Wednesday, 11 November 2015

मुग़ालते

हर इक शख़्स के छुपे कई राज़ थे
दिल-ए-गद्दार में दफ़्न कई राज़ थे

मुग़ालतों में जीते रहे ज़िन्दगी
अपनों से कहाँ हम नाराज़ थे
दिल-ए-गद्दार में दफ़्न कई राज़ थे

जो बना सो  किया हमने बेफ़िक्र
फ़िर उन्हें क्यों लगा कि हम धोकेबाज़ थे
दिल-ए-गद्दार में दफ़्न कई राज़ थे

बस रुक गए राही जब उनकी ख्वाहिश हो गयी
जब अकेले ही थे हम भी बहुत जाँबाज़ थे
दिल-ए-गद्दार में दफ़्न कई राज़ थे

वो सुलगती है रुक रुक के आज भी
चिंगारी भड़की थी जो जब आपके ख़ास थे
दिल-ए-गद्दार में दफ़्न कई राज़ थे

हर इक शख़्स के छुपे कई राज़ थे
दिल-ए-गद्दार में दफ़्न कई राज़ थे

-- राही

Thursday, 5 November 2015

चाँद को पा सकूँ बस, मैंने छोटा सा ख्वाब देखा है

वो जो निकले थे चुपचाप से ,ढककर नक़ाब देखा है
वक़्त के साथ साथ  ज़माने को ,होते बे नक़ाब देखा है

ना क़ाबिल से हौले हौले हो गए वाइज़ वही
कुछ सीखें बड़ों ने दीं ,कुछ अपने आप देखा है
वक़्त के साथ साथ  ज़माने को ,होते बे नक़ाब देखा है

मानते हैं आसान नहीं राही ,आसमान को बांधना
चाँद को पा सकूँ बस, मैंने छोटा सा ख्वाब देखा है
वक़्त के साथ साथ  ज़माने को ,होते बे नक़ाब देखा है

जुस्तुजू ही जुस्तुजू है,  उफनते थर्राते सवाल
राह में टकरा गया मुस्कुराता जवाब देखा है
वक़्त के साथ साथ  ज़माने को, होते बे नक़ाब देखा है

किसी पत्थर में नहीं न किसी ताबीज़ में
अपने अंदर झाँककर रहीम -ओ-राम आज देखा है
वक़्त के साथ साथ  ज़माने को ,होते बे नक़ाब देखा है

ना कर मुक़द्दर को बदनाम आये दिन राही यूँही
अपनी हथेली पे लिखते प्यादे को तख़्त-ओ-ताज देखा है
वक़्त के साथ साथ  ज़माने को ,होते बे नक़ाब देखा है

चाँद को पा सकूँ बस, मैंने छोटा सा ख्वाब देखा है

Monday, 20 July 2015

Between the Pages



This is why she stopped writing. She is not good at keeping balance. It was always hard for her to get in. Always took bit of time to get into it.. but coming out was even harder. Always. 
She could have written something wonderful in her life, but sometimes good things have bad side effects. 
Her writings were one good thing about her, but she was more than that. She was a good person. 
What is a blessing for one, can be a curse for another. 

I do it often, reading her notebook. Though I never disclosed this to her, I think she knows. Maybe. 
Maybe we both know, what we don't say. 
And we both like to keep it this way.

"...As he puts his hand on her shoulder, knowing that she will be shocked, he kept quiet and just held his breath so that he could see every detail of her reaction. 
He had planned everything well and waited for this moment.. and needless to say, it was like years of wait for this moment to arrive!

She was in her usual tired state, long working hours of newly joined office had only added to her emotional and physical stress. Stepping out of that large gate, cold and moist air brushing her hairs and face, she encountered that unexpected touch on shoulder. 
Something familiar, something close to her, someone... behind her.. She shivered at that very instant. Her face flushed red. That was quick, fraction of seconds when fear, shock and the familiarity struck her together..

Her heartbeats fastened as she turned. She felt like something choked her and she tried to swallow, her throat dried.. and at the same instant her eyes met with his... And no! She was not shocked... She was stunned! Stunned to see him standing in front of her. 

They had never felt anything so strong. So many strong emotions together.. They said nothing. The energy spoke. The feelings radiated from them, were visible through the eyes. So many questions asked, everything seemed to be answered."
Last night, I found it. She always mentioned about something in her notebook. Something like a book or a novel I used to think. It was a Diary. The diary was nothing but a book that she was writing. I found it. Her imaginations. Her dreams. Or maybe both. Or maybe none. I am unable to find out exactly what it is.

She imagines something, writes it and dreams of it OR She dreams of something, writes it and starts imagining in real life. Whatever it was, it was beautiful. Very strong. I wonder how can someone imagine something or dream of something so strong. 

I read in her notebook how much she was troubled after writing this in her diary. She said that she literally felt someone behind her, the evening after the night she wrote this page. 
Whatever she wrote, it happened to her. In real or in the virtual, she couldn't figure out. She described how people behave with her because of her strange activities. 

I feel bad for this obsession of hers. Her diary and her notebook.. these are not just two.. there is something between that. Something more than what's written. She trespassed the boundary. The contour which separated her two lives. One that was outwardly and one that was inside her. Both were important. They completed her.

Pages missing from one, were found in another.

--Coauthored  - Neha & Raahi

Thursday, 23 April 2015

सुकूं

अंधियारी रात में
काले आसमान को ताकना,
अच्छा लगता है ।

वो बवाल-ए-दुनिया-ओ-बाज़ार
और ये सुकूं ये सन्नाटा
अच्छा लगता है ।

यूँ तो कई हैं रास्ते में एहतराम करने वाले ,
इन अनजानों की भीड़ में, आपका ख़याल-ए-करीब
अच्छा लगता है ।

वो बवाल-ए-दुनिया-ओ-बाज़ार
और ये सुकूं ये सन्नाटा
अच्छा लगता है ।

कुछ नहीं रहा बाकी मगर मेरे वास्ते, बस वो पुरानी दास्ताँ,
आपके लिखे खतों का था कभी मैं ही नसीब
अच्छा लगता है ।

वो बवाल-ए-दुनिया-ओ-बाज़ार
और ये सुकूं ये सन्नाटा
अच्छा लगता है ।

मैं मानता हूँ है बहुत दूर मुझसे चाँद, फ़िर भी,
पाना, झील के आँचल में पिघलता हुआ उसका तसव्वुर
अच्छा लगता है ।

वो बवाल-ए-दुनिया-ओ-बाज़ार
और ये सुकूं ये सन्नाटा
अच्छा लगता है ।

वस्ल हासिल, अंजाम-ए-मोहब्बत का 'राही' होता कहाँ,
ये इबादत-ए-इंतज़ार और दरमियान-ए-फ़ासला
अच्छा लगता है ।

वो बवाल-ए-दुनिया-ओ-बाज़ार
और ये सुकूं ये सन्नाटा
अच्छा लगता है ।

चाहे ठुकरा दे ज़माना या बने मेरा रक़ीब
दीवानगी में कोई मंज़र, और कोई भी फ़साना
अच्छा लगता है ।

वो बवाल-ए-दुनिया-ओ-बाज़ार
और ये सुकूं ये सन्नाटा
अच्छा लगता है ।

अश्क़ गिरते देखे हैं सर-ए-आइना मैंने मगर,
वो आपका चुप चाप, चुपके से फ़िर मुस्कुराना
अच्छा लगता है ।

वो बवाल-ए-दुनिया-ओ-बाज़ार
और ये सुकूं ये सन्नाटा
अच्छा लगता है ।

किस बात पे जाने हो रहा ये तमाशा-ओ-फ़साद
किसी की मंज़िल मस्ज़िद तक, तो किसी को मयख़ाना
अच्छा लगता है ।

वो बवाल-ए-दुनिया-ओ-बाज़ार
और ये सुकूं ये सन्नाटा
अच्छा लगता है ।

अंधियारी रात में
काले आसमान को ताकना,
अच्छा लगता है ।

Tuesday, 21 April 2015

क़ैद

वो नयी दीवानगी थी, और नया सिलसिला था
अब कहाँ फ़िर चलेगा जो चला वो सिलसिला था ॥

याद तो आता है कुछ कुछ, धुंधला धुंधला सा तसव्वुर
हाँ ज़रा सी देर को, वो कभी मुझसे मिला था ।

अब कहाँ फ़िर चलेगा जो चला वो सिलसिला था ॥

अब तो हम भी क़ैद  में हैं, और तुम भी क़ैद  में
 क़ैद - ए - आदत में ख्याल, बंद पिंजरे में मिला था ।

अब कहाँ फ़िर चलेगा जो चला वो सिलसिला था ॥

आवारा अनजान सड़कों पे दर-ब-दर फ़िरता तो हूँ
पर कहीं मिलता नहीं, वो ख्वाब जो दिल में खिला था ।

अब कहाँ फ़िर चलेगा जो चला वो सिलसिला था ॥

'राही ' कुछ न बोलिये, आईये और कीजिये
दफ़्न मेरे साथ ही, जो कोई शिक़वा ग़िला था ।

अब कहाँ फ़िर चलेगा जो चला वो सिलसिला था ॥

वो नयी दीवानगी थी, और नया सिलसिला था
अब कहाँ फ़िर चलेगा जो चला वो सिलसिला था ॥

Wednesday, 11 March 2015

ख्वाब

एक ख्वाब देखा था
कल रात को मैंने
तुम आयीं थीं
मुझसे मिलने को ।

अपनी लाल बाहें फ़ैलाकर
सूरज
समेत रहा है सारा आकाश

ताकि रात के अंधेरे  में
चाँद
मुस्कुरा सके तुम पर

और चुपचाप झाँक सकें
तारे
आँख मिचोली कर फ़िर, छुप  जाएं

जब तुम
और जब तुम छत पर आओ,
चांदनी का नक़ाब  ओढ़े

मुझसे
हाँ ! मुझसे मिलने को ।

तुम  आयीं थीं
मुझसे मिलने को ।
कल रात को मैंने
एक ख्वाब देखा था ।

Tuesday, 21 October 2014

The Suicide Note

He felt the cold metal on his temple. The man in all black with a mask, pulled a revolver on him. The same kind he owned. Smith and Wesson model 500, single action - double action large caliber revolver firing the .500 S&W cartridge, a 0.50 caliber bullet capable of blowing his brains off.

 He was scared; of dying. He was shivering and unable to muster courage to even speak. "What do.. do you want ? Money ?", he mumbled finally. "Get up, and move to your study.", ordered the man with the gun. "Get Up!", the man said strongly after a pause.

It was dark in the study. It was three o'clock in the night. The dawn yet not broken and clouds in the sky keeping moonlight away. The man pushed him on his office chair. The chair, in which he sat like a king and made deals, but he was timid today. He did not feel as if it was his study. The man took the seat opposite to him, still pointing the gun towards him. "Is this about some business ?", he inquired meekly. The man pulled the cable out of the shiny golden colored classic phone. Locked the drawer and threw the key away. "Relax.", the man said. "We are just going to talk", he informed further. The man stood from the chair and moved to the bar table near the wall in the room. The man deeply studied , the painting above the bar and then poured some whiskey in two glasses. "This will help you relax and think clearly", the man said as he gave a glass to him and took a sip from his.

"What is this all about ? What do you want from me ?", he said, now relaxed in his chair as he drank his whiskey. "Please tell me clearly", he reiterated.

"I am going to kill you", the man declared. "After we have a brief discussion", the man followed. "You will write a note, and then I will free you of all your despair.", the man spoke.

"Note! What note ? ", he asked. 

"The Suicide Note", cleared the man. "And you will write it as we have this conversation. So pick up a good pen and the best paper you have because this is the best thing you'd have ever signed.", ordered the man.

He tried to read the man's eyes, but they were stern. They gave nothing away. He had done this all his life. Sat on that chair of his, read people whom he dealt with and pretend to be the way they wanted him to be. Sometimes in life one has to speak what others want to hear. That's how life is he had always thought.

"Why do you want to die?",  questioned the man. "Who are you ? You know nothing about me and what makes you think that I want to die ?", he countered agitated.

"I am whatever you are.", established the man. "And I know more about you than yourself", the man finished. "Now write what I ask you to write and you will know, how much I know about you.", dictated the man.

The man gave the dictation and he wrote. He was no more scared. He felt as if he met his best friend who knew his deepest feelings. He didn't ask a single question and just wrote. He knew that as soon as the writing is over, the man will shoot him. He waited for it. He wanted it.

"I am finished.", stated the man. "Do you want to add anything?"

"No.", he said. "Just shoot me and get this done. One more thing. Take that mask away before you do that. I want to know the face of the person who's going to kill me.", he added.

The man picked up the revolver and aimed at his head with trembling hands. They weren't as still as when the man didn't intend to pull the trigger. The man took his mask off and pulled the trigger.

The dawn is breaking. The birds starting to sing early morning songs. The sun will slowly rise. He raises his head trying to look out of the window from the slight gap of the curtains. Then he looks at the clock. It is half past five o'clock in the morning. He is shocked, confused and relieved; all at the same time. He can not remember anything but the incidence of the night. That too vaguely. He feels he was with someone. But he is not sure who.

"Who was the man?", he thinks.

 He looks at his table. There are two glasses of whiskey and a glass bottle with eagle on the cap, all empty. One glass is empty and the other is full. His revolver is on the table and the wall on the side has a hole that only a bullet could make. He gets up from his chair, opens the window to allow some fresh air which he needed desperately. Some thing on the table fluttered as the morning breeze entered the room. There lay a note on the best bond paper that he had. He picks it up, goes to the window and reads it.

The Suicide Note

I am not killing myself. I am only adding the finality to it. The series of murders needs to end. Ever since I grew up and started to deal with the world, I had to murder. Dreams, values, morals, emotions, loyalty, honesty and many more are the victims of the world's selfish nature. I am not dying. I am only cremating what is left of me.

The world is a killer. Everyday, everywhere, we stare at our selves in the mirror, directly into the eyes, straight in and kills ourselves. We leave our souls behind and everything that is truly ours to get ready to deal with the world. To get for ourselves what belongs to the world. If we'd not, the world is waiting to kill us. The world is a soul-eater.

And when we return, to the confines of ours, that we call home, we want to be alive again. We sometimes are. In that happiness we forget the crimes we've committed. Perhaps, we want to hide it. We dismiss the reality totally and go into our shells. 

The weapon used in these murders is more dangerous than the revolver the man holds. The poison of the ability to pretend. Pretence is what it is. What makes the world appear, that it is not. What makes us appear what we are not. 

We all speak of means. The world speaks of means. But in reality, it's only concern is the end. The end is that matters to all of us, yet we pretend to be concerned about the means. Isn't the means an end in itself. And they say that the end justifies the means. 

My attempt at life was not a successful one, so I'd rather succeed at death.

The world only remembers us for what we are successful at, and not what we attempt.

To the lost,
Cheers

He feels relaxed to be alive. He feels better and lighter as if some weight is off his head. He wonders who the man was. He can't stop thinking who the man was. He looks into his reflection in the window glass and now he can remember the man's face.

He smiles and thinks "I was the Man".