Someone asked me this question yesterday, one young man , fresh out of college ,listening to the sermons of a man who is accepting the diminishing nature of youth . I answered in a strange manner , I haven't made it large but I have seen Large happen. In comparison to my peers , i have more memories, i have treasured more. people who know me will possibly say that I live in past and have a huge romanticism with past. In my view, when you live for future , you are young, when you start relishing the past, old age has begun.
I stepped out of the meeting room, sipping Hazelnut flavored Americano and It started to rain....
Rain always brings nostalgia. The romanticism with past wasn't particularly hurtful especially when it rains. Some days went past me , again......
It was usual 5 PM Traffic in Connaught Place in Jan 1993, but I needed to pick up this tweed Coat I had got stitched, the tailor shop was a Icon in city and with my new found success, I wanted to get a tweed coat stitched, double breast just from this place. My ego was just forming. I parked my scooter and rushed in , the coat was ready. I didn't try it, i needed to catch the frontier mail at 9 PM from Old Delhi station, fight ITO bridge traffic both ways. I reached the train station in time. I was headed to Chintpurni and the intent was to thank my deity that I could afford expensive clothes, petrol and life wasnt bad. In the II class coach which had just been fitted with cushions, there were familiar Delhi faces, most headed to Golden temple. In the seat to my left, a very old lady was seated, tired and grim. She was holding hand of her a young beautiful Sikh girl, who was giving an impression that she was the pillar of strength, more than her expressionless face , her confidence and maturity was filling the space which seated 8 people. Social conversation started, from Hindi to English and moved to Punjabi, she had acquired the DI Khan accent from her grandmother and were headed to Amritsar to attend a wedding. The bridge between Presentation Convent, Mall Road and Hall Bazaar was evident. We shared more thoughts , I liked Jagjit , she liked writing. I liked Chicken like my life , she was a vegetarian by choice . She hated smokers, I smoked 20 a day ...At 5 am , the train slowed down at Jullundhur Cantt, as i got down from my berth , she turned over and gave me a cardboard platform ticket with her home number, no words were exchanged they didn't need to be.
We met at the Daryaganj at ten in morning, she walked with her dupatta spread wide hiding as much as it could, it was a strange Sunday morning , cloudy and cold. It rarely rains in January. The book flea market was my candy store for magazines and cold cassettes . She read literature , to me that was greek. 3 hours of intense haggling also covered intense topics, she hated men , drinkers, punjabis , businessmen as she had seen the grey side of them. She had seen her grandmother go to jail , as she couldn't afford bail or a lawyer, so money was critical. She had fought a rape attempt at 14 and hence it was romance of the intellectual and the illiterate .
It rained ....
It also rained exactly 12 months on , in january of 1994.
She decided to marry exactly the kind she hated, she informed me that it was best for me .
18 years have passed, it still rains , sometimes it drenches me inside , never on the outside.
हर घड़ी ख़ुद से उलझना है मुक़द्दर मेरा
मैं ही कश्ती हूँ मुझी में है समंदर मेरा
किससे पूछूँ कि कहाँ गुम हूँ बरसों से
हर जगह ढूँढता फिरता है मुझे घर मेरा
एक से हो गए मौसमों के चेहरे सारे
मेरी आँखों से कहीं खो गया मंज़र मेरा
मुद्दतें बीत गईं ख़्वाब सुहाना देखे
जागता रहता है हर नींद में बिस्तर मेरा
आईना देखके निकला था मैं घर से बाहर
आज तक हाथ में महफ़ूज़ है पत्थर मेरा
Comments
Post a Comment