चाहना से

तुम्हारे कह देने की वजह से नही

बस समझो की तुम्हारे कह देने से

झूंझलाती हुई आ गयी मरी

यह कविता

एक सिरे से शुरू कर

तुम्हारे दूसरे सिरे तक जाने की

बेकार और बेमन कोशिश सी

ऊंघते हुए

तुम्हारे गालों के गड्ढे देख कर

मन ही मन मुस्काने के सुख सी साधारण

एक अजनबी को अपने

कुछ घूट पीए हुए

पानी के ग्लास से पानी दे देने जैसी अजीब

बिल्कुल एक सी इच्छाओं

और सीरतो जैसी

एकदम आसान

पर दो पूर्णतः अलग लोगों के बीच

बिना कोई उम्मीद जगाने वाली

उस अनकही बात सी अंजान

कभी ना मिलने वाली लकीरों की तरह

शुरू ही ख़तम से होने वाली

हताश रातों की फिराक़ जैसी मामूली

लू के थपेड़ो में आँधी की आहत

और भीड़ में गुम कर देने जैसी

आम उपमाओ में लिपि पूती

उन सभी घंटों के समूह में छुपी हुई

नादान, जिनके हर कोने में तुम्हे सही बैठाने

की ताक बसती है

अब क्या यह कहूँ की तुम

अपनी जगह बनाते हुए

पसर ही गये, या फिर,

ये की मुझे नही पता

उस एक सिरे से दूसरे पर

कहाँ तुम शुरू और मैं ख़तम हो जाती हूँ

उफ्फ तो भुग्तो

क्यूंकी ऐसी सी ही बनती है

एक कविता तुम्हारे कहने की

मासूम चाहना से

उस जगह

उस जगह

कभी कभी तुम्हारे कंधों पे सर रख कर

मैं पहुच जाती हूँ कहीं

एक जगह, जहाँ शायद तुम भी नही होते

ऐसा मैं सिर्फ़ तुम्हारे साथ ही कर पाती हूँ

जब मैं खाम्मखाँ अपने आप को

उस जगह पाती हूँ, जिसके बारे में मैने कभी सोचा ही नहीं

वहाँ जाने का कोई मकसद या फाय्दा नहीं है

सिर्फ़ अमल्तस के पीले फूलों को देख कर

वहाँ शाम गुज़ारी जा सकती है

बिना घड़ी को सौ बार देखे

उस पेड़ के फूलों को झर कर

हरे पत्तों में बदलता हुआ देखा जा सकता है

पर यह बात रोमॅन्स की नही

एक तकनीकी सवाल की है

इस सब में तुम्हारे कंधों की क्या भूमिका है

यह तो में जानती ही नही

शायद सवाल यह नही है की

मैं अकेले वहाँ पहुच सकती थी या नही

सवाल आता है

बस इतनी सी बात से

की मुझे यह पता चल गया

ऐसी एक जगह है

जहाँ मुझे जाना बहुत पसंद है

जब वो हाइवे पर आगे से आने वाली गाड़ी की हेडलाइट

मुझे वापस ले आती है तुम्हारे कंधों पर

मैं सिर्फ़ इतना ही कह पाती हूँ

कुछ नही! ऐसे ही!

"क्या तुम्हे पता है,

मुझपे पीला रंग बहुत फबता है?"

और तुम मुस्कुरा कर सिर हिला देते हो

जैसे तुम हमेशा से जानते थे

और मैं तुम्हे कोस कर

मूह पलट के

फिर कंधे पे सिर रख लेती हूँ

इस उम्मीद में की शायद इस बार

पलाश हो

पर फूल तो पीले ही होते हैं उस जगह

जहाँ शायद तुम भी नही होते

पर पहुचती हूँ मैं सिर्फ़ तुम्हारे साथ

for her
it was always that never ending search for beginnings,
never for the end,
and all she needed was
that little leap out from time,
sleepless and forgetful,
she would just take it all in,
and her experiences would
run like blood through her veins,
and only on rare occasions,
could you see them,
flashing like a mysterious glisten in her eyes,
or a surprising turn of phrase,
for the rest of the time,
she just seemed plain,
without even an identifiable routine,
or even the slightest hint of wisdom,
as being curious,
she was settling on the things she did not understand,
just like dust.

She walks

From Central park towards the Statesman building

(It’s not the yellow brick road)

Her dress flutters against the wind

With music in her ears she walks right to the beat

Where she walks now

She has walked a thousand times before

She tries to distract the rogue tears

Fiddling with her little satchel

That swings with her every stride

Smiling to herself, behind cloudy eyes

She never regrets walking on that road

Which she had walked a thousand times before

She carries with her the smoky autumn air

When she owned the night

Along with the unforgiving rain

When time wasn’t on her side

Each time the seasons were different on this road

Which she has walked a thousand times before

She twitches to look around, but knows

No eyes wait for her to turn back

She keeps the music loud

As there is no voice calling her name

But, out of habit, looks for a familiar face, on the road

Which she has walked a thousand times before

As she keeps one foot in front of another

The same old road is strange once more

There is no destination

No coming and going after all

On this road

Which she has walked a thousand times before

She walks the road

Which she has walked a thousand times before

Knowing there is nowhere she can go

She walks the road knowing there is nowhere she can go

Knowing there is nowhere she can go

She walks...

Documenting an anxiety of nothing in general

what is it,

they ask,

that bothers you?

It is nothing... it is always that nothing. 

Yes, I know it is outdated and all, to still get existential, to still wonder about the meanings, the emptiness, the nausea. The eng-lit. college graduate existential anxiety should saturate into matured and practiced cynicism by now, no? Still, it is a daily ritual for me to wake up and wonder the why, the what, the before, the after! In fact, today I spent the late morning stuck to the bed, just wondering. Yes, it is a privilege to have this kind of time at hand (but, in my defense it stems from my line of work), to not be forced to do anything, and I agree that it may not even be an option for many and even for me at most times. But the fact remains I do it at times and use it to introspect. It is mentally exhausting, it is frustrating. It continues till it lasts, then it continues again.

What bothers me is that there is no space for this kind of expression. We are so surrounded by the "quantifiable" (I borrow from a friend) that this just slips through the cracks. Would an emoticon saying "Feeling existential" do the trick? I hope not, as with this optional data, another limit would be imposed. One would still choose between the choice of this or that. It is no longer about sadness, hurt, etc. It is about that realization that your voice does not get registered anywhere, there are no witnesses, there is only you, surrounded by a sea of nothingness! I can already feel people's patience wearing thin, it sits on the nape of my neck ready to crack into a "That's enough about this man, there are so many other kinds of suffering that are more real" Anyhow, I shall attempt to brave that nasty perched up beast and still rant as this suffering makes me me and I choose to speak about something I know. We keep ourselves surrounded with people, things, distractions so as to avoid this realization. The spaces around us leave no scope for this. Yes, I make it spatial, as for me certain spaces allow for expressions/introspection like this, while most don’t. Perhaps a bus ride, or a train journey, when am forced to be with my thoughts would be one. But, then again distractions colonize all spaces.

The fact of the matter is that while we are surrounded by the excess of meanings, which explode everywhere, infest everything... I feel that there is no space where one can talk about meaninglessness. Maybe, the ones who read this don’t think so, but here I intend to communicate an anxiety that has been tormenting me for some time. It is an anxiety that has no higher purpose, is completely pedestrian, and faces the danger of being elitist. This anxiety defines much of what I do and how I conduct myself. It is an anxiety that no matter what I do, in the landscape of things that matter, it wont make any dent. Perhaps because I don’t think it matters enough, and also because the things that seem to matter are so much out of reach. The question hangs perpetually: Does it count?

The fact that I do realize that nothing matters and still go on attempting to make meanings out of that deep knowing, is what remains as something to wonder at. Or perhaps, jumping from one stone to another, one simply avoids the water in between.

But, maybe it is just me, as I wonder at the absence of doubt, at the practiced cynicism that blurts out "aisa hi hota hai", at the inane yet deep desire that someone notices that little status message disguised in abstraction. I myself feel burdened by the expectation of writing something moving, something that gets itself noticed, something that makes one visible, but refuse to be a slave to that practice. Yes, this means that I experience self-imposed seclusion, but I feel limited by the time-slot interactions, the prescribed response application, imposition of acceptable social conduct.

Anyhow, am also trying to get rid of the rust of not writing about this, and hiding behind poems where I merely touch upon this constant anxiety, but I wonder at the absence of such voices around me. It is curious that while people can say they are sad or lost, very few would dare to admit that they are lonely. One would disguise it behind valentine's day disgust at card companies, but the question remains, with no dearth of social interaction facilitators, are we becoming more lonely? Loss manifests itself into an external entity, where one attributes all its misgivings, but loss stems from another place within. We struggle to fill it, nurture it, and become governed by it. A loss of companionship devastates so much, not because you lose someone, but because our minds and bodies behave as if a part has been chopped off. This phantom limb haunts the best of us, but I wonder at its appropriation as a weakness. In the gold rush towards finding someone/something, the idea of the self gets defined as being empty. It’s the sub-text that no one talks about. It is that lack that the entities governing us, impose on us, and we impose on ourselves, that I get anxious with. Perhaps I should be stronger and more averse, but I again wonder at the incomplete selves. It may not be finding a companion, but work or family can be seen as the completing factors. It is a myth of our times, the individual, who remains a fragmented entity trying desperately to fit somewhere perfectly. One acknowledges the suffering, then makes peace with it and then continues with life. But, life’s importance remains unquestioned. The only good enough reason I see to not terminate it is that it will end someday anyway.

Among other things, I acknowledge today an anxiety that seems to inflict me, as I struggle to find a way of expression to some of the things that I observe and experience. Conflicted I am, between trying to move away from the desire to have witnesses, to writing and expressing to audiences. But, it is this contradiction that leads to this anxiety that I am talking about. Being ‘sorted’ is the only acceptable way, or one can display an eccentricity to evade the normative. But the fact remains that the contradictions are ignored, the ironies are buried, and picture perfect poses replace it all. One even learns to aestheticize loss for presentation. The only thing I see that remains meaningful is perhaps ritual, not an imposed ritual but a personal/community ritual, and perhaps writing this here is a similar act. But, that needs another entry. Today, I just tried to put a little bit of myself out there, waiting for a more critical introspection to follow, maybe some other time!

Floating Signifier

Events float without roots

Detached.

I apply logic of the past on

Today’s effect

Context too evaporates

Amnesiac calendars

Catalogue seasons together

All the years fit into

A single refrain

Stuck on a record player

Memory dwells

Like a parasite

Forgetfulness does not oblige

A name rules all

And lays claim to other nests

Confused grammar fails

The test of tense

Desperate scissors

Fumble with the cellophane

A needle pokes the inflamed gum

Searching for that numbing pain

Wistful parchments step into water

Hoping to dissipate

But everything continues to form

A palimpsestic mass

Where the December wind

Blows in a dawn of March

(Like sand it runs through fingers

Like sand it washes away

But always comes back

To claim the shore

As its own resting place)

It's there in the Doodles

http://cottagereader.com/2013/11/08/its-there-in-the-doodles/

I have read it in the doodles

The ones that were written in mist

On the windshields in the parking lot

But it is more clear on the keyed metal of shiny cars

The expression that comes out once a year

When you burn your tongue again

Drinking espresso from thermocol

Or perhaps more often, like in the showing of one finger

When that really says it all

It's nothing really, but can be seen in various places

For example, the chewing gum from nowhere

That gets stuck on your shoe's sole

And comes out only on its own

It is displayed in deserted monuments

In the form of museumized underwear

It is hidden in the not so ignorant flick

Of a cigarette’s ash on someone else's carpet

It is also seen to flash on walls

That are splashed upon by bursting bladders

It is hidden in the yes nod

Of a 'have to do' hand me down job

Don't ask me to explain

What is it, as it can be very deceiving

It can become a language of its own

Only by saying the same word differently

But, I will simply not talk about it in a poem

As it is only a matter of habit

And I can't take away its punch

When used as vocabulary.

Adjustment

Poem in Cottage Reader: Adjustment

Do a running stitch on the wound

Where the old photograph was oozing out

Make sure you adjust the volume

Coming from that pendant in the jewellery box

Hide familiar words on high tension wires

With spaghetti, tomato sauce and cheese

While you cut the tears out of your hair

Fix the fireflies on your black chemise

Eat the gaps between your fingers

Remember to water the flowers kept in books

Submerge your eyes in the stop bath daily

Fix the rewinding with a Plaster of Paris mouth

Dip the tip of your pen in freshly made brine

And strap your stomach to the brain

When you walk, throw bread crumbs for a trail

You never know when you want to be sought out

Make a papier-mâché mask

By beating pieces of poems to a pulp

Adjust its tones to suit your changing premise

From colour, to sepia, to black and white

Then take a compass and trace your phobias

When you reach a hand littered with little stick-on eyes

Enter the television and enact your favourite scene

But, always stay away from static, in the early hours of morning

Writings from that place

I do not know the difference between before and after

Inside the shopping mall, night could well have been the day

the only indication of a present

is that pain in the feet, possibly due to walking a long way.

but lets not talk about that

it is not what I wish to talk about

I want to mark this moment

and separate it from this long continuum

why is it important, you ask

to just type down my tryst with nausea

passing it for a poetic event

umm, perhaps its not! After all,

we are doomed to repeat the same mistakes again

stuck in our solitudes

Like a dog running after its tail

wait, I am not sure if that's the right metaphor at all.

it is a struggle

to remove the glasses, tinted by the pasts

transgression has become a victim of its own abundance

How does one write about uneventfulness?

Again, this is about marking!

distinguishing this moment from the next

like tagging a photograph as 

"the day when we went..."

but such moments happen lesser and lesser

the blues hold the falling pieces in place

On autopilot most things happen

but time runs out

like excess water seeping through mud in a flower pot

I shift from muse to muse

expecting a tour-de-force moment to happen

but I am sure that when that moment comes

I will reject it, and move on!

As so over I would be

that I would have played all the possible scenarios of that situation already...

Poems in the Cottage Reader

http://cottagereader.com/tag/ritika-kaushik-poems/

He sat and thought about it today


 I saw I thought I sat today
[There is a dirt spot on the room floor]
And we need to deal with it
 [We need to clean the dirt spot]
Because there is unhappiness
[I saw the dirt spot only now]
But it is the reason not to be

I saw I thought I sat today
End dirt
Clean with reason
Dirt spot has room
Unhealthiness unhealthiness

 I saw I thought I sat today
 [There is no dirt spot on the room floor]
It was important to end it

I saw I thought I sat today
I thought a dirt spot today