A year late - VOL I - Post III

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A year late - VOL I - Post II

A year late - VOL I - Post I

Exactly a year before we embarked on our journey through Ladakh. A bike trip. For A year I was contemplating the idea of blogging that trip, but alway gave up to laziness. But on the first anniversary of our trip I again thought of starting the travel blog. I will try to write of every day exactly a year after.

Then I thought it will be a lot of words, typed words, click..click..clickety click...thinking of similar but more cool words, adverbs, adjectives, I can't do that. So I thought, why not sketch and write. As a picture says a thousand words, a sketch should at least say a hundred.

So here I'm starting of with our graphic journey. I know, many people have done more tough and thrilling journey, rides; I salute them. But this journey was a greatest journey for us, so don't mind if I portray ourselves as the 'heroes this planet needs', or 'the toughest motherfuckers ever lived'. Shit, I guess I'm raising bars for myself, but I'll try sincerely to be honest and be consistent. I might become lazy of all the sketching, but sketching everyday might improve my skills, so I'm hoping to raise the standards of the sketches from this shabby start. It's a test of grit, determination, (and one another cool adjective to complete the trio!)

Enough said, here it goes...

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कागज़ कलम

lee: I always get attracted towards words, but they never come to me.

tejas: attraction is a weird thing

lee: Ruins has its own beauty... and I sleep in that. Yes, I actually love them.

tejas: the ghosts of the history, those loving people

lee: So I thought let’s burn them...

तेजस: और ऊनकी अरथी बहादे गंगा में

ली: और अरथीय़ाँ भी फूँक दे हवाँ में

ली: या फिर गाढ़ दे ज़मीन में 

तेजस: या फिर एक हस्तिदंती कूपी में डालकर पेहेन ले गले में

ली: जो शायद फिर से एक नया जीव बनके आएगा और फिर गंगा में मिल जाएगा 

तेजस: और नल से पहुंचेगा किसी लेखक के पेट में 

ली: लेखक फिर उन्ही की होली खेलेगा और उन्ही को फिर से बलि पे चढ़ाएगा। शब्द फिर अपना बदला शब्द से लेगा और वही कहानी दोहराएगा।शब्द किसी के ही पास जाएगा और किसी को अनाथ बनाएगा। 

तेजस: लेखक फिर अपने बच्चों को सुनाएगा रंग बिरंगी कहानिया , छापेगा अपनी किताब, मिलेगा उसे साहित्य अकादमी पुरस्कार।

ली: उसकी  हैडलाइन होगी, 'शब्दों में खेलने वाले लेखक की कलाकारी, हस्तदंती की तरह संभाल के रखना।' 

तेजस: और जब मरेगा वो लेखक बहायेंगे उसकी भी अर्थियां गंगा में। 'अच्छा हुआ मर गया भोसडिका!', चिल्लाया उसका ड्राईवर, जो उसने खरीदी थी सम्मान, पब्लिक अपीयरेंस और लेक्चर के पैसों  से, 'साला, डींगे हाकता था इक्वलिटी की और मेरे बच्चे की बर्थडे के लिये दिया नहीं कभी पैसा। नाके वाले राजू का सेठ अच्छा है, एप्पल कंपनी में काम करता है, और सबको सेब खिलाता है।'

ली: पर कुछ ने उन सम्मानों को भी मारी लात। शब्द उतरे लोगों के ज़हन में, और लगे तीर बनके उनके दिलों में।

तेजस: फिर वोह लोग बैठे रहे गंगा के तीर पे, महाकाव्य लिखते, सोचे थे उन्हें गायेगा कोई भारतरत्न अपने नए एल्बम में, जिसपे चल रहा है काम पिछले कई सालों से।

ली: :)

ली: शब्द हुए उनपे बहुत खुश, दोनों ने की खूब जुगलबंदी, किसकी चित किसकी पट करते करते बिखरी दुनिया सारी। उस बिखरी हुई दुनिया को जोड़ने का काम आज भी चल रहा है, कायम है। कुछ उसे शंघाई बनाना चाहते है तो कोई लंका। तो कुछ लैंड ऑफ़ ड्रीम्स!

तेजस: माँ बोली पीछे से,'बीटा, इससे अच्छा बैंक में भर्ती हो जा। कुबेर की नगरी का केशियर बन जा। लोन देता है कुबेर शंघाई और  लंका दोनों को, तू बस मुंडी नीचे कर के नोट गीन।'

ली: सीमा पे खड़े जवान को पता ही नहीं वोह किसके लिए लढ़ रहा है।

तेजस: पर उसको पता है खुद के घर में कौन मर रहा है।

ली: यही तो मारामारी है, चित पट का है सारा जुआं, कौन किससे खेल रहा है किसीको नहीं पता।

तेजस: 'अच्छा है, अच्छा है', दादाजी बस इतना ही बोलते है। उनके पोते का नाम हो या कल के दंगों में मरने वालों की संख्या।

ली: 'इस समाचार के बाद हम लेंगे आपसे विदा, और रखेंगे दो मिनट का मौन सोयी हुई आत्माओं के लिए, फॉर आल द डेड सोल्स, अलविदा'

तेजस: मौन के ब्रेक में आया गाड़ी का इश्तिहार, बोले ये car नहीं यह है caaaaar 

ली: हाहा, caaaar!

तेजस: लेखक का ड्राईवर चिल्लाया,' कितना देती है?'

ली: लेखक बोला, 'पैसों से बोलोगे तोह सब कुछ देगी, बाज़ार में खड़ी है।'

तेजस: नोट पे बापू धीरे से मुस्कुराये, 'यह सच का प्रयोग तो मैंने भी नहीं सोचा था'

ली: नोटों का हार पेहेनके एक नेताजी आये, 'हम आपको साड़ी मुलभुत सुविधाए देंगे।'

तेजस: 'आप हमे वोट दो हम आपको नोट देंगे'

ली: इन्किलाब के नारे बजरंग दल की साझेदारी में बदलेंगे। वोट दिया पर नोट नहीं मिला, नाले यूं ही भरते गए।

तेजस: 'भाई, अंग्रेज़ तो चले गए, अब यह इन्किलाब किसके लिए?' पनवाड़ी ने पूछा। 'अंकल, इट साउंड्स कूल!', चे की टीशर्ट पहना लड़का बोला। उसकी 14 साल की गर्लफ्रेंड चिल्लाई, 'हेया, चलो इससे अच्छा हम कैंडल मार्च करते हैं।'

ली: चे की टीशर्ट और चप्पल पेहेन के वो तो मास प्रोडक्शन वाली के सौवे पीस पे बहुत खुश हुआ। उस तरफ दांते ये institutionalization of art देख कर बहुत दुखी हुआ। चाइना ने बोला हम देंगे आपको सब कुछ सस्ते में। उधर i का प्रोटोटाइप बन रहा था।

तेजस: 'इससे अच्छा इस पूरी दुनिया की अर्थी गंगा में बहादों, यह नहीं थी मेरे ख्वाबों की दुनिया' इस पर गुरु दत्त बोला दुनिया जलाने का कॉपीराइट मेरा है।

ली: ऐसा कहकर अकादमी पुरस्कार ठुकराने वाले गहरी  सो गए, पर उसके साथ '3 स्टेट्स' टाइप के रायटर्स को बहुत काम मिला।

तेजस: 'सुना है एक की कहानियों पे अब एक टीवी सीरियल भी बन रही है'

ली: फिर यूँ हुआ, हमने जो लिखा नहीं उसके फ़साने बन गए, फंडामेंटल्स ऑफ़ रायटिंग का सैंपल बन गया, अर्थ कहीं ग़ुम हो गया।

तेजस: 'how to write and be a millionaire' फिलहाल बेस्ट सेल्लिंग की लिस्ट में है Flipkart पे।

ली: क्रॉसवर्ड ने उस्सकी रीडिंग भी रखी है, और ग़ालिब जी को बुलाया है बुक रीडिंग के लिए।

तेजस: 'बीवी के साथ कॉकटेल पार्टी में भी आना'

ली: 'बीवी के साथ' अंडरलाइन था, और कॉक  टेल अलग अलग कर के कहने का सुर ही निराला था। दारु और चखने के साथ लाइफ और पॉलिटिक्स चबाया जा रहा था। 'सॉरी बाय मिस्टेक' के साथ  हाथ लगाये जा रहे थे।

तेजस: कल्चरल मिनिस्टर के पी ए ने उनको ग़ालिब से मिलवाया, 'अच्छा लिखते है, आर्टिस्ट कोटा में फ्लैट दे?' ग़ालिब बोला,' माँ चुदाओ, मैं जा रहा हूँ। लोगोंको समझ में न आये ऐसे लफ्ज़ ढूँढने है जाके, बहुत काम है।'

ली: वाह वाह! वोह लफ्ज़-ए-गुफ्तगू में लपेटकर ग़ालिब शब्दों में बर्बाद हो गए। कोई sms, कोई ट्विटर, तो कोई फेसबुक पे डालकर खुद को बहलाने लगे। फ़ॉर्वर्डेड मेस्सजेस और सोशल नेटवर्किंग पे अजरामर हो गए। कागज़ और कलम का जैसे देहांत हो गया। पर ग़ालिब का यह बिखरना मंज़ूर है, इस तरह से आशिक़ी जिंदा तो है।

तेजस: माशूका थी जिनकी कभी यह ज़िन्दगी, वोह तोह नफरत करते है ग़ालिब से, ग़ालिब के बाद वोह स्लट फिर से कभी मिली ही नहीं।

ली: सही फरमाया। उसी पे वोह ग़ालिब को याद करते हैं-जवानी को ज़िन्दगी की निखार कहता है, पतझड़ को सावन का मझधार कहते हैं। अजीब चलन है इस दुनिया का यारों, एक धोखा है जिसे हम सब प्यार कहते हैं।

Heavy Times

Wall clock made from junk bike gears and chain

The Kiss

While everyone was asleep

Once upon a time there were like Pushpak planes.


Not the mythical flying machines from the heaven which came down to take chosen few. No. Real ones.


Before first world patented the invention. But craftsmen of these Pushpak were only survived on the whimsy of few Rajahs. They made these Pushpaks, proving and inventing many theorems. Its just that they thought this as a craft, a magic. Only Rajahs could afford these magic, crafted wth love, in favour of a hefty inaam. But still it was real science and craft.


Slowly with intrusion of British, it became hard to live royally for his/her highness. Also science became popular and didnt remain just as a magical craft. Pushpaks were ignored, found themselves in old dilapidated museums, they were replaced by charters. Rajahs became Sansthaniks, their land became province, and then diluted to make something called Nation. Royal families flew away in their charters to the land of the rulers. And their province was left to some delusional old gold and rude second blood. They still preserved their Pushpaks and myths created around them. Once in their anual royal memorial day they still exhibit and boast about them. Charters' children flew down to click this organised festival in their 50 megapixels 20xs.


A forgotten magician craftsman still prepare these Pushpaks for next festival for the rest 360days. 


I was riding in one of such things.

What's on my head? What's in my head?

A deserted highway dhaba, a night train journey, memory faded.

What's on my head, what's in my head?

A stone of destroyed civilization, a conversation with the dead.

Smoke filled vagina, an uncrumpled bed.

A southern polestar, a rejection lip-shaded.

What's on my head, what's in my head?

An essay on my epitaph, children unbred.

A blood droplet on grass strand, a goodbye never said.

What's on my head, what's in my head?

Citylights on the horizon, innocence of child's question unsaid.

A dream of touching stardust, a curse of immortality casted.

What's on my head, what's in my head?

Sand in the pocket, a wave in the night divided.

Search of meaning in a dictionary, fear of life lying ahead.

A blank moment before banging door, a tear for the victim unrelated.

What's on my head, what's in my head?

(a picture to come later...what's on my head, what's in my head?)

Facebook looks like this

The mermaid and the sea

She was still amused in her world. Finding new caves, new tunnels, new alleys and new abyss. She was more attracted towards the unfathomable abyss. She was floating in one of them. A bright blue-green light was seeping in through her porous skin. Was she moving or was it the water? To make sure she stroked her tail. It was the water. Or maybe it was her mind. The red, the orange, the eyes, the sleeping eyes; through the eyelashes the red veins are opening in his mind. Pulsating blood, pumping heart and the cashew nut creases of the brain.

She was floating in his mind.

She met the memories from the other side; she met people from the past. She met aromas and touches. The softs, aggressive and sharp. His mind couldn’t sleep for years. Every moment of his being was there. Even those he was unaware of, and also those which he was deliberately and desperately buried. The smell of the ink and touch of her.

She got amused by the sea of possibilities and restrictions. The vomits of indigestion and the drugs of the dead were still stale. There were smiles and laughter of tears too. And there was a life in the blood and death in the air. Heart was stopping every moment to welcome death. Lung muscles were flexing to hold the moment of the death, and the mind was eager to go on the ultimate trip.

He also wanted the trip, and then everything transcended.

Everything stopped to wake into the other side. He was dead. And she lost her way out. She was trapped in his dream and figments of his mind.

She was missing her sea, her world. She was just thrown out in this city during the post-mortem. She was lying in the garbage in hospital’s backyard.

There were no magnificent lights emitted from the space, just ugly neon signs and sodium vapors. There was no omnipresent scent of memories just the stench of the dead mouse. She was in the real city, the real city in the real world. And she was no one there, like everybody else. She wanted to dive into the sea where her home was, she tried to stroke her tail, but there was no tail. There were two ugly long sticks with few joints and a fin like structure at the end of it. They were stuck to his waist, like everybody else. She saw around and everybody were standing and moving on those things instead of floating horizontally. They were legs. She also tried to stand, with immense effort, but failed miserably, and fell in the garbage. She was sad, and she felt water on her cheeks, seat water, and salty water. She was shocked, delighted and sad. But her tail was still legs.

After few minutes of effort she learned to balance and walk on her new found legs. Now she wanted to find the sea to dive in. she asked for the direction. It was a long walk, and the sun was breathing fire. She was about to pass out, but her natural defense system was still working. Or was it the water that was seeped into her skin. Wherever she was walking or standing she was leaving behind a trail of sea water behind. Her skin and clothes were wet all the time. She was saved by that.

She found the sea by a circular road. It was like a gallery to see the sea. A half opened shell by the sea shore. She was happy. There was still sea like smell left in those dark waters, she moved ahead. But the smell she smelled was of her nostrils. These waters were ugly and had unbearable stench. This was not the sea, it was a huge puddle. Her home can not be in there. Her home was way bright and beautiful.

She didn’t have anything to dive in. she just sat there till the sun dived into it. The atmosphere of this city, this smell of the city was also diving in through her skin, seeping in slowly. Pores of her skin were very numb by now. The city just seeped in silently. She stood up, turned around and saw the sea she was going to live her mortal life in.

The sea of people. The Mumbai city.