Category Archives: change

Communal

It is communal.. this green is communal property… someone said that to me in England.

Conditioned by a childhood in India I instantly looked around for signs of rioting in the past, markers that claimed the spot in reds, greens, saffrons, or blues or whatever colour was supposed to be on the flag of the ‘community’.

Till I realised that they were speaking in English.

You know, the English English, local stuff.

All they had said was that green patch of grass belonged to all.

 

#truestory

The Perfect Husband

The following is a true story. As seen from the eyes of a child.

My mother’s closest friend was getting married. To her best friend. I was .. maybe.. 7. Some details are fuzzy.
But I remember many evenings over tea and fresh pakoras lit by their laughter. The house they visited buzzed with their joy. (No, this is not a story about whether he was a good husband or not. Carry on)

The lady came from a Gandhian family. Her mother and father had both worked closely with the Mahatma. They were Gujaratis from Ahmedabad. They were academics and writers. Activists and thinkers. Khadi was a way of life for them, among other values – I am sure. Khadi is what she wore to the wedding. A little border to a plain sari.
The gentleman came from Uttar Pradesh. Well, not quite, for I remember his glorious tales of ravines and dacoits that held me spellbound. He came from a family of poets. Some famous. Others erudite. They came to Ahmedabad for the wedding.
Some were startled at the simplicity of the affair – simpler than most Gujarati weddings. (Another day I shall tell the story of how some Punjabis came back from a wedding, starving, having only been fed one tiny icecream. Those were simpler times). It was, as tradition would have known.
As with North Indian weddings, the boy’s side seemed to take the lead. As with Gujarati weddings, the girl’s side began to look – and look away. But they were a well matched family. The bride and groom walked the seven steps together. The bantering was fast and furious. The jokes irresistible, the repartee quick.

As the pandit wrapped up, the guests got into their stride. It was time for the baithak. The famous poet, who was the groom’s uncle, had composed a poem for the occasion. After the metaphorical candle had been passed around a few times, he took centre stage. The poem was on marriage. On the perfect marriage. He spoke of Ram and Sita. Of their marriage that began young. Of their devotion to each other. Of their commitment to their joint cause – the maryaada. Of the sacrifices and suffering in the cause of what was right and just. And their unshakeable loyalty to the glory of Ram.

(As I write this, I am reminded of a little ceremony that I saw in a Bengali household. The bride was made to watch over the boiling pot of milk – to ensure prosperity – that must not boil over, for that would mean waste. And then she was to hold the pot with her bare hands, indicating her willingness to endure for the sake of the household. I kept my mouth shut that day, for the husband had no such ceremony.)

Back to the wedding and the poem. As the poem gained momentum, the restlessness on the bride’s side increased. The bride and groom were colleagues at work, equals in every way. The girl’s pedigree was certainly very visible to her family. They were evenly matched, word for word.

A subtle huddle ensued, pen and mind were applied. The words flowed.

They composed a poem right there. And then recited it – it was the story of Shiva and Shakti.

Of how Shiva was the desired one, of how Shakti in her various forms sought her salvation. Her purpose and her path were through Shiva. And of how he was incomplete without her. Of their perfect understanding. Of empowerment. Of how stories strengthened their bond. Of how the only time things got messed up for them was when families intervened. Of how the perfect wife and perfect husband were a team. Regardless of appearances and extreme moments. Of investing in continuity.

As the poems were exchanged through the night, a seven year old stayed awake.

Sita ka van-vesh, with Translation

Sati Sita ko khabar mili

Ki Saasu maayi ki nikal chali

Ram rajya ho gaya postpone

Aur veh chal rahe the jungle ko alone

Mahalon mein the bade restriction

Ho raha tha feelings mein constriction

Socha akeli yahaan phas jaaongi

Ram sang ban mein chain paaongi

Kkaise bolo Ram Lalla se

Main chahoon nikalna ghar se

Lakhan beta sam dost jo raha

Us-se Sita ma ne man ka kaha

Lakhan Sita ne baat jo chhedi

Ram Bhaiyya ko lagi na tedi

Sangini sang chale to koi Dosh nahin

Bhai ke bina manage kar paoonga kahin?

Ram Lakhan to van se parichit

Kya le jaaoon – Site chintit

Is baar samaan le jaane na denge

Par jungle mein bhi rani kahenge

Rani ko sundar dikhna bhi hoga

Soojh boojh se rehna bhi hoga

Akele sabka kaam sambhaalna

Have-it-all ka label Paalna

Sita gayi gurumaayi ke paas

Hai bahuviddhi hone ka prayaas

Takneeki prodyog ka le kar aad

Kucch kar paayeinge jugaad?

Maayi boli samtal swar mein

Beti kya chali ho karnein

Ho na paayega tumse yeh sab

Apne roop vesh ko sambhalogi kab?

Vahi pareshaani khaaye hai jaaye

Gar kaam karoon, fashion na ho paaye

Koi aisa bhes bana kar dena

Jis mein maine har kaaj kar lena

Har mausam mein rahi upyukt

Pehne lage khud ko unmukt

Dhone ka ho kam jhamela

Samaan bandhoon to ek piece akela

Ma ko soojha ek design

Bana dala ek item bahu-fine

Rani Sita Ka lajja vesh

Chal paayega har ek desh

Kaandhe se paanv tak dhaala

Buri nazar dekh lajja vastra daala

Is vesh mein sab kar paayegi

Sita sati sushila kehlaayegi

Sita dekh bahut harshaayi

Ma- Toone to fashion raah darshaayi

Is ko pehen Bharat ki Naar

Kar paayegi sab baadha paar

Pehnengi isko Ma behen beti

Naam rakhengi Na-iti

Bhaasha bigdi – samay hai naath

Aaj bhi Nightie naari ke saath.

Sita ban chali aadarsh naari

Nightie pehne chhod mahalon mein saari

(Obviously this is a work of fiction. I may agree that nighties are not appropriate outer wear but I cannot agree with the diktat against them – nighties serve a purpose, this is why they have been adopted. Also – no diktat against lungis?  Of course, Sita, for me is a true heroine and in imagining what might have gone through her mind, I also enjoy exploring my own languages)

Translation

Sati Sita ko khabar mili

Ki Saasu maayi ki nikal chali

Ram rajya ho gaya postpone

Aur veh chal rahe the jungle ko alone

True Sita got the news
That the Mother-in-law’s word rules
Ram Rajya has been postponed
And He was going to the Jungle alone

Mahalon mein the bade restriction

Ho raha tha feelings mein constriction

Socha akeli yahaan phas jaaongi

Ram sang ban mein chain paaongi
There were too many restrictions in the palaces
My feelings were (always) constricted)
I thought – alone I’ll be trapped here
With Ram, in the jungle, I’ll find peace

Kkaise bolo Ram Lalla se

Main chahoon nikalna ghar se

Lakhan beta sam dost jo raha

Us-se Sita ma ne man ka kaha
How can I say this to Li’l Ram
That I want to get out of the house
Lakshman is friend like a son
Sita went and shared her wish with him

Lakhan Sita ne baat jo chhedi

Ram Bhaiyya ko lagi na tedi

Sangini sang chale to koi Dosh nahin

Bhai ke bina manage kar paoonga kahin?
When Lakshman and Sita mentioned this
Ram thought it wasn’t unfair
There is no fault in taking one’s wife(companion) along
And how will I manage without my brother

Ram Lakhan to van se parichit

Kya le jaaoon – Site chintit

Is baar samaan le jaane na denge

Par jungle mein bhi rani kahenge
Ram and Lakshman were acquainted with the jungle
What should I take, Sita was worried
This time they won’t let me take luggage
But even in the jungle, I’ll be called queen

Rani ko sundar dikhna bhi hoga

Soojh boojh se rehna bhi hoga

Akele sabka kaam sambhaalna

Have-it-all ka label Paalna
A Queen always has to look lovely
Will have to live with sense and wisdom
Will have to manage all the work alone
And carry the label of a “have-it-all”

Sita gayi gurumaayi ke paas

Hai bahuviddhi hone ka prayaas

Takneeki prodyog ka le kar aad

Kucch kar paayeinge jugaad?
Sita went to ask the Guru – mother
I am trying to be multi faceted
With the help of technology and innovation
Will you be able to create some solution?

Maayi boli samtal swar mein

Beti kya chali ho karnein

Ho na paayega tumse yeh sab

Apne roop vesh ko sambhalogi kab?
The Mother said in a calm voice
What are you out to do(prove), daughter
You will not be able to manage all this
When will you look after your looks and clothes?

Vahi pareshaani khaaye hai jaaye

Gar kaam karoon, fashion na ho paaye

Koi aisa bhes bana kar dena

Jis mein maine har kaaj kar lena
This is the problem that is troubling me
If I work, then there is no time for fashion
Give me such an outfit (look)
In which I can do anything(everything)

Har mausam mein rahi upyukt

Pehne lage khud ko unmukt

Dhone ka ho kam jhamela

Samaan bandhoon to ek piece akela
In every weather let it be appropriate
When I wear it, I should feel free
It should be easy to wash and maintain
And when packing, it should count as one piece

Ma ko soojha ek design

Bana dala ek item bahu-fine

Rani Sita Ka lajja vesh

Chal paayega har ek desh
The Mother thought of one design
She made an item very fine
Queen Sita’s modesty-dress
It will work for any country

Kaandhe se paanv tak dhaala

Buri nazar dekh lajja vastra daala

Is vesh mein sab kar paayegi

Sita sati sushila kehlaayegi
From shoulder to foot it fell
Protecting her from immodest looks
In this she will be able to manage everything
Sita, the truthful, will now be called -the competent

Sita dekh bahut harshaayi

Ma- Toone to fashion raah darshaayi

Is ko pehen Bharat ki Naar

Kar paayegi sab baadha paar
When Sita saw this she was very happy
Mother- you have shown the path to high fashion
The women of India can wear this
And cross any hurdle in her way

Pehnengi isko Ma behen beti

Naam rakhengi Na-iti

Bhaasha bigdi – samay hai naath

Aaj bhi Nightie naari ke saath.
Mothers, Sisters and Daughters will wear this
We will call it – not-this(phonetically – nightie)
Time is the lord – Language changed
But even today the nightie is with and for women

Post Script:

Sita ban chali aadarsh naari

Nightie pehne chhod mahalon mein saari
Sita went on to be called the ideal woman
She wore a nightie leaving behind her sari in the palaces

(Obviously this is a work of fiction, a comment on the debate started by Ms. Slaughter on whether women can have it all, and on the nightie wars spawned by a Bangalore school that insists that women must not be seen in nighties, but must be well dressed when they drop their kids. I may agree that nighties are not appropriate outer wear but I cannot agree with the diktat – nighties serve a purpose, this is why they have been adopted. Also – no diktat against lungis?  Of course, Sita, for me is a true heroine and in imagining what might have gone through her mind, I also enjoy exploring my own languages)

To be a Teacher

To be a teacher is to be a seeker. A greedy grasping seeker for that spark that will ignite the world. In themselves and in their students. A need to give, to share and to see the eyes of their students light up in comprehension, as they see more of their path ahead.

Teaching is not just a vocation, nor is it pure science. Mere knowledge does not make a teacher, nor is it about empathy or reaching out. The former makes it clinical, the latter makes it a social gathering. A teacher is not just the conductor of an orchestra, nor just a facilitator, nor is teaching about increasing knowledge and getting marks. While all of these have been discussed ad nauseum, the mysterious core of what is a good teacher remains- like all good philosophical mysteries – available only to the initiated, to those who have experienced it.

And this much is true, that good teaching is an esoteric art, to be practiced with skill and precision. The art of teaching needs to be taught – it does not spring forth from a surfeit of knowledge, nor is it cultivated with an ability to analyse. Teaching does not require the ability to churn out books and papers. There are no guarantees that a teachers improve with involvement with ivory towers and specific branches of knowledge that earns them higher degrees.

Teachers are nurtured by teaching them the skills and supporting them through their journey of honing these very skills. The job of a teacher is to learn how to teach, to adapt to every need, to evolve over time along with the content and the audience. To learn is to grow, to teach is earn. Earning for a true teacher does include money, no doubt, and is much more.

And so, today, when I remember my teachers, who taught me both how to learn and how to teach, I cannot miss the one that was practically perfect in every way – Mary Poppins. Yes, of course she was a fictional character in a Disney movie, but everything she taught me holds true in every teaching I do – Teaching is about making magic happen. It is about laughter and rosy cheeks; about a spoonful of sugar helping the medicine go down; about order and discipline (Spit Spot!) and equally about imagination running riot. It is classless, yet about good manners. Above all it is about adventures, breaking bounds and understanding other perspectives. And then, when the lessons have been learnt and the bridges built, it is about gracefully gliding away, often ignored and forgotten, yet fulfilled.

The Vacuum

The people need a voice, a channel. With full respect to the angst, the sorrow, the anger and the frustration of having to pay taxes and rents for what should be served to us with a smile, I still cannot bring myself to place my trust in an all powerful Lokpal.

Where I bow down in admiration is the power of the people.. we still have it in us to rise above our petty (or not so petty) needs and step up for what we believe in. We still have it in us to recognize right from wrong, at least when we lose out when things go wrong. (just being honest here.. )

Also, kudos to Team Anna for excellent execution of their strategy.. their tactics, their timing and their passion have kept the people engaged. And steadily increased engagement over the days. The masterly identification of a common cause that can unite India – corruption has been the foundation of their success.

We listen to teamAnna because our channels do not speak for us any more. Our left seems to have abandoned its post, our opposition silently (or noisily) watches as Parliament steadily becomes more and more dysfunctional. If the counterbalancing forces that keep a democracy vibrant are subsumed in the chaos, then the field is left wide open for any and all.

We had a point to make, and nobody to make it for us in the legimate forum. We were left feeling like fools who would turn up once in five years and choose between the indicted, the accused and the surely-it-is-a-matter-of-time candidates. Politics was a dirty business and pathways for the honest but poor aspirant were all but blocked. Democracy was being strangled – and the people felt the squeeze.. there seemed to be nobody looking out for the people’s interests.. All it needed was for somebody to step up and fill that gap.

Does that make a LokPal a good solution? Does it feel like the last resort when all else has failed? Probably. In any case, acknowledging the felt need for a Lok Pal is an admission of failure. Failure of current systems to provide the counterbalance to venal governments and bureaucracies. Yet a weapon of last resort is to be looked at with caution. I for one am terrified of another system that puts the burden of proof on the accused – ruining lives merely on the basis of a pointing finger. Another system built on lack of trust, on catching what is wrong rather than fixing what is wrong.

(This is a part of the analysis of the current issue. As the debate rages – much has been said, some sensible, some partisan, some passionate, some just immature. Not wishing to add to the noise in the op-ed columns, I hold back my views, just placing this – that needs to be said – on my blog)

Everybody Drives like Rajnikant

I have decided. Whenever anyone drives on my half of the road, there are two things I will do. One, I will stay my course and block their path. And two, once we are at a standstill, I will laugh at them. I will shame them into knowing that they are in the wrong.

Sounds childlike? It is. Dangerous? Actually, in Delhi, for a woman driver – extremely dangerous. This is a city where people have been shot because their car door accidentally touched another’s precious car.

But I refuse to be pushed into doing what is wrong by others who are oafs who neither understand the need for rules, nor have the brains to figure out efficient configurations for the greater good.

Witness this: A bottle neck on the road. Caused by an overturned truck, tree trunk or just a massive pothole filled with water or a tiny branch with a red rag stuck on it.. whatever. Medium to high traffic. Of course, everybody wants to get through the gap first, so – we are all trapped there.

Another one, fairly typical.  A crossroads where the traffic lights have stopped functioning. Everybody crowds through, only to meet in the middle in a traffic snarl.

The ultimate triumph of local optimisation, of the ‘me first’ attitude over global optimisation.

Brawn over brain is amply demonstrated at every roundabout. Vehicles dash in to join the circular traffic without letting the ones in there out first. Well, if you don’t let them get out first – where is the room for you to get in?

I can deal with morons. I can deal with bad driving – it is just another level on a video game after all. But what totally gets to me is the fact that I am forced to break all norms of good driving – and possibly laws (though I would not do that unless it saves lives on the road).

So, hog the right lane in second gear, so that I have to overtake from the left (which is wrong in India – in theory). Cut right in front of me, so I have to swerve in front of another vehicle. Totally ignore the lane markings so that the rest of us have to straddle lanes too. And best of all, dive straight in from the left lane to turn right, ensuring I scrape the kerb to avoid hitting you. No, one better: drive right in the middle of the road so that oncoming traffic either mows you down or swings wildly to avoid you.

We are all Rajnikant on the road. Performing wild incredible acts with panache. And we survive to tell the tale.

Naani

Every afternoon, after the chores were done, Naani and all the women of the gali (little road) would gather on the raised platform (thada) outside the house for a little chat. In winter, they would knit as they chatted, often cracking and popping peanuts if a vendor could persuade them to buy. The afternoons seemed endless, as long as the sweater they were knitting, or the sarson ka saag they prepared as they laughed, and talked. As the children hovering around drifted off to nap the hot afternoons away, the voices would become a little hushed, the tales a little more personal. They shared everything – their  sukh dukh- their joys and their sorrows.

The sanjha chulha was theirs, these women who gathered together at the end of the gali, where the communal tandoor was built. There were some who were there at the chulha everyday, the more experienced ones who did not fear leaning into the hot flames to place the wet dough, all flattened out by hand. And then, the brave ladies would lean in again, when the rotis were crisp and hot, to retrieve them, just before they detached themselves or fell into the fire. These were warm, bright evenings – with laughter and camaraderie, and a sense of urgency too, for families had to be fed, and the rotis must always reach the plates hot before the dishes cooked at home went cold. Naani went there occasionally, with her big bowl of kneaded dough. She was not one of the adept, so she always took a share of atta (dough) for the lady who would make the rotis on the tandoor. The adept and the regulars got a turn first – the chulha had a  hierarchy of its own. Naani always reached there just as the sun went down, in the orange light of the evening, a good half an hour after the tandoor had been lit. She always said she waited for the tandoor to be properly hot before she got there. But I suspect, she was in no hurry to come back. Her turn always came when night had fallen, and the only orange was the glow of the oven. Sitting on a neighbour’s charpai (everybody did not have a thada – an elevated platform), knowing that the evening meal was cooked,  waiting with a bowl of softly rising dough, surrounded by friends – I am glad she made that moment last.

Life was not easy in the days when house help was the exception in town. Nobody in the gali had any help, nor did anyone we knew in the ‘City’. The routine was unvaried and excitement was generated by gossip that travelled by way of rooftops, as women crossed over from one house to another – completely ignoring the smelly dirty street that men traversed on the way to their offices or shops. Naani woke up at  4 AM. Try as I might, I never was able to wake up before the brick floors of the three story house had been washed thoroughly by her,  using implements not more complicated than a bucket at a stiff teela jharoo (twig hand held broom). She had to start early. The only tap in the house was on the ground floor and started trickling precious liquid just after 4, and the magic would vanish just after 6. In those two hours, the house had to be washed, drinking water filled, buckets filled for the family to bathe, and of course, clothes had to be washed. She sometimes washed clothes later, when she knew she had enough water stored in buckets.

Six in the morning was when she stepped out with her shiny brass bucket and walked down to the local milkman. The milkman would milk the cow or buffalo in front of her – the hot frothy milk unadulterated with water or concentrates. The relationship between milkman and housewife was invariably adversarial, even when the supplier was given no chance to dilute the milk. Friendly banter was laced with accusations – did he mix oil in the cow’s feed to improve the fat content of the milk? Was the calf fed first? Did the cow get enough fresh green grass? Science or logic never entered my maternal grandmother’s world. She asked these questions because she was supposed to, because this was her duty as a careful wife, mother and daughter-in-law.

The pace was just about to pick up, with water being heated for baths, breakfasts being cooked – after the fresh milk had been boiled, curd set for the day, yesterday’s set cream being whipped up for butter and buttermilk . All of this with a single slot traditional wood and charcol burning chulha before cooking gas arrived to the town. The chulha was lit after the milk run, and was not allowed to go out all morning till lunch was cooked.  Many days, the rotis for the afternoon were cooked before the embers were set to the task of cooking that perfect sarson ka saag or the thick ma ki daal.

Little children kept traipsing through Naani’s house. She loved them, but I never really saw her do anything with them, except occasional conversation as she tidied up the house, cleaned out the wheat, made papads and wadis and generally dealt with the day’s work. The only thing she said children needed  – was – biscuits. She always had some for them, and they seemed perfectly content hanging around her, nibbling their treasures for hours on end. A harried mother would come fetch them after an hour or two, but then there were always more.

If not children, then other women. Mid morning was this glorious time when cloths and patterns were brought out. There was this lady in the neighbourhood who made perfect blouses. Naani was a pauncha specialist, and had a well maintained sewing machine. On an average day 3-4 women would gather around it, a community of home tailors. Much laughter and innovation later, bedsheets were converted into salwar kameez, old kameez into pillow covers. New cloth was a joy, and was sourced from far and wide. The most precious was the one that came from across the border. Just 8 km away,the border separated them from the cloth that this town had used for centuries.  And yet it found its way into the women’s capable hands.

Naani of course could never convince the scruffy teenager that in me that the 4 p.m. hair combing ritual was important. Even today, when I visit her, I hear the same refrain – “Munni, sar vaa le, chhar vaj gaye ne” roughly translated as, comb your hair, its four pm. This was when you prettied up for the evening. The gossiping women would have gone home an hour ago, some to snooze on hot days, others left later. But four pm was sacred – they all seemed to know the drill. Tiny mirrors, barely 6 inches by 10 were pulled out, combs, pins, powder and lipstick applied. And then the evening declared open.

The evening was space for the men. The office folks coming home, the informal visits to each other’s places -often staying on for dinner. Lights were dim, for voltage and supplies were unreliable. Each house had a supply of candles and beautiful kerosene lamps. As the evening darkened, dim bulbs lit up the aangan. Friends talked and laughed. Somehow, everything was plentiful, even simple roti and dal that glistened with fresh butter.

And evenings slipped into night. To the cool crisp charpais that were laid out each night, summer or winter. Naani always being the last to sleep, knowing she would be the first to wake up.

The Only Weapon

Sarita liked her new home. She had been married five years, and yet this was her new home. It had taken her five years to renew it, to make it hers.

She remembered the first time.. naah.. what was the point of looking back now? It was done.

Yet, it had been hard, one sliver of a step at a time. She had come with a fine pedigree.. of a good family, with a proper education and a good job. All unvalued here, objectified. All irrelevant. Her self gone. No, she was not beaten.. at least not physically. But what remained when she melted, like the clarified butter she poured when cooking, gagging at what it meant – the end of all she believed in, was.

She turned to God. To priests. To gemstone men. To the edge of magic. And back. To food. She was an exceptional cook. And love. Her sister’s voice echoed – “Remember Sarita, the only weapon you have is love!”. Through the years, she fought her battles with love. Every moment she smiled,.. and she did smile through it all, every meal she cooked, every guest she fed, she smiled. With love sweating out of every pore. She bore it with grace – the effacement, the rhythm. And with a little secret smile.

Her plan was working, a little missed beat at a time. The rhythm was changing, the drum was hers. Softly , slowly, a heartbeat at a time..a beat missed, a beat replaced. With love.

aah-e-gubaar

Chasm-e-hyaat ke daur mein, saayon se darte rahe

Apni hi lau ki chaundh sambhale,  syaahon mein chalte rahe

Palat ke dekha to saya kya, paaun ke nishaan bhi nahin

Jaise ki ham falak ke, is zameen se nahin

Kaun yaad kare, kyon yeh kahe, ik ham saya hota tha

Is saaye ki raakh nahin, mitti ki khabar bhi nahin

Ik goonj si phir bhi kabhi, kaanon mein padi hogi

Apnon ke andaaz mein, apni si lagi hogi

Main vahi kahani hoon, dohrati jaati hoon

Hare ek dorahe par tumhaare saath hi aati hoon

Na saaya, na manzil, bas saath hai mera

Baandi to main hoon, bandhan jo bhi tera.

Chaaron aur chenaab hai, phir bhi khade hain ham

Zor-e-Gubaar mitaane ka, na hoga kaheen bhi dam

(c)Msen

 

 
Chasm-e-hyaat ke daur mein, saayon se darte rahe

Apni hi lau ki chaundh sambhale,  syaahon mein chalte rahe

पलट  के  देखा  तो  साया  क्या , पाऊं  के  निशाँ  भी  नहीं

जैसे  की  हम  फलक  के , इस  ज़मीन  से  नहीं

कौन  याद  करे , क्यों  यह  कहे , इक  हम  साया  होता  था

इस  साए  की  राख  नहीं , मिटटी  की  खबर  भी  नहीं

इक  गूँज  सी  फिर  भी  कभी , कानों  में  पड़ी  होगी

अपनों  के  अंदाज़  में , अपनी  सी  लगी  होगी

मैं  वाही  कहानी  हूँ , दोहराती  जाती  हूँ

हरे  एक  दोराहे  पर  तुम्हारे  साथ  ही  आती  हूँ

न  साया , न  मंजिल , बस  साथ  है  मेरा

बंदी  तो  मैं  हूँ , बंधन  जो  भी  तेरा .

चारों  और  चेनाब  है , फिर  भी  खड़े  हैं   हम

जोर -ऐ  -गुबार  मिटाने  का ,  न  होगा  कहीं  भी  दम