अंतहीन यात्री
Thoughts come and thoughts go and everytime I think of all the lost thoughts that never made it to this blog, a sense of meloncholy comes over me. For quite sometime now, I have a feeling of existing in a vaccume, a vaccume that sucks up all the thoughts, all the deleberations. And as a result I find myself a man without conviction. In fact everytime I am making a strong pitch for or against something, I can read in my voice the voice of others and I feel like cheating.
Somedays ago a school friend left a scrap for me on orkut - "Hi Abhaya, belated happy new year. I just went thru your blog (read it whole from 2004 onwards). quite interesting thoughts (since it is not coherent there is no other comment i can make)". And I thought, may be he is right. One reason might be that there is a lot in my life that is not reflected here but then I don't want that too anyway. Isn't it even worse? To not like how it is and yet don't know how to change it or what is wrong anyway? A fractured existance and not even knowing how else it can be?
May be a lot of it has to do with the images that I see all around me. I go to blogs and I find consistent images, intriguing images, clean images. You read a blog and you get an image. May be true, may be projected, doesn't matter. What matters is that power to be able to project an image. A power that I seek, endlessly, restlessly...
Last week that I spent in office was just so bad. All the time I wanted to write and I couldn't. Office is not the place where you sit down and write your mind out. I just wonder how I ever composed some of those early poems of mine sitting in office. Guess I must had been pretty inspired. Now a days, I can't go beyond first few lines. The effort seems too much and after a while it becomes meaningless all together. So I hoped I will go home and I will write. I dreamed of it, I waited for it, I pined for it.
Today is my third day at home.
अंतहीन यात्री
विदा देती एक दुबली बांह सी ये मेढ,
अंधेरे मे छूटते चुपचाप बूढे पेड ।
खत्म होने को न आयेगी कभी क्या,
एक उजडी मांग सी ये धूल धूसर राह ?
एक दिन क्या मुझी को पी जायेगी,
यह सफ़र की प्यास अबुझ अथाह ?
क्या यही सब साथ मेरे जायेंगे ,
ऊंघते कस्बे , पुराने पुल ?
पांव मे लिपटी हुई ये धनुष सी दुहरी नदी,
बींध देगी क्या मुझे बिल्कुल ?
- डा धर्म वीर भारती
Somedays ago a school friend left a scrap for me on orkut - "Hi Abhaya, belated happy new year. I just went thru your blog (read it whole from 2004 onwards). quite interesting thoughts (since it is not coherent there is no other comment i can make)". And I thought, may be he is right. One reason might be that there is a lot in my life that is not reflected here but then I don't want that too anyway. Isn't it even worse? To not like how it is and yet don't know how to change it or what is wrong anyway? A fractured existance and not even knowing how else it can be?
May be a lot of it has to do with the images that I see all around me. I go to blogs and I find consistent images, intriguing images, clean images. You read a blog and you get an image. May be true, may be projected, doesn't matter. What matters is that power to be able to project an image. A power that I seek, endlessly, restlessly...
Last week that I spent in office was just so bad. All the time I wanted to write and I couldn't. Office is not the place where you sit down and write your mind out. I just wonder how I ever composed some of those early poems of mine sitting in office. Guess I must had been pretty inspired. Now a days, I can't go beyond first few lines. The effort seems too much and after a while it becomes meaningless all together. So I hoped I will go home and I will write. I dreamed of it, I waited for it, I pined for it.
Today is my third day at home.
अंतहीन यात्री
विदा देती एक दुबली बांह सी ये मेढ,
अंधेरे मे छूटते चुपचाप बूढे पेड ।
खत्म होने को न आयेगी कभी क्या,
एक उजडी मांग सी ये धूल धूसर राह ?
एक दिन क्या मुझी को पी जायेगी,
यह सफ़र की प्यास अबुझ अथाह ?
क्या यही सब साथ मेरे जायेंगे ,
ऊंघते कस्बे , पुराने पुल ?
पांव मे लिपटी हुई ये धनुष सी दुहरी नदी,
बींध देगी क्या मुझे बिल्कुल ?
- डा धर्म वीर भारती
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