डर लगता है

कुछ उलझे हुए सवालों से डर लगता है
किसी की निगाहें रोज़ मुझे कुछ कहती हैं
और मैं उन्हीं उलझे हुए सवालों में और भी उलझ जाती हूँ
उन सवालों के जवाबों से डर लगता है .

कभी कभी दिल में कुछ तो हसरत सी होती है
उन हसरतों के ख्यालों में कही हुई कुछ बातें
उन बातों के इशारों में मैं शायद अपने को समझ पाती हूँ
बस, उन बातों को समझ कर डर लगता है .

वो नज़रें जो रोज़ यूँ मुझे देखती हैं
कि कुछ कह ही देंगी, या शायद कुछ कहती भी है
कुछ जानती हूँ, कुछ शायद जान रही हूँ

पर क्या करूँ, जानने में भी ..डर लगता है

कुछ जान कर अनजान बनी रहती हूँ
अहसास के दरवाज़े पर खड़ी रहती हूँ
दहलीज़ से बढूँ, पाँव और बढाऊँ
बस.....इस चौखट के उस पार से डर लगता है .

एक हलके से अहसास की थपक होती है
दिल के किवाड़ पर अजब सी दस्तक होती है
वो दरवाज़ा जो बंद कर के रखा है
उसके कांच की चटकार से डर लगता है .

दीखता है उस पार मुझे बहुत कुछ
खुश होती हूँ उस पार का मंज़र देख
सोचती हूँ कि कल पाट दूँगी इसे लकड़ी के पट से
और रोज़ रुक जाती हूँ... कि कुछ और देख लूँ
इसी हिचकिचाहट में...

रह गया है वो कांच का दरवाजा..
जो रोज़ दिखाता है.., वो ही नजारे, वो ही निगाहें, वो ही सवाल
जवाब हैं, जानती हूँ, पर जान कर भी
अनजान बने रहने का मन करता है
बस्स्स्स्स... इतना ही डर लगता है
मुझे.....अपने ही आप से डर लगता है.

Writing...A fresh beginning, or an old compulsion?

People...well meaning souls, that is, tell me to...write. You write well. Err..me? write well...huhhhh??

Ok..maybe i write good mails....and i think i write well when I am conversing with someone. Even if that happens to be a pal on the other side of the mailbox, whom i would not have spoken to in ages.

So what is great? Many people write well. And many make a living out of it, and others make a killing out of it. So what, if I just manage to make not a shilling out of it . Pah...

I gave up writing long ago... writing a diary, that is. That was what i poured myself into. Not poured, but outpoured. The angst of youth and the pain and the uncertainty of finding myself was all poured outside. Those diaries are lost ...in all probability to the raddiwalah, who must have sold them off to the chana wala or the pan thela wala, and those sheets...inked in pen, inked in pencil, inked in love, inked with anger, linked with friends, mixed with tears, sprinkled with smiles, must now be forgotten somewhere.... covered in grime, soot, dust, pan juice, and what else. But somewhere, what was in those diaries is also lost, and happily, willingly forgotten. Some of those thoughts remain, and will continue to linger....till I am. Because somewhere along the way, those thoughts became me.... .

So now, the moot question is ...shall i begin to write, on a new vein? What for? Is it needed? Or begin where I left, and continue with a sizeable blip , and move on towards tomorrow? I think the latter. It feels good to write. Cathartic.

So now i know why there are so many bloggers. They can ramble on and on...and they can write....or rather talk....to the world, to themselves, to favourite people, at random. Who knows you OUT THERE, anyway!! I love this anonymity. There are bloggers, some of them friends, who blog....to overcome that feeling of anonymity. But I love this void..... where there is just me....maybe, someday the exhibitionist in me will have his??/Her?? way and I will like to call others onto this blog and comment on my posts. But now, I am content in my cocoon. Content to just punch in keys and bunch up my steadily falling thoughts, into a posie... hopefully full of some content and some meaning, to be fragrant enough ....sometime.

I talk to myself

The other day, I was walking by, and having a conversation with "ME". There surely is someone sitting there in my mind...who keeps poking in and saying helloooooooo or something or the other. And most often or not ...it says , "WHAT...what the dickens was that you just thought about". Now what did I think which so shocked my inner self, I say.
Why do I think like that, why do I get angry? Why do I feel depressed? Now obviously, that is not all the times, otherwise, there would have definitely been a problem with me. I do talk to visible people also, and quite a bit. But looks like the need to converse, or make myself heard is much more within, and that gets somehow supressed, so I talk ...to myself.
I quite like this inner person, you see...who keeps jabbering back and forth..and questioning me about what I BELIEVE i am... So more often than not, the conversations are quite hilarious and interesting. Hilarious... becoz I see what the heck my physical self has been upto in the day. And the best part is when I think back, on what i was or perceived i was, and what i am today. Nostalgia they say, is a powerful tool to forget the bad, and remember the good. Ahhhhhhh for the good old days, so says everyone. Haven't heard a "ohhhh what bad old days". Though I am sure we all have our good times and bad times.
So I talk... to myself. In common parlance, that means I have a loose link in my brain.... . But till that link falls of, I will continue conversing with Me....