Letter to a poet

Dear Poet,

I am not a poet. Definitely not one dealing in words. Not yet. May be never! That is not what I am after! But, I am blessed to have read poetry (how many of us do?), I am blessed to have cried reading poetry many times. I say 'blessed' because it indeed is a rare ' approval' of God that allows one to understand poetry. Understanding poetry is not about chance of getting exposed to it. It is about being ready for it. Understanding poetry needs, I would like to believe, one to be more human than others. To be at a higher stage of emotional evolution among men.

And, to be a poet one has to be loved by God. Has to be highest of humans. In love with everything, not only in love of passion, but of compassion (which is free from pity), not only in love with tenderness but with coarse innocence, a love which frees him, time to time, of worries of surviving. And, when that happens words come to him by themselves, effortlessly, all of a sudden. There is no other way, there is no possibility of another outcome (but to become a poet). It is also evident in the fact that the highest degree of love known to men, the love of God, finds expression only through poetry. Kabir sang, Nanak sang, Tulsi sang, so did Sufis. And, they were best among humans too (perhaps not even human, except for the fact that death conquered them too). Writing poetry is not a skill. It is a state of being. It is not about learning to fly. It is about becoming a bird.

All, I believe, before they are poets, struggle to figure out beauty and so struggle with words in expressing it. With growing love, when they develop an eye for beauty, words will not be a problem. Because, beauty, in its most elegant form is always simple, and can be described in simplest of words. The true ability of poet is not in 'describing' but 'seeing'.

For all lovers of poetry it is impossible not to be in awe of poets. The remarkable gift of these men (poets) puts them so much above the rest of us. This awe is not same as one feels for beautiful eyes, or fair skin, or melodious voice, but is deeper than all of that. This awe is for ultimate blessing bestowed on a man by God, the godliness. Awe of the moment when God shared a part of his most important creative power, the imagination, with a human, the poet, and said the magical words " let there be beauty in everything for you". And, to the credit of poets, God did this with a hidden self interest, as all the poetry goes to the archives of God as a reference for his future creations. That's the reason ( gift of imagination, remember!) poets always seem to be speaking of future, of not what is, but of what can be, what should be. It is Poet who decides the course of future of humanity. It is poet who brought us from the days of being little more than a monkey to the days of being some one who dares to dream of looking at God himself eye to eye.

So, dear brother! O poet! Teach us how to love, or, otherwise, we all will keep on struggling with words.

In awe,

A brother.

(Pulastya)

थकन

इस हसरत से देखना पाँव के 'छालें' का खार को !
वो थक चुका है मेरे साथ साथ चलते हुए ।

छूटेगी आवारगी, तो बहलाऊँगा कैसे 'इंतज़ार'को ?
वो थक चुका है मेरे साथ साथ चलते हुए ।

सफ़र में बढ़ूँ कैसे थकन की क़ैद मैं छोड़ 'यार' को ,
वो थक चुका है मेरे साथ साथ चलते हुए ।

-पुलस्त्य

( "वो थक चुका है मेरे साथ साथ चलते हुए " Line is by Liaqat Jafri- a well know Kashmiri poet)

पलटना

अभी कुछ और दूर तलक बाक़ी है हदें-नज़र
वो जा रहा है पलट कर ज़रूर देखेगा ।

आँसू नहीं, ये उम्मीद से भरी है मेरी नज़र
वो जा रहा है पलट कर ज़रूर देखेगा ।

ग़ुबार रह गया राह में, ज़ुबान दोहराती है मगर
वो जा रहा है पलट कर ज़रूर देखेगा ।

-पुलस्त्य

( "वो जा रहा है पलट कर ज़रूर देखेगा " Line is by Liaqat Jafri- a well know Kashmiri poet)

To a fellow traveller

Some beauties are special. They are not only carved in beauty, but also move with beauty. Through their mannerisms of body movement, constantly add a new dimension to beauty.  These mannerisms have a special effervescent charm, they enhance observer's sensitivity to beauty. Like alcohol, they fuel thirst for themselves. It is their soothing effect on body and mind that does so. Like fragrance rides the breath and disperses in whole body, they are a delight not just for eyes but whole being of a man. They trigger the virtuous cycle of sensitivity to beauty in the man.

Word " delicate" is constantly floating in my head, tied to an emotion which gently but persistently keeps nudging me. I am wondering about the source of this emotion. Perhaps it is the perfume that she is wearing, subtle, sweet, and alive, this essence of flowers slowly merging into my breath and my vitality, of which this emotion is born. I am in thrall of this, struggling with two confronting urges, of breathing fast or breathing slow. The greed of taking, through her fragrance, whole of her quickly in me versus slowly, very slowly, savouring this sublimate of her beauty and extracting every atom of her being from this charming air in to my blood stream.  "Whole of her" versus "all of her". And I suspect word "delicate" is my cue for going slow.

Or perhaps it is the "delicate" movement of her long beautiful fingers. Those supple fingers crowned with black nail paint, except for index finger nail which is painted silver. It is in embrace of a silver beetle with two shining dark green eyes-a ring in beetle shape and two small rubies that made up the eyes of the insect- which keeps on riding the gentle movements of the finger when she plays with her phone. Finger moving like painter's brush, moving in divinely fluid movement, with complete lack of stiffness but with total control, on food tray, on handle of fork, on the neck of water bottle, on her phone. She touches the app icons on her phone as a master gives final touches to a masterpiece. God, in a moment of unbridled generosity, has moulded her hands in pure elegance.

With corner of my eyes, I steal these looks. My eyes, riding a perfect wave of her finger movement, are so lost that they lose their footing, and yet smoothly glide up another wonder of her being. Her arms. Flawless, like a snow covered field, shining under the mild sun- of her orange sleeveless top. These arms, like mother, are watching over those playful fingers; proud and unobtrusive and yet in perfect harmony with those elegant fingers allowing them their scope, with minimum of movement or guidance; and perfectly worthy of bearing such beautiful fingers on accord of their own beauty. These arms appear so well trained to cut down on all the unnecessary movements that the symphony played in the rhythmic dance of fingers is elevated to a new level.

Or perhaps it is her hair which are fragrant. Of shoulder length, with a tinge of brown- or rather gold, thick and smooth. So neatly untangled that one of the romantic thoughts that is constantly suggesting itself to me is of counting them. One by one, each time running down my finger on their length to feel the texture of soft but firm fragrant fibre. And when she moves those fingers in her hair it hits the limit of poetic imagination leaving me in frustration of failure to capture the moment in words.

And, a few time when she say ' thank you' or 'its ok' those words are no less fragrant to my ears than her perfume, or her hair. That is a new dimension added to sense of hearing, the fragrance.

-Frequent Flier's Notes:(Chandigarh to Mumbai flight)

To Monday

I mourn today- on a Monday. A craving had died, yesterday. I mourn its young death, a sudden death in full bloom, a death caused by its young age. Cravings, the strange creatures that they are, must die young. They always do. If nurtured- they die, if ignored- they do not age. And, in death they turn in to longings. All longings are afterlife of cravings who died young. They always die young! This moment there is a fire raging, the next-there is nothing, not even ashes, but only a longing. I wail, in denial of loss, still hoping for a bad dream to break and hear the sound of flowing music of bloom again. But,  it doesn't happen that way. Happiness is always a dream and nightmare is always the real world. Only dream breaks, nightmare lasts for ever. That's the nature of the world, to chase cravings and live in longings.

Life is a summation of all cravings and longings of a man. And, if, a week is the life span of desire, today is, the day on which seeds of future and past of desire are sown on a common ground. It is a Monday. And today is a day of mourning, of death of a craving that died yesterday night, died young and vigorous, suddenly, died of clock hitting the hour. Today, in my longing, I wail on the death of this beloved craving. But, today, a new craving is born too. Drowned in my own wailing, I am unable to hear its infant cry though. Mondays are sanatorium of desires, with a nursery and mortuary of cravings side by side; on this day, in wailing of death of a mature craving, that died yesterday, I can't hear infant craving cry with a new sound of life next door. Today is Monday, and on Monday I only mourn, the death of a craving, that died young, died yesterday.

-Pulastya

नशा

पीकर शराब, तेरी नज़र से पीने वालों की क्यूँ सज़ा करती हो,
क़ुदरत के मयखॉने हैं तुम्हारी आँखें, फिर क्यूँ और नशा करती हो ।

खींची जाती है तुम्हारे ही सुर्ख़ गुलाबी गालों कि भट्टी में ये मय,
और फिर इसको तुम ही अपनी आँखों के सागर मैं जमा करती हो।

यूँ भी दीवानो को बर्बादी के दाम पे भी मिलती है बस दो ही घूँट,
तुम अपने मुँह लगा कर क्यूँ इस मगरूर मय को खुदा करती हो।

मत निकालो रिवाजे मोहब्बत की नयी रीत निराली,
जिसमें दर्द आशिक़ों को देकर तुम मय को अपनी दवा करती हो।

ऐ शमा, ये कौन परवाना इस क़दर तड़पा है तेरी लौ में जलके,
जिसकी याद को तुम जाम-ऐ-मय से रवां करती हो।

-पुलसत्य