मैं भी तो बुलबुला हूँ..
जो उड़ना चाहे, ऊँचा और ऊँचा
इतना की कभी ज़मीन को छूने न पाए
इतना की पेड़ों से टकराने न पाए
अपनों से मुह मोड़ कर
इस ताने-बाने को छोड़ कर
घुटन भरे सालों से प्रिय
मुझे आज़ादी के कुछ क्षण
उनमें ही जी लूं
आत्म-रस पी लूं
कर लूं स्वयं से साक्षात्कार!
Saffron bright, He Rises up from the laps of the ocean "Good morning Sun!", I say He chuckles, ambling on his way His face glows Like a kid, all smiles He runs around you and me Lighting, guiding, revealing The beauty of his mother, Nature In his youth, perpetual He rests never ever!
I have a revelation. It is possible that you might never visit my blog again once you come to know about it. Many of you who know me personally might raise eyebrows as well. But I got to say what I got to say.
All this while I have been lying to you, and more importantly, to myself. Here is the truth - I don't enjoy writing. No, I do not. In fact, I fake my writings. Most of the times, I am not exactly in the moment and the world I am writing about. As I start penning down my thoughts, my mind wanders, and very often I lose the sensation before I can complete. Rest of the words, therefore, are mere fillers.
Often, I "innovate" to make my poetry rhyming. I try to find "nicer" synonyms at times as well. There is nothing wrong in using appropriate words, but like many other writers(I am sure many writers do that), I try to fit in the lesser used words in my writings.
I am a person who likes to see your comments and Likes. I may argue that your feedback motivates me to write further and write better; it definitely does. Call me a narcissist, and I am one without doubt. It is not that I always write for your comments. In fact, most of the times I am propelled by an instinct, an urge to write. But as I mentioned earlier, that urge is very difficult to sustain.
I wish I could be completely truthful with you and my writings. And I beseech you for your blessings that my want be converted into genuine feelings, of this world or utopian but not fake, so that you appreciate my writings for what they actually are. More than that, bless me so that I can appreciate them too.
It is the month of November with its cozy coldness; The sun wakes up later and milder than always as if not wanting to come out of its slumber. I stand at a small khatal (small dairy farm like set up in Patna) waiting to get some milk. My family prefers fresh milk over the packaged one. I see a calf, beautiful light brown with a white mark on its forehead that gives it an angel like look. As I touch it with adoration and it moves its tail sideways, this thought occurred to me - The most beautiful things in this world are simple.
Yes, simplicity is the hall mark of beauty. You may doubt it , even laugh at it, but you will have to believe it.
Simplicity lies in the redness of the morning sun. See the droplets of dew playfully resting in the bosom of green. Nature boasts of it aloud. What can be more blissful than the redolence of jasmine rushing through your nerves along with the soulful breeze? Or sound of a river gushing through the rocks?
Simplicity dwells in truth. You tell one lie and there piles up a heap of lies one over another. It lies in the courage needed to relinquish the artificial glamor; in the hymns of the saints.
It rests in Wordsworth's 'Daffodils' and in Tagore's 'Lotus'. Simpleness embraced Kabir and Tulsi, Gandhi and Kalam devoid of the falseness of caste, gender, race and nationality. It belongs to the Saptasura (seven notes of music).
Simplicity is found in the innocent cries of the new born baby as it moves its tiny fingers and soft feet. It is depicted in the numerous stories of the elderly. Simplicity creates life, nay, I say, Simplicity is life itself.