Naught that Matters

The Rhythm

2008-03-11T22:30:00.008+05:30

The first encounter with him took place when I was rather young, though I had heard his name since childhood. It simply didn’t excite me except for a kind of rhythm in his name and the mistake I made while spelling it out.
Kahlil Gibran. The first time I met him, I was too callow to allow him commove me. Nevertheless, I kept on reading him irrespective of fact whether I understood or not (as was my wont, to just eat words and drink rhythm).
It ended as abruptly as it started. And there was a pause. A long pause.
And he came again in my life. Years afterwards. No, he didn’t come; he actually stormed into my life. I was left just to see where he carries me away, and where he drops. Till date, my predicament continues.
Neither does he require nor do I have any adjectives for him.

Excerpt from "The Prophet"

And she hailed him, saying:
Prophet of God, in quest of the uttermost, long
have you searched the distances for your ship.
And now your ship has come,
and you must needs go.
Deep is your longing for the land of your memories and
the dwelling-place of your grater desires; and our love would not bind you nor
our needs hold you.
Yet this we ask ere you leave us, that you speak to us
and give us of your truth.
And we will give it unto out children, and they
unto their children, and it shall not perish.
In your aloneness you have
watched with our days, and in your wakefulness you have listened to the weeping
and the laughter of our sleep.
Now therefore disclose us to ourselves, and
tell us all that has been shown you of that which is between birth and
death.

And he answered:
People of Orphalese, of what can I speak
save of that which is even now moving within your souls?
Then said Almitra,
speak to us of Love.
And he raised his head and looked upon the people, and
there fell a stillness upon them. And with a great voice he said:
When love
beckons to you, follow him,
Though his ways are hard and steep.
And when
his wings enfold you yield to him,
Though the sword hidden among his pinions
may would you.
And when he speaks to you believe in him,
Though his voice
may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the
garden.

For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even
as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.
Even as he ascends to
your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,
So
shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the
earth.
Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.
He threshes you
to make you naked.
He sifts you to free you from your husks.
He grinds you
to whiteness.
He kneads you until you are pliant;
And then he assigns you
to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God’s sacred
feast.
All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets
of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life’s
heart.

But if in your fear you would seek only love’s peace and
love’s pleasure,
Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and
apss out of love’s threshing floor,
Into the seasonless world where you shall
laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your
tears.

Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from
itself.
Love possesses not nor would it be possessed;
For love is
sufficient unto love.

When you love you should not say, “God, is in
my heart,” but rather, “I am in the heart of God.”
And think not you can
direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your
course.
Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself.
But if you love
and must needs have desires, let theses be your desires:
To melt and be like
a running brook that sings its melody to the night.
To know the pain of too
much tenderness.
To be wounded by your own understanding of love,
And to
bleed willingly and joyfully.
To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give
thanks for another day of loving;
To rest at the noon hour and meditate
love’s ecstasy;
To return home at eventide with gratitude;
And then to
sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon you
lips.

The Snow: Authoritative Excellence

2008-01-14T02:49:00.000+05:30

Novel: THE SNOW

Author: ORHAN PAMUK

Translated in English By: MAUREEN FREELY

Published by: FABER AND FABER

===============================================

The plot of the novel is, in general, a regional one. So to say, a typical story of oppression, social tensions, conflicts of cultures (western vs. eastern; although for us Indians, both Turks and Europeans form west), influence of politics on cultural values (and vice versa, too), ethics, ethnicity, broken hearts, unsaid affection, debates over religious stuff and anarchism. In a way this much is more than enough for a clobbering novel and perhaps a movie too.
However, what makes this book special is the manner in which it is written, The author has the art of striking the balance in sensitive limning of each of such emotions and the realistic analysis of the situation. On one side, he depicts the central character “Ka” as if he (the author) himself has lived Ka’s life, and on the other, he never lets you fall in the trap of emotional melodrama (perhaps this is what Bertolt Brecht calls alienation).

It is snowing when Ka arrives in the small town of Kars, and the snow continues to fall, cutting off the town from the rest of the world. There is tension there: an upcoming mayoral election, the struggle between religion and secularism, a heavy-handed police presence. The conflict between Islam -- and, for example, the right of girls to go to school wearing head-scarves -- and the secular society the government has imposed causes the most problems; it is also an explanation for why the girls are killing themselves.

Ka is an outsider. He begins as a dutiful journalist, talking to a variety of town figures, trying to learn more about the suicides, but finds himself drawn into this larger conflict. Throughout the country, and especially in this region, it is no longer the Kurds that are perceived by the authorities as being the greatest threat, but the increasingly influential Islamists. Ka, respected as a poet but tainted as one who has presumably been polluted by Western thought and ways, is viewed with both suspicion and interest by both sides. The police are reluctant to rough him up -- as they do the locals -- because of his Istanbul and German connections, while the Islamists see him as the enemy (godless, westernized) but warily accept that he might be able to help convey their message. Eventually, he is also used as a go-between by both sides.

Ka is also racked by self-doubt -- and god-doubt, as the question of his atheism constantly arises. Resurgent Islam doesn't accept half measures, however: Ka is warned:
"If you want to save your skin, I would advise you to increase your faith in God at the earliest opportunity. It won't be long, I fear, before a moderate belief in God will be insufficient to save the skin of an old atheist. "
Even when he thinks he believes, the artist Ka clearly has a different conception of godliness, as he is reminded by one of the Islamic leaders when he describes it:
"Before I got here, I hadn't written a poem in years," he said. "But since coming to Kars, all the roads on which poetry travels here have reopened. I attribute this to the love of God I've felt here."

"I don't want to destroy your illusions, but your love of God comes out of Western romantic novels," said Blue. "In a place like this, if you worship God as a European, you're bound to be a laughingstock. Then you cannot even believe you believe. You don't belong to this country; you're not even a Turk anymore. First try to be like everyone else. then try to believe in God."
The conflict is everywhere: even Ipek's family, which runs the hotel where Ka is staying, is half-torn, as Ipek's sister Kadife is active in the Islamist movement and a strong believer, while Ipek's marriage broke up over her husband's embrace of Islam and his unacceptable (to her) demand that she wear a head-scarf।

A locally televised performance, at which Ka also reads one of his poems, goes catastrophically (and surreally) wrong, leading to a mini-coup and curfew, and a further clamp-down on the Islamists -- who, however, have much local support. The city remains cut off -- for a few days a world unto itself -- and the conflict continues, its many players as active as ever. Ka, meanwhile, is pushed back and forth between them, unable to extricate himself -- while all the while pursuing Ipek.

There is much discussion of the proper course of action. Tolerance is shown by individuals, but seems almost impossible to put into practise, as each force seeks to impose its own absolutism (symbolized by the head scarf, but obviously going much further). Each side, too, is undermined from within: suicide is a grievous sin, while the arbitrary show of force by those in power has little to do with actual secular ideals (and show little respect for the rights of individuals).

Art is central to the novel, and two theatrical performances -- each involving at least one shooting -- are the centrepieces of the book. In truly dramatic fashion, revolution is practised on the stage (though the resonance -- as described -- isn't quite as strong as one might imagine). Then there is Ka, who is able to write poetry again: none of the poems are reproduced here, but the genesis of each is carefully noted and often described in some detail; there is even an index at the end of the book, of "The order in which Ka wrote his poems".
It is the desire to write a book about these poems that leads the narrator -- an alter-Orhan Pamuk, and longtime friend of Ka's -- to tell this story। The presentation is unusual, the narrator at the fore in certain chapters, acknowledging that he writes this years after the events and describing his research in Germany and Turkey on the trail of Ka, while elsewhere disappearing entirely and presenting the story as it happens, as if he had witnessed all the events. He reveals some of what happened before he describes it -- Ka's fate, for example --, an odd approach that takes some of the suspense away and yet also serves to focus attention more on the why, revealed only when the events are allowed to unfold.

Snow is a book about the difficulties faced by a nation torn between tradition, religion, and modernization. Set in the farthest east of Turkey, the locals are certain that in Western eyes they're all considered ignorant yokels. They suffer from a dreadful inferiority complex and a need to prove themselves to counter that. Religion is the easiest crutch to rely on (and, in the case of this religion, one that conveniently scares the hell out of the infidels, of course). The struggle is not only with the West, however, but with the strong tradition of secularism in Turkey itself. As one character says:
"To play the rebel heroine in Turkey you don't pull off your scarf, you put it on."
In Snow Pamuk effectively portrays these difficulties, and the many ambiguities in contemporary Turkish life -- there's little that's simply black and white here -- but the book loses steam about halfway through (or bogs down in the snow, which there's an awful lot of here). There's a great deal of dialogueS; Ka's uncertain position -- he's not entirely sure where he stands -- makes him even more of an odd man out, and after a while one longs for more certainty, rather than -- as it seems to become -- less and less. There's also quite a bit of negotiation, as people are asked to do certain things in exchange for other things, but the uneven playing field generally does not lead to satisfying (or at least hoped for) results; that's perhaps realistic, yet not entirely satisfying for the reader. Positions -- especially the locals' inferiority complex vis à vis the West -- are also occasionally too simply presented.

The elements of the book -- even the dominant snow -- are often creative and clever. From the beginning of a science fiction novel written by one boy to the complex affair between Ka and Ipek to the shadow of the suicides hanging over the entire story, Pamuk offers much that impresses and moves the reader -- but his hold is ultimately also unsure. He tries just that bit too much and too hard, and he can't quite sustain it.

2007-09-13T22:48:00.000+05:30

अंदाज आरशाचा वाटे खरा असावा
बहुतेक माणसांचा तो चेहरा असावा...

---ईलाही जमादार

Art that is not!

2007-07-18T03:06:00.000+05:30

There always had been a handful of discussions on the art, its forms, expressions, its usages, et al throughout my life until some years ago. Well, nobody, including myself, ever felt or expected the heated arguments would or should lead us anywhere or yield anything towards any sort of conclusion. In fact, most of the times, the contestations were fought only for the sake of themselves.
I, in those tilts, had tried to render diverse statements (which, I would fairly expect, should not necessarily be mingled up with whatsoever opinions I have about the subject matter) putting on all the theatrical skills I had and creating all the hoax I could, and managed to reel under the feel of a exultant jubilant, only until I had the (ever famous - world famous in my town, so to say) rendezvous with the Superpower of oxymoronic and splendiferous arguments, called Oscar Wilde.
Then I devolve into silence.
Forever.

(Presenting here one of his masterpieces - preface to “The Picture of Dorian Gray”)

The artist is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and conceal the artist is art’s aim.
The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things. The highest, as the lowest, form of criticism is a mode of autobiography.
Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault. Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope. They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only beauty.
There is no such thing as a moral or am immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.
The nineteenth-century dislike if realism is the rage of Caliban seeing his own face in a glass. The nineteenth-century dislike of Romanticism is the rage of Caliban not seeing his own face in a glass.
The moral life of a man forms part of the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium.
No artist desires to prove anything. Even things that are true can be proved. No artist has ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style.
No artist is ever morbid. The artist can express everything.
Thought and language are to the artist instruments of an art.
Vice and virtues are to the artist material for an art. From the point of view of form, the types of all the arts is the art of the art of the musician. From the point of view of feeling, the actor’s craft is the type.
All art is once surface and symbol.
Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril.
Those who read the symbol do so at their peril. It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.
Diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex, and vital.
When critics disagree the artist is in accord with himself.
We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely.
All art is quite useless.

पाऊस...

2007-06-02T20:01:00.000+05:30

पहिला पाऊस

चिंब...

तू कुठे आहेस गा़लिब?

2007-05-10T22:39:00.000+05:30

(मला मनापासून आवडलेली एक कविता..
कवी: सौमित्र अर्थात् किशोर कदम)

गा़लिब!
मला काहीतरी झालंय...

समुद्र पाहून
काहीतरी व्हायचं माझ्या छातीत...
शहरातल्या गर्दीत उगाच फिरतानाही
दिशाहीन वाटायचं मला...
संध्याकाळी सैरभैर व्हायचं तळं मनाचं...
पण आता
साधे तरंगही उठत नाहीत त्यावर.
ऋतू बदलताना उदास हलायचं माझ्यातलं झाड...
आता
झाडावरल्या पक्ष्यांनाही कळत नाही झाडाचं हलणं...
रात्री-बेरात्री ऊर उगाच भरून यायचा...
आता
नीरव शांतता पांघरून
डोळ्यांच्या बाहुल्या टक्क जाग्या असतात,
अंधार पुसत राहतात.
इकडून तिकडे
तिकडून इकडे.
एवढंच काय गा़लिब!
कविता लिहून झाल्यावर
साधा कागद जरी पाहिला
की चक्क दिसायचं रे झुळझुळताना पाणी...
आता कोरड्या पात्रातून चालत पोहोचतो मी
समोरच्यापर्यंत

एकमेकांची तहान पाहात कसं जगायचं असतं
हे एकदा तरी सांग गालिब!
आता मला तुझ्या वेदनांवर
माझ्या जखमांची मेणबत्ती पेटवू दे...
माझं बोट धरून
घेऊन चल मला कवितेच्या जंगलात पडणारा पाऊस पाहायला...

तुझ्या गझलांची हरणं
माझ्या डोळ्यांतून मनापर्यंत
उधाण खेळायला सोड...
मधली कोरडी जमीन
शिंगांनी उकरून काढायला सांग त्यांना मात्र...
गालिब!
मला दुःखाइतकं मोठं व्हायचंय...
भोवतालच्या अंधाराला वणवा नाही लागला तरी चालेल
माझ्या शब्दांचे दिवे तरंगताहेत त्यावर
एवढंच मला पहायचंय...
माझ्या जिवावर पडत चाललेल्या
आत्महत्यांच्या गाठी पार करत-करत
मला मरेपर्यंत जगायचंय...
तुझ्यासारखंच...!
मी तुला कधीचा शोधतो आहे
तू कुठे आहेस गालिब?

नव्या शरीरातून
तू कदाचित ऐकतही असशील तुझंच गाणं...
तुझ्याच दुःखाची
तुला कदाचित ओळख नसेल राहिली...

"खुदा ऐसे एहसास का नाम है
रहे सामने और दिखाई ना दे"

तसा
तू मला भेटतही असशील रोज...
कदाचित
मी बारमध्ये दारू पिताना
माझ्यासमोर झिंगून बसलेला
तूच असशील कदाचित...
कदाचित तू स्वतःच
दारू होऊन रोज पोटात जात असशील माझ्या...

गालिब!
कुणीतरी तुझा शेर ऐकवला
आणि माझ्या तोंडून 'व्वा' निघलीच नाही...
मी इतका कोरडा होण्याआधी भेट...
अन् भेटल्यावर
नेहमीप्रमाणे माझ्याकडे उधार माग...
मी तुला काहीच देऊ शकणार नाही
म्हणजे मी किती कोरडा झालोय
याची तुला कल्पना येईल...
आता
तू माझा आधार व्हायचंस
मी तुझा नाही...
आणखी कितीतरी शतकं पुरेल
एवढा झंझावात तू ठेवून गेलायस या जगात...
त्यातली फक्त एक झुळूक पुरेल मला
हे संपूर्ण आयुष्य जगायला...
मी तुला कधीचा शोधतो आहे
तू कुठे आहेस गालिब?

Resurrection

2007-04-14T22:49:00.000+05:30

२ सप्टेंबर १९९९

एक प्रवास संपलाय,
एक लढाई हारलोय;
न लढताच.

तू... गेलीस.
स्वप्नांचे दवबिंदू आयुष्याच्या पानावरून ओघळून गेले.

तू गेलीस.
मी, रिक्तह्स्त.
आकांक्षांचे निखारे जळून, विझून गेलेत.
रक्षेचा स्वामी मी,
रिक्तह्स्तच.

...नाही, पण
स्वप्नं नसली तरी,
त्यांची राख थोडी शिल्लक आहे
आणि
पुन्हा फिनिक्सची जिद्दही आहे.
कोसळणाऱ्याच्या प्रांतातला मी नाही,
देवदासाचा पिंड माझा नाही.
मी...
पुन्हा उभा राहीनही,
पुन्हा स्वप्नं पाहीनही.. पुन्हा लढण्यासाठी!
पण...
तुला
विसरून???

नकळत

2007-04-04T00:03:00.000+05:30

१४ जुलै १९९९

मीही लिहितो तसं...
नाही, म्हणजे तसा प्रतिभा वगैरे गोष्टींशी संबंध नाही;
पण तरीही, मी लिहितो.

"ती"ही वाचते कधी कधी.
कधी कौतुक; कधी टीका; कधी फक्त हसणं तर कधी...काहीच नाही.
तिच्या पिंगट डोळ्यातली ती आर्द्र भावना; कवितेतला विरह वाचून तिचं ते हेलावून जाणं,...सुरेखच.

"किती छान लिहितोस तू! सुरेखच. हे सगळं तुला जमतं तरी कसं? म्हणजे तो विरह, ती जीवघेणी वेदना, ती धुंदी, ते असीम प्रेम, समर्पीतता..." वगैरे वगैरे. आणखीही बरंच काही..
मग तिचे ते भावविभोर डोळे बोलून जातात, अन् मला मात्र उगाचच तिच्या डोळ्यातली काजळाची रेघ फिसकटल्यासारखी वाटते.

माझ्या कवितेत "ती"ही येऊ लागली होती अधुनमधुन.पण तीच होती का ती? असावी.

कवितेतली ती, माझी महत्त्वाकांक्षा होती अन् वास्तवातली ही... बहुधा माझं स्वप्न असावी.कळत नकळत तिचं, माझ्या कवितेतलं अस्तित्व ठळक होत चाललं होतं!

ती कातर संध्याकाळ, ते कौतुक, हसणं, मनमोकळी दाद, पिंगट डोळ्यांच्या कडेशी किंचित फिसकटलेली ती काजळाची रेघ... एक घट्ट वीण.

अशाच एका संध्याकाळी ती आली, "तो"ही सोबत.
"हा_____ , आम्ही दोघं..." तो आरक्त चेहरा, ते भावस्पर्शी डोळे.
"तुझ्याच प्रेमकवितांनी जादू केली होती ना.." एक अवखळ अदा.
तिची भिरभिरती नजर, मी स्तब्ध, तो निःशब्द.

ते निरोपाचे, आणि त्याहूनही आभाराचे शब्द, छातीत घट्ट रुतून बसलेले.

"ही माझी आठवण," इति मी; माझी प्रिय कवितांची वही तिच्या हातात ठेवताना.

ती गेली, त्याचा हातात हात गुंफूंन.
त्या शब्दांचा अर्थ आता नसेनसेत भिनू लागला होता. भयाण वास्तवाचा करालपणा प्रच्छन्नपणे जाणवत होता.

ती गेली, ती गेलीय..
आता.. पुन्हा "कविता" शक्य नाही. जाताना ती माझी वहीच नव्हे तर; तर माझं "लिहिणं"च घेऊन गेली होती! माझी कविता घेऊन गेली होती!!

कधीकाळी वाटलं होतं, कुणी नसलं तरी हे शब्द, माझी कविता शेवटपर्यंत साथ करेल; पण तीही अशी फितूर झालेली. माझ्याही नकळत. ज्यांच्यावर मी जीवापाड प्रेम केलं ते शब्दही मला असे परके होतील हे कधी स्वप्नातही जाणवलं नव्हतं. पण हेच वास्तव होतं.., ज्वलंत.

कागदावरचे हे शब्द असे निस्तेज, बेरंगी झाले होते, वठलेल्या निष्पर्ण सावरीच्या तळाशी विसावलेल्या पाचोळ्यासारखे.

हे शब्द, ज्यांना मी हळूवारपणे जपलं, तेच असे अनोळखी कधी झाले कळलंच नाही..
मी निःशब्द केव्हा झालो, कळलंच नाही..
प्रेमभंगाच्या कविता लिहिता लिहिता,मी देवदास कधी झालो कळलंच नाही..
खरंच..
कळलंच नाही..

प्रवास

2007-03-10T21:59:00.000+05:30

(२३ ऑगस्ट १९९९)

संपलेल्या मार्गानंतर
उरलेल्या प्रवासाची जाणीव...
तशी सह्यच.

पण... प्रवासाच्या अंतानंतरही
समोर पसरलेला मार्ग...
जीवघेणा.

असंच काहीसं माझंही...
माझा शोधप्रवास
तुझ्यापर्यंत येऊन संपलेला..
पण मार्ग..?
अपरिमित..अनंत
अनिच्छित आणि...
अपरिहार्य.

सावरीस्पंदन

2007-03-02T23:37:00.000+05:30

स्पंदन : ॥ १ ॥
१९ फेब्रुवारी २०००

तो शाल्मलीही असाच.
एकुलता. एकटा. एवढ्या गजबजाटात राहूनही नामानिराळा.
आपल्याच एकटेपणात मश्गुल.
किंचित दुर्लक्षितच.
गेली चार वर्ष पाहतोय, इतरांना मिळणारं कौतुक त्याच्या वाट्याला नाहीच. प्रचंडपणाकडे पाहून कुणीतरी विस्मय करावा, बस्स.

बाकी वर्षभर निरतिशय बहरलेला. इतरांसारखाच पानापानांनी डवरलेला. थोडासा निर्विकार, निरलस.
पण सरत्या हेमंतामध्ये सारं पर्णवैभव ओसरू लागतं आणि ऐन शिशिरात किंचित अचानकच हा फुलून येतो. त्याच्या या फुलण्याकडे ल़क्ष जाईपर्यंत फांदीवर एकही पान उरलेलं नसतं.

त्याचं हे फुलणंही असं स्वतःतच मग्न असल्यासारखं असतं... एकटेपण जपणारं.
धुंद; उच्छृंखल मात्र नाही.
राजस; पण त्यातही इतरांची अवहेलना करण्याचा अजिबात हेतू नसतो... खरंच निरलस.

असाच तो आत्ताही फुलून आला आहे...

स्पंदन : ॥ २ ॥
२९ फेब्रुवारी २०००

सावरीचं गळणारं ते एकेक फुल उगाचच जुन्या जखमांना छेडून गेल्यासारखं ओघळतं...

एरव्ही माझं फुलवेडेपण मित्र-मैत्रिणींच्या चेष्टेचा विषय. झाडाखालची फुलं वेचणं हा माझा अक्षरशः नित्यक्रमच. पण सावरीच्या तळाशी सांडलेल्या बिछायतीची किनारही मोडणं जमत नाही.
नकोसं वाटतं; का कोण जाणे...

त्या फुलाचा हलकासा स्पर्शही तीक्ष्णपणे "काहीतरी" जागवून जातो.
पूर्ण उमललेल्या फुलाचा देठ असावा त्याप्रमणे मी अस्वस्थ होतो...

स्पंदन : ॥ ३ ॥
७ मार्च २०००

आता मात्र त्या शाल्मलीकडे पाहणंही नकोसं वाटतंय.
विराण, संन्यस्तासारखा विरक्त आणि तरीही गुहेतल्या गौतमाच्या मूर्तीसारखा समाधानी भासतोय तो...

निष्पर्ण तर तो केव्हाचा झाला होता; आता ते पुष्पवैभवही ओसरलंय.पायतळीची सुमरासही कोमेजून गेलीय...

तसं त्याचं वैभव पलाशासारखं बेधुंद नसतं;
सुरंगीची असावी तशी गंधगाथाही त्याची नाहीच.
तरीही...

ठाऊक आहे मला, आता पुन्हा वसंत येईल.
पुन्हा लसलसत्या पालवीचे कोंभ मिरवत तो तसाच एकाकीपणाच्या दिमाखात उमलेल...

तेव्हा बहुधा मी नसेन इथे...(कदाचित).

अनपेक्षित

2007-02-14T23:52:00.000+05:30

(२७ सप्टेंबर १९९९)

'स्वप्न... एक संवेदना, एक हर्षवेदना.
एक आकांक्षा, जिजीविषा.
स्वप्न... एक सोनेरी आभास..
कदाचित वास्तवाचं(च) प्रतिरुप..
स्वप्न...

लखलखतं लावण्य आणि तळपती धार, म्हणजे स्वप्न.
अविजीत आशा आणि अमर्त्य इच्छा म्हणजे स्वप्न.
एक भावना म्हणजे स्वप्न, एक विचार म्हणजे स्वप्न...
... एक वळवाचा पाऊस.

इच्छेला क्रिया अन् प्रेमाला प्रिया भेटावी तसं...स्वप्न.
अपेक्षेला आशेचा असावा तसा जीवनासाठी स्वप्नाचा अर्थ.
आभासाला मितीची असावी तशी आयुष्याला स्वप्नाची नेणीव...

खरंच, हे 'स्वप्न' म्हणजे केवळ 'आभास'च?
असेलही...
किंवा असावाच!

कारण, तसं नसतं तर.. तुझ्या 'नसण्या'च अर्थ लावण्यासाठी मला दुसरा पर्य़ाय होता कुठे?...

'अबोली'स

2007-02-11T23:13:00.000+05:30

(१ सप्टेंबर १९९९)
एखाद्या अस्फ़ुट कळीसारखं
तुझं हसणं,
उमलणं
आणि
ते 'फ़ुलणं'
...किती स्वाभाविक; केवळ स्वतःसाठीच.

असंच, तू फ़ुलत रहावंस
जीवनभर
(माझ्यानंतरही)
स्वतःसाठीच.

स्तवन

2007-02-10T01:52:00.000+05:30

तर ही एक (वि)संवादिनी.
अशीच, माझ्यासारखीच
माझीच आणि माझ्याशीच
एक व्यक्तता, एक संवेदना
अस्तित्ववादाची वास्तववादाशी घातलेली एक अपरिहार्य सांगड.

...वाद.. संवाद... विसंवाद - असंच काहीसं.
किंवा असंही नसेल कदाचित...
असेल, हे सारं तथाकथित दृष्ट्या विस्कळीत असेल,
विसंगत किंवा असंगतही.
पण मग - हा तर माझाच स्वभावविशेष!
---विस्कळीतपणातील व्यवस्थित सुसूत्रता.

(मीच..?)

पण "असं"च का, याचंही उत्तर हेच - ही एक विसंवादिनी...

Begining of a Naught

2007-02-09T21:44:00.000+05:30

I am not.
I am naught.
I am not me, or perhaps I am.
I don't know.

There is something (or someone) deep inside that keeps me telling that I am living a virtual life, borrowed life..

This not a blog.

It is not me..