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ஒரு மழை இரவின் நட்பு

October 17, 2016July 5, 2025 JeevaNayagiLeave a comment

எப்போது கண்ணயர்ந்தேன் என்று தெரியவில்லை. எங்கிருந்தோ வந்த குளிர்காற்றின் தீண்டலில் தூக்கம் கலைந்து எழுந்த போது சின்னதாய் தூறல் விழ ஆரம்பித்திருந்தது. அதற்கு மேல் தூக்கம் பிடிக்காமல் ஜன்னலின் அருகில் வந்து அமர்ந்தேன். தூறல் இப்போது பெருத்து பெரும் மழையாய் கொட்ட தொடங்கியது. விடிய விடிய விழித்திருக்கும் வீதியில் அன்று மட்டும் அரவம் இல்லை. வழக்கமாய் நடக்கும் நள்ளிரவு நாய்கள் மாநாடு அன்று ஒத்திவைக்கப்பட்டிருந்தது. எனக்கு துணையாய் என் வீட்டிற்கு எதிரில் நின்றிருந்த மரங்களும் ஆங்காங்கே சில மின் கம்பங்கள் மட்டுமே.

மின் விளக்கின் ஒளியில் மின்னும் மழைத்துளிகளை நான் வேடிக்கை பார்த்துக்கொண்டு இருக்க இந்த மரங்கள் மட்டும் எது குறித்தோ தீவிரமாய் விவாதித்துக்கொண்டிருந்தன.திட்டமிட்டே எனக்கு புரியாததொரு மொழியில் பேசிக்கொள்வதாய் தோன்றியது. மீண்டும் எப்போது கண்ணயர்ந்தேன் என்று தெரியவில்லை.கண் விழித்தபோது மழை நின்றிருந்தது. பொழுதும் விடிந்திருந்தது. சிறு குழந்தையின் குதூகலத்தோடு வெளியில் ஓடிவந்தேன். வழியெங்கும் மஞ்சளும் சிகப்புமாய் மலர்க்குவியல். இரவு பெய்த மழையில் மலர்ந்தும் மலராதும் உதிர்ந்த மலர்கள் அவை.

அதுவரை புரியாதிருந்த மரங்களின் மொழி அப்போது புரிய துவங்கியது. எனக்கு புரிந்தது மரங்களுக்கும் புரிந்திருக்க கூடும். அதனால் தான் என்னவோ எஞ்சியிருந்த துளிகளை எல்லாம் என் தோள்களில் சிந்தி, சின்னதாய் குலுங்கி அழுதன மரங்கள். இப்படியாய் அரவமற்ற ஒரு மழை இரவின் ஆழ்ந்த நிசியில் மலர்ந்தது ஒரு நட்பு.

Bangalore Mirror ran this blurb for its news story. What happened next …

October 4, 2016May 10, 2020 Abhishek JhaLeave a comment

What happened next shall be a lesson for Bangalore Mirror. When the citizens act more mature than the so called conscience keepers of the society, we should not lose hope of a better future for our nation. The story runs like this – Bangalore Mirror reported a crime incident in the city – “A 40-year-old man is fighting for his life in the ICU after being stabbed and robbed behind Mecca Masjid in Austin Town in the wee hours of Sunday. After the robbers left him bleeding on the deserted street, he ran 1.5 km to reach home, and collapsed at the doorstep……”
The man is fighting for his life in ICU and we hope he recovers well. However, men at the social media desk of Bangalore Mirror wanted to get more visitors and shares and likes and follows and what not – so a plain report detailing the incident wasn’t enough. The social media link came with the following blurb while the article didn’t have a single mention of ‘Patna‘-

“Shocking! Is Bengaluru the new Patna?”

Now, how much of the comparison is true/untrue is something I will leave to the sensibilities of the readers. It’s not very difficult to bring up a comparative study of crime rates of Indian cities. However, there is no denying that the introductory note to the article was in utterly poor taste and a vulgar visage of sensationalism. However, many of the readers chose to react to this mockery of journalism in a way that surprised me. While I had expected an unfortunate bickering between Bangaloreans and Patnaites because of Bangalore Mirror’s hara-kiri, I found something that must have made the social media rookies at BM chew their own feet.

Following are a few comments that we have chosen to highlight from the article link on Facebook. We salute these sensible readers for showing such maturity in an age when media is trying its best to disintegrate the society.
Do let us know what you think about all of these –

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The Dream that is Paris

September 30, 2016May 10, 2020 JeevaNayagi19 Comments

Kaveri Speaks Kannada

September 24, 2016May 10, 2020 JeevaNayagiLeave a comment

It has been only a couple of months since I arrived in the city. I was returning home from office and the bus was plying down NICE road. My heart was thumping in anticipation of something. Others in the bus too would have felt their hearts thump hard against their anxiety-filled faces. The anxiety soon turned into distress when a mob of young men stopped the bus. They were shouting aloud a lot of things. The only word I could hear clearly was Kaveri. The driver tried turning around the bus to head back to office but the young men threatened to pelt stones. The driver got down, spoke to the men in Kannada and tried pacifying them. His pleas fell on deaf ears and a feisty commotion followed outside the bus. But inside there was a dreadful silence. Cars, buses and a lot of other vehicles stood there in silence while the commotion continued. A few minutes later we were all asked to step out of our vehicles. The young men said that they cannot allow our vehicles to go any further. We got down and stood there, lost! The sun was already down and there was a thick dark patch across sky. I thought it must be another one of those mystic cloud painting across the canvas of sky.

It did not take us too long to understand that we were on our own. The emergency helplines were busy and there was no sight of police. No one was coming to rescue us out of the dire situation. We wanted to get away from there before the situation turned any worse. So we decided to walk. As we walked down the long road, I figured out that the dark patch was not the rain cloud but smoke from the fire that was eating up the city. Few meters ahead in the middle of the road there was a truck completely wrecked down by fire. Beside the burning truck I saw a bigger and louder group of young men making merry around the burning truck. We were stopped again. The young men shouted out slogans and demanded that we repeat. We had no choice but to repeat the slogans after them. They asked “Kaveri yarathu?” .We replied “Kaveri namathu”. They cried “Beku Beku”. We replied with a “Kaveri Beku”. I did not know then that this was just the beginning of a long and arduous evening in one of my favourite cities.

As the highway ended and the city came into sight, I saw things that I had never experienced in person in life. Every few meters there was a vehicle on fire. Some were being lit, some still burning, some just burnt out and some in ashes. Every junction of the road was blocked with blazing flames on all sides. The flyovers were breathing fire too. We were redirected through smaller lanes as the main roads were completely engulfed in the flames. In one of those secluded lanes I saw people getting ready with wires, tyres and barrels of fuel for the next round of protests. They were loading fuel in vehicles to transport them across the city. We were stopped every now and then, rattled and bullied for not knowing the vernacular. Strangely enough, more than a good 30% of the protesters were teenagers and more than a 50% in their early twenties. Their eyes seemed to light up with joy at the sight of people who were scared and wanted nothing more than a safe passage to home. At times a few kind hearted men and women suggested that we keep our heads down and mouths shut to get past the fire.

We kept walking because that was the only option available. Metro was shut, city bus services crippled, and every other mode of transport including auto rickshaws and taxis were stalled. Private vehicles were stopped at every few meters and their registration was checked before they were allowed to drive through a fence of fire. People were seen hurrying home without wanting to attract any trouble. There were elderly citizens trying hard to breathe through the smoke, heavily pregnant women catching their breath every now and then, young mothers with their petrified kids cuddled to them, newly-weds with their hands clasped tightly, the differently abled finding their way through the commotion, tired laborers returning home after a long day, the sick hoping for some relief and a lot more. The air that night smelled more of hatred than of smoke.

I had already walked for more than 2 hours without a break along with a friend. Our backs started to break and legs starting to scream out loud in pain. We had sipped the last drop of water from the bottle. I stopped for a minute and looked around. All shops including eateries and pharmacies were shut. There was no food, no water, no emergency medicines and still no police. Home seemed like a long way away. Few minutes later, we stopped by in front of a wedding hall and asked for some water to drink. They were kind enough to give us some juice and a bottle of water. They let us rest there for a while before we started dragging ourselves home. At around 9.30 PM we were at Rajaji nagar. Google Map said 9 more kilometers to go and the night was getting chilly despite all the fire. I was hoping for a miracle. My miracle arrived in the form of a phone call. A friend was coming to pick us up. It was a risky proposition but we had no other go. Cramped in a bike, I looked around and I was instantly reminded of a beautiful picture that used to adorn the walls of my parent’s home.

This picture had been in the house for more than 30 years now. It was a wedding gift to my parents with a personalized note. My father had it framed and let it hang on the wall along with portraits of the family. The colors are now gone and the impressions of the ink are barely visible. That notwithstanding, I have always loved the picture for two reasons. One because that probably is the only wedding gift which survived the times and stayed in the family. Another because that was my first image of the beautiful Bangalore. It was a picture of Vidhan Soudha. I am not sure why their friend chose Vidhan Soudha for a wedding gift but the image was so enticing that I was in love with Bangalore even without visiting it. The stories from uncles, aunts and cousins who visited Bangalore only made it more endearing to me. I had the exact opposite feeling towards Chennai. Now when I think of it, the lack of empathy towards Chennai probably stemmed from the blind love for Bangalore. The first time I visited Bangalore, I could hear my heart thumping hard and racing fast in excitement. It was as if I was finally allowed to have that warm embrace that I had long yearned for. Unlike a lot of other things in life, Bangalore lived up to the tales I had heard about it. It was exactly as I thought it would be. I did learn to love Chennai over the years, but my love for Bangalore never diminished a bit. Every time I visited the city even if I was only passing through it, the city still filled me with some child-like glee and my heart thumped in joy.

The day was the 12th of September 2016. My heart thumped that evening too, only this time it wasn’t in joy but in pain and horror.

हम इस हमले की कड़ी निंदा करते हैं। (कड़ी निंदा सन्देश )

September 20, 2016July 2, 2025 Abhishek JhaLeave a comment

लांस नायक राघव यादव आतंकवाद के शिकार हो गए। कश्मीर में ड्यूटी पर कोई उन्नीस बीस साल के लौंडे ने गोलियों से छलनी कर दिया। बन्दूक उनके पास भी थी, पर उसको चलाने पर पाबंदी थी सरकार की तरफ से। इस से पहले कि ये समझ पाते कि सरकार जाये भाँड़ में, बन्दूक निकालो और गोली मारो, लड़के ने गोली चला दी थी। शहीद हो गए ।
सलामी के बाद शव को परिवार वालों को सौंप दिया गया। साथ में एक चिट्ठी भी थी जिसमें कुछ ऐसा लिखा था –

प्रिय रेखा
हमारा सर्दी खांसी अभी पहले से बेहतर है। तुम कैसी हो? अच्छा ज़्यादा न्यूज मत देखना। हालत खराब है यहाँ पर । माँ को मालूम होगा तो घबरा जायेगी । अच्छा, एक बात सुनो – अगर ड्यूटी करते वक़्त हमको कुछ हो जाता है तो हमको फिर से जिंदा करने काएक उपाय है। प्रधानमन्त्री जी से अगर कड़ी निंदा सन्देश लाकर हमारे कानों में कही जाएगी तो हम ज़िंदा हो जायेंगे फिर से। येबात ध्यान रखना। नीचे देखो, सन्देश बिलकुल ऐसा ही होना चाहिए। ज़रा भी इधर उधर होने से ये काम नहीं करेगा –
“आज हमारे कुछ जवान देश की सेवा में शहीद हो गए हैं। हमारा देश उनके बलिदान को कभी नहीं भुला पायेगा। मित्रों, इसी के साथ मैं इस हमले की कड़ी निंदा भी करना चाहूंगा और हमारे पड़ोसी मुल्क को ये चेतावनी देता हूँ कि आतंकवाद का समर्थन बंद करे वरना चूहे मारने की दवा हमारे पास है। लांस नायक यादव को मेरी कोटि कोटि श्रद्धांजलि ।”
बिलकुल ऐसे ही होना चाहिए ये सन्देश, ज़रा भी इधर उधर नहीं। माँ का ख़याल रखना।
तुम्हारा रघु।

नायक यादव की पत्नी रेखा के चेहरे पर ख़ुशी की लहर आ गयी। अपने आँसुओं को पोंछ कर उसने घरवालों को वो चिट्ठी दिखाई। बैठक हुई और फैसला लिया गया कि प्रधानमन्त्री जी से कड़ी-निंदा सन्देश लेकर शव के कानों में पढ़ा जाएगा। पिताजी ने दिल्ली जाने का फैसला लिया। झंझारपुर से दिल्ली का सफर तय करके वो प्रधानमन्त्री कार्यालय पहुँचे। बाहर खड़े सिपाहियों ने थोड़ी बातचीत के बाद हालात की गंभीरता को देखते हुए अंदर जाने दिया। अंदर में बड़े बाबू ने चिट्ठी पढ़ी और कहा – “ये तो रक्षा मंत्रालय का मामला है, आप रक्षा सचिव से मिलिए, उनसे ये सन्देश लिखवा लीजिये।”
पिताजी ने दो टूक कह दिया कि सन्देश तो प्रधानमन्त्री जी से ही चाहिए। बड़े बाबू ने कंप्यूटर पर सॉलिटेयर(ताश) का नया गेम शुरू करते हुए कहा – “कम से कम एक दस्तखत ले आईये रक्षा विभाग से, काम जल्दी आगे बढ़ेगा।”
यादव जी को बात ठीक लगी सो वो रक्षा मंत्रालय पहुँचे। पर कुछ ख़ास फायदा नहीं हुआ। वहाँ तो दरबानों ने ही अंदर नहीं जाने दिया, कहा -“चचा, आपका बेटा इंसान था न?”
यादव जो को बात समझ नहीं आयी।
“हाँ, तो मान लेते हैं आपका बेटा इंसान था, उस हिसाब से आपको तो मानव संसाधन विकास मंत्रालय जाना चाहिये। यहाँ आपकी दाल नहीं गलेगी ।”

यादव जी को बात ठीक ही लगी। मानव संसाधन विकास मंत्रालय को पहुँचे। वहाँ कुछ पढ़े लिखे लोगों का जमावड़ा था। दरवाज़े पर दो चौकीदार एन.सी. ई .आर.टी की किताबों पर अपनी अपनी राय रख रहे थे। हाल ही में निकली इतिहास की किताबों में प्रधानमन्त्री जी को बजरंगबली का अवतार बताया गया था और पहला हवाई जहाज़ हमारे देश में बना, इसके प्रमाण में बजरंगबली के गदे को चित्रित किया गया था। कंधे पर रक्खें और उड़ जाएँ। अध्याय के अंत में ये साबित कर दिया गया था कि आज भी हमारे प्रधानमन्त्री जहाज़ में इतना इसलिए उड़ते हैं क्योंकि वो कभी बजरंगबली हुआ करते थे। दोनों चौकीदार वामपंथी लग रहे थे, बार बार मार्क्स को हवाई जहाज़ का निर्माता-पिता बताते। यादव जी से और नहीं रहा गया। दखल देते हुए बोले कि उन्हें मंत्री जी से दस्तखत लेनी है। दोनों चौकीदार हँसने लगे, यादव जी से भाग निकलने को कहा। दरअसल ये दोनों आई.आई.टी. से प्रोफेसर पद से रिटायर्ड होकर कोई नौकरी की खोज में आये थे। मंत्री मैडम जी ने चौकीदार बना दिया।

यादव जी ने भागना ही उचित समझा। वापस प्रधान मंत्री कार्यालय गए। जैसे ही ये दरवाज़े से अंदर गए कि गृह मंत्री बाहर की ओर आये। दोनों की नज़रें मिलीं और गृह मंत्री ने कहा – “आप यादव जी हैं न ! हाँ, मैं था वहाँ जब सलामी दी जा रही थी। आपके बेटे की शहादत हम कभी नहीं भूल सकते। और प्रधानमंत्री जी ने हमले की कड़ी निंदा भी कर दी है। कहिये क्या सेवा कर सकते हैं आपकी ?”
यादव जी की आस जगी। उन्होंने चिट्ठी मंत्री जी को पढ़ाई। मंत्री जी ने कहा कि ये काम तो वो भी कर सकते हैं। जब से ओप्पोसिशन से सरकार में आये हैं, यही काम तो कर रहे हैं। कड़ी निंदा सन्देश खूब लिखना जानते हैं। तुरंत हूबहू कड़ी निंदा सन्देश लिखकर यादव जी के हाथ में थमा दी। यादव जी ने कहा कि ये मेरे बेटे की मौत और ज़िन्दगी का सवाल है। चिट्ठी तो प्रधानमन्त्री जी से लेनी पड़ेगी। गृह मंत्री ने अपने मंत्रालय के नंबर दो मंत्रालय होने का हवाला दिया और कहा कि ऐसे काम प्रधानमंत्री वापस उनके पास ही भेजते हैं। हम सालों से ऐसे कड़ी निंदा वाले सन्देश देशवासियों के लिए लिखते रहे हैं।
“वो क्या है न प्रधानमंत्री जी तो व्यस्त रहते हैं, सो पोस्टल विभाग हमें ही दे दिया है। फिर भी आप पूछताछ कर लीजिये। ये नोट लेकर जाइए, प्रधानमंत्री ऑफिस में दाखिला मिल जाएगा ।” यादव जी की जान में जान आयी। गृह मंत्री की पैरवी वाली नोट लेकर दाखिला मिल गया। प्रधान-सचिव के पास दरख्वास्त भेजी गयी। कुछ एक-आध घंटे बाद, चिट्ठी आ गयी।
प्रधानमंत्री जी की मेज़ से –

आज हमारे कुछ जवान देश की सेवा में शहीद हो गए हैं। हमारा देश उनके बलिदान को कभी नहीं भुला पायेगा। मित्रों, इसी केसाथ मैं इस हमले की कड़ी निंदा भी करना चाहूंगा और हमारे पड़ोसी मुल्क को ये चेतावनी देता हूँ कि आतंकवाद का समर्थन बंदकरे वरना चूहे मारने की दवा हमारे पास है। लांस नायक यादव को मेरी कोटि कोटि श्रद्धांजलि ।

यादव जी ने चिठ्ठी को सहेज कर एक डिबिया में बंद किया और वापस अपने घर पहुंचे। ये सब होते होते करीब एक महीना निकल गया था । बेटे का शव बर्फ में रखा था। पत्नी ने चिट्टी निकाली और नायक यादव के कानों में सुनाया। सभी नायक यादव के उठने का इंतज़ार करने लगे।
मेहमानखाने में टीवी पर समाचार बुलेटिन चल रहा था – भारतीय प्रधानमंत्री ने अमरीका में अपना लोहा मनवाया। अमरीका ने भी माना हमारे प्रधानमंत्री को बजरंगबली का अवतार।

यादव जी कमरे में गए। वहाँ टीवी में भारत के प्रधानमंत्री को अमरीका के राष्ट्रपति गदा देकर सम्मानित कर रहे थे।
सभी कमरे में आए। अभी तक लगभग सभी ने चिट्ठी नायक यादव की कान में पढ़ दी थी। नायक यादव नहीं उठे ।
यादव जी ने चिट्ठी मंगवाई। उस पर प्रधानमंत्री जी के हस्ताक्षर नहीं थे, हाँ हस्ताक्षर का रबर स्टाम्प था। यमलोक में बिना असली हस्ताक्षर के चिट्ठी मान्य नहीं की गयी। प्रधानमंत्री जी अमरीका में थे। नायक यादव यमलोक में। सांत्वना सन्देश मिला, कड़ी निंदा भी हुई, पर नायक वापस नहीं आ सके।
यादव जी सर पर हाथ धरकर बेटे की अंतिम संस्कार की तैयारी में लग गए।
बात को करीब दो साल बीत गए। समाचार आया कि कश्मीर के बारामुला में सत्रह जवानों को आतंकवादियों ने ढेर कर दिया। प्रधानमंत्री अब की बार सरप्राइज दौरे पर पाकिस्तान में थे। आतंकियों ने उनको सरप्राइज कर दिया। प्रधान सचिव ने होशियारी दिखाई। कड़ी निंदा वाली प्रेस विज्ञप्ति चैनलों को थमा दी। अगले पाँच दिनों तक यादव जी की चिट्ठी एक संशोधन के साथ सभी चैनलों पर चलती रही –

आज हमारे कुछ जवान देश की सेवा में शहीद हो गए हैं। हमारा देश उनके बलिदान को कभी नहीं भुला पायेगा। मित्रों, इसी के साथ मैं इस हमलेकी कड़ी निंदा भी करना चाहूंगा और हमारे पड़ोसी मुल्क को ये चेतावनी देता हूँ कि आतंकवाद का समर्थन बंद करे वरना चूहे मारने की दवा हमारेपास है। ~~लांस~~ ~~नायक~~ ~~यादव~~ शहीदों को मेरी कोटि कोटि श्रद्धांजलि ।

प्रधानमंत्री हस्ताक्षर (रबर स्टाम्प)
भारत सरकार

Picture Credits – Indian Express(Only for illustrative purposes.)

A blunder of Poetry – Po’try

September 16, 2016July 5, 2025 Abhishek Jha2 Comments

Bangalore got its own Poetry Festival this year. Considering the fact that the city has a strong and vibrant poetry community that thrives in the bookstores, cafes, and parks; a poetry festival was in fact due and perhaps should have even come earlier than now. The festival was liked by most of the attendants. I must most sincerely thank the organizers for such a Herculean effort.

There is one more thing that must be spoken about. A book was specially commissioned to be unveiled at the festival. Po’try was released as an anthology of poems that were shortlisted from the entries that were received in response to the poetry contest conducted as part of the festival. The entries were supposed to be in English, Hindi, or Kannada and required the number of lines to be more than 25.
As per the claim made by the publishers, some 300 poems were received out of which 159 were shortlisted to be published. The selected poets were asked to pay a sum of 1000 INR for 5 copies of the book. They were given a transaction code upon payment and were told to collect their copies after the unveiling of the book during the last session of Day-1 of the festival. 159 poets – 5 copies each, this amounts to a bare minimum of 795 copies of the book. However, the publisher company brought only about 50 copies to the festival. What followed reeked of complete absence of professionalism, humility, or any kind of empathy for the poets who had gathered to collect their copies. At this point, I must disclose the name of the publishing partner of the BPF 2016 – Raindrops Company headed by one Mr. Bernard Dsa. Though such a company must be ignored and not be given any kind of reading space on social media, I thought it prudent to write about the experience I had with them so that the people who are coming next are aware of the narcissism of the company. Rest of the evening of the festival was spent in remorseless series of selfies by the publisher while the poets stood by another poet who somehow had volunteered to keep 2 copies of the book on display so that people could come and get a photo clicked with the publisher holding their book.
Click. Done. Return the book. Next!

I got hold of the book 2 weeks after I had forgotten about it. Though I was never much excited about my poem getting published in the book, it was still a good feeling to have the book in my hands. However, after having a glimpse of the inside pages, that feeling was short-lived. The book stands out for its shoddy editing, floundering the rules of the contest laid down by the organizers themselves, publishing same poem multiple number of times under different poets’s names and titles. Horrid editing will be an understatement. This book has not been edited at all. There are poems that are in Hindi but published in Roman script without any transliteration marks. In spite of all these blunders, the biggest irony of this book would be the strong-arming of the contributing poets to pay up 1000 INR in advance without giving them a control on the number of copies they wanted. Raindrops Company sent a sermon that the poets would need 5 copies each and hence they must pay 1000 INR in advance to receive those 5 copies. The company didn’t stop there. It wanted to spit in our face, so it priced the book at 180 INR on Amazon.

I still had sympathy for the poets who had landed up in the hands of such a terrible publisher and hence went on to read all the poems except 3 or 4 poems written in Kannada. Well, I found a silver lining. Please find below the list of 58 poems that I loved from the book. If you have already decided to not buy the book, try looking for the poets on facebook, they might be kind enough to share their published poems with you. Please note that this is not a ranked list.

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Hark! - Abhishek Kumar Singh
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Empty Piece of Paper Flutters Around - Dr. Aakash Dhruva

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Cracked & Splintered - Aishwarya Soni
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प्रतिबिंबित - Akanksha Bumb

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Distant Vespers - Amrendra Pandey
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I am Indeed - Ankit Mishra
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These Kindnesses - Ankush Banerjee
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पहाड़ और समंदर - Anshul Nagori

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Unfettered - Apoorva Viji Shivaram
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Aquarium - M. Ashitha
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Deathwish - Ashvani Sachdev
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Scatterbrain Syndrome - Avani Jain
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The Unchanted Souls - Dr. Debashish Sengupta

She-An Unparalleled Work of Art - Debarati Saha

वाद विवाद  - Gaurav B Gothi

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Antarctica - Gaurav Chauhan
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खून पतला हो चला  - Gaurav Tiwari

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Ice'scapades - Gayathri Rao
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Sun's Story -  Ilu
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प्रकृति हूँ मैं ही  - Jaya Srinivasan

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A Cuckoo Calls - Lovie D'sa
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Does a Bonsai Tree Dare Dream?  - Lynessa Coutto

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Theatre du Reve - Praveen Dhawan
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जन्मदिन  - Priyank Anand
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It was a Dream - Mahima Prasanna
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Bliss in solitude  - Mahua Sen
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Back Home  - Maitrayee
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Twilight - Mallika Bhaumik
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The Pendulum Heart - Mihika Shankar Shivni

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All Things Put Aside - Nishu Mathur
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Pacification - Nitish Nair
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The Impossibility of Us - Purnima Gopalakrishnan

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Sitting There - Rahul Raghunath
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कर्ण का धर्म   - Rajesh Joshi

याद है सिर्फ  - Ranjana Tripathi

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A Trilogy of Musings - Rashmi Jejurikar
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Circling into the Center - Reshma Mudirakkal

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Us and Them - Rohit Nand
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Journey to You - Aimey Maggie Augustine
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Chikku Mara - Sandip Mondal
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No filter - Shachi Srivastava
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Death - Shruthi Vishwanath
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The Oracle - Shyni kp
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Meet - Srinivasacharya Darbhasayanam
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Disclaimer - Siddharth Shukla
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On My Grandmother - Sihi Nagathihalli
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A Disjointed Symphony - Simran Sethi
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Father  - Sindhu Verma
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The Earth you Fought - Soujanya K.
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Cry of Wicked Souls - Sarala Balachandran

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Saudade - Sreeparna Chattopadhyay
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Inheritance - Suganya Lakshmi
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थोड़ा और पकने दो - Tarundeep Kaur

तलाश - विभूति/Vibhuti

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निशब्द - Vidya Krishna
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A gloomy rose - Vignesh
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H.O.M.E - Yamini Acharya
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Declarative Memory - Yumna Harisingh Jawa

This is not to suggest other poets were not good. Yes, there were a few who should have been more serious with their contributions but perhaps the publishers didn’t deserve better. Nevertheless, congratulations to every poet who has got published. Good Edit-Bad Edit – You are a published poet now and you have our best wishes.

Mandatory Disclosure – Writer’s poem was also published in the Anthology.

Sleepless in Brighton

September 8, 2016May 10, 2020 JeevaNayagiLeave a comment

पिलपिलाते हुए आम लोग।

September 1, 2016July 2, 2025 Abhishek JhaLeave a comment

ज़िन्दगी है, ज़िन्दगी में मुलाकातें भी होती रहतीं हैं। मुलाकातें होतीं हैं तो बातें भी चल पड़तीं हैं। हम हिन्दुस्तानी राय रखने में ऐसे भी बड़े आगे हैं। राजनीति, क्रिकेट, मज़हब, चलचित्र- आप बस मुद्दा उठाइये और चार पाँच विशेषज्ञ तो आपको राह चलते मिल जाएंगे। पान थूकते, तम्बाकू चुनाते, ताश खेलते विशेषज्ञ से शायद पाठक का भी पाला पड़ा ही होगा। तेंदुलकर को किस बॉल पर क्या मारना चाहिए, ये मेरे कॉलोनी के गार्ड से बेहतर शायद ब्रैडमैन को भी ना मालूम हो।
पर मैं यहाँ उनकी बात नहीं करूँगा। मैं बात करूँगा आम आदमी की – तथाकथित आम आदमी। मेरे मत से तो आम आदमी कोई नहीं होता। आदमी होते हैं, औरतें होतीं हैं। गरीब आदमी, अमीर आदमी। गरीब औरत, अमीर औरत। आम तो उस फल का नाम है जो गरीब आदमी की नसीब में नहीं लिखा होता। अच्छा छोड़िये इन बातों को, अभी के लिए आम आदमी ही कह लीजिये। तो बात कुछ यूँ हुई कि जहाँ कहीं भी गया आम लोगों के साथ ही रहा । आम आदमी जो अच्छे भी हैं, बुरे भी और फिर जो इन दोनों में से कुछ नहीं या फिर दोनों ही। इन सबने किसी ना किसी तरीके से कुछ ऐसा कहा है कि मैंने इनको याद रक्खा है। कुछेक आप भी पढ़ लें। कोई भी बात निर्णयात्मक नहीं है। मेरे ख्याल में ये बातें उन लोगों ने कहीं हैं जो अपने दिल से ईमानदार थे और इन्हें व्यवहार कुशलता की कोई चिंता नहीं थी। मानव सीमाओं से घिरा है, हम आप और सब। किसी की सीमाएँ नज़दीक तो किसी की काफी दूर। दार्शनिकों की बातें तो बहुत सुन लीं आपने, ज़रा ये भी सुनिए की तथाकथित आम आदमी क्या कहता है –

घर पर अपने दूधवाले से – “और महतो जी, किसको वोट करेंगे इस बार?”
महतो जी – “और किसको देंगे सर, वही लालू जी।”
मैं – “पर वो तो भ्रष्टाचार में लिप्त हैं।”
महतो जी – “हाँ मगर जात अपना है।”

2007 विश्व कप – सौरव गांगुली टीम में वापस आ चुके थे। कलकत्ता के एक बस स्टैंड पर एक अख़बार वाले से –
“क्या लगता है, कौन सी टीम जीतेगी?”
अखबारवाला – “दादा सौ मारेगा आर इंडिया हारेगा।”
मैं – “ऐसा क्यों?”
अखबारवाला – “एई होना चाहिए सर, गांगुली को टीम से बाहर कोरा था ई लोग, अभी सारा मैच हार जायेगा इंडिया पर अपना दादा सौ पर सौ मारेगा।”

मुम्बई के एक लोकल ट्रेन में उस यात्री से जो मुझे मेरी जगह से उठाना चाहता था –
“क्या दिक्कत है?”
यात्री – “कहाँ से हो? मराठी क्यों नहीं बोलते ?

नौकरी के पहले दिन मेरे रंग को ध्यान में रखते हुए एक टीम लीड का सवाल –
“क्या तुम तमिल नाडु से ही हो?”

एक मित्र को चप्पल चोरी करने से रोकने पर –
“अरे यार, तू बहुत सीरियस बन्दा है। कॉलेज में चलता है इतना कुछ, मेरी भी तो किसी ने ले ली ना। अब मैं नंगे पैर घूमूं?”

ट्रेन में सामने बैठे चचा जी –
चचा – “बेटे, तुम्हारा आई आई टी में नहीं हुआ?”

एक मित्र जो कल शाम को बौद्धिक चर्चा में रामायण और महाभारत को स्त्री विरोधी और पुरुष प्रधान बता रहे थे, आज ऑफिस में –
“आपके पास अच्छी कार होगी तो लोगों को दिखाईएगा ना, बिपाशा के बड़े बुब्बे हैं तो क्यों नहीं दिखाएगी?”
कुछ देर बाद
“वो देखिये क्या गांड है, अरे देखिये तो सही, वो गयी।”

एक रूममेट (पुरुष) बलात्कार का कुछ दोष स्त्रियों को देते हुए –
“तुम बोलो। कोई नंगी लड़की सामने खड़ी हो जायेगी, तुम उसके साथ कुछ नहीं करोगे?”

एक मित्र (स्त्री) ये जानकार कि मैंने सम्भोग(सेक्स) नहीं किया –
“तो गर्लफ्रेंड क्या गार्डन घुमाने के लिए रक्खी थी?”

एक और मित्र मुस्लिमों के बारे में अपनी बेबाक राय रखते हुए –
“पता है सर, जो उनकी हरक़त है, उनको काट देना ही एक समाधान है। नहीं तो आज न कल हमारे ऊपर चढ़ कर बैठ जायेंगे।”

हम आम लोग हैं। बहुत आम। इतने आम कि एक सड़ा हुआ आम हमसे ज़्यादा ख़ास होता है। आम लोग मज़ाकिया होते हैं, आम लोग सीरियस भी होते हैं। आम लोग ईमानदार होते हैं। आम लोग बेईमान भी होते हैं। सिर्फ आम होना कोई सर्टिफिकेट नहीं होता। हर आम आदमी ख़ास बनने की होड़ में लगा है। सारे पैंतरे ख़ास बनने के ही हैं। उन पैंतरों में हम वो सब करते हैं जो एक आम आदमी करता है या आम औरत करती है। क्यों न करें? जब तक ख़ास बन नहीं जाते तब तक तो आम ही हैं- सड़े हुए आम जिनको थोड़ा दबाते ही गूदा पिलपिला कर बाहर निकल आता है। हम पिलपिलाकर ही ख़ास बनेंगे।तो कोई आपके प्रदेश का न हो तो मार गिराइये, आपकी भाषा न बोले तो मार गिराइये, आपका मज़हब न माने तो मार गिराइये। बुब्बे मापिए, गांड झाँकिये, बलात्कार कीजिये और सदा पिलपिलाते रहिये। मेरी शुभकामनाएँ।

Who is policing the Police?

August 15, 2016May 10, 2020 Abhishek JhaLeave a comment

It’s 15th August. Hum your favorite patriotic tune, speak about the achievements of the Government of the day, talk of pride in our culture and history, and proudly flaunt our progress as a society. Close your eyes and sleep. Happy Independence Day!

Or wake up! Look into the problems, discuss what is eating us from inside, find treatment for the termites of the system, struggle, fail, struggle again, fail, rise again, fight, bring a change! It’s 15th August. Justify the ‘Independence’ in that clichéd ‘Happy Independence Day’!

You can skip this article if you would rather like to follow the first method. If you are ready for a long-drawn battle, read on.

Continue reading “Who is policing the Police?” →

Nothing to write about!

July 26, 2016May 10, 2020 Abhishek Jha24 Comments

And suddenly I have nothing to write about. A long night at work – I wanted to write about it – how tiring and hopeless situations you grow into at around 2.30 am in the morning typing in some code that you are no longer sure of. I wanted to write about that. I wanted to take a shot at poetry – dead of a night – smoky chilled air – rains – thunderstorms – trees wavering like tresses of the love I deserved – I might have jotted down the perfect poem for the moment. I wanted to write about my struggles. I would have liked to finish my debut novel in a one night’s shot. I wanted to write a tale – a disarming one or maybe even a spooky one that would leave me in despair by the end of it – perfect setting of a night and an under-construction would-be corporate building – cranes, dump-trucks, excavators all lying dead like there never was any life in them. I wanted to make new metaphors and similes- like a bulldozer’s night sleep or lie like a windowpane! Continue reading “Nothing to write about!” →

Orwell on Gandhi

June 27, 2016May 10, 2020 Abhishek JhaLeave a comment

To judge somebody you haven’t ever met can be a daunting task. To judge somebody on the basis of what the person has done or written can be a miscarriage of fairness. Political heroes or villains are primarily judged in time by their actions in public view and their writings if available. This is to say for commentators who haven’t met the person. How your actions are judged depends largely on the media of the time as well.

If I may, I would point you to the essay – ‘Reflections of Gandhi‘ by George Orwell. Why? Because his observations are as objective as they can get. In my opinion the essay stands out for a couple of things –

1. As the title suggests, the essay is indeed a reflection on Gandhi. The observations are so fluidly presented that it often feels like Orwell is talking to himself oblivious of our presence around him. He is not a great fan of Gandhi, neither is he a hater who can’t see beyond the aesthetics of the man. This puts him in a unique position.
2. Through his other essays, his hatred for any kind of imperialism is quite evident. However, since he knew the British ways too, he could look at Gandhi from the other side of the fence and was still in harmony with the dreams of free India that Gandhi nurtured.

George Orwell wrote his essay on Gandhi in 1949, a year after he was dead. He derives most of his ideas about the man – Gandhi from his autobiographical work My Experiments With Truthand other articles Mr Gandhi wrote for the press of the time. Mr. Orwell himself having lived a few years in the colonial Indian subcontinent, had a fair awareness of the situation back here. In addition, he was a prominent political observer and commentator of the time and hence must have judged Mr. Gandhi via his actions, interviews, and media interactions. What Mr. Orwell has written about Gandhi is of paramount importance and has been rightly placed at No 2 in the list of Greatest essays of Orwell as judged by Pulitzer prize winning writer Michael Hiltzik. The commentaries in our own country over Gandhi have been largely either biased highly in favor of the man or extremely against him. The Marxists and the so called Ambedkarites can’t contain their hatred for the man. The Indian National Congress though has nothing in common with the original Gandhi, is religiously exploiting the last name that they actually got from Mr. Feroze Ghandy (Do not get surprised here, many actually believe Mahatma Gandhi and present Gandhi scion are related.). If Mahatma Gandhi had the copyright to the surname Gandhi and had actually disallowed the usage of it, Mr. Rahul Gandhi would have been called Rahul Ghandy today and Mahatma Gandhi could have been spared some unfair posthumous embarrassment. The BJP has been trying to appropriate Mr. Gandhi in its own way and have been quite successful in leaving congress with nothing but shrill calls of ‘He-Is-Not-Yours’ and ‘You-Are-The-killers-Of-Gandhi’! This was not entirely unexpected given the predilection of the Congress party over the surname rather than the Gandhian way of life and politics. When you don’t feed your dog well, some day your neighbor will!

One important question that I have asked myself is whether the essay is prejudiced. Largely no, but there are enough signs of prejudices to be detected by any reader who has followed Orwell and his life for some time. Orwell’s own lifestyle has an effect on the essay and at times he digresses for the sake of satirical declarations that are hallmarks of his writings. However, such utterances are rare and the piece remains rational for the most part.

Orwell goes on to ponder upon the extent to which Gandhi was responsible for India’s freedom and counts many reasons that could have been responsible. He doesn’t give a judgement and says – “But if, by 1945, there had grown up in Britain a large body of opinion sympathetic to Indian independence, how far was this due to Gandhi’s personal influence? And if, as may happen, India and Britain finally settle down into a decent and friendly relationship, will this be partly because Gandhi, by keeping up his struggle obstinately and without hatred, disinfected the political air? That one even thinks of asking such questions indicates his stature.”

Orwell would have celebrated his 113th year on 25th June had he been alive. His bio headline is perhaps a signature to the eccentricity of his life – Born in Motihari, Bihar and Died in London, United Kingdom. Mr. Orwell has been one of my favorite writers for some time now and Mahatma Gandhi will remain a Hero I shall admire all my life. Though they might stand diametrically opposite to each other on the clocks of life and lifestyle, both of them had their own fallacies. However what they achieved in one lifetime makes the fault-lines almost invisible. My only regret is that while I can read and decide what Orwell thought of Gandhi, I have no way of knowing what Gandhi thought of him. I wonder what took Mr. Orwell so long to write about Gandhi. Sometimes it needs a death to trigger those thoughts that we keep pushing to the next day. Sadly, Orwell didn’t live much longer either. He passed away in 1950. I would have wished him a few more happy years for his life on his birthday.

To be or Not to be a Victim

May 10, 2016May 10, 2020 JeevaNayagi5 Comments

Long ago in a country called India, there lived a girl called Nirbhaya. She was gang-raped and left to die. Enraged by the brutality of the incident, her country-men rose up in multitude against her offenders. They held rallies and spoke fiercely to render her justice. And then there was silence. Few years later there was a girl called Jisha in the other corner of the country who met an equally merciless fate. They woke up again to demand justice for Nirbhaya and Jisha. Then again silence took over them. Caught up amidst these alternating periods of voices, noises and radio silences, the Nirbhayas and Jishas never found an ending to their stories, forget about a happy ending. Continue reading “To be or Not to be a Victim” →