Monday, 13 July 2015

ये मेरा कश्मीर है.

चीखती रातें, रक्त-रंजित कटारे,
जलते आशियाने, सिसकती दीवारें,
याद है आज भी, वो जख्म ताज़ा है,
चुभते है तेरी कश्मीरियत के नारे.
मेरी ज़मीन से, मुझे बेदखल कर,
खुश तू हुआ था, जला के मेरा घर,
जो आज में लौटना चाह रहा हूँ,
तेरे प्यार में क्यों, दिखता मुझे डर?
तू जो आज मुझको, भाई कह रहा है,
मेरी ही चिता पे घर बना रह रहा है,
ज़रा खोल देख तेरे घर की वो टोटी,
आज भी उसमें मेरा, लहू बह रहा है.

तेरे खेल से, तेरी हर चाल से,
वाकिफ हू कातिल, तेरे हर जाल से,
बहुत रह चुका माँ के आचल से वंचित,
है लौटना अब तो हर हाल में,
जितने जतन तुझे, करने है करले,
स्वांग तुझे जितने आतें है रच ले,
गूंजेगी फिर वादी में वो घंटियाँ,
बारूद मेरे मंदिर में जितना हो भर ले.

न जिन्ना की है ये विरासत,
न गिलानी की ये जागीर है,
श्यामा प्रसाद की है ये समाधि,
ऋषि कश्यप का ये कश्मीर है,
मेरा कश्मीर है.

Sunday, 12 July 2015

The wail of Jesus

Yes I am sad,
Hurt and confused,
You are my creation,
I wish I could refuse,
I watch you wrap me up,
And sell me like a soap,
Is this why I created you?
You make me lose the hope,
I watch your sheer idiocy,
This delusion you call faith,
I keep curbing my anger,
You keep tempting the fate,
Why do you think I need?
Your menial propagation,
I am universal,
Don't need your adulation,
I keep sending the warnings,
But you don't get it still,
Call me by any name you like,
I exist and forever will.

Sunday, 5 July 2015

A tale of 2 journalists

1 was murdered,
burnt alive,
he killed me,
on camera he cried,
his soul departed,
hope intact,
to get me justice,
my brethren will rise,
he hovered over the lutyens,
like a cloud ready to burst,
his tears poured out,
his death was never heard.

the second expired,
heart attack maybe,
or was he poisoned,
the truth seemed hazy,
lutyens exploded,
obituaries read,
primetime screamed,
justice was pledged,
the brethren promised,
the 2nd who deceased,
while the 1st watched,
his character being peeled.

And this is the tale of,
2 journalists who died,
why was one ignored,
while for other the pen cried?
was it because the former,
had died in a secular state?
while the latter was in communal,
though he may have died of fate?
this dear friends is how,
the lutyens plays the game,
the tale of 2 journalists,
will always be the same.