kitaab mili hai

किताब मिली है 

आज बहुत दिनो बाद जो धूप खिली है

छज्जे पर पड़ी एक पुरानी किताब मिली है

मटमैला, बदरंगा सा गत्ते का कवर

आधा चढ़ा है, आधा उतर गया है 

बस लटका है चंद धागो के सहारे

और कोने से ना जाने कौन कुतर गया है

अंदर, पीले पड़े पन्ने धूमिल से हो चुके है 

ना सर समझ आये ना पैर! बड़ा झमेला है 

बस श्ब्दो और अक्षरो की रस्साकशी समझिये

वैसे, किसी ने पीछे कटटम कुटटा खेला है

काका हाथरसी की चुटकिया है, या कृन्दन गंभीर

रासलीला युक्त पन्कितयां , या दैत्यो का साया है 

सोचता हूं, एक बार को कलम ले मैं खुरच कर देखूँ 

या दुबका कर लिटा दूं दोबारा, जहां से उठाया है 

आज बहुत दिनो बाद जो धूप खिली है

छज्जे पर पड़ी एक पुरानी किताब मिली है

- अक्षय सिंह 

Winters

Winters.

To him, winters were all about smoke. Smoke, haziness, wafts that arose and settled (rather naughtily) in nooks and corners.
The puffs of air that escaped when he wrinkled his nose in disgust. The slow measured stream of smoky breaths. Warming those frozen hands and creating a canvas on dusty widow panes.
The hot embers that sizzled under layers of ash. The coffee mug that warmed the tip of his frozen nose as he inhaled it.

The fog! Oh, that dreadful morose fog that swirled and descended every night. And was found cuddled and frozen on shivering leaves next morning.
Scattered lights, hazy windshields, spooky strangers,dusky afternoons and dark inky sky.

Summers! Summers were a Hawaiian shirt darned with multihued patches of colour.
Winters! Winters were all about smoke.

Dreams!

Celebrations!

Celebrations!

Outwardly, he was the life of parties. Inwardly, he hated celebrations.

The noise of crackers, the over painted faces, the fake smiles, the over indulgences in greasy food and the desperate attempts at ignoring their inner hollowness.

Weddings where people bitched and exchanged fake small talks. Festivals where the opulent showed off their pitiful acquisitions. Wine gulping that ended in puking. And strained selfies that ended on social medias. 

They celebrated so that the world would notice. They celebrated to forget the wretchedness of their day to day existence. The true meanings had long been forgotten. The true spirit rotted in its grave.

Celebrations made him insane. Made him want to curl up and sob. Or bang his head on the walls. Immature? Yes.

Outwardly, he was the life of parties. Inwardly, he hated celebrations!