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NOT A CHILD'S PLAY

The young man at the signal under the sun,
Was selling the little toy soldier with a gun.
I asked my seven year old cousin, “What do we call him?”
“Terrorist!” she said, without looking grim.

I regretted, for a second, asking such a question
For a second, I looked up to the heaven!
How do I explain, to this little girl of seven,
The difference between the two men in question?

I pointed at his uniform, “A soldier, darling”
He protects us from terrorists, that’s his service.”
Of that uniform, seemingly taking no notice
She immediately asked, “So, whom is the terrorist serving?”

I wanted to explain that terrorists serve nobody!
That it is just another form of insanity!
How do I tell her, “They serve their God”?
“You shall be punished by God,
If u hurt anyone in action or thought”
Is what she has always been taught!

How to answer such a question
In such a bloody world
Where one wakes to the fear of killed in a blast
Thanks God at the end of the day if he does last!
Where terrorism and corruption
Have become the golden words
Will we ever see the day when we will say
He is just a gunman with which children play?

Comments

  1. *sigh* its beautiful.. i can actually feel the desperation and frustration leaking out of the poem.. u r mad when u said u cud do better.. no. this is the best nir..

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  2. thank u... n please excuse the silly typing errors

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  3. mast hai re....u didnt tell me abt dis poem!!! lovely as usual!!!u really make me proud everytime....:)

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  4. a very complex issue put in the simplest words as possible..... extremely original and thought provoking!

    ReplyDelete
  5. thank u tasu :) yr comments really matter :)

    ReplyDelete
  6. Very thought provoking..simply and subtly put forth!

    ReplyDelete

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कविता

कविता लिखना किसी इंसान के बस की बात नहीं है
कविता ख़ुद ही अपने आप को लिखती है
इक ज़रिया है बस हम तो
कविता ख़ुद ही ख़ुद को आईना में दिखती है

यह ख़ुद अपनी ज़ुबां चुनती है
लफ्ज़ अपने ख़ुद ही ढूँढ़ती है
कोशिश कर लेना तुम कभी
झूठ लिखते ही ये टूटती है

देर रात यह सपने में आती
मन के दरवाज़े पर दस्तक देती
लिफ़ाफ़े में बंद चिट्ठी में
अपने आप को तुम्हें दे जाती
लिखावट काग़ज़ पर तुम्हारी है बेशक़
पर कलम में सियाही तो वो ही भर जाती

कभी यूँ ही शाम को मिलने आती
खिड़की के पास बैठ चाय की चुस्कियाँ लगाती
रोम रोम में इक महक सी भर जाती है
दिल की धड़कनें कानों तक गूँज जाती है
बाहर की खिड़की खोलते खोलते
यह रूह के दरवाज़े खोल जाती है

एक बार कविता हर किसी को छूने आती है
जब टुटा हो दिल प्यार में, तो यह कुछ ज़्यादा जी लुभाती है
जब हाथ बढ़ाए तुम्हारी ओर, झट से थाम लेना, साहीर
यह बार बार गले नहीं लगती है।

Take pleasure

Perfection is an obsession
Give yourelf some concession
Its perfectly alright to not know it all
Where's thé pleasure of getting up unless you fall?

There is, and will always bé compétition wherever you see
Thankfully, participation is not mandatory even with no entrance fée
Pick and choose your battles and fight them with all might
And keep fighting until you get it right
Do not confuse à momentary setback with an ultimate defeat
À strategic recul is sometimes necessary to achieve thé final feat.

Sing in thé shower and dance in thé bedroom
Thé best moments are those that never make it to facebook
Learn à new art just for thé heck of it
And i ll leave thé poem unrhymed just because i feel like it.

The 20 lakh package

In the corner of a room Clustered only with a
rusty stove And an old bed, A tattered book he read to his sister Trying to put her to bed.
The day had been long He had to cook with Baba And clean and dust, The woman of the house Had lads she could trust
At night Baba watched over the neighborhood And him, over their humble abode For his earnest parents This was his gentle ode
Finally came home Mommy Who was playing nanny To another little angel Whose parents took turns too Earning their hefty packages