका है। जैसे कि ये लिखा था उषा प्रियम्वदा ने पचपन खम्भे लाल दीवारें के पृष्ठ ११४ पर: </p><p>"वह नील से यह कह न पाई कि तुम मुझे भुला देना, या समय सब भुला देता है। सांत्वना के ऐसे घिसे पिटे शब्द उसके होठों पर न आये। वह जानती थी कि कुछ रेखाएँ ऐसी भी होती हैं, जिन्हें समय भी मिटा नहीं पाता। भूलना क्या होता है ? मन समझाने की बातें, कायरों के बहाने ! जो कुछ नील ने उसे दिया और जो कुछ नील ने उससे पाया, उस विनिमय ने उन दोनों को साधारण व्यक्तियों से अपांक्तेय कर दिया। </p><p>दैनिक कार्यों में रत हो कर, नाते-रिश्ते निभाते हुए भी, अब वे पहले से नहीं हो पाएंगे, क्योंकि उनका कुछ अंश एक-दूसरे जाएगा ... किसी छोटी सी बात, किसी की हँसी, किसी के देखने का ढंग या किसी अपरिचित की कमीज़ के रंग से नील फिर जी उठेगा। अलग होने के बाद रहना राख के ढके कोयलों पर चलना होगा। न जाने कौन सा अंगारा दहकता रह जाए और पाँव जला दे।"</p><p>तो अब बताओ, इस बात को दोबारा कहने से क्या ही होगा! इसीलिए जब कोई फेसवॉश हाथ आये तो, कोई जलेबी वाला गाना सुनाई दे जाए तो, या कोई डब्बा रख कर ढक्कन फ़ेंक देने की ही बात कर दे तो ... और ऐसे कितने ही मौकों पर एक अंगारा सुलगता सा लग जाए तो ... </p><p>तो ऐसे में बहुत कुछ याद आता है, बहुत कुछ मन से हो कर गुज़र जाता है, और बहुत कुछ कहने का मन कर जाता है है। और फिर एकदम से याद आता है कि जो कहना था, वो तो पंकज बिष्ट ने लिख दिया था १९९२ में अपनी कहानी - उस गोलार्ध में - </p><p>"तुम ठीक ही कह रहे हो। 'टाइम इज़ द ग्रेटेस्ट हीलर।' असल में, समय के साथ कुछ हद तक सब ठीक ही हो गया है। हम अपनी - अपनी दुनिया में हैं। पर हम पेड़ नहीं हैं कि इस पतझड़ के बाद फिर से वसंत आएगा। बीता समय अंग-भंग की तरह है। उसकी क्षतिपूर्ति नहीं हो सकती। स्थितियों के साथ समझौता ही किया जा सकता है। अगर रहना है तो स्थितियों के मुताबिक़ ढलना होता है। अपनी कमी को स्वीकार करना होता है। अहं और आक्रामकता ज़िन्दगी नहीं है।" </p><p>मैं अपनी पुरानी डायरी खोलता हूँ, इन सबको पढ़ता हूँ, और फिर कहने को कुछ रहता ही नहीं। फिर खुद से भागने को रेडियो खोलता हूँ, गुलज़ार का एक गाना चल रहा है - </p><p style="text-align: right;">तुम्हें ये ज़िद थी कि हम बुलाते, हमें ये उम्मीद वो पुकारें </p><p style="text-align: right;">है नाम होठों पे अब भी लेकिन, आवाज़ में पड़ गयीं दरारें ..... </p><p style="text-align: left;">उसे भी बंद करना पड़ा। यहाँ से भी भाग कर एक किताब उठायी है। गणित की किताब और पहले पृष्ठ पर लिखा मिला है - जीत जाओगी अगर तुम हार जाओ।</p>Sidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397001870740084397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6250240487054868176.post-81741933922292768742022-01-05T23:07:00.001+05:302022-01-05T23:07:32.072+05:30 कहा था ना ...<p> कहा था ना - <a href="http://life-or-sth-like-that.blogspot.com/2021/10/blog-post.html" target="_blank">मैं मरूँगा नहीं</a>! </p><p>So sample these - It is only me who is holding back myself, not you. The moment I decide, I can compose beautiful poems. The moment I decide, I can click wonderful birds. The moment I decide, I can change lives for good. The moment I decide, I can ...!</p><p style="text-align: center;">जब भी चाहेंगे ज़माने को बदल डालेंगे, </p><p style="text-align: center;">सिर्फ कहने के लिए बात बड़ी है यारों </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg4gJVymCOpbWSzvsqDgIGC0JAT3D0dtntQhV3YGQ1MC_RGn1FiFRx_Ea969pszHj_STULw40m-5Z3pQd2VfD_-KuaK3tkLGFx2sDe7cdSzZfFpKUuw2Qm3vDYnyDaIklaTVOeIwZUmhvyldCOtcYERuccy5Zvn_iJa24CNnd4TcBJZeNVB22q6m-L3=s2657" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2608" data-original-width="2657" height="314" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg4gJVymCOpbWSzvsqDgIGC0JAT3D0dtntQhV3YGQ1MC_RGn1FiFRx_Ea969pszHj_STULw40m-5Z3pQd2VfD_-KuaK3tkLGFx2sDe7cdSzZfFpKUuw2Qm3vDYnyDaIklaTVOeIwZUmhvyldCOtcYERuccy5Zvn_iJa24CNnd4TcBJZeNVB22q6m-L3=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhxvwgPqTkhbo_HVw4wrWr8eJm297fSVRiwvqWZOZ34VsSPX-Lscp04JtB083IUFawhUSfROvLutLXNhnGCK7d911ghbuEAZFW_WJ28ODqJK3Bc0ubdcUUZgoR-oePAnezCuIK2rD8MRKwnYtH5I48DexKt3u_UjkR7PNdK5S_LPztnUV_bTzKsXrZa=s4608" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhxvwgPqTkhbo_HVw4wrWr8eJm297fSVRiwvqWZOZ34VsSPX-Lscp04JtB083IUFawhUSfROvLutLXNhnGCK7d911ghbuEAZFW_WJ28ODqJK3Bc0ubdcUUZgoR-oePAnezCuIK2rD8MRKwnYtH5I48DexKt3u_UjkR7PNdK5S_LPztnUV_bTzKsXrZa=s320" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh7FDErUF2vjxv0rsCVqzzUOjCPiokW1aj-JwwqZtnd8YUJQzAZi0-2iU6iYATK1mHlR0DCT6bPCf0U1T5q_WJZP4IIRnBKZjS-YBJaXiRz1DITH4GQGr2EVNChT26_vlg2Eu1-xD7c3pGsE8MQoBqqbvApo0wonjxaAxo9g5SgOo8IcnmFjDLJ3A8n=s1805" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1805" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh7FDErUF2vjxv0rsCVqzzUOjCPiokW1aj-JwwqZtnd8YUJQzAZi0-2iU6iYATK1mHlR0DCT6bPCf0U1T5q_WJZP4IIRnBKZjS-YBJaXiRz1DITH4GQGr2EVNChT26_vlg2Eu1-xD7c3pGsE8MQoBqqbvApo0wonjxaAxo9g5SgOo8IcnmFjDLJ3A8n=s320" width="191" /></a></div><br /><p></p>Sidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397001870740084397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6250240487054868176.post-74575386435618404862021-12-25T23:25:00.001+05:302021-12-25T23:25:41.251+05:30उसकी ऑंखों ने झूठ बोला थाYou know how, there are times when you idolize someone and then... you don't! Well, I've been that fallen idol and I have had a few as well. <div><br><div>Driving to my office today, a Gulzar song was playing these lines:</div><div><br></div><div>लिखते रहे हैं तुम्हें रोज़ ये मगर,</div><div>ख्वाहिशों के ख़त कभी भेजे ही नहीं....</div><div><br></div><div>I felt that. </div><div>You know how, there are times when you idolize someone and then... you don't! Gulzar is one such fallen idol for me. Although I still like a few scattered lines and thoughts by him here or there, mostly I feel like resenting. And how do you resent to a fallen idol? By a retort perhaps. Like it happened the other day, I read a couplet by Gulzar:</div></div><div><br></div><div>ऑंखें थीं जो कह गईं सब कुछ,</div><div>लफ्ज़ होते तो मुकर गए होते। </div><div><br></div><div>and retorted as follows:<br></div><div>उसकी बातों का गिला क्या करते,</div><div>उसकी ऑंखों ने झूठ बोला था। </div>Sidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397001870740084397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6250240487054868176.post-15447771086587015822021-12-24T19:38:00.001+05:302021-12-24T19:38:32.350+05:30The year of Brutus<div>As the year dies, I decided to have an evening that would put some make up on the wound that the year has left.<br></div><div><br></div><div>I sat in the balcony with my camera and a book. I finished a bottle of wine. I imagined my utopian worlds again. I reminisced your touch again. I heard my favorite voices again - of Regan, of AB Vajpayee, of Kishore Kumar, of birds, of yours, of mine.</div><div><br></div><div>It was a good ending to a terrible year, albeit a week too early. As I lay in my bed, half drunk, half asleep, half hurting (for, you know by now, I'm more than one man)... the only thing still hurting is that knife. Can you please take it off my back now?!!</div><div><br></div><div>हाय ये तक न कहा मैंने कि "ब्रूटस, तुम भी?!!"</div><div>मेरे दिल में ये रहा दोस्ती बदनाम न हो।</div><div>बैठ कर देर तलक सुनता रहा ख़ामोशी,</div><div>इस इरादे से कि इसमें तेरा पैग़ाम न हो।।</div>Sidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397001870740084397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6250240487054868176.post-43668653705417950572021-11-22T20:05:00.003+05:302021-11-22T20:05:53.127+05:30After 20 years<p>There was this O. Henry story in our class 12 textbook, where two friends decided to meet at the same spot after 20 years. Inspired by that, I proposed to some close friends to meet again. At that time, 20 years seemed too long, so I proposed a date of 14 years later for all of us to meet. Thankfully that was immediately shot down by an importantly close friend because within 3-4 years, I did not want to meet almost any of those "friends".</p><p>I got reminded of that 20 years deal because tomorrow, it will be 20 years of a significant event. 20 years ago, a friend met an accident and the car causing that accident was badly thrashed by us, the university boys. While that accident was scary and unfortunate, that was also the beginning of a different bond for some of us. So important a bond that the main protagonists of that story got married eventually. </p><p>And today, when I look back, those 20 years seem to just fly by. When I was 17, the period of 20 years seemed scarily long beyond a foreseeable time horizon. But now, 20 years seem a small time. It has been almost 20 years of that evening talk, which turned me from business to higher studies. It has been more than 20 years for some friendships. It has been more than 20 years since I saw Emma for the first time. It has been almost 20 years since I saw Emma for the last time. It has been almost 20 years of so many loves, crushes, flirts, romances, losses, breakups, betrayals... and what not! </p><p>Some day, it will be 20 years of another love. Some day, it will be 20 years of another loss. Some day, it will be 20 years of another romance. Some day, it will be 20 years of another betrayal. Today, 20 years seem scarily long. And I don't want to go there anymore, where another 20 years seem a small time.</p><p><br /></p><p>Exactly like 20 year ago, Jagjit Singh is singing Mirza Ghalib - </p><p>क़ैद-ए-हयात-ओ-बंद-ए-ग़म </p><p>अस्ल में दोनों एक हैं</p><p>मौत से पहले आदमी </p><p>ग़म से निजात पाए क्यूँ </p><p>दिल ही तो है न संग-ओ-ख़िश्त </p><p>दर्द से भर न आए क्यूँ !</p>Sidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397001870740084397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6250240487054868176.post-29845666520528077262021-10-11T00:53:00.001+05:302021-10-11T00:53:34.229+05:30मैं मरूँगा नहींज़िन्दगी और मौत ऊपर वाले के हाथ में हैं जहाँपनाह और उसे न आप बदल सकते हैं और न मैं। <div><br><div>When Rajesh Khanna said these immortal lines in <i>Anand</i>, you know... He was talking about me too. And today, I rewrote his monologue in my life. </div><div><br></div><div>Today, I sorted some 2 GB or about 500 photographs, I planned some travel, I booked some tickets, i took a long walk, I picked up a new book to read, i enjoyed a large peg, and I wrote two poems. One of which was anchored on the line and the thought - मैं मरूँगा नहीं।</div><div><br></div><div>I refuse to die. I choose to be happy. I reject your world. I survive your backstabbing. I am an idea whom you can't kill. मैं मरूँगा नहीं। </div></div>Sidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397001870740084397noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6250240487054868176.post-26709717707797121532021-10-06T22:05:00.005+05:302021-10-06T22:05:29.553+05:30He never knew that<p>Remember I told you <a href="https://life-or-sth-like-that.blogspot.com/2008/09/recently-friend-asked-if-i-have-to.html" target="_blank">those four things</a>, without which, I once said, I would not be able to live? I would not be me anymore? Well, I know you don't. It's okay. Even I have forgotten me a lot. </p><p>So those four things were - <i>writing, reading, traveling, and photography</i>! And you know what? It took me so long to forego and forget. But I finally did. Writing was anyway becoming rare and is totally over now. Traveling - I did some recently after a long pandemic-induced hiatus and found myself utterly withdrawn from the world. My traveling shoes are also tired now. Photography - well, that is over at multiple levels and for multiple reasons. And reading? The 6 bookshelves full and several devices may not reveal that but I don't read anymore. I mean I do but not books. Yes, perhaps from any random place. Like the other day, I was traveling in Gujarat and in a restaurant, I read this. </p><p>In that moment, I realized - I was always so homeless and never even knew that.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZVkCIR5RJDA/YV3NraVbldI/AAAAAAAA5DQ/Z6hZgrcNr4sWIYMqJu4jcMgVkcfWeisYwCLcBGAsYHQ/s3643/IMG_20211003_201442__01__01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="838" data-original-width="3643" height="127" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZVkCIR5RJDA/YV3NraVbldI/AAAAAAAA5DQ/Z6hZgrcNr4sWIYMqJu4jcMgVkcfWeisYwCLcBGAsYHQ/w646-h127/IMG_20211003_201442__01__01.jpg" width="646" /></a></div><br /><p></p>Sidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397001870740084397noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6250240487054868176.post-75628548037966541182021-09-26T22:18:00.001+05:302021-09-26T22:18:24.042+05:30Stressed no more<p>One thing I like in people (and by people, I mean myself) is the constant self (often critical) analysis. So I was watching myself doing a few things for a few days and I asked myself, why am I doing those things? </p><p>As I have said earlier (like everything else, but well... I quote myself often and you know why!), I live in the past because most of my life is there. So I started taking a dip in the past to understand all the times when I did that and how... And I realised this.</p><p>How do I destress? Some people do it with music, some with shopping, some with food, and some with talking. I? I destress in four ways. Long back, when I sat in Papa's business, I often took long walks. Like really long walks. I walked for 2-3 hours at a time. That was when I discovered my first method of destressing. </p><p>The second method of destressing was a little after that. That was the era of university days and the thoughts of future. That was when I started to write. I wrote diary. I wrote notes. I wrote poems. Writing was a great decongestor of thoughts and a great destress device for repeat readings also. Even today, one of my favorite things to do is to read my own old writings, right from blog to diary to facebook posts to random notes. </p><p>The third method of destressing was cleaning. I cleaned my room, I cleaned the furniture and fan, I cleaned my almirah, and I cleaned my phone. Cleaning old numbers, old gifts, old memories, and what not - that did help. That does help. </p><p>And today I discovered exercising as a destressor. I exercised. A lot. It helped in sweating myself so much that there was no space left for sweating over stress. And I just noted - I have used 3 out of the four destressors today. What was stressing me so much? Well...you know the secret of being a bore is to say everything!</p>Sidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397001870740084397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6250240487054868176.post-80744151053462076752021-09-25T11:53:00.003+05:302021-09-25T11:53:30.963+05:30 अपने सब यार नाम कर रहे हैं <p>बड़े-बड़े शायरों को तो बहुत बार पढ़ा होगा इधर... आज कुछ उनको सुनो, जो करीबी दोस्त रहे कभी। उनकी कलम, उनके इमोशंस, उनकी बातें ज़्यादा अपनी लगती हैं। </p><div style="text-align: left;">God send thee</div><div style="text-align: left;">consolation,</div><div style="text-align: left;">when you tear </div><div style="text-align: left;">yourself apart</div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"></blockquote><div style="text-align: left;">and find him</div><div style="text-align: left;">missing...</div><p style="text-align: left;">ये आनंद सर ने कभी लिखा था। क्यों लिखा था पता नहीं। हमको क्यों याद है ये - ये पता है। लेकिन तुमको तो पता है कि हम बताएँगे नहीं। </p><div style="text-align: right;">वो लड़की लौट कर आए अगर तो बोलना उसको</div><div style="text-align: right;">वो लड़का आख़िरी दम तक तुम्हीं को याद करता था</div><div style="text-align: right;">तुम्हारे नाम उसने सर्दियों में ख़त भी लिक्खे थे</div><div style="text-align: right;">जिन्हें वो ख़ुद ही पढ़ता और इक बच्चे सा रोता था</div><div style="text-align: right;">वो लड़की लौट कर आए अगर तो ये भी कह देना</div><div style="text-align: right;">वो लड़का बेवफ़ा था आदतन ये सब वो करता था</div><p style="text-align: left;">ये पीयूष मिश्रा ने लिखा था - माने कम फ़ेमस और ज़्यादा अच्छे वाले पीयूष ने। पीयूष की लिखी कई बातें डायरी में छुपा रखी हैं हमने (और कई दिमाग़ में)।</p><p>और "एक ख्वाब सी लड़की" थी, जो दोस्त बनने से पहले ही चली गयी। उसने कभी ये कहा था : </p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"></blockquote><div style="text-align: right;">हमें बिंदी नहीं चूड़ी नहीं, कुछ भी नहीं जँचता </div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"></blockquote><div style="text-align: right;">हमारा हुस्न है सारा हमारी आँख का काजल</div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"></blockquote><div style="text-align: right;">कई आँखों ने देखे थे हमारे लम्स के सपने</div><div style="text-align: right;">फ़क़त उसने ही देखा था हमारी आँख का काजल</div><div style="text-align: right;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">ये अंतिम शेर क्यों पसंद आये ? क्योंकि उस आँख का काजल.....</div><div style="text-align: left;">ख़ैर, आखिरी नज़्म हमारी सुनो - </div><div style="text-align: right;">तुम्हारे इश्क़ में </div><div style="text-align: right;">पागल था </div><div style="text-align: right;">जब,</div><div style="text-align: right;">तो ज़िन्दा था। </div><div style="text-align: right;">आदमी ठीक हुआ </div><div style="text-align: right;">जब </div><div style="text-align: right;">तो मर गया आखिर।</div>Sidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397001870740084397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6250240487054868176.post-35942367943785631202021-09-07T23:44:00.000+05:302021-09-07T23:44:49.911+05:30सब कुछ सीखा हमने, ना सीखी होशियारी<p>All children, except one, grow up. That one child is buried deep inside my soul. I miss him a lot. Like Jaun Eliya says:</p><p>साल दर साल, और इक लम्हा</p><p>कोई भी तो न इनमें बल आया।</p><p>ख़ुद ही इक दर पे मैंने दस्तक दी,</p><p>ख़ुद ही लड़का सा मैं निकल आया।।</p><p>So that young chap does come out often, these days more so, as I keep talking to, who else but, myself. All it requires is a random trigger.</p><p> Sometimes, that trigger is an online post about Lucknow, sometimes that trigger is a talk about architecture of school buildings, and sometimes it's a book on child psychology. I have done a lot of psychological analysis on my childhood, reasons of a lot of people's behaviours, insecurities, my responses, coping mechanisms, and a lot of bruises. Well, I don't think I have the power of writing all that without a nervous breakdown. So let it be! Coming back to triggers!</p><p>Today, it was <i>Antakshari event under the</i> "<i>Hindi Diwas</i>" at the institute. Our team won the first prize. And as I was enthusiastically discussing with chhoti didi all those possible songs that we could have sung, didi recalled a Mukesh song. </p><p>I generally avoid listening to Mukesh - Raj Kapoor songs. They remind me too much of my Nanaji. I think, among all the elders of my family, I felt closest to him. He often sang Raj Kapoor songs to me, when I was 6 or 8 till about I graduated. Thereafter, his voice started shaking too much to sing. I talked to him a lot, learnt a lot from him a lot, and loved him a lot. He was not a great parent but tried being a good grandfather, to me at least. I wasn't there in Lucknow the day when he passed away. I had classes that morning when his last rites were performed. I didn't even feel the need to try to be there that day. In fact, I didn't even saw him in his final few years.</p><p>But since then, I have missed him often. I always remember his birthday although I don't remember his last day. Anyway, he remains one of those few, who gave me varied perspectives in life. Not all of those were in form of long talks. Some were simply a Mukesh - Raj Kapoor song. One of those is in the title of this post, but his forever favorite was:</p><p>आबाद नहीं, बरबाद सही</p><p>गाता हूँ खुशी के गीत मगर,</p><p>ज़ख्मों से भरा सीना है मेरा</p><p>हँसती है मगर ये मस्त नज़र</p><p>दुनिया मैं तेरे तीर का </p><p>या तक़दीर का मारा हूँ</p><p>आवारा हूँ....</p>Sidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397001870740084397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6250240487054868176.post-10529641078235895972021-09-04T23:34:00.001+05:302021-09-21T21:26:54.856+05:30चुप जो रहते हो...I read somewhere that if you ever wonder like - "does it happen to me only?" - the answer is most definitely NO. So I am sure that it has happened with you too and not only once!<div><br></div><div>Do you remember how there was a time, when you used to talk to someone... daily.... for hours... about nothing? Do you remember how there was a time, when your day was not complete without talking to them.... daily.... for hours.... about nothing? Do you remember why you stopped talking to them? This is where our stories might differ. </div><div><br></div><div>I don't know why I (or they) stopped talking to them (or me). And it always went from daily to never, or in some cases, almost never. And more than that, the real problem is that in some cases, I know. I know what happened. And why. And maybe it was the same for all the cases, one way or the other.</div><div><br></div><div>Anyway, I'm old. I'm tired. Of this rollercoaster. Of coming close. Of moving on. Of reminiscing. Of forgetting. So now, I just talk to myself. Seriously. I record my own poems, blogs, thoughts - all in my own voice and listen to myself. Maybe that is one voice that will not stop talking to me... daily.... for hours.... about nothing! </div><div><br></div><div>Anyway, do you want to know what I figured out? Do you want to know what I know? Do you want to know why? Do you want to know who? Well, why don't you talk to me.... once again! </div><div><br></div><div>तुम आज मुझसे ख़फ़ा हो तो कोई बात करो,</div><div>चुप जो रहते हो, मुहब्बत का गुमां होता है !</div><div><br></div>Sidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397001870740084397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6250240487054868176.post-59041605896357907482021-08-28T16:33:00.001+05:302021-08-28T16:33:35.458+05:30Naguva Nayana Madhura MounaAeons ago, I remember, when I was teaching for the first time and a student told me about a trick to solve some queueing in operations questions. I sat with him for an hour to learn about it and he was amused because I was readily accepting of not knowing something and was willing to learn from him, a junior by a few years.<div><br /></div><div>I suddenly recalled this a few days ago. Reason - because some students requested me to discuss a random assortment of topics in an open-ended session. I did. The final question was that why would I know such random things. I couldn't answer that then, so as always, I made up an answer then and there. However, later on, I wanted to go back and tell them that I am always curious and never ashamed of learning. Never ashamed of learning from anyone, even if that is a junior, a student, a friend, or a passer-by through my life. <br /><div><br /></div><div>On a Saturday afternoon, sitting in my office, trying to write something, and failing yet again! I opened youtube and let it take me wherever the music goes. Youtube took me to a song - <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dajcwrykmf8" target="_blank">Naguva Nayana Madhura Mouna</a>. </div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="424" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Dajcwrykmf8" width="511" youtube-src-id="Dajcwrykmf8"></iframe></div><br /></div><div><div>I know I heard this song earlier. I remembered the song because I was trying to learn something. In fact, I know that you know that I love songs of so many languages. Because I am always curious and there is always some reason to learn something new. In fact, just the other day, I picked up a thought from the unlikeliest of places. I learnt this from Instagram: </div></div></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-l2sJXJz0OEg/YSoXgwBuH2I/AAAAAAAA2vQ/rZIX-SjwYZEt9BfdKoDtkVd_ciONoZw5ACLcBGAsYHQ/s962/Screenshot_20210827-171926.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="442" data-original-width="962" height="225" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-l2sJXJz0OEg/YSoXgwBuH2I/AAAAAAAA2vQ/rZIX-SjwYZEt9BfdKoDtkVd_ciONoZw5ACLcBGAsYHQ/w517-h225/Screenshot_20210827-171926.jpg" width="517" /></a></div><br /><div>I think this is enough learning for a Saturday afternoon! </div>Sidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397001870740084397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6250240487054868176.post-57565767170243868062021-08-08T13:02:00.003+05:302021-08-08T13:02:31.259+05:30जिंदगी की ये बे निशान सड़क... आ रहा हूँ के जा रहा हूँ मै<p> Yesterday, a friend mentioned this: </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JO7Yja93T18/YQ-EKusz1mI/AAAAAAAA2M8/4BikAa1MvmoxwmhaSXEYQLJShehoGyh0ACLcBGAsYHQ/s1080/Panda.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1018" data-original-width="1080" height="423" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JO7Yja93T18/YQ-EKusz1mI/AAAAAAAA2M8/4BikAa1MvmoxwmhaSXEYQLJShehoGyh0ACLcBGAsYHQ/w448-h423/Panda.jpg" width="448" /></a></div><br /><p>Short questions, shorter answers, such deep ramifications. I don't have the energy or the will left in me anymore to say all that. I would rather let Jaun Elia speak!</p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div><div style="text-align: right;">कौन हूँ क्या हूँ क्या नही हूँ,</div></div><div><div style="text-align: right;"><br /></div></div><div><div style="text-align: right;">राज़ ये खोलता नही हूँ मैं</div></div><div><div style="text-align: right;"><br /></div></div><div><div style="text-align: right;">एक दिन अपने दर पे दस्तक दी,</div></div><div><div style="text-align: right;"><br /></div></div><div><div style="text-align: right;">और फिर कह दिया "नही हूँ मैं"! </div></div></blockquote>Sidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397001870740084397noreply@blogger.com0