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,

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".

Thursday, 24 July 2014

|| कहानी - सवाल ||

पहले पहर, काला आसमान
चमकता चन्द्रमा, घोर सुनसान
सबके स्वप्न, सब सोते थे
पर वो क्यों जाग जाती थी ?

दो पहर की तेज़ धूप
जलता सूरज, विनाश रूप
सब ढूंढ़ के छाया छिप जाते थे
पर वो क्यों दिन में जलता था ?

सुहानी शाम का मज़ा
आकाश कई रंगों से सजा
सब रेत के महल बनाते थे
पर वो क्यों चूल्हे में तपती थी ?

छत पे औंधे - सीधे लेटकर
बदरयी आँखों से चीरकर
सब तारे गिना करते थे
पर वो क्यों हिसाब लगाता था ?

ये एक दिन की बात नहीं
एक मौसम का जज़्बात नहीं
सब यूँही पहर बिताते थे
और साल बीत जाता था ।

बाप की है, माँ की है
अभी कहानी बाकी है
सब के लिए करते करते
जब बुढ़ापा सा आ जाता है ।

तब मौसम निकलने से पहले
ये पहले , वो पहले , तुम पहले
सब बहस बतोले  करते हैं
और साल भी बांटा जाता है ।

इसकी बारी , उसकी बारी
माँ बाप बने ज़िम्मेदारी
'राही' देख तमाशा करते हैं
दिल में सवाल वही फिर आते हैं ।

पर माँ क्यों जाग जाती थी ?
पर बाप क्यों दिन में जलता था ?
पर माँ क्यों चूल्हे में तपती  थी ?
पर बाप क्यों हिसाब लगता था ?
कैसे पहर पहर , दिन  दिन ?
कैसे मौसम, कैसे साल ?
जाने कैसे सारी उमर
एक जोड़ा, सबका ज़िम्मा उठाता था ?
 क्यों सब का ज़िम्मा उठाता था ?

जब सब ज़िम्मा बांटा करते हैं ?
क्यों सब ज़िम्मा बांटा करते हैं ?

 -- राही

Friday, 18 April 2014


आए थे मगर वो लौट के जाने के लिए
जला तो था चिराग लेकिन बुझ जाने के लिए ॥

वो फ़रिश्ता था जो आया था बनाने मुझको
 क्यों मिट रहा है खुद मुझे बनाने के लिए  ॥

जाते जाते भी नयी सीख मुझको देता है
कोई रहता नहीं 'राही' ज़माने के लिए ॥

पुछा करते हैं ख़ैरियत मेरे जानने वाले
मुस्कुरा देता हूँ मैं बस ग़म छुपाने के लिए ॥

कभी तोड़ के देखो फ़रेब का आईना
जगह ढूँढ़ते होगे चेहरा छुपाने के लिए ॥

मेरे ख्वाबों को सलीका कभी न आया
लूटा दूंगा मैं सब कुछ उसे पाने के लिए ॥

आये थे मगर वो लौट के जाने के लिए 

-- राही 

Sunday, 23 March 2014

|| मुन्तज़िर ||

उन आँखों की चमक में कोई दर्द छुपा बैठा था 
जिसको ढूँढतीं थीं वो, ना जाने कहाँ बैठा था ॥ 

मुन्तज़िर ये दिल, उनके दीदार के लिए 
चुपचाप देखता, अपना चैंन गवां बैठा था ।
जिसको ढूँढतीं थीं वो, ना जाने कहाँ बैठा था ॥ 

मुसलसल चल रहा था ये, सिलसिला इक अर्से से 
ये दर्द मीठा सा, लब-ए-ग़ज़ल बन बैठा था । 
जिसको ढूँढतीं थीं वो, ना जाने कहाँ बैठा था ॥

वो चाँद सीं माना, राही उनकी मोहब्बत में 
होकर के दीवाना, दिल बादल बन बैठा था । 
जिसको ढूँढतीं थीं वो, ना जाने कहाँ बैठा था  ॥ 

झूठ कहते हैं कि इश्क़ आग का दरिया है 
मौत आयी तो, ये दिल उनके दामन में बैठा था । 

उन आँखों की चमक में कोई दर्द छुपा बैठा था
जिसको ढूँढतीं थीं वो, ना जाने कहाँ बैठा था ॥
 -- राही

Tuesday, 18 February 2014

|| मेरे संग चलने वाले ||

मुझको वीराना दे गए बेढंग चलने वाले
मेरा साथ देने आये थे मेरे संग चलने वाले ॥

आहिस्ता पिघला किया मेरे उसूलों का पहाड़
और मुझपे हंस रहे हैं उसपे चढ़ने  वाले ।
मेरा साथ देने आये थे मेरे संग चलने वाले ॥

अपनी अदायें  भी कभी कातिलाना थीं रफ़ीक
आज मुझको मारते हैं मुझपे मरने वाले ।
मेरा साथ देने आये थे मेरे संग चलने वाले ॥

हूँ आवारगी के नशे में बेख़ुद मैं ज़रूर
हैं आईने से बेखबर मुझे ताज़ीर करने वाले ।
मेरा साथ देने आये थे मेरे संग चलने वाले ॥

मेरी कबर पे आइयेगा मुस्कुराकर ऐ हुज़ूर
मुझको 'राही'  नापसंद आंसू बहाने वाले ।
मेरा साथ देने आये थे मेरे संग चलने वाले ॥


Wednesday, 29 January 2014

|| इंसान ||

मुझको न दे भरोसा इस मुकद्दर का
मानता है तू जिसे, है ख़ुदा वो पत्थर का ॥

इन्साफ की बातें न कर ज़ोरों शोरों से
देखा है ईमान भी, मैंने तेरे अंदर का ॥

देखने में गाढ़ा कोई, कोई हल्का सा
एक ही रंग मानले तू नीला, समंदर का ॥

इंसान ही की औलाद है 'राही' सब कोई
मौलवी हो चाहे कोई, पंडा मंदिर का ॥

मुझको सिखाने आए हैं वाईज़ ज़माने के
इल्म जिनको  नहीं, बेखुद तसव्वुर का ॥

 हर कदम आवारगी से क्या हुआ हासिल
अब करूँ क्या बयां, जन्नत के मंज़र का ॥

मुझको न दे भरोसा इस मुकद्दर का
मानता है तू जिसे, है ख़ुदा वो पत्थर का ॥

-- राही