Winter Came Early

Winter came in the morning. Actually, it came sometime around the midnight. He was sleeping then. Or, as he puts it - weaving his dreams. He often uses such poetical tricks, to force upon his thoughtful side, on few acquaintances he has. In reality he was busy sleeping then, recuperating from his day's work, preparing himself for an yet another day of patterned chores and timely activities.

Winter, may be because it was untimely, came furtively inside his room, through a narrow opening in the window. He intentionally keeps it open, to allow morning light to seep and invade his eyes, in case the alarm clock fails to maul his senses.

Winter began to gently caress his warm exposed flesh. A feeble shivering ran through his body. He forsook his half-woven dreams and hurled himself to awareness. It was dark then. Therefore, he failed to identify winter lurking, diffusing inside his room. He attributed his shivering to his poor diet and daily fatigue. He turned to the other side of the bed and slept shivering.

Winter was cold. It needed warmth. It clung to his body and began devouring its heat. It had sucked out heat even from thick mattresses and heavy wooden chairs. Beings such as these largely remain unimpressed and indifferent to usual winter's overtures.

Before the morning could come or the alarm clock would croak, his own sound of heavy breathing woke him up.

By that time winter, who came with a diffidence of a leper forcibly sent to a social gathering, had assumed the ownership of his house. It was whiplashing his exposed flesh, making him shiver every time.

Stooped and quivering, he went over to his window. He sensed the wintry air. Sudden arrival of winter confounded him, almost without meaning. He, however, did not insist for one. It was acceptable in his times. Pressing for meaning was taboo and, more importantly, childish. It was only sought to explain the simplest, safest phenomena.

He looked up in the sky, and quite strangely, looked into it, for nothing was up there. No moon, no stars. The sky seemed vaporous. He found it fleeing away.

He had known nothingness associated with the sky, of nights when he had stared above, nothingness had stared back at him, but now, wherever he looked, nothing returned his gaze, the sky simply moved away, revealing yet another shifting layer of nothingness, which avoided his stare as if ashamed of some untold conspiracy.

The sun too was late in its coming. And, when it did come, it lacked its youthful exuberance, probably the first time ever, showed signs of fatigue of the journey it daily makes to come at his window.

The subdued sun was disconcerting. He, vaguely, understood, by then, that winter has come. He now only needed a factual confirmation, may be a news report. Feeling of cold, though important, in his times, is inadequate, and can be dismissed, unless a piece of news approves it. Such feelings are even insufficient to prepare him for the coming winter, for it requires certain dresses, and unless everyone wears them, he would find them hard to put on. Still he can put them on during nights but in daylight he conforms to the prevailing behavior and manners. He often expresses this contradiction in his poetry. Once he wrote:

What darkness of night reveals

The deceptive daylight hides

Is a twenty-first century man

A time hidden from his times.

Some who understood had laughed, and some who did not, also laughed. For, in his times, laughter conveys understanding.

The shifting sky arrested his gaze and kept it motionless for a while, his eyes, reflecting nothingness, reflected sky. Two emptiness united by a conduit of vision. His reveries were broken by a series of burr sound. It emanated from his mobile phone. It was a weather alert. Winter was now confirmed. A foreboding took him over. However, it suddenly vanished, when the same mobile phone, owing to its design, wished him a wonderful Sunday morning. He stood motionless, recollecting his days, when he had no mobile phone, and how he used to reach his work place even on holidays, and used to return, somewhat relieved, on being revealed that the office is closed.

A thankful smile adorned his face. However, he was more thankful to winter, for its unforeseen kindness by choosing to come on a Sunday morning. Last year it caught him unaware, in the evening, while he was returning from the office. The next day his efficiency at work had gone down.

By coming on Sunday, winter gave him an opportunity to prepare for days ahead. He quickly opened his closet and took out all his woolen garments. They were musty and needed washing before being worn. He collected them in one bag. He collected all his other clothes for laundry. He forgot his shivering. He felt a surge of energy within him. Sunday was coming alive, as an idea, where man distances himself from his daily chores, prepares to groom his inner and outer worlds, pushing boredom away, making life interesting and bearable for the rest of week.

Winter also saved his few bucks on hair cut. He avoids hair cut during winters. He puts on a woolen cap to hide his growing hair. And, even if he removes his cap, prolonged wearing makes the hair flat and settled. Though he looks funny, but that's okay with him.

The saved money, although paltry, kept him indecisive for a while. He vacillated between purchasing old books from Mr. Cohen, who sells books in the downtown on Sundays, or getting himself a few pieces of fried chicken from Caesar's. The dilemma, as an assured indecisiveness, one associated with pleasure, remained on his face when he left for the launderette.

Winter Came Early first appeared in Flash Fiction Magazine (http://flashfictionmagazine.com/blog/2015/01/28/winter-came-early/)

दिन आज जल्दी गुज़रा था, रात आज लम्बी गुज़रेगी

आज दिन ग़ुज़र गया
पता ही नहीं चला।

खिड़की के बाहर पेड़ पे
अँधेरे ससर रहे थे
सूरज का क़त्ल हो चुका था
ख़ून के छींटें आसमान में जहाँ-तहाँ फैले थे
हल्की बारिश होने लगी थी

चाँद मातम मना रहा था
अपने चेहरे पे आँचल डाले था
ठुड्डी बस नज़र आ रही थी

सूरज के बिना,
रात की बस्ती में परेशान, चाँद
एक मुहाना खोजता है
जहाँ खड़े-खड़े वो वक़्त गुज़ारे।

मेरी खिड़की आज अकेली थी
चाँद को आवाज़ लगाते-लगाते
मैं सो जाता हूँ।

नींद, बीच में कभी, टूटती है
सपनों के बीज अभी भी जेब में पड़े थे,
नींद गहरी थी,
मैं उन्हे बोना भूल गया था।

चाँद भी आ चुका था, बेपर्दा
किसी शायर ने किया होगा?
जिस जेब में मैने सपने रखे थे,
उनमें छेद था, मेरे सपने
ज़मीन में गिर गए, बिखर गए।
हल्की बारिश हो रही थी। 

सपनों के टूटने की छनक, बारिश की टप-टप-टप
संगीत का काम कर रहे थे।
सब नाचने लगे, चाँद
थक कर गिर गया,
सपनों के ऊपर,
बारिश के नीचे।

सपने मर गए
नाँचते-नाँचते
चाँद में भी दरार आ गयी
हल्की सी लक़ीर पड़ी, फिर शिकन पड़ी। 

खिड़की पे खड़ा मैं
चाँद को मरहम देता हूँ।
वो मेरा मरहम इंकार कर देता है
सस्ता है, बोल कर फेंक देता है
कह कर चला गया कि
जाता हूँ उस शायर की खिड़की पे, जहाँ
चाँद के ज़ख़्म भरे जाते हैं।

मेरी खिड़की फिर सूनी हो गयी
मैं सोने की कोशिश करता हूँ
सपनों के बिना।

दिन आज जल्दी गुज़रा था,
रात आज लम्बी गुज़रेगी।







 

On Solitude

वो दुनिया से छुपा फिर  रहा है। काफ़ी बेज़ार हो चुका है। एक दिन कमरे में ख़ुद को बंद कर लेता है। कुछ किताबें भी हैं उसके पास। उनको वो अलग-अलग तरीकों से पढ़ता है। दायें से बाएँ से, नीचे से ऊपर से। कभी कुछ ख़ास पन्नों को दिन भर पढ़ता  है, तो कभी कुछ ख़ास लफ़्ज़ों को। कहता है दुनिया, जिसके रूप से वो परेशान है, और जिसे वो नया आकार देना चाहता है और जिससे वो भाग रहा है, उसको इन अलग-अलग तरीकों से पढ़ कर हमेशा नयी शक्ल में देख पाता है। उस चारदीवारी में वो अपनी अलग दुनिया बसा लेता है। किताबों को उलट-पलट कर उसको वो बदलता भी रहता है। वो कमरा उसके लिए कब्र बन जाता, जहाँ कैद होने में उसे आज़ादी का एहसास होता है। 

अगर कब्रों की देख-रेख बाहर से न हो तो वो आमतौर से वक़्त के साथ बैठ जातीं हैं, सपाट हो जातीं हैं, या फिर बारिश का पानी अगर जम जाये तो वो कभी-कभी काफ़ी बेरहमी से ढह जातीं हैं। कब्र अधखुले गड्ढे में तब्दील हो जाती है। रौशनी और अँधेरे के ख़ास अनुपात के कारण कब्र काफ़ी रहस्यमयी लगती है।

कब्र को वापस जिंदा किये जाने पे समाज में दो विचारधाराएँ बन जाती हैं। दोनों तरफ़ के मानने वाले आपस में बहस और लड़ाईयाँ करते हैं। क़यामत के दिन एक कब्र में सत्तर मुर्दे कैसे समायेंगे - जैसे रौंगटे खड़े कर देने वाले तर्क भी दिए जाते हैं। अधखुली कब्रों से बच्चों को शैतानी करने पे डराया भी जाता है। 

मुर्दा जिसे लोग भूल चुके हैं, इन प्रतिक्रियाओं से जिंदा हो जाता है। उसकी अच्छाइयाँ और बुराईयाँ गिनाई जातीं हैं। बुराईयाँ अगर ज़्यादा  हों तो कब्र का ढहना प्राकृतिक न्याय का उदाहरण बन जाता है। अच्छाईयों का पलड़ा भारी हो तो यह मान लिया जाता है कि पवित्र आत्मा की समाज में वापसी हुई है। 

उसके कमरे का मज़ार उस रोज़ ढह गया जब उसके दरवाज़े पे एक चेहरा आता है।

चेहरे पे एक नरमियत है जिससे उसको जनाना मानने में आसानी होती है।

अनगिनत शिकन हैं चेहरे पे। जिनको वो विभिन्न प्रजातियों में बाँट देता है। वो शिकन का वर्गीकरण उनके गहराईओं के आधार पे करता है।

चोट-खरोंच का शिकन सबसे कम गहरा है और थोड़ी लाली लिए हुए है।

ग़रीबी का शिकन 'ब्लैक एंड वाइट' मानचित्रों में बनी हुयी नदियों की तरह है - काला और गहरा।

मायूसी और नाउम्मीदी के शिकन गहरे तो हैं पर वो निरंतर अपने आकार बदलते रहते हैं - कभी बड़े तो कभी छोटे होते हैं।

उम्र की वजह से पड़ा हुआ शिकन मध्धम है, या फिर और सबकी अपेक्षा लग रहा है।

कुछ एक शिकन, होंठों के दोनों तरफ हैं, थोड़े 'सिमेट्रिकल' हैं। शायद मुस्कराहट के हैं, ऐसा लगता है सदियों पहले किसी के स्नेह में मुस्कुराई होगी, शिकन पड़े होंगे। फिर वक़्त की ऐसी बर्फ़बारी हुयी होगी कि बेचारे ठिठुर के रह गएँ होंगे। अभी भी कांपते और जमे हुए से महसूस होते हैं।

हर शिकन में कहानी दिखाई देती है उसे। चेहरा नहीं मानो किताब पढ़ रहा है। पढ़ते-पढ़ते वो खो जाता है।

वो उसे अपनी सर्द निगाहों से घूरता है। चेहरा मजबूरी में मुस्कराहट की शॉल ओढ़ लेता है। दिखावे में पड़े इन नए शिकनों में उसे अपने ही सर्द निगाहों की परछाईं नज़र आती है। वो ठिसिया जाता है।

उसका ध्यान उसके बड़े-बड़े आँखों की तरफ़ जाता है। काफ़ी भरी हुयी आँखें हैं - वो सोचता है। आँखों के नीचे हरे रंग की काई जमी हुयी है। वो पानी और काई को पोछने की कोशिश करता है। पुरानी काई मालूम होती है, साफ़ नहीं हो पाती है। वो हाथ पीछे कर लेता है।

जल प्रपात उसकी आँखों से निकलता है। पानी की धारा चेहरे की सतह को छूते ही , शिकनों की वजह से सैकड़ों धाराओं में बंट जातीं हैं। यह धाराएं बहूत ही शालीनता से चेहरे की ठुड्डी के पास आकर मिलती हैं, जैसे नदियों की धाराएं समंदर में समाने से मिलतीं हैं।

पानी इकठ्ठा होकर उसकी कब्र पे गिरता है और जमा होने लगता है। काफ़ी वज़नदार मालूम होता है। वो कब्र में पड़ा-पड़ा कब्र के गिरने का इंतजार करता है।

वो किसी जॉन बर्नसाइड की लिखी हूयी पंक्तियाँ भी पढता है:

“If solitude does not lead us back to society, it can become a spiritual dead end, an act of self-indulgence or escapism, as Merton, Emerson, Thoreau, and the Taoist masters all knew. We might admire the freedom of the wild boar, we might even envy it, but as long as others are enslaved, or hungry, or held captive by social conventions, it is our duty to return and do what we can for their liberation. For the old cliché is true: no matter what I do, I cannot be free while others suffer. And, no matter how sublime or close to the divine my solitary hut in the wilderness might be, it is a sterile paradise of emptiness and rage unless I am prepared to return and participate actively in the social world.”

वो लौटने की तैय्यारी करता है। दुनियावी ऐतबार से यह सब जीवन-मृत्यु चक्र जैसा है, पर उसे यह सब जीवन-जीवन चक्र जैसा लगता है। 

Death of a Writer

Unlike a working professional, days of a week hardly mattered for a seventy year old writer Mr. Singleman. What mattered instead were periods of a day like morning, noon, evening, night and everything in between. Just as a working professional prepares oneself for the weekend long consumption of morsels of 'happiness', Mr. Singleman used to wait for some periods of a day, depending on what he was writing. He believed that different periods of a day had different stimulating effects on his writings. Same events evoked different emotions in him when mused at different periods of a day. Additionally, his writings and characters were attached umbilically to his past experiences and events. Therefore, the notion of disparate interpretations of a single event - that took place on so and so date and time - was equally disturbing and enriching for Mr. Singleman. Since it induced contradictions in Mr. Singleman's works and at the same time enabled Mr. Singleman to tell numerous different tales from the same experience.

Temporal vagaries of interpretations vexed him. He once wrote about his profuse weeping in the morning over a context that exploded him into a laughter frenzy the previous night. Mr. Singleman's characters fed on the concoction of his experiences and memories. And, despite Mr. Singleman's relentless efforts, they bore signs of contradictions. Critics too have charged Mr. Singleman for the same reason. A charge to which Mr. Singleman often responded with his glib talking, citing a certain psychoanalyst by the name of Erik Erikson and his Theory of Eight Development Stages of an individual and how virtues are formed at each stage due to inherent contradictions present in the individual at each stage. "See, contradictions define you" with this line and a triumphant grin, Mr. Singleman used to dispel the charge.

But only Mr. Singleman knew how best he used to avoid the inherent contradictions. Therefore, Mr. Singleman performed his writings with meticulous planning. Always ensuring that particular content and characters were consummated at a particular period of a day. Hence, it was not only a matter of what to write but also of when to write. But, morning in the form of dawn has always encroached upon the night. Whatever be the level of encroachment, the whole writing exercise used to be dauntingly tiring.

Particular characters cohabiting a particular period of a day, spawned a whole habitation of characters, where they were asked to work at a particular time and rest for rest of the time. In a refined sense of speech Mr. Singleman's mind was a city, a walled city, with characters dwelling in them. Mr. Singleman himself once quite disparagingly remarked that his mind is a jail with innumerable cells in it. He cited imprisonment of characters as his compulsion, otherwise there will be a glut of contradictions in his writings. He mentioned that he opens different lock ups at different periods of a day, gets the work done and confines them again within its four walls. Mr. Singleman often boasted that blood and tears of his characters was the ink that he used in his writings. 

And quite understandably, Mr. Singleman is loved for his poignant description of pathos inherent in everyday life.

Mr. Singleman died last night. His body was found in the morning. A congealed stream of blood was conspicuous on Mr. Singleman's nose. Mr. Singleman's much awaited work 'The Prisoners' incomplete manuscript was lying on the table. Mr. Singleman's pen with its ink dried was lying nearby. Mr. Singleman's sudden demise has been attributed to brain haemorrhage. Nobody knows the exact cause. I know. I am the jailor of that abattoir. I freed them all.....