One day they shall all be forgotten.
Who, What, When, Where will all become trivial.
Same stories will repeat themselves
for the new actors to reveal
and think of themselves as pivotal.
Old actors will watch from a distance
and critique as the new ones make mistakes,
But so did they…
Past comes back in a way.
Yet the audience will applaud
and throw roses for the same play
because that is their part
and to act is actor’s.
In the end it is all just a play.
आइना समेट रहा था, खुद को समेट लिया
एक टुटा आइना सच कह गया.
चेहरा नहीं पर दिल दिखा गया.
बिखरा जरूर पर
देखने वाला भी तो बिखरा ही था.
आइना जीता और बिखरा हार गया.
खुद को समेटना जो भूल गया था
वह अपने बिखरे आप को समेटने लगा.
किसे पता था…
पहली बार उसे कुछ अच्छा लगा.
दिल के दरार आईने पे आगये,
पर जैसे जैसे आइना समेटा
एक चेहरा सामने आया.
वह चेहरा उसने कही तो था देखा.
बहुत पहले. समेटा हुआ चेहरा.
अब उसे फिरसे वही चेहरा देखना है.
आईने के सामने खड़े होक खुद से कहना है,
की वह वापिस पहले जैसा हो गया है.
और किसी टूटे हुए आईने से कहना है,
वह गलत है, देखने वाला फिरसे पूरा हो गया है.
Resident of gospel,
Hatred does rent a room
in every domicile.
Contrary to novel
and one of the strongest emotions,
Is it really vile?
No love can be realised
without Hatred being present.
It does not have to be hostile.
Perhaps a demarcation of personalities,
it safeguards an individual.
Just like every house has boundaries,
It maintains the much needed distance
between the better and the lesser.
Maybe Hatred was created to keep you away from someone who would make you miserable. Maybe it is not hostile. Maybe it does not have to be hostile. Maybe it is just a boundary.
-Nishant, The Poet and the Pen
A message from one to another.
And when this all will be over,
Would you take a walk with me?
We shall revisit our favourite places,
Drink lots and lots of coffee.
Crib about calorie intake
while eating a 3 course meal
and share that pudding cake,
Your presence makes me heal.
Talk about our days
and laugh at our old mistakes.
Convey so much without saying,
Let our eyes do the talking.
You pick me up and I shall drop you later,
Hours pass while we discuss silly matters.
And then when this all will be over,
Would you take a walk with me?
I know I would want to
Because I Love You.
It was the last time we ever gazed
into each other’s eyes.
Gone are those days
and life is what it is today.
But before we turned around
and walked our separate paths
there was this moment…
It was just this moment
when we both realised,
A good rival is also very important.
A good enemy helps you to improve.
-Nishant, The Poet and the Pen
On the seat right next to mine
there was an old & torn book.
Faded ink on it spoke of a time,
Long gone now. It seemed bespoke.
Out of habit to turn pages,
My eyes started running over the faded words.
A few pages later there was a bookmark
on which written were these words…
Once you read, place the marker into the next page
and write a few lines about yourself,
Become a part of the book of age.
Keep it back on the seat, this was never meant for a bookshelf.
Upon doing as instructed I figured, I was reader number 511.
The book once belonged to this traveller
Who wished to meet the World.
Alas! he could not for time ran out. He was a believer.
He was reader number 001
and now I was a part of his world.
कहते है उम्मीद लगाना अच्छी बात नहीं. में कहता हु यह बात सही नहीं.
उम्मीद
मेरी एक आदत बहुत बुरी है
मुझे उम्मीद रहती है
और कही न कही सबसे रहती है.
गलती उसकी नहीं जिससे उम्मीद हो
क्युकि उसे तो पता भी नहीं.
बस मेरे ही मन में दबी रहती है.
बहुत समझाता हु खुद को
उम्मीद खुद से कर दुसरो से नहीं.
पर क्या करू? हो जाती है,
सबको होती है, उम्मीद…
हर बात की कोई न कोई वजह जरूर होती है,
मेरी उम्मीद की भी है और
जो उसपे खरे नहीं उतरते उनके भी.
बस इतनी सी बात ही समझनी होती है.
यह ऐसा खेल है जो शायद ही कोई जीत पता है,
और शायद इसमें हारना ही सही है,
क्युकि उम्मीद वही लगा पता है
जिससे दुसरो की उम्मीदें जुडी है.
It starts from the day we come into this world
and after that it lasts forever.
Father is not just a relation
but a journey full of sacrificing endeavours.
We cannot thank you enough, ever.
You never stop watching over us, do you?
My childhood pictures were taken only by you.
In adolescence we walk right next to you, holding your finger
and in teenage, despite wanting to be alone, your watchful eyes linger.
No matter how old we get, you remain our silent singer .
Underneath that tough and quiet exterior
we all know that you are soft hearted just like mom.
Yet your wish to make us better
asks you to take tough calls. How do you do it?
That parent who accepts resentment for his child’s betterment.
Perfect balance of love and lectures, teacher and friend,
at times harsh but always fair,
Father you are hard to comprehend.
I pretend to be like you when I sit on your chair
and feel that overwhelming pressure that you withstand.
No child can ever document their father’s role
because there are some things you just cannot express.
Words too have limitations after all
Unlike my Father’s worry when I am a mess.
Father, the person we fail to call.
All we can say is a Thank You
and we will try to be a bit more like you.
It will be tough but it will be worth it.
Even though we don’t say this enough,
Father, we really really Love You.
You cannot say anything about this one man because he knows you more than you know yourself. He is your Father.
-Nishant, The Son.
We all tell a tale
and that is where we all fail.
Who is listening?
एक खेल खेला करते थे हम.
खेल के कुछ नियम हुआ करते थे.
जीत और हार से टटोलते थे मन
छोटी छोटी बातो पे झगड़ा करते थे.
काफी नोक झोक हुआ करती थी
लड़ाईया भी हुआ करती थी
पर पता है उन सबके बाद भी
खेल की गाडी नहीं रूकती थी.
सब कुछ भूल के अगले दिन फिरसे एक खेल खेला करते थे हम.
अब खेलने के दिन गए शायद
नियम के बंधन भी मिट गए शायद
रोज़ रोज़ मिलना भी काम हो गया शायद
पार छोटी छोटी बातो में झगडे आज भी होते है
और फिरसे वह दो दोस्त साथ में कभी नहीं खेलते है.
शायद समझदार बनते बनते समझ कम हो जाती है,
दोस्ती बिना किसी बात के कहानी बन के रह जाती है,
जो बात बचपन में पता थी आज नहीं समझ आती है,
सिर्फ खेल बदला है, पर हम तो आज भी वही साथी है.
