Thats the way I get by

There is so much black blood

Roaming in my veins

That i need to hit the floor

Make it sweat through my pores

There is this beast that roars

With that anger deep within

It wants to lash out

To dance and to shout

Its a fire that rages on

Burning me through out

It wants to burn everything down

In these ashes it will drown

Sometimes when i type

I can feel the world closing in

My veins and fingers go tight

With all my hatred i write and write

Kuch kia wip

कुछ सुर ताल लगाया , कुछ साज़ किया , कुछ रंजिशों को आवाज़ किया , कुछ तबले पे हड़कंप मचाया, कुछ ऐसे शाम का आगाज़ किया

Andhera (wip)

उस अंधेरे कोने में
जहां रोशनी की कोई किरण नही आती
दुख बैठा है चुपके से
फ़ूट पड़ता है जब आती है रात

मैंने लाख उजाले किए
जलाए जीवन के पथ पर कई चिराग
दीए कई टूट गए बुझ गए
जलती रही वो काली आग

ख्यालों में रखे प्यारे सपने
दिन में देखे सपने

Mera ilaaj kijiye

Mujhe sur कीजिए
Mujhe saaz kijie
Mujhe soche khamoshi mein
Mujhe awaaz kijie

Mujhe अर्थ दीजिए
Mujhe hawai kije
Mujhe vyarth kijie
Mujhe apna lijie

Mujhe kijie yakeen
Mujhe bhula dijie
Mujhe shraap दीजिए
Mujhe khuda kije

Mujhe rakhie benakaab
Mujhe hijaab kijie
Mujhe udne de yun hi
Mera hisaab kijie

Mujhpe karie zulm
Behisaab kijie
Mujhe rakhie mandir mein
Mujhe शराब kijie

Mujhe jodie kabhi
Kabhi tukde hazaar kijie
Mujhe bhula de kabhi
Kabhi chiraag e mazaar kijie

Mujhpe jo ban paya
Karam beshumaar kijie
Aur jab chaahe
Mera vyapar kijie

Ab kya kar chale

Sau gunaah karke mantriji hajj ko chale
Sau ghoos khake vakeel judge ho chale

Kuchj sau mare honge is baadh mejn shayad
Ke pujya mantriji bhi daur pe chale

Chunaav ke lagta hai rujhaan aagae
Jo the haath jode woh neta khuda ho chale

Hoga kuch jamhooriyatki tarriki ka khyaal
Poore jamghat ke saath fir switzerland ko chale

Help!

"I am dying. I can fell it in the air. I can feel it in my bones, I can feel it my hair. I was a child just a few days back and look how time flies. I had dreams for myself, not one but many and I outgrew each. As days passed so did my heartbeats and with each a new dream. I could have been this or that. I wanted to be this or that. I was okay with being mediocre too but even less, I had not estimated. It is not that I am dead but I can feel myself melting away as if the self I carried has disappeared with time. Layers have been worn off and slowly everything will unravel into nothingness. What is the point of beauty or worth, if it is not appreciated. Any greatness not recognized is self-delusion. And I am not delusional.

I am dying and the people around me, don't know this. They expect me to participate in their daily charades. Let's chat they say and let's dance. But they don't talk, they gossip, whisper nothings. They don't dance, they repeat steps they remember, steps that others will appreciate. I know I am not great. It was I think the first thing I recognized about myself. That and the fact that I used a lot of 'I' in my work. But I write what I write even if I write a lot Is. Days pass, even years and what will they remember of these days and years. The great nothing. No consequence like billion others before them, they will slide of the face of earth. Do you realize we have one lifetime to live and that's it. Voila like a cheap magic trick we will disappear from the face of this earth never to return. Finish! Vamoosh! and nothing. Do not think much and life makes sense. For a moment stop and think and this vast castle of cards falls apart leaving nothing. I am dying. We all are."

Look what I found in her bag.

Let me see that... Wow.Too much angst. I think you should talk to your daughter, maybe she needs help. Is she okay? Is she sick?

Yes, yes she is fine. I promise. But, but do you, with all your writing awards, think it's good? Would you give her any tips to improve her work?

Not bad actually, if she didn't mean it. I think she should expand on it. Explore her inner sensibilities a bit further. There are hints of excellence which if worked upon could make this printable. But this does not look like a work of 17 year old girl. Are you positive it is your daughters work?

Yes, yes, of course, who else would write it. Not me.

You girl's quite grown up then. Tell her she will be alright, she could always be great writer.

You really think so sister?

The day after, years later

It was a stupid fight. A war of egos. Why did he act so base?  It did not make sense. Last night he had pitied himself. It made no sense. He must have been wrong. Not that she was completely untouched of evil but he, he knew better. He understood the deeper reason for all this. Why did he need to act such? Someone has to make those sacrifices. Someone has to understand. He was supposed to do that. They had agreed to it. Take the deeper lunge. Come out unscathed. The gender let him down and he was ready to repent it now. He didn't mean it. He did not know what to say when the time arrived. Always the incorrect words, always the flaring of a spark and the regret on the day after.

He turned left. She looked so pretty asleep. So pure of infractions of emotional kind. He must have been wrong. How can someone so pretty ever be incorrect? He stared at her. She was calm. Last night had not been. Where was the gentleness of this soul, the humanity of emotions, anything, but the ferociousness of impulses.

He touched those cheeks, that face. These were not the thoughts of last night. She was untouched of societal pressures. She knew what was right. She said she did. He hoped she did.  This wasn't the first time.  He had seen her like this many times. but this morning was different. It had been like waking  up in a time warp. Every morning he woke up in love. but today was different. He tried to bring forth the same love. but it was missing. He loved her. He thought so, he ought to. but there was something missing. He could not find the same lovely lady he had fallen in love with the morning before. She was not the same girl, she was not her, she could not have been her. He summoned all the repressed feelings of love but he was staring at an empty pot (par uske samne sirf ek khaali gadha tha). There was nothing more left to give. Where was the love, where the emotions? It seemed  like a long time ago when he had promised her he would not change. He had. It was his fault. He could not find those evil nuances he had loved. The face was suddenly normal. It was the same old. He tried to make himself emotional. Forcing himself to think of all those dreamy nights when he had been engulfed himself in her charms. Her faced looked ordinary. What was it that she did few days back? Memories of her smile, her impish look and not a rock moved in his mountainous heart. As if all the emotions had drained out. Even this thought registered at a sub optimal level. but what is optimal. I should be angry at least but could not bring himself to cry. He ought to be sad but he could not bring himself to shout. He wanted to love but could not. This was not his first time in love, it was his first time out of it. What irritated him was that he would  nothing about it, time would pass and things would happen. In brief, he would act distant and not talk about it, she would notice and would talk about it, he would agree but not talk about it, he would hurt her and not talk about it, they would engage in a scene and would shout about it, he would be back in it and she would be out of it. Life makes for strange stories when you wish to add emotional spice to your bland going on. Anyways she woke up, he had agreed it was his fault last night, she acted normally, he gave up on being dramatic and life was normal again. But the memory lingered.

GIGO

"Are you from around here?" is a stupid question to ask a taxi driver. Let's agree that I am not very intelligent then. The world was from around here. The stars weren't too far off if we only tried hard enough and believe me we didn't. 

"No, I am not from here." 

"Where are you from?" 

"Banaras. Some village near Banaras." 

"Ah, Banaras!" 

My eyes sparkled, not with the shimmer of Twilight fans but with the glow of a wand post spell making. Here was the famed North-Indian cabwallah. I wont lie, I feel a bit closer to them being a quarter UPite myself. 

"Where exactly in Banaras ?" I asked. 

Let me assure you I have been to Banaras once, for 2 days, and that too years back and don't remember a wee bit of that trip. 

"If you take a left from the main bridge near Banaras you'll get to our village." 

"Oh, and since when have you been here?" I queried. 

"It has been ten years. My wife kid stay with me here." 

"And how has the place been treating you?" I had spent a bit more than a year in Mumbai. 

"Its nice. A bit costly though. We spend 4.5k for rent." 

"Where do you live ?" I asked. 

"In a shanty near Lower Parel" 

"A posh place." I remarked. He grinned and said "I cannot stay at Navi Mumbai, its too far off." 

Yes, bloody hell it is. No pubs too. It is one big retirement society. 

"How big is the business then? Earning the legendary dough that salaried middle class thinks everyone (even beggars supposedly) else earns." 

"Oh its fine" he said "We pay Rs. 100 in the morning to the taxi owner. Get this taxi with its tank full and return the same every night. But I am planning on going to Banaras now. Parents want to live with me and I can't afford that in Mumbai. We live in a nice home in our village, stuff millionaires dream of here. I will buy a cab and ply on the roads there."

"But isn't Mumbai less corrupt, I mean if you have your papers correct, there is no hassle. In UP you will have to pay to every guy who demands and further travel on those broken roads. I said defending the city where Half of India earns and three fourths spend."
"Yes that there is. But the tourist thing is picking up there. If I speak English tourists pay well and there is no meter system there so I earn more from them."

At least he knew what he wanted to do. He had plans. I have notions, threads of idea running lose and an absent ambition which could never weave a dream from them.

The night was cold. At least it was not raining. It had been an ugly week. The foreseeable future was bleak. The bridge was approaching. I would soon cross into the cage of this new city now. To keep the Q & A running I asked "Why don't you work for Meru? They pay better." "Nah," he said "the system was same there. You paid 150 there every morning, whether you drove the car or not. So you ended up paying even when sick."

It's a strange thing, this life. Some Fridays you are running around to the nearest pub and others you are staring alone at your laptop with all your friends busy. Yet the world goes on, everything remains the same in both the cases, it only one's personal condition which is different. Our lives are like linear stories which interact with the lives of others sometimes leading to a consequence. To live in the present and starve in the winter or to plan for the future and lose the present. As always moderation is the answer. But what is life if not living in the extremes? The safety of average is the life of most. A life lived more ordinary. Has there ever been a sunset which has not been observed by anyone? The irrational thoughts of a drunk man.

Tu kisi rail si

I remember it was between 10-11am on a sunny day in Gokarna. I know that because I had returned from a minor trek in the morning to a near-by beach. I opened this hardcover thin book. It was a collection of ghazals/shayari by Dushyant Kumar.

This raises a lot of questions. Who am I being the most obvious one. Why was I in Gokarna? Was I alone? Why had I gone for a 'minor trek', if such a thing exists? Why did I have this book by Dushyant Kumar? Why did I have a ghazal/shayari book by a Hindi poet, instead of a book on poetry? Why Dushyant Kumar? And why this post now?

Hi. I am Karn Kher. The author of this blog, although I do not reserve the right to say so with the sparse effort I have put in updating it. I am a lot of things and lot of groups can demand to have or not have me on their rosters. I wish to be more in many senses. There was a time when I was rather interested in writing, but over time I have realised I am not good at it and it makes Ricardian sense to not indulge in it either. And there we go again digressing from the topic of discussion. This is what happens usually. I am moved enough to write about something, I start writing, I digress and I close the article as a draft never to be touched again (like a virgin!).

Yes, so Gokarna. I wanted to run away from society, people et al. I was getting bored of humans, traffic, noise, expectations the whole humdrum existence (not suicidal, yet!). Oooo much smart-ass!!
I was about to embark on this new phase of my professional journey post MBA and wanted to do something I was pretty sure I wouldn't be able to do later in my life. (Consider this as a polite search for a female who would let their male partners just go alone on a leisure trip without the torrents of explanations and tears! Not that females do that. Because hormone and biology does not exist and we are all the same.) So yeah Gokarna.

I was alone because the few people I asked didn't wish to come along and I was OK with that. I privately wanted to go alone. People do not understand that one can just sit and read. All day long. Being alone gave me the freedom to do as I wish. Wake up at early hours to see the sun already risen, take a dip in water and go back to sleep. Wake up in afternoon, go out for a stroll, randomly keep trekking and return 5 hours later. Sit at a empty shack at one end of the beach and read/listen to music for 8 hours straight. It also makes you wish you had people along with you. To talk to. To look after stuff while you went to the bathroom. To split bills. To ensure you reach your room post alcohol binge. To let the world know you are dead in case you slip from a hill and die. To push you down that hill and claim a kill without being pronounced guilty. Oh yes I forgot Dushyant Kumar.

Ok, minor trek because i got bored and had covered the same route the day before.

During my internship stint, my colleagues mentor was interested in poetry. I know that because while discussing my interests I had mentioned reading Rashmirathi to her. (If I remember correctly, I had once embarked on the journey to translate Rashmirathi to English. Oh David/Abhimanyu me!) She had then recited the below two lines by a poet called Dushyant Kumar.

पार होगी सेनाएं , विजई होंगे राम।
पुल्ल बनाने वाले पीछे रह जाएंगे , आने वाले युग में वानर कह लाएंगे ॥

Now I read Hindi literature rarely. This is because: I do not know many great Hindi authors. I find them too interested in society and its ways rather than individual psychology. Too dramatic. My hindi reading speed is low. So this name, Dushyant Kumar, stuck with me and the fact that he is a वीर रस poet. Some one like our dear old Ramdhari Singh Dinkar.

I bought this book from the railway station stall at Mumbai Central (BCT). This was done to keep up the family tradition of buying a book at any railway station. At least a magazine. If nothing just so that it can be thrown out of the train's window by my sister. So there's this Hindi book stall at BCT which only had this collection of shayari by Dushyant Kumar. No wait, that's not it. I bought this book in Meerut along with many other books (10 to be precise. What? They were cheap!). I selected this book along with Faiz and Rebecca Goldenstein's 36 Arguments for God to be my oeuvre for the Gokarna trip.Why was that Station thing there? Because you had typed something and it made somehow more sense to not delete incorrect information and go Meh!

This post exists because of this song that has been released lately and has a couplet by Dushyant Kumar in it..

तू किसी रेल सी गुज़रती है,
मैं किसी पुल्ल सा थरथराता हूँ ।

The rest of the lines of this shayari don't match up to the greatness of this one line. It was so modern, so mechanical and yet so human. It struck me at once though appreciation for it took a while. To anyone who has ever traveled in a train not the closed compartments of AC but in the excellent ventilation that makes the stinking sleeper class bearable, this couplet makes obvious sense. It is so raw and uncouth like a man's love. I spent quite a few hours repeating it Gokarna, looking at a world changed. Suddenly Wordsworth and his daffodils were crushed while the curves of the rivulet were passed on the bridge. It was so raw and yet there was no nature in it. It was human, all too human.

Then this song turned up today and all these forgotten parchments of my memory which would have withered and lost in the wind returned.