तमाशा

फसादों में उलझे हो, न जीते हो न जीने देते हो,

जिंदा हो मगर मौत का खेल खेलते हो।

तुम्हें मालूम नहीं फर्क - निर्दोष और दोषी का,

तुम्हें आता है सिर्फ खेल बर्बादी का।

देकर बलि कमज़ोर और मजलूमों की,

भरते हो दम सच्चाई और खुदाई का। 

चाहे नाम लो किसी भी ऊपर वाले का,

दुश्मन इंसानियत के हो तुम,

सही मानों में तुम ही हैवान हो;

और तुम्हारा ऊपरवाला - नकारा, बेगैरत,

जिसकी खुदाई के नाम पे चलता है,

तुम्हारा ये कारोबार हैवानियत का।

इससे तो बेहतर थे हम जानवरों के मानिंद,

बस एक भूख ही अपना खुदा था।

चलो कर दो अंत तुम्हारी-हमारी इस बीमार नस्ल का, 

होगा तभी शायद सृजन एक नए मकबूल नस्ल का।

तमाशबीनों ये तमाशा देखते रहो, 

लहू के छींटों का स्वाद लेते हो,

जो आज ये बहता रक्त तुम्हारा नहीं, 

रक्तबिजों का हौसला बढ़ाते हो।

कभी बिकेगा गोश्त तुम्हारा भी इसी मंडी में,

तुम्हारी जिंदगी की भी लगेगी बोली,

आखिर तुम भी हो एक बिकाऊ समान, इसी बाजारू दुनिया में,

जहां ज़िंदगी सस्ती, मगर उसका तमाशा बिकता बड़ा महंगा है।

 

“Who are you?”

Disclaimer: The following story is a figment of my imagination based on current state of affairs, any resemblance to any particular person or incident is purely coincidental.

“Who are you?” the guy asked with bloodshot eyes looking at her with maddening rage. The same question that you might be asking me. More apt question will be who she is, because I am not her. But then what’s her name? How does it matter I say! Has it ever mattered? Will it ever? For that matter is this her story for it to matter? Or is it a story of the times, or story about something else, perhaps it’s a story of us. So did I ask who are you…I didn’t! I didn’t even ask you why you are here…for this story most likely won’t be to your liking. But it still needs to be told, for I want to tell it, call it my “God complex”!

She was also like that, she did what she felt right. That is why she was there. Not one to answer questions but to ask them, after all she was the journalist. A free and true one as she made herself to be. She realized much early in her career that big organisations are not really favourable for your journalistic freedom and integrity, no matter which organization it was, how it worked, what side it worked for, it always supported its allegiance and not the truth. So she soon quit to start her own thing. No she wasn’t some rich kid whose dad could buy her a media house. Hers was a small blog which she filled with stories of interest of common folks that many times biggest of media houses gave a miss not for being insignificant but these stories ruffled people whom they couldn’t afford to be upset. Now I know you must be forming an image of her in your minds after reading this much. How many ‘isms’ she followed, what all ‘ist’ she was, how she dressed, where she studied…etc., etc., etc.! But let me tell you before you go any further with those images of who she is in your mind…she was nothing like that. She was a happy go lucky girl, believed in good, even had faith in a supreme being she believed did good of people and she tried to do her bit in that as well. She went to her small worship place near her house on designated days, as per the customs. She was always smiling, looking at bright side of things, making people feel good and smile at her jokes and antics. She was also fearless, from being a little girl who wanted to fight of ghosts in the dark that scared her friends to now trying to expose dark secrets that high and mighty wanted to keep hidden.

Here she was face to face with the carnage of hate to find truth in a locality in one of the most sensitive parts of national capital, Delhi. Her own city, which is called colloquially “Dilli Dilwalon Ki…”, the same city seem to have lost its heart for some time now. Since the government brought these controversial citizenship bills that made more mess than it cleaned up as proposed. There were riots everywhere spurring up from one side or other. While some of you may argue a big city like Delhi lost its soul long ago and all, let’s face it such violence our national capital hasn’t seen in few decades which was more than her entire lifetime so for her all this was new. She kept getting information on violence, some by government forces sanctioned officially, some by people in masks, sanctioned unofficially by interested parties. She couldn’t sit back amidst all that particularly at a time when media and journalists’ integrity and credibility was under scrutiny like never before. She was now seeing the destruction first hand that people had brought on each other in one of the worst affected areas. Burnt carcasses of cars stop dead, as their tyres burning at a distant most likely been used further as an weapon by the arsonists. While there were people still on the streets and she could see faces looking out of alleys, windows, there was a deafening silence in the area. That silence was periodically getting broken by sudden chants that she had only heard at places of worships and during festivals. Those very chants that filled her heart with positivity and calm now filled her with dread perhaps for the first time in her young yet fearless life. These people, the hostile expression on their faces and the chants all felt alien to her. Her parents had tried stopping her, her friends did too, saying these were not the time and place for girls to go. She had rebuked them saying that way many say about the entire city and even the country then should we sit on our asses and do nothing? Even her buddy who had stood by her all the time seem to be wavering this time. He had tried to reason with her that these were troubled times and even big reporters from big media houses were not taking risks to reach ground zero despite their clouts, alliances and everything. She reminded him how he had followed her out of a job in big media house to help her run her blog as a photo-journalist believing in her words of making a real impact as independent journalists rather than part of some big network. She wanted to go and share real stories that others weren’t willing to show and if he didn’t want to come along, and he was free to do so. As these things go, he could never do that, and so here they were in that precarious position now despite her assurances that God will look after them as they were going to do good by bringing out the truth. The truth, despite the dangers she felt, she tried to ascertain by asking few people here and there. But her questions were met by hostile queries of their own as they tried to gauge who she was, one of their own or not and depending upon the answer her fate they would decide.

Her friend again dissuaded her from this, told her never to answer who she was correctly but make it according to situation. All he wanted to take her away from here safely but alas god perhaps had a different plan. Due to this group of people he tried to avoid while she was busy questioning some women she found on a window he had to move away to another street. By the time she finished her futile questioning things had taken a turn for the worst. As she frantically looked for him, she found him in next alley lying knocked out with a bleeding head wound from the same man and his buddies now confronting her. She tried to reason with him, told him they were there to listen to their issues, make the world listen and take note. But sadly these are different times, none believed her. He asked her point blank if she took him for a fool? You are media people, he said. You are paid by government to tell only their story. We will not spare you today and teach you a lesson that your leaders will remember. She tried explaining how they were not with anybody and ran their own independent venture but all fell upon deaf ears. He said let me show you how we deal with insolent bitches like you. You want us out of this country, but we will spread the nation of Allah to the whole world including India. Kaafirs will die only we true believers will remain. Unashamed, uncovered women like you will be taught their right place not to speak over a man.  They closed in on her, started pawing her from all sides, tearing her clothes up. She couldn’t believe what was happening to her at first. In the name of God these men were brutalizing her! How can God be allowing this? She was there to tell about their plight. Maybe it was the Shaitaan, as Maulaviji had said, who takes over the mind and soul of people to make them do evil deeds to undermine God. But despite the raging eyes and attacking hands she somehow couldn’t see any Shaitaan there anymore! If god the almighty, the all merciful was allowing this to happen to her was it Shaitaan that was controlling these men? She tried fighting hard but they were overpowering her surely. Her companion himself incapacitated much to intervene and police, well let’s just say they were acting very godly by not intervening from far-far away, busy in some more pressing concerns perhaps!

As some time passed, the ravaged body of the girl on the street started to stir out of unconsciousness. Her first thought if all her assailants were gone and if her friend was ok, despite the physical and mental shock she tried to keep her sanity intact somehow. She tried to look around, seeking help and trying to find her injured friend. But her vision was blocked by a pair of boots. The sight gave her some hope, she looked up to see a helmeted policeman looking towards her. She tried to speak up and ask for help but she was choking up for pain. The policeman asked her, who she was? What had happened? But as she tried answering by her own pleas of help, another voice from opposite side answered before her from and No it wasn’t her friend! Looks like the Mullas have raped her and fled leaving her to die here. Maybe because she is a Hindu, we should help her, said the other voice. He asked directly, tell us girl you are a Hindu, right? Who did this to you? Sahab ji is here, we will help you! The physical pain and shock was excruciating for her, but the constant questioning of her religion just pushed her further down as if now all her hoped drowned. The guy said to police officer, perhaps she isn’t Hindu but a Muslim, that’s why she isn’t speaking up. These Mullas are idiots, they may have raped her thinking she is Hindu. But let’s not spare her, she will bore more of those scums and who will fill the country with filth. Let us teach her a lesson on who are the real men here! The policeman shrugged him off saying these were troubled times, media eyes were everywhere and this girl herself looks like from media. There will be ruckus if someone saw him or worst filmed him. The other guy was free to do whatever he wanted but he needed to go as there was lot of work for him other than to get busy in such stuff now.

As the policeman turned his back towards the girl and walked off to some other site perhaps to uphold the law in his own unique ways, the other guy looking at the disheveled state of the girl started having a glow in his eyes as he lowered his pants and himself onto her. She looked at his face thinking surely this is the devil himself, a mighty evil Rakshasa is out here to rob her of her last bit of life. But this guy was no dark skinned Rakshasa with an evil laugh. He looked like rather handsome prince god she saw regularly at the temples, the king who was the perfect man of all and who’s kingdom this guy was saying he will spread far and beyond. As her senses finally started leaving her and this senseless world due to the assaults becoming too much for her the final words she heard, “asli maja to ab ayega…kate hue se thodei hota hai, pure ka maja lo!”, perhaps summing up the change in the society and its beliefs. But is anything really changing, yes maybe the chants, the colours, the names and faces but the cycle of violence perpetrated in the name of those revered figures continue to happen without any change. In the end you may again ask me who she was, but I wonder who are we and who are they...god or devil, in whose name we forget ourselves so brutally!

रंग बदलते हैं! (Colors Change)

किसी को पसन्द हरा तो किसी को केसरिया, छुरे पे मगर सबके धार है तेज़,

नापसन्द है उन्हें बस मेरा सफ़ेद कुर्ता, लाल रंग से वो चाहते हैं इसे रंगना।

शुक्र है लहू पे रंग कोई चढ़ता नहीं, वरना बदल देते उसे भी वो मेरे नाम पर,

अस्पतालों में होता ये नया तरीका खून के मिलान का।

किसी को नापसन्द है मेरा खाना तो किसी को मेरा पहनावा,

होती है मेरी लाशों का ढ़ेर लगाकर उनकी संस्कृती की रक्षा।

किताबें वही हैं, बातें वही हैं, बस ऊपर जिल्द का रंग है बदलता,

मुझ काफ़िर का सर कलम करना ही है हर धर्म की शिक्षा।

कहते है विकास हुआ है मानव समाज का,

मगर उन्हें अब भी किसी की रोटी तो किसी की बेटी छीनने से फ़ुरसत नहीं।

दौर है आजकल पुरस्कारों का, किसी को देने का तो किसी को लौटाने का,

बस मेरे हाथ आया है ये पत्र तिरस्कार का।

कौन ग़लत, कौन सही, ये प्रश्न बहुत मुश्किल नहीं,

युगों से खिंची है सुर्ख़ लकीरें मेरे पटल पर, इसके जवाब में।

पूर्वजोँ की शक्ल में आँख, कान और मुँह बंद कर दिए मेरे,

स्वतंत्रता बस नाम की, गयी नहीं कहीं मनसिक परतंत्रता।

हर प्रश्न पे शब्द पत्थरों के मानिंद फेंके गए मुझपे कई हर ओर से,

सहिष्णुता के नाम पर है व्याप्त, ये कैसी असहिष्णुता।।

Where is he?

Where is he...
in whose name people put their faith and life,
in whose name both saints and demons come alive,
in whose name men are divided from men,
in whose name blood flows faster than water,
in whose name children are baptised or butchered,

No matter the name, no matter the face,
Under his almighty gaze,
Innocent suffer, flourishes hate,
The search goes on...
Long live his grace!