A Happy Re(s)trospection, This.

  For I don't really know how many nanoseconds of this one second have become the 'past' already. No I'm not caught up with you, and yet I am, for as I write, I realise I can never be 'one' with you. And maybe, it's meant to be that way, for the best. You're never a part of my present, but you have always been my present, once. I'd rather not term my past as a ragged piece of cloth worth being dumped in the bin. From thinking that I could just 'leap' to the glorious, fanciful future I'd visualized earlier, I got to realizing that just as I used to look forward to what was my future once, that future now having turned into my past, is probably no longer good enough, in comparison to what my goals for now, both short-term & long term, may be. However, were I to erase or undo that staircase of 'trivial' victories, life would probably not make as much sense now, my recent achievements would seem incongruous, neither would I know where to turn next.

(Past is the mirror with which we see our future. Yes, you may be looking forward to building something concrete from the muddled slumber of thoughts, but it's always in relation to, in comparison with the things, thoughts, and every influence that has defined you till date.)

From wanting to pass out from school, to retrospecting that it was probably the best phase in my life, till college happened, which became the  new best phase, these so called realisations do have a lot to do with a chunk of perspectives coming from a particular state of mind. 

         I've come to realising that it's wonderful to strive constantly towards whatever you yearn for, but concomitantly, you must realise that in working towards that so called 'ideal' future, you're not really escaping from it your not so ideal past, but learning from it, everyday. If things didn't upset you enough to make you want to change things in and around yourself, wouldn't it be more likely that you'd feel all sluggish and demotivated, in general? Past, present, of future, you have this one life to do whatever the hell you can. And living with the thought that you don't really value your past as much as your present, is as morbid as you could get. Your past will never leave you, and you must accept & cherish it, and learn from it. Many a time we've cast a disappointed glance to it, thinking there's no reason why you or I should remember any of it- of course, if you don't respect what has been and will always be a part of you, where you have always thought your past is an entity separate from you, you're not really building a future, you're only escaping your past, not facing it, or welcoming it. And when you do let go of that barrier deep rooted in your mind, will your mind be at rest.

‘A teacher affects eternity, he can never tell where his influence stops.’  - Henry Adams

The Shadows in the Mirror

अब आईने ने खुद पर धूल की परत चढ़ाली है

छुपा लिया है उसने खुद को

मेरे चहरे पर सोए अर्सों के साए से । 

मेरे दिल में अश्क़ों की धुंध  

भी अब जम गई है, 

सिकुड़ते- सिकुड़ते, रोशनी के खौफ़ में । 

उन पाज़ेब और झुमके की ओर नहीं ताकती अब मैं, 

मैं ने अब खुद से ही मुँह फेर लिया है । 

खुद से नफ़रत करने का शौक़ चढ़ा है, 

खुद को खो देने का एक खौफ़ ही अब  
मेरे ज़िंदा होने का ग़वाह रह गया है । 

उस लाल शॉल को अब ओढ़ना नहीं चाहती शायद 
२२ साल पुरानी वह क़िताब में लिखी गयी 
मीठी शैतानियों और प्यार की अनगिनत कहानियाँ 
मेरे लिए एक ख़िताब हैं, 
जिन से मेरा आज भी लगाव तो है 
पर उस क़िताब के पन्नों पर सूखी स्याही को  
मेरे आँसुओं के कलम ने भिगोकर 
उन घावों को हरा कर दिया है
अब उस क़िताब को खोलूंगी नहीं फिर शायद
अरे अब तो मैंने खुद से मुँह फेर लिया है ।

उस दिन घर से यूँ ही चल पड़ी थी,
बेवजह हँसी के ठहाके ले रही थी
उस दिन आईना नहीं देखा था ना |
अब उस शीशे के टुकड़े पर तरस आता है 
क्योंकि उस आईने में 
जिसकी  खुद की पहचान नहीं 
उसमें मेरे खौफ की परछाइयों को 
अपनी पहचान समझना छोड़ चुकी थी ॥ 

P.S. This poem is an attempt to peek into the mind of a woman who is hitting menopause- probably in her late forties, and has just about started to come to terms with the fact that she is no longer the pretty damsel she used to be in her heydays. However, she mistakenly assumes her physical lineaments to be what primarily is her identity- she dearly holds on to her past, her fears are magnified to the extent that she thinks that her very surroundings are disappearing into darkness, as if alive and consciously moving away from her. But she lives in this world only for a while. She soon does realise that a mirror- a concrete, finite object, cannot capture even a fraction of her identity, which is infinitely evolving. The larger inference being that, never must we assume that we know ourselves, there are different levels of truth, yet at each higher level we become complacent with the thought that we know ourselves the best. 

Overall, the poem touches upon the issues of identity, notions and truths, relativity of truth, the constant urge to define ourselves under categories of the symbolic order we've been living in for ages. Interpretations are welcome.

Guest Uninvited

A guest uninvited, that gust of winter wind,

Thumped, seeped and snuck

Through the window in my room the other day,

Seeking shelter in my room, maybe?

Did he guess someone was up still,

From the embers in the fireplace

Shining through the window sill?

Making him feel uninvited

In his own season,

I closed the window,

Drawing the curtains on his misty face.

Back in my bed, a while later,

With toes peeping out of the blanket

Doing a temperature check,

I stepped out into the backyard.

Walking upon the dried up leaves,

Looked up and saw the sun curled up,

Beneath the blanket of clouds.

Nearly scared a kitten almost asleep,

Feigning pretense to stay awake,

I’m guessing it decided against

Venturing to catch another prey today.