Shreds and Smithereens

Woh afsaana jise anjaam tak laana na ho mumkin, usse ek khoobsurat mod dekar chhodna hi achchha ..

I read this in the paper a few days back. It was quoted by the Chief Metropolitan Magistrate Vinod Yadav, when he closed a major chapter in the Bofors scam saga by discharging Italian businessmen, Ottavio Quattrocchi. I read it again today, as the facebook status of one of my friends. In a eerie coincidence, it now perfectly applies to me. 


In the last two days, I have undergone a major transformation. My selfless attributes were my greatest pride. Now, a very selfish face stares at me each time I look into the mirror. Not more than a week ago, my very close friend from college was giving my a didactic lecture about how selfishness, in the contemporary context, had altered from being a vice to a virtue. I had hated her then and there for saying such a foolish thing. Today, I feel like a buffoon, for having been enraged at her. I have embraced those very selfish ideals. I gave up on a very, very essential part of my existence. I abandoned love, and along with it, I abandoned faith. 


My life, my smile, my tears, my love--all of this had stemmed from a person. The bond I shared with him was beautiful. Not perfect, but beautiful. But every beautiful thing does not have to be eternal. In fact, most beautiful things, especially if we add a dimension of perfection to them, are more ephemeral than something unpleasant. So today, the bond stands broken. Broken, not shattered. 


The bond has not shattered, but I have. It is today that I understand what a poet tried to convey when he spoke of silent shattering in some poem of my school English text books. I can totally feel it, understand it. I can today understand what it means to have your emotions burnt to smithereens. Understanding-it is not a gift I have received from many. Like many other good things in life, I have stopped hoping for it. The height of irony in terms of what just transpired as perhaps the most epochal happening of my life is that what went against me was my sanity. Heart in shreds. Feelings down to ashes. 


One good thing, however, remains. He remains. He lives. He breathes. As long as that happens, the miracle of my life stays alive. Faithless existence is senseless existence. The most crucial battle in my life is waiting to be won. Sans faith, it seems illogical to even start treading the path. I hope this time I receive cooperation. I hope to death that I don't fail this time. I know from where I'll draw strength. He knows from where I will draw strength. 


And while I try hard to keep my faith breathing, I will have my off days. There will be days I will look to hold someone culpable. There will be days I would not want to exonerate anyone for the wrong that happened with me, assuming these are days I am bent upon proving that wrong did happen to me. There will be days I would want to shout and cry loud and call out for comfort. There will be days I will crouch in one corner of my room, shedding tears, waiting for the coveted perfection to return to my life. I will try to be brave, but I cannot be brave enough to rule out the possibility of any of the above happening.


My best expressions are written. When I feel a need to reconnect, I will do it via writing. I always wanted to write something special for him. I wanted to document for him, more than my love, my fears associated with our bond. I began doing it yesterday. To Have, To Hold, To Love is a new blog I started to exclusively stay connected to him. It shall be my new address, whenever I am in distress. 


http://anirrevocablelove.blogspot.com/

Saving Sanjana after Meeting Vikram Chandra

(Even before you start reading, I request you to jump to the last paragraph and visit the link once. Please)

It still is a fantastic feeling, Ecstasy, disbelief may be. It does not happen often that you get to meet  your God figure in person. I met mine, today.

While I was still nascent, and hunting for avenues to carve out my career in, Journalism appeared to be the most natural, appealing and pragmatic choice that I  could have made. But then, doubts over the credibility of media and stability of this profession, coupled with the overtly protective (read: suffocating) atmosphere I enjoy at home drowned all my ambitions for pursuing my dream profession.

Nevertheless, this blog post is not to fret over lost dreams; dreams which I do not consider totally lost even now.  This post is to express angst which I derive out of perhaps the most overwhelming and memorable experience in life. Yes, it is ironical, and this irony, at a level, pains me. A small happening, but a higher point on the learning curve definitely.

 Journalism, while it still cast that charm on me, was synonymous with a few names- Rajdeep Sardesai, Barkha Dutt and of course, the person who rules my mind right now, Vikram Chandra. I remember having cried for about four hours when I had lost a remote opportunity to see Barkha Dutt, not even interact, but see her in person. I remember having seen Rajdeep Sardesai in my most prized dreams as a co-anchor to a show we hosted. And, as for Mr. Vikram Chandra, I only remember staring at him intently on the TV screen, with no fancy thoughts on my mind, but only a keep urge to observe and learn. By his diction, poise, ease, intelligence and presentation, he always simply bowled me over. Continuously following The Big Fight on NDTV instated him as my God figure ( though, admittedly in moments I was not already enraptured by the audacious Devil's Advocate, Karan Thapar)

So a few days back, when I was informed that HE is going to visit our campus to do a talk on Careers in Media and Broadcast Journalism, I just knew I HAD to organize this event, obviously in pursuit of pure selfish interest. I did. I remember, and I will always remember standing at the podium as Mr. Chandra entered the event venue and took his seat, taking my time to recover from his aura and then, summoning all the traces of confidence still left in my body to utter on the microphone- "Wasting no time, and with all my palpable enthusiasm, I introduce you to Mr. Vikram Chandra, a person who definitely needs no introductions". Even while uttering these lines, I was in disbelief over the fact that I am getting to act as the compere (for however little time) in the esteemed presence of Mr. Chandra.

Anyway, so the day went well. Predictably, we got a huge crowd. More than two fifty girls in the hall, and innumerable turned away because of space constraints. While addressing all of us on the need to get famous celebrities to endorse causes with social welfare, Mr. Chandra hit a particular sensitive nerve in my heart. It was then that I experience that angst mentioned earlier in this article. Through whatever he said Mr. Chandra made it evidently simple to realize even if you are to go ahead with the most noble motive aimed at the welfare of someone in need, you need to have in place strategies for selling the 'cause' effectively. And yesterday, when I set on to do something good, I ignored this aspect. I am regretful still.

It was yesterday that I undertook perhaps the most meaningful activity in all three years of my college life. An alumnus of our college, Sanjana Sahni, is diagnosed with Multiple Myeloma, more commonly known as blood cancer. After having undergone extensive therapies and experiencing relative respite from the heinous disease, Sanjana's cancer relapsed some time back. Now, she is virtually without hope. She needs a stem cell donor urgently because her life span is being cut short at an enormous pace. Upon request from an NGO working to create awareness about the Stem Cell therapies, and who have adopted Sanjana's case as their poster cause, we decided to run a Stem Cell Donor Registration Drive in our campus, preceded by talk entailing everything that a donor of stem cells needs to know.

I feel shameful to admit that the initial number of girls from my own college who showed interest to attend the workshop voluntarily was only about 16. Upon much coaxing, I could manage to take that number up to 52, and subsequently 73. As an organizer, I just cannot disappoint my guests. Giving them an audience becomes my responsibility. But really, I felt embarrassed that girls in my college have such busy lives that they could not spare fifteen minutes to attend this presentation and become a part of something good. Leave alone any flowery expectation, but our girls could not even come ahead to held someone in dire need, and found is okay to give me all sorts of ludicrous reasons as to why they need to leave the presentation midway. Basic courtesies are hard to find, I know, but basic human instincts? Have they become rare too?

Mr. Sanjeev Kulshreshtha, the person giving the presentation, mentioned somewhere a dichotomy between the West and India as far as compassion to unknown persons is concerned. Out of some 16 million registered stem cells donor in the world, only 5000 are Indians. And this after we rant on about the massive human capital potential which will change the face of India. While we ape the West, something we've been consistently accused of the the self-proclaimed-saintly generation preceding us, somehow we totally ignore imbibing the better parts which characterize a Westerner. The concept of family bonding still remains strong in our nation, but a feeling of belongingness to the community at large is fast dissipating. We do not feel we have a responsibility which is social in character, until the cause in question is something we're affected by closely back home. Out of the girls who willingly volunteered to be a part of this programme, a sizable number had some case of a terminal illness affected person at the back of their mind when they came to join us. Not surprising at all. Again, I feel pathetic while admitting, that the rest had merely been forced to sit there.

I can go on and on about what I am feeling, but having conducted the talk, now I am all pepped up about the Donor Registration Drive, scheduled to take place on 8th of March, 2011, in our campus. Through a non invasive procedure, sample of stem cells will be taken and analysed to see if they match Sanjana's need. It costs about $50 to conduct tests on stem cells of one person. Sanjivni and Dhatri Foundation, conducting this drive in our college, have agreed to bear the burden of this monetary obligation. But they, like many more organizations wanting to make a difference in someone's life battle a severe resource crunch.

It won't take much time. Anyone of you who manage to read my article till this point, please visit the website once. Read what Sanjana has to say about herself. It might move you. I am not urging you to proactively start supporting Sanjana's cause, but being lost in the economic riddles of the material existence we all lead, we do sometimes leave our goodness somewhere behind. It is always good to reclaim that goodness back. A story like that of Sanjana's might help you reclaim that goodness, and with luck, may be a conscience too.

http://savesanjana.org/aboutSanjana.html

By the way, did I mention, Sanjana is blessed with two beautiful twins?

Valentine Art Affection

For the past twenty years of my life, which is the whole of my life actually, I had made myself believe that I loathe colors. I still do, yes, especially the bright, opulent shades, specifically in the segment of clothing. I am definitely not a member of the gawsy brigade, those people who try to project offending cheerfulness through the clothes they wear. I like to live life in more sombre shades. I prefer to dress up in grays and dull blues. I even like my pictures in black and white, or at max, sepia.

So, when I put up this picture as the my blog's header sometime back, doubling up as my blogs identity, I was initially skeptical of my own decision. But then, the colors in this painting wielded their magic. I was literally stupefied, and left to gape at it in mute admiration. So, there it remained, adorning my blog, making it look pretty.

I often develop a child-like fondness for things. From a child's perspective, everything appears big, appears magnified. So is the case with me. The moment I become fond of something, I attach to it many superlatives which totally justify my predilection towards it. When this painting started hypnotysing me and its colors began coruscating in my dreams, I, besides extolling its beauty in, again, superlative terms, was living under the illusion that this is one-of-its-kind painting, and that I may never come across another like it. However, my myth was soon dispelled by the contemporary divine entity- Google- which has answers to all questions we ask, sometimes even those questions which we don't ask.

A few days back, I stumbled upon this picture. Purely by chance.

The style of painting seemed similar to the one on my blog. Even though I am no connoisseur of art forms of any kind, the ease with which the artist had played with colors seemed very familiar, identical even to the painting that had so far been ruling my mind. After probing a little more, with a few random keywords, on, of course, the monolith of all information, Google, I was able to trace the painter who painted both the above beauties. And, many more.

Leonid Afremov- A search by his name on Google images opened a whole world of unbelievable splashes of color in front of my eyes. For more than an hour, I just kept on staring at his different creations. Just looking at his painting made me happy. Many of them were similar. I guess this Belarusian painter has a penchant for painting boulevards, with couples walking down the road. His paintings have immense depth. I could imagine myself walking down the same boulevard with my love. Two of my most favorite paintings of this category (besides the one on my blog's header) are these.

As I look at these paintings, I can't help but once again marvel at the blend of colors in them. In the both these, what I especially like is the way the lamp light is softly illuminating the scene.

Besides painting long roads and multi hued trees lining them, Leonid Afremov also has a clear proclivity towards paintings couples. Couples, presumably in love, appear on most of his canvases. I should not use the word 'presumably' here. His couples are visibly in love, often, passionately in love. And this, is conveyed very elegantly in his paintings. Check out these two for example.

So this Valentines, because I have nothing better to do, I will allow this brilliant artist's grand creations to haunt me. Event though I adore the above two paintings, these are not exactly the ones I would like to see in my dreams. The ones, which actually transport me into a dream land are the ones which depict couples with more subtler shades of passion engulfing them. In fact, in those paintings, what is depicted in place of passion is togetherness- long enduring togetherness, the kind of companionship I could kill for.

The first painting is may be the kind of Valentine's date I would want for myself- a private time together, in each other's casual embrace, discussing a million things which make us perfect for each other, confessing and reconfessing our love and completely losing ourself to the beauty of the moment.

The second painting is titled "The Last Date", and hence, for comprehensible reasons, makes me feel sad. Love forms an indispensable part of my existence, and whenever love is wounded, I can't help but feel sad.

Anyway. Hats off to Leonid Afremov. I hope that someday I am able to buy at least one of his creations, because I have turned into a big, incorrigible admirer of his. For all the right reasons for sure.
(Thanks for making me fall in love with colors again)

An Anachronism?

"A gun is a reasonably good way of settling an argument but, unfortunately for his assassins, the posthumous Gandhi turned out to be as dangerous as the living one." -Ashish Nandy

I have never been an admirer of the much hailed Father of Our Nation, Mahatma Gandhi. It was my ignorance. I have always been more in touch with people who seek pleasure in denouncing the personality that Gandhi was, and who glorify his misgivings much above his contribution towards making India which we are proud of today. Of the many good things I derive out of my recently acquired habit of reading newspapers with a pious, unwavering dedication is feeding on knowledge which is dynamic in essence. I always knew that the Martyrs Day was celebrated on 30th of January, the day when the hand of the Mahatma which blessed our land with a sort of filial love was robbed of us, forever. However, it never happened that I understood the importance of this day. For that matter, many a 30th Januaries came and went- little did I even realize them passing by. Not for once did I stop to pay a brief homage to the soul of this great benefactor of India, whose ideals, though largely an anachronism for many around me, still haunt that part of my mind which is blindly patriotic- and proudly so.


I regret it. I regret never having understood Gandhi. Never having devoted time to it. It is quite riveting to read the venerable journalist, Karan Thapar insinuate towards the not so admirable facets of Gandhi's idealism through his column in one of India's leading daily. It is equally riveting to read a reply to Mr. Thapar's article in the same newspaper by Gandhi's grandson- Rajmohan Gandhi- a prolific scholar, a human rights activist, noted political figure, and the winner of the prestigious Biennial Award from the Indian History Congress in 2007 for his book A True Story of A Man, His People and An Empire, Gandhi's biography. And what was most fantastic while reading the two articles was a conspicuous realization of the fact that there was so much of history of my own land which I failed to connect to, despite having harbored loud ambitions of one day serving the country to the best of my capacities. Knowledge in this context is certainly not irrelevant, in fact, it is most imperative. The present system of education (encompassing the preparations for most governance related competitive examinations) invariably makes us a slave to facts; not for once endeavoring to give us enough time and space for understanding and developing ideologies and principles which we may regard as our own, and which remain a part of our system through every stage of life. A cornucopia of facts can only baffle us, while a cognizance and identification of the ideological path which we seek to tread on can certainly elevate us above our puerile self; aiding in the process of decision making and lending us that coveted mental clarity, without which, any discernment is hollow.


It was in an article in one of the many newspapers I follow that I came across information pertaining to a Fast Unto Death being organized at Jantar Mantar to register loud, but non violent protests against the high degree of corruption pervading our country, by the veterans of an organization called the Gandhian Satyagraha Brigade. This news piece stirred a now dormant part of my memory. A little more than a month ago, I had had the good fortune of meeting up with the vanguard of this long enduring movement against corruption and the honorary General Secretary of the GSB. It was a tryst by chance- but one, that continued to haunt me for long. And I promised myself that I would write about it, a promise that was submerged under a deluge of assignments, examinations and then placement stresses. So 'today' I feel is the perfect day for me race back to that day, and recapitulate, and record in words everything that is worth remembering from then.


Mr. Shambhu Dutt. A nonagenarian. A freedom fighter. A really young and energetic old man. An invitation to meet him came my way through Colonel Dharmadhikary, who works for Transparency International, the very same organization which has ranked India 87 on an index of corruption, in the derisive company of states like Iran. Colonel was a dapper old man, who made me want to listen to him once he started speaking. He requested me to take out time and visit the office of GSB, to meet a 95 year old young man, fighting against the most ugly form of contemporary social evils- Corruption- much in the Gandhian spirit. Colonel said that a dialogue with the young, concerned blood of the nation will infuse a lot of courage and enthusiasm in the heart of this freedom fighter. It was not an invitation I could deny. And so, on a cold winter morning, I set out with my friend Namit, to honor my commitment of meeting Mr. Shambhu Dutt, not knowing what to expect, and pondering even if it was worth undertaking the effort.


It was not a meeting. It was an experience. This I realized the moment I sat down across the table from this affable person in his late nineties, who gave me a very comprehensive peek into the post independence history of corruption in our nation. The medium of our conversation was the Colonial language- English- and the way he spoke his long monologues, I could only feel like a buffoon for sitting there, taking down notes under the table on his linguistics, rather than the content of his speech. He was an austere man, firmly dedicated to the vision of one day living in an India totally free of the hydra headed monster of corruption. Besides explaining to me their three demands from the government, viz., appointment of an effective Lokpal, confiscation of illegally acquired property and disqualification of candidates seeking to contest election who have a pending criminal case against them, he laced his talks with a lot of inspiring opinions and interesting anecdotes. He expressed his angst on the way the common man today has accepted corruption as way of life, and explained to me and Namit the top-down approach at combating corruption which their organization endorses. He stressed the need for the higher echelons of governance to be transparent, because corruption breeds from higher to lower levels. He gave us a lecture on the recalcitrant attitude of the government to go ahead with any concrete step that would help retard the monster of corruption which has already devoured much of the resources of our economy. He told us several other things which have, unfortunately slipped off my mind.


A lot of times while he was speaking, I could feel several miniscule tremors at various parts on my body, which, I later realized were very visible goosebumps. At other times while he spoke, I felt acute derision for myself when I contrasted my often bleak visions of my own future with this nonagenarian's bright, zealous and enthusiastic hopes from tomorrow. A flippant remark on the impossibility of him being able to celebrate his next birthday made my heart sink a little, but my heart sank a lot more when I could witness in documents the callousness of the Indian administration at administering its own subjects. 


Mr. Shambhu Dutt was a true Gandhian who went on reiterating that it was not possible to ever be a true Gandhian. His earlier name was Shambhu Dutt Sharma, but he renounced his surname in opposition to the caste based atrocities which are rampant in our country. I had never in my dreams imagined that I would ever hear from a freedom fighter himself what having fought in the famous Quit India Movement would have been like. He resigned from administrative services under the British Raj a day after Gandhiji was jailed in QIM. Quite promptly, he too was imprisoned. "Now when I reflect back on it Colonel, I feel it was a very wise thing to do. I would never have been entitled to my freedom fighter's pension had I not gone to jail- the only thing I ever did and was tagged a freedom fighter!"- he gently jests while looking at Colonel who was still accompanying us, in the concluding moments of our rendezvous. 


I smiled at myself, finished my tea, collected a daintily prepared envelope which was given to me as a souvenir from this meeting. While Namit gathered most of the attention because of his composed outlook when the monologues were still going on, I was happy I could make a lot of notes which surely added a great deal to the pool of knowledge I was desiring to create for myself. Colonel thanked us for taking out time and keeping our word. We thanked him back for giving us this experience. It was nothing formal- we both meant every word of gratitude we expressed. 


Upon returning, I sank back in my bed, and started rummaging through the contents of the envelop given to me. It had a lot of documents- letters, publications etc. At the beginning of one of the articles were mentioned the three basics which the Satyagrahis of the GSB swore by-

1. There is no room for untruth or violence in a Satyagraha.
2. In Satyagraha there is no enemy.
3. A Satyagrahi knows no defeat.

The last one sounded like a cool thing to inculcate in myself. So did the second, and may be the first too. 

Suddenly, Gandhi no longer seemed distant, or anachronistic. That night, upon reflecting, I could become a little more perceptive of his influence on the modern polity. The Gandhigiri propounded by Raj Kumar Hirani, no longer seemed only a cinematic concept, or at best, a gimmick. I am still to understand Gandhi, but so far, what I have heard of him sounds good. It sounds good enough to intrigue me into reading a lot more about him. For today, I tried reading about the Gandhian Satyagrahi Brigade on their official website. Along with the above mentioned three basics of a Satyagrahi, a quote by Gandhi adorned the first page of the website. I find it worth sharing.

Corruption will be out one day, however much one may try to conceal it, and the public can, as its right and duty, in every case of justifiable suspicion, call its servants to strict account, dismiss them, sue them in a law court or appoint an arbitrator or inspector to scrutinize their conduct, as it likes.

- Mahatma Gandhi

 (If you feel like, you can read more about this organization run by some really dynamic and young-at-heart concerned citizens of our society-http://gandhiansatyagrahabrigade.org/)

The Earth Shook, My Mind Shook Too

I am still delusional from last night. Had the TV news channels not started corroborating what I experienced about fifteen minutes after the incident, I might have been in a position to dismiss it as a ghoulish dream. Tell me, how easy, or ordinary is it to be suddenly shaken out of your leisure reading time by an earthquake that seemed to last an eternity?

That is precisely what happened with me (and a million other nocturnal swots I presume) last  night at approximately 0200 hours. My room felt analogous to a fragile cardboard box, usurped effortlessly by a giant, who was now shaking it vigorously. My study table moved to and fro, my bed quivered, the keys hanging from my almirah went on clinking ominously- I lost all my wits in that one minute, and worst of all, I had my young sister comfortably sleeping away with the most wonderfully innocent and smug expression on her face. Her face scared me no end.

My heart refused to believe what my eyes were seeing. My mind frankly stated- 'this is it!'. Yes. I feared my building would collapse. And don't blame me for it, or don't dismiss my thoughts as silly. It is the first time I have actually experienced shivering and shaking because of something other than cold. I was stupefied when one of my classmates early in the morning stated that such happenings were as normal as frequent weather changes for her when she lived in Indonesia. All that shaking that went on for an impossible length of time did not scare her. I mean, now how is that humanly possible? I, in that space of time had thought a million things, offered myself consolations (like the epicentre being located far, far away from us- turned out false), said a million prayers. Gosh! I now feel so silly. But, I did not last night. I was very, very serious with everything I was reflecting on in my mind.

So, after ruminating much, once again overtaken by disbelief, I walked (cautiously) towards my parents' room.  My whole body was undergoing convulsions. Even before I could ask my mother to confirm or refute, I switched on the light to check time- their room's precariously balanced clock was oscillating still. I showed it to my mother, warned her, and came back to my room to sleep. Was not able to.

When I switched off the light, and snuggled into my quilt, hugging my own self to stop all that shivering which just refused to leave me, I once again lost myself to my thoughts. My mind no longer was disorderly or scared, it was now only reflecting. So much could have happened in that short duration of time. For that matter, so much can happen in life in just about seconds. None of us is privy to the thought process of Providence, if there does exist anything like that at all. All plans, prudentialities and wishes could have gone extinct then and there. (They might have, for some. I have not really bothered to check the news) How imperative is it then to live here and now? Very. One should not be like me. At all. I should not be like myself. I fret over little moments lost. Little loves lost. At times, I feel, I rummage for reasons to feel sad, or for reasons to start crying. I fret for hours. For days sometimes. The time wasted fretting could be so productively utilized; in my own interest, or in that of the others. Although I forget this momentarily when loaded with excessive psychological pressure, I have earnestly believed that if I could make one extra person smile, I would die a death marginally lesser painful. I fear pain; though not as much as nature. And its elements. My fear for nature has now held onto my for close to a decade. And it stems from one basic cognition- Go on, exploit, be callous; but remember, when Nature dictates, you can only meekly follow. Very, very meekly.

Anyway. So now that is over. I can smile. I cannot stop fretting right away (not that fast a learner), but I can at least instruct myself to get into the process. I can be grateful to existence. I can thank the beautiful like that surrounds me. I can love because tomorrow is not certain. I must not postpone anything beautiful for tomorrow. I must live intensively, live totally, here and now.


And I must share with the readers of my blog the resplendent lines by the great poet- Harivansh Rai 'Bachchan'. These lines were recited to me by Dr. K. H. Singh, my Political Science professor, yesterday at a brief meeting with him.

 जीवन में एक सितारा था
माना वह बेहद प्यारा था
वह डूब गया तो डूब गया
अंबर के आनन  को देखो
कितने इसके तारे टूटे
कितने इसके प्यारे छूटे
जो छूट गए फ़िर कहाँ मिले
पर बोलो टूटे तारों पर
कब अंबर शोक मनाता है
जो बीत गई सो बात ग

जीवन में वह था एक कुसुम
थे उस पर नित्य निछावर तुम
वह सूख गया तो सूख गया
मधुबन की छाती को देखो
सूखी कितनी इसकी कलियाँ
मुरझाईं कितनी वल्लरियाँ
जो मुरझाईं फ़िर कहाँ खिलीं
पर बोलो सूखे फूलों पर
कब मधुबन शोर मचाता है

जो बीत गई सो बात गई

जीवन में मधु का प्याला था
तुमने तन मन दे डाला था
वह टूट गया तो टूट गया
मदिरालय का आंगन देखो
कितने प्याले हिल जाते हैं
गिर मिट्टी में मिल जाते हैं
जो गिरते हैं कब उठते हैं
पर बोलो टूटे प्यालों पर
कब मदिरालय पछताता है

जो बीत गई सो बात गई

मृदु मिट्टी के बने हुए हैं
मधु घट फूटा ही करते हैं
लघु जीवन ले कर आए हैं
प्याले टूटा ही करते हैं
फ़िर भी मदिरालय के अन्दर
मधु के घट हैं,मधु प्याले हैं
जो मादकता के मारे हैं
वे मधु लूटा ही करते हैं
वह कच्चा पीने वाला है
जिसकी ममता घट प्यालों पर
जो सच्चे मधु से जला हुआ
कब रोता है चिल्लाता है
जो बीत गई सो बात गई