Being stupid once again

Being stupid once again

published on our reunion day 21-11-14 HT Alld

Memory acts a juggler as it tosses up images, catches them for a fleeting moment to toss up as another replaces it. Teary eyed 4-5 years olds not letting go of our parents’ fingers, chaperoned to our seats gently, the first friendships and exchanges of rubbers and pencils, teachers whose memories are so vivid for a variety of reasons, kneel downs, canes of varying thicknesses, the goose bumps on the calls from the principal’s office, catching tadpoles in the tiffin boxes from the flooded field after the monsoon rains, throwing up paranthas and watching with glee the kites diving to catch them in their beaks… they just go on and on and render the intervening years redundant. There have, of course, been those  Wordsworthian moments in which we could say- ‘But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din/ Of towns and cities, I have owed to them/ In hours of weariness, sensations sweet …’, but, the feeling that 25 years have passed since      then makes it the more poignant. 

            Did we realize that day- the last day of our ISC examination when we wrote ISC BATCH 1989 and IIS (an acronym only the batch knows) on the street in front of the iconic Bhargava Book Shop and lit- it up to watch the flames jump up- that this crowd would be future civil servants, armed forces officers, doctors, engineers, management specialists…giving their best in serving our country and society? Were we aware that days of being stupid without giving a fig to the world were over? 

We - the St. Joseph’s College ISC 1989 batch – meet again, on the 25th year of our passing out of the hallowed edifice. With twinkles in the eyes we shall espy those steps and recollect the languorous winter lunch time spent sitting there while others played a game exclusive to this institution-- ‘steps’, look for the tree whose fruits were called ‘the monkey fruit’, talk about the taste of Roshan’s canteen, show to our spouses our classrooms whose desks bore the name of the then flames accompanied by  the mandatory symbol of a  heart pierced by an arrow, brag to the kids how disciplined we were and thus try to recreate those 12 years which seemed so long then but now so short that we all would love to lengthen them to eternity. For where else one can afford to be stupid than among old friends?

एहसास- published on the literary page of Daink Jagran 10-11-14

http://epaper.jagran.com/ePaperArticle/10-nov-2014-edition-Delhi-City-page_17-4581-4351-4.html

एहसास

निस्सीम फैला ऊसर और उस पर पसरी बैसाख की अंतहीन धूप। यह मेरे जनपद का सुदूर वह क्षेत्र था जहॉ से नगर को उसके विकास के लिए मिलती थी ईंट और, श्रमिक। उस कठिन स्थान पर हुयी थी मेरी तैनाती। मन में कितनी प्रसन्नता थी जब सरकारी विद्यालय मंे शिक्षिका की नौकरी मिली, कितना उत्साह! उत्साह मात्र नौकरी मिलने का नहीं बल्कि उस आत्मविश्वास का , उस आशावाद का जो युवावस्था को परिभाषित करता है।

विद्यालय शहर में मेरे निवास स्थान से लगभग 30 किलोमीटर दूर था। बस तथा टैम्पो यात्रा के बाद लगभग एक किलोमीटर की पदयात्रा कर वहाँ पहुचना होता था। बहुत कुछ करने की इच्छा थी और विश्वास था उन नकारात्मक स्थितियों को बदल देने की जो हम सुनते, पढ़ते रहते है। यह केवल अपने दायित्वों के बोध के कारण नहीं था वरन् मन में छोटे बच्चों के प्रति स्वाभाविक स्नेह के कारण भी था।

वास्तविक विद्यालयीय व्यवस्था और शिक्षा तन्त्र से मेरा प्रथम साक्षात्कार-  दो कक्षीय, चहारदिवारी विहीन भवन; कुछ दूर पर एक हैण्डपम्प और पास ही शौचालय, जिसके दरवाजों पर ताला जड़ा था। बुजुर्ग प्रधानाध्यापक ने मेरे अभिवादन का उत्तर दिया और एक कुर्सी पर बैठने का इशारा किया। आवाज सुनकर बगल के कक्ष से एक और अध्यापिका आ गयीं। परिचय हुआ तो मालूम चला कि प्रधानाध्यापक सेवा निवृत्त होने वाले है, और मेरी साथी अध्यापिका भी शहर से ही आती हैं जहाँ उनके पति सरकारी अधिकारी थे।

‘‘ चलो बहुत अच्छा हुआ कि तुम यहां आ गयी,’’ उन्होंने कहा, ‘‘ मैं तो सोच रही थी हेडमास्टर साहब के रिटायरमेन्ट के बाद कैसे चलेगा। इतना तो काम है- पंजिकायंे तैयार करना, ढे़र सारे व्ययों का हिसाब-किताब रखना, मध्याहन भोजन, यूनिफार्म, न जाने क्या क्या और दिक्कते? बाथरूम तक तो है नहीं’’, वो बोलती ही जा रही थी। ‘‘ बच्चे कितने है?,’’ मैने पूछा क्योंकि विभिन्न उम्र के मुश्किल से 10 बच्चे ही बाहर मैदान में दिख रहे थे। बताया गया कि है तो 100 बच्चे नामांकित परन्तु इन दिनों विवाह-लग्न और गेंहू कटाई का समय होने के कारण बहुत कम बच्चे विद्यालय आ रहे हैं।

मैने अपने चारो ओर देखा- चमक खोती, बेरंग होती सफेद दीवारें जिन पर कुछ आदर्श वाक्य लिखे थे। सचमुच, टैगोर का विवरण- ‘‘ बेयर व्हाइट वाल्स स्टेयरिंग लाइक आई-बाल्स ऑफ द डेड (मृतक की आँखों की तरह घूरती सूनी सफेद दीवारें)- कितना सटीक बैठता था। आज भी!

‘‘ असल में पढ़ने में इनका मन ही नहीं लगता’’, साथी अध्यापिका ने कहा। ‘‘ लाख समझाओं, पाठ समझ में ही नहीं आता, ‘‘प्रधानाध्यापक ने जोड़ा। मैने उड़ती सी नजर बाहर डाली। किचेन-शेड में मध्याहन भोजन की तैयारी प्रारम्भ हो रही थी। कुछ बच्चें वहीं ताक-झांक कर रहे थे।‘‘ कितने ही बच्चे होंगे जिनका दिन का प्रथम भोजन यही मध्याहन-भोजन होता होगा,’’ मैंने सोचा। मास्लो की आवश्यकता-पदानुक्रम का ख्याल न जाने क्यों अचानक आ गया।

विद्यालय का समय हो चला था। हम सब बाहर चले आये, प्रार्थना जो होनी थी। बच्चों की संख्या 40 के आस पास हो चली थी। विद्यालयीय परिधान में बच्चे आड़ी-तिरछी लगी बटनंे, हाथों में झोला (जिसमें किताबों के साथ किसी-किसी में थाली भी दिख रही थी) और कई उस गर्म मौसम में भी नंगे पैर पंक्तियों में खड़े थे।

प्रार्थना के बाद बच्चे दो कक्षा कक्षों में अपने आप चले गये। मेरे कक्षा-कक्ष में कक्षा 1 और 2 के कुल 15 बच्चे थे टाट-पट्टी पर बैठे हुये। ‘गुड-मार्निंग’ के समवेत स्वर ने मेरा स्वागत किया। अंग्रेजी में अभिवादन का अपना अलग ही प्रभाव होता है।  अंग्रेजी का उपयोग न जाने क्यों सुनने वाले को बोलने वाले में ज्ञान का आभास देने लगता है, मैने मन ही मन चुटकी ली। बच्चों की आँखों में मेरे प्रति कोई आकर्षण का भाव नहीं था, हाँ जिज्ञासा अवश्य दिख रही थी। मैने बोला- ‘‘तुम लोग मुझे जानते हो’’? कुछ ने ‘नहीं’ में गर्दन हिलायी, कुछ बस ताकते रहे और शेष अपने में मस्त थे। मैने उन्हें बताया कि मैं उनकी नयी अध्यापिका हूँ। बच्चों के परिचय से मैंने प्रारम्भ किया। उनमें अधिकतर लड़कियाँ थीं। भाइयों के बारे में पूछने पर मालूम हुआ कि कई उसी गाँव के प्राइवेट विद्यालयों में पढ़ते हैं। सौ प्रतिशत नामांकन का एक पक्ष यह भी है, मुझे मालूम चला। सभी बच्चे आस-पास के क्षेत्र के थे और लगभग सभी के माता-पिता मजदूरी करते थे अथवा गाँव में ही अपने छोटे-मोटे काम से अपनी जीविका चलाते थे।

    शिक्षा सत्र का अन्तिम पक्ष चल रहा था अतः मुझे लगता था कि कुछ नया तो पढ़ाना नहीं है बल्कि पूर्व में पढ़ाये गये पाठों की पुनरावृत्ति ही कराना है। पहले से सोची गयी रूप रेखा के अनुसार कार्य आरम्भ किया। परन्तु स्थिति अच्छी नहीं थी। अक्षर ज्ञान अति न्यून- पहचानने की ही समस्या थी, लेखन तो दूर की कौड़ी थी। मैं बच्चों के पास जाकर उनकी पुस्तकें और कॉपी देखने लगी। ऐसा नहीं था कि उन्हें वर्ष भर पढ़ाया ही नहीं गया था, क्योंकि अभ्यास पुस्तिकाओं तथा कापियों पर कुछ कार्य किये गये थे और उन्हें जांचा भी गया था। परन्तु सम्भवतः ऐसा इसलिए था कि शिक्षा अभियान के प्रयासों से इनमें से अधिकतर बच्चे अपने-अपने परिवारों की पहली पीढ़ी थे, जो शिक्षा की डेहरी पर कदम रखे थे। स्वाभाविक है कि घर पर इनका मार्गदर्शन करने वाला कोई नहीं होगा। माँ-बाप यदि थोड़ा बहुत पढ़े लिखे भी होंगे तो भी दिन भर की हाड़-तोड़ मेहनत के बाद यह संभव नहीं होगा कि वे यह देख सकें कि बच्चे कुछ पढ़ लिख रहे हैं या नहीं।

   बस्तों में बिना कवर चढ़ी पुस्तकें ( कुछ बोध के अभाव में, और कुछ अखबारी कागज के अभाव में ), मुड़ी-तुड़ी पन्नों वाली नोट बुक, खेलने के लिए गिट्टियाँ और कंचे, सस्ती पेन्सिलों ............... यही सब था। देखते-देखते उस प्यारी सी, छोटी से लड़की के पास पंहुची जो कक्षा में सबसे शान्त और थोड़ा अलग सी बैठी थी- एक झोले में ठीक से रखी पुस्तकें और एक पुरानी डायरी, जिसे कॉपी के रूप में प्रयोग किया जा रहा था। अरे वाह! इसमे तो उसने ढे़रों चित्र बना रखे थे। चित्र, जो यह बताने के लिए बहुत थे कि उसमें चित्रकारी की विशेष प्रतिभा थी। पूछने पर बताया कि उसके पिता कुम्हार हैं और माँ बरतनों पर चित्रकारी करती है और, यह भी कि, उसे भी चित्र बनाना अच्छा लगता है। "तुम इतनी छोटी हो, इतने सुन्दर चित्र कैसे बना लेती हो "?  मेरे प्रशंसा-सिक्त प्रश्न पर उसने बाल सुलभ शर्म के साथ प्यारी सी मुस्कान दी, आँखों में आ रहे अपने बालों को हाथ से पीछे कर अवधी में बोली- " जब नाय आवत तो हमार अम्मा अंगुरी पकिड़ के बनवावथीं "। 

           मैं चित्रों को ध्यान से देख रही थी- नदी पहाड़ युक्त सीनरी, पशु-पक्षी, चाक पर कुम्हार, डाक्टर... मैने पूछा- ‘अरे! टीचर का तुमने कोई चित्र नहीं बनाया?’ उसने ‘नहीं ’ में गर्दन हिलाई। आखिर क्यों, मैंने पूछा, ‘‘ क्या तुम्हें अध्यापक अच्छे नहीं लगते?’’ उसने फिर से ‘नहीं’ में गर्दन हिलाई। ‘‘क्यों नहीं अच्छे लगते? मैंने आश्चर्य से मुस्कुराते हुए पूछा। और वो- जैसे बरस पड़ी- ‘‘ काहे कि, मैडम जी तो पियार करतिन नाहीं। छूबौ नाहीं करतिन। एक दिन दौड़त-दौड़त हम गिर ग रहे, खून निकलत रहा तो दूरै से कहत रहिन- ‘उठाओ उठाओ’। एकौ पग नाहीं बढ़िन। डाक्टर मुला पियार से हाथ पकिड़ के चुप कराइन, जरकौ दर्द नाहिं भा दवा लगाइन...’’ वो बोलती जा रही थी और सभी बच्चे हम दोनों को ध्यान से  देख रहे थे. स्नेहिल स्पर्श का महत्व जो बड़े-बड़े व्याख्यान नहीं स्पष्ट कर सके थे वो मेरे अन्दर तक पैठता जा रहा था. बचपन की स्मृतियों में सम्मिलित हाथ पकड़ कर अक्षर लिखना सिखाने वाली , अच्छा लिखने पर गाल छूकर शाबासी देने वाली और खराब लिखने पर प्यार भरी डांट पिलाने वाली टीचर का चित्र आँखों के सामने आ गया. ‘चाइल्ड-सेन्ट्रिक’,‘ चाइल्ड-फ्रेन्डली’ जैसे शब्द हवा में तैर रहे थे पर ‘चाइल्ड- लविंग’ कहीं दिख नहीं रहा था ! और मेरे मन में, बार-बार यह प्रश्न आ रहा था कि, कहीं ऐसा  तो नहीं कि, इन विद्यालयों में शिक्षक और विद्यार्थियों के बीच सामाजिक-आर्थिक अन्तर हमें ‘ह्यूमेन’, यानी इस सोपान में अपने से नीचे के प्रति दयावान और ‘पेट्रन’, होने का भाव तो ले आने कि अनुमति देता है परन्तु, ’अफेक्शनेट’ या स्नेहमयी होने के पहले ही ठिठक जाता है ?

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स्कन्द शुक्ल

 दैनिक जागरण के साहित्य पृष्ठ 'पुनर्नवा' पर

१० नवम्बर २०१४ को प्रकाशित ।

The Arizona shock — mixing memory with desire

http://paper.hindustantimes.com/epaper/iphone/showpage.aspx?issue=89332014102400000000001001&page=5&returnUrl=http%253a%252f%252fpaper.hindustantimes.com%252fepaper%252fiphone%252fhomepage.aspx%2523_title89332014102400000000001001%252fwatitle89332014102400000000001001%252f8933%252f89332014102400000000001001%252f5%252ftrue&x=-0.4662379421221865&y=-0.19305856832971802

10/24/2014 Hindustan Times e-Paper

http://paper.hindustantimes.com/epaper/viewer.aspx 1/3  

SKAND SHUKLA The writer is an officer of the education services of UP. He is currently on training at the Arizona

State University, USA. The views expressed by the author are personal.

10/24/2014 Hindustan Times e-Paper

http://paper.hindustantimes.com/epaper/viewer.aspx 2/3

The Arizona shock — mixing memory with desire

And we thought that we were on visit to the most advanced countries in the world! The campus shocked us. Yes true, before the beginning of our training at the largest public University of the USA - the Arizona University- we had been given an orientation on the culture shock we could feel because of our first encounter with an unfamiliar way of life here. But then, that was all about clothes and manners and language. They hadn’t prepared us for this - something that would make us feel so uncomfortable as Eliot in The Waste Land described: ‘…mixing/Memory and desire…’. How can one feel otherwise when all one could see around were clean, empty roads with walkers and cyclists? No bikes, no SUVs in the most progressive country? Instead, exclusive walk zones and cycle lanes lining every street? And on top of it, our shocking experience of the ‘right of way to pedestrians’ rule. It prescribes that all motorists must stop when pedestrians are anywhere on their side of the road or even if they’re approaching and within one lane of the driver’s side of the road. Hey, the most amazing part of these rules is that they are really followed in all earnestness here. Cycles of various hues could be seen all around the city, and voila, cycle stands too —- all in perfect condition — actually being used.

In fact, even the city buses here have provision to carry one’s bicycles if a cyclist wants to take a bus ride. And you know what? The police department has a website on which the cycles are to be registered. Our policemen would die laughing if someone goes to them to register an FIR for a stolen cycle. Students, both boys and girls whizzed past on their skate boards as skillfully as circus people. There are skateboard stands too outside department buildings, cafes, restaurants and stores where people could lock their boards safely. It is quite a sight — boys and girls riding on their boards speedily, even jumping a few stairs if they came in the way, maneuvering their through groups of people without decreasing an iota of speed and, where required, stopping all at once, picking the board up in one hand and just walking away, in one swift action before one could even bat one’s eyelid!!

The huge courtyards and other such spaces are covered by large solar panels, acting not only as sunshades but also producing electricity. In fact, many open spaces have been converted into spots like cycle stands and open-air food joints by providing sun shades with these solar panels. Buses carry people from the campus to the city through the day and late in the evening, free of cost and, surprisingly free of ear splitting horns. Even the busiest traffic crossing has no police personnel to control it, the signals and the law abiding citizenry are enough.

It was a shock because it transported me to my city of Allahabad of about 30 years back.

The predominant modes of travel in the city then were walking and the humble bicycle. One could find cycle stands at market places and at government offices. These were rings of iron in which the front wheel of the cycle would be placed and rested. The university ran a couple of buses for the girl students. Roads seemed wide and clear and we could walk or cycle casually.

The 100 cc bike invasion was yet to happen and make life miserable on the roads. In those times, kids passing their high school exams with good marks were not given motorbikes by their parents. The 90s with its market liberalization introduced cars and massive SUVs. And what did our town planners do to manage this traffic? They broadened the roads by ingeniously extending them over the pavements and leaving no space for the pedestrians and the cyclists.

It was great fun and exercise going to school and all other places on our bicycles. I wonder if our children could ever have that fun cycling to school. Sadly, with the state of things, perhaps they never will. They will be having all their cycling and playing limited to the 25-metre stretch of the street in front of our house till they get big enough to demand the street monster- the motorbike- giving us that anxiety which only a parent can feel when the kids are out on these murderous roads.

The Windmill Says It All

The Windmill Says It All (Published in HT Allahabad- 11 sep 2014 )

You know what; the ‘garden’ with the Company seems to me to be a misappendage! Because - one may like it or not- it is much, much more than a garden. It has a big library for the bibliophiles, a Sanskrit University for the scholars, the only museum in the city for the antiquarians, a place of obeisance for the patriotic, a symbol of the transfer of the sceptre from the Company to the British monarchy, a patch of swings for the kids, a stadium for those having passion for sports, a school of music for lovers of art and, of course, a rendezvous for the lovers and the passionate.

On the west, adjoining the small circle, the undulating lawns (and the Gulmohar trees in flames) make it resemble a picturesque clean green stretch in a European countryside. While the elderly and the tired, after a long walk, lounge on the benches in this small circle, the musical fountain adds to the beauty of the place as the evenings make way for the dusk.
   It has changed quite a bit though, during the last more than three decades I have been seeing it. The western boundary fronting the St. Joseph’s College then had a lush guava grove instead of  the present drab patch with swings for kids (many a times occupied by bulky adults reliving their childhood!). In it, we had our adventures with the caretaker in trying to outwit him and get a few semi-ripe guavas straight from the trees. The library became my haunt during the graduation days for its decent collection of books, while now, with my moving into the forties, I frequent the garden with its three km track for keeping in shape.The ‘garden’ is a pale self of its past. Besides the already referred demise of the guava orchard, the rusted broken iron frames near the southern boundary remain the only evidence that grape vines existed there once upon a time. Several large clear patches all over the garden remind us that mighty trees existed there earlier, but sadly they fail to prick our conscience that newer ones can be planted in these spaces. In fact, ideally, they should be so dense that one is unable to see the adjoining roads beyond the boundaries.

The lone windmill near the nursery says it all. It once swung gaily with the wind but now it can be seen standing still warped in parasitic creepers. Hope the myopic authorities see its condition and restore its glory. Really hope so.

                                  --- Skand Shukla

   

Shri Keshari Nath Tripathi's poem - translated from hindi

Mother’s hem  (  Aayu Pankh- Maa Ka Aanchal - 1)

Dirty, poor , splendid , bright

Crumpled or furling wide

Whatever appearance

Makes no difference

She is mother

Her sari’s hem

How I long

To hide in them.

Lullabies lulled in its shade

Words all turned to charms

Warp and woof of life were made

In lap of affections warm

Where form and looks

Are meaningless

Mother’s lap, her sari’s hem

How I long

To sleep in them.

Her eyes become guides

As clouds of doubts gather

A wave of smile does ride

Lips of a happy mother

Tinkling sound the anklets

In the sweet dreams-

A Yashodas’s imagination-

How much I long to turn into bells

And to be, sheer

Tintinnabulation.

………….

Remembrance unawares( Yaad Tumhari Aayi no. 2)

Lonely was I whenever

Remembered you unaware

Named ‘Krishna’, the dusky me

Curly locks fondled lovingly

Tonsure, ear-pierce, lessons first

Celebrating rituals with bosomful love

Permeated the courtyard frolics

Quietly like Yamuna’s flow

    Of  kings and queens, cats, monkeys

    Tales of parrot, cuckoo, starling

    Sohar, chaiti, hori melodious

    Sang me lovely lullabies

    Gently stroking me to sleep

    Imparting a part of  her own.

Affection as vessel honeyful

Protection’s sheet impregnable

Effusion of sweet nectar fragrant

On face a smile radiant

Along with a stream of blessings

Flowed like Mandakini.

    Hot rays of summer Sun

    Sweating on the brow

    Amidst piercing winter’s cold

    Sending shivers down everyone

    The shelter of the hem comforting

    Her warmth invigorating.

Whenever disaster, calamities

Threatened life’s flow

Did not lose calmness

Fortitude only grew

Each moment of my life

Ceaselessly inspiring.

    How the days passed

    And how those nights

    Bitter seemed reprimands

    Conversations so sweet

    All my audacities

    To you were endearing.

Childhood haunts the psyche

So does the youth

How errant has been life

How mysterious the turns

Infused every wave and ripple

Of the sea of memory, chequered and supple.

                                     

                                     …………………………….

Let Us Return ( Aa Man Laut Chalen no. 3)

To the world of dolls

Let us return

Play games of strings

The cradle of dreams.

Effuse from lisping lips

Sea of love, innocence

Fondness sublime rejoice

Echoes around sweet voice

Love’s precept, life’s essence

Let us hold.

Singing, laughing every moment

Sweet, fragrant merriment

Collyrium eyed, attires pretty

‘Bindi’, adornments all day long

My doll never bare, to the days

Let us return.

Resolute moved as Ganges

Resounded not the sins

Non-existent ego’s commotion

The pure steam flowed on

My guileless doll weeps

To those moments return.

Resolutions get awashed

Vows are Ravan- faced

Search for Dashrath fails

Mirror-images change

Deep in doll’s eye-glasses

Let us all see.

Study again life-alphabets

Voices from inward pure

One tune and meaning one

Changeless every instant

Leave the false horizon

Hastily let us return.

Come of age and broken

Let built homes anew

Colour, warmth, truth affection

Settle all  inhabitants new

Venting our inner pain

Our heart’s door open.

Worldly heart dense, dark

Childhood, resplendent bright

Splendid glorious wonderful

Skyline of toys and dolls

Feathers countless them impart

Across the welkin dart.

To the world of dolls

Let us return my heart.

………….

A Handful of Sand (  Anjuli Bhar Ret- no 6 )

Sand handful, slips

Past the fingers.

Had filled the hand when

Forever had thought will remain

But was drawn a faint line

Somewhere between me and mine.

Within bone-cage did not stay

Against its essence, a moment

The feelings fade away

From relations and perceptions.

Earth’s spirit, a change continuous

If fog here, sun elsewhere

Kith, kin, hearth, riches allure

To creation’s custom oblivious.

That nothing is constant

In the game, was ignorant

Unsteady the kites fly in the blue

By its own string’s tugs break away a few.

When selfishness hums around

Amidst every inhabitation

What happens if some curse

Or others, their lips purse.

Light-strings have insects around

While ambitions feed on slime

Life continuously slipping past

Veins, arteries and time.

The sand handful, slips

Past the fingers.

……….

Some Remained ( Kuchh Rah Gayin no.25)

Life in a picture frame

paths many seen

walked are some

untrod some  remain

Carefully stacked

thoughts many

expressed some

some left unsaid

Seeking solutions

to geometrical forms

drew some

some left undrawn

Upon angle, the lines

square triangle

formed some

some left unjoined

Tottering life

is not a line

that some break

some unbroken remain.

…………..

Shavan-1 (Aayu Pankh no.28 )

On branches all

Swinging swings

Sway and swirl

Anklets bright

Sweetly tinkle

Swinging high

Lilting tunes

Blushing beauties

Newly wed

Nymphets pretty

Slumber steal

Reason delude

‘Shravan’ arrives.

…………

Savan -2 ( Aayu Pankh no 29)

Spirit gladsome

Walking blithely

Childlike twinkles

In the eye.

Delicate designs

Hennaed palms

Drops of rain

The radiant face

Searching all over

Intimate friends

Dancing steps

Soul delighted

Jingle, tinkle

Inmost chords

Being attire

Heart adorned

Welcomes all

Bedecked ‘rangoli’

Greenery, freshness

Mirth around

‘Shravan’ appears.

…………..

Welcome( Swagatam no. 30)

Anklets tinkle

bangles tingle

skip and spring

the happy doe

and drenching clouds

the hot summer caress

When lightening swift

pierces heaven’s heart

rings a stinging pain,

of a separation

and a remembrance

that fills with joyance

Imagination , a dancer

impatient for its love

the desire wanders

in heaven like a bird

and yearning does fill

every pore with a thrill

When beauty and grace

get definitions new

and lively gait ensnares

desire so numerous,

in the languor of ‘ Shravan’

pangs are so welcome

As rains drizzle,

and trickle

they whisper,

open my dear

let the sari’s border

fall from the shoulder

to dear love embrace.

………

A short journey ( Chhota Safar no. 38)

Lost in multitude

of my thoughts

in warp and woof

of questions caught.

Scratch, look

may find pain somewhere

search within

might a twitter hear.

Remembrance each

is not a milepost

waves eager , howsoever,

not on shores are lost.

Why pangs of yore

are turned within

not long in the journey

yet the feet get weary ?

………….

Self-chastisement ( Atma Nigraha – no. 40 Aayu Pankh)

                           Flying high, wings spread, thought I

                           Fruits of ‘kalpvriksha’ shall reap

                           These flights, consciousness of action,

                            Strategic struggles against destiny

                            With determination, action, blessings

                            Walk upon Sindhu’s rising waves.

                                     Forget earth below, some who fly high

                                     On ground lies the base, to it get oblivious

                                     On attaining heights, why take pride

                                      My humility, modesty shall pride nullify.

                                                        ……………………

Infinite( Anant no.41)

Freedom, a dream no more

creation the end no more.

Shackles of breath loosen

body’s frames soften

let’s make new betrothal

sing death’s epithalamium.

Beyond horizon shimmer’s sweet night

coursing on the lightening bright

all round a music eternal

qpen wide salvation’s portal.

None can see, we invisible remain

none can peek , be it hell or heaven.

………….

Consciousness ( Aabhaas- no.45 aayu pankh)

                                                 From hanging chandelier

                                                 The candle burns, melts

                                                 To drop, not on earth though

                                                 But, in the bowl below

                                                 Why does one suffer

                                                 Take pains for the other

                                                  Why does one keep

                                                  Tears that others weep.

                                                         Agony of burning

                                                         Melting of wax

                                                         When tears are streaming

                                                          Gathering the drops

                                                          In someone’s existence

                                                          When yielded is the self

                                                           Is felt within

                                                           A consciousness  intense.

                                                                   ………………………………………….

The soliloquy of an Indian housemaid

The link of the article is - http://www.thehindu.com/opinion/open-page/the-soliloquy-of-an-indian-housemaid/article5764868.ece

  The soliloquy of an Indian housemaid (published in Hindu 9-3-14)

Can someone be sent to jail for not paying a maid enough? It’s unbelievable. Not surprising that in every home I work I hear people condemning the incident. And just think the money maids are supposed to get there in America! About Rs. 575 per hour.

   Even one-tenth of that would be so sufficient for me. What life would it have been then, getting so much money, and more so working at only one place, not going from house to house, 365 days a year. Gosh!

  These Americans, they even have a system of contracts. And here the terms and conditions are settled by word of mouth. The wages, of course, depend on the number of persons in the family, the guests visiting them, the kids in the family, the number of rooms… The remuneration includes, besides the cash, the ‘tyohaari’ during Holi, Deepavali and other occasions.

    If it’s a country with such equity, I’m sure the maids in America can sit on the same chairs that family-members use. It is not only so humiliating sitting on the floor or on a discarded piece of furniture here, but so uncomfortable, particularly on very cold days. But we bear with it, without even a thought of protesting. We remind ourselves that ours is after all a country with feudal genes.

   Don’t some of them, even in these modern days, inquire about our caste before assigning us chores such as cooking and dish-washing? They have, however, no qualms about eating out in weddings and restaurants; just imagine!

   My son was reading in his book something about ‘we the people’, giving us equality of status and opportunity, and asked me its meaning. I told him I was not so well-read as he was, having had only elementary education. But my experience of life tells me that equality is always a relative term. Didn’t I hear one of my employers, that vakil saheb, telling someone the other day that it is in equal circumstances that there is a provision of equal treatment? 

   But at least we can have the very basic provisions. My mother was recounting those good old days when her family lived in the out-house of the saheb’s big bungalow. But these days, to work in these cramped apartments is such a trouble. Just think, I even avoid drinking too much water lest I have to search for places outside to relieve myself: the toilets in their houses are out of bounds for us.

   My mother’s times were certainly better. Residing in the same premises as the employer, she could manage and keep an eye on her house too. And here we are, leaving our homes early in the morning to return briefly at noon (some of my friends not even then) and then leave again to return past 10 p.m.

   Wonder how I would have managed had my daughter not been there to prepare meals for all of us and look after her siblings. Isn’t it good that she has taken to the tasks so well and so early? Remember, she is only 11. She is so good at art and sewing! I know she wants to be regular at school and take up some other work rather than being a domestic servant when she grows up. But then, can we afford it? Don’t I want it myself, to give the kids a better life than mine? Why else do I engage myself in this drudgery?

   And your employers — well some of them are good, no doubt, but how their visage changes when you ask for a day off! As if we or someone close to us doesn’t get unwell or we don’t have our own chores. Every working person has a day in a week off, but we can’t even think of it.

   They may splurge, but all hell breaks loose if we ask for a minor raise. I am not sure if it’s thriftiness, or just ego, that stops them from increasing our pay. Whatever it may be, don’t we also deserve a raise corresponding to the rise in living costs all over, and their incomes? They raised such a hullabaloo over that incident about this officer, but has a single word ever been uttered about the exploitation of domestic workers who migrate for work to other countries.

(published in the Hindu 9-3-14 open page )

   Leave that aside. Has anybody given a thought to those in our own country? If only somebody would!