Love, Life & Happiness

I write this post, sitting in a muddle of thoughts. There are times when one isn't sure what one wants to write about. Life is happening, suddenly the Earth rotates too fast for sanity. A festival, a funeral, too many people. Good people, dressed in good clothes move about. A music plays. The tempo rises, and rises until it reaches a crescendo. Palms to the ears, a military band, the sound crushes the soul, and all that was soft, hopeful and fantastical lie about the life, dies. All that remains is the cynical, uncaring truth.  And suddenly, it comes to a halt. From behind the silken curtains, a face lurks- Death looks at life. Cruel and smiling, a spine-shuddering cruel smile plays on his lips. The music now is sad, and a smell of death floats in the air. A friend looks at me, his face ashen, his smile broken. Till yesterday, his soul was younger than me, suddenly, in him, I find, sages from the past centuries. A moment is all it takes from a young soul to turn old, an

दाइम पड़ा हुआ तेरे दर पर नहीं हूँ मैं ख़ाक ऐसी ज़िन्दगी पे कि पत्थर नहीं हूँ मैं। Daayim padaa hua tere dar par nahin hoon main khaak aisi Zindagi pe, ke pathar nahin hoon main ( दाइम- Stationary) क्यूँ गर्दिश- ए -मुदाम से घबरा ना जाए दिल इंसान हूँ, पियाला-ओ-साग़र नहीं हूँ मैं। Kyon gardish-e-mudaam se ghabraa naa jaaye dil Insaan hoon, Piyaala-o-saagar nahin hoon main (गर्दिश- ए -मुदाम: Constant movement,  पियाला-ओ-साग़र: Glass of Wine) यारब ज़माना मुझको मिटाता है किस लिए लौह-ए-जहाँ पे हर्फ़- ए -मुकर्रर नहीं हूँ मैं। Yaa rab, zamaana mujhko mitaata hai kis liye loh-e-zahaan pe harf-e-mukarrar nahin hoon main ( लौह-ए-जहाँ: Page of the World,  हर्फ़- Alphabet  मुकर्रर- To repeat) हद चाहिए सज़ा में उकूबत के वास्ते आखिर गुनहगार हूँ काफिर नहीं  हूँ मैं। Had chahiye sazaa mein ukoobat ke vaaste aakhir gunahgaar hoon, kaafir nahin hoon main ( उकूबत- Tortures ,  काफिर: Non-Believer) ग़ालिब वज़ीफ़ा-ख़्वार हो दो शाह को दुआ वो दिन गए कि  कहते थे नौकर  नहीं हूँ मैं।

Writing in itself is a difficult task. No one wants anyone to write. Still people write. Some write expertly and leave their work for the posterity, some write shoddily, struggling like yours truly, and await readers. I try to write, as routinely as possible, if nothing else. I have been struggling with getting the manuscript of my collection of stories readied for publishing.  Writing is easy. Being a writer is not. I have been struggling to edit the stories. There is a wonderful book- The Writer's Journal - by Virginia Woolf, which I keep going back to, now and then. No one impresses the difference between knowing how to write and writing better than Ms. Woolf.  "..I think writing must be formal. The art must be respected." writes Ms. Woolf.  I have come to realize how hard it is as I am editing my stories and trying to reach what could be a perfect name for the collection. However, the entire travel for a week could not find me finishing the task at hand.