काफ़िर

तेरे खयाल की,

हा एक शाल हैं,

मैंने जो ओढ रखी,

तुझे समझ के,

तू हैं नहीं तो क्या हैं,

तेरा वजूद काफ़ी,

वो ही मेरा जहां हैं,

मेरी बरकते।।

मैं काफिरा,

मुझे सब कहते हैं,

मैं सरफिरा,

मुझे सब कहते हैं,

मैं हूं तेरा,

कोई कहता नहीं,

तू नहीं मेरी,

ये सब पर कहते हैं,

मेरी इबादत हैं जहन्नम,

उनकी जन्नते।।

मैं काफिरा मेरा जुनून तू,

मैं सरफिरा मेरा सुकून तू,

जो तू नहीं तो, मुझमें तेरा,

हैं हूजूम क्यूं।।

You’re Not Welcomed

Indian. The identity conjures multiple images: an astronaut taking international space station trips for Nasa; a computer programmer heading the world’s biggest technology company; a doctor discovering the cure for life-threatening viruses; a construction site worker helping to develop the tallest building in an oil-rich nation; or a musician earning accolades for his supreme work around the globe.

A stereotyped rapist, a lapsed youth, an unmannered snob, an ugly ramification of patriarchy, an insecure face with no self-respect and utmost jealousy. A misguided person who lives by the law of disloyalty. Then there is the image of an individual being denied entry into a club after someone of his color and race misbehaved with a woman the other night.

Some embarrassing moments later, I’m thrown out like garbage despite holding the entry passes for the club. I seek explanation but am given a diplomatic answer: “there is no space for more people in the club.” I see the other people walk by into the same property a few moments later, all fatter than me. I wonder what I possibly did to be not fit into a space that could easily fit a Tyrannosaurus Rex.

I come back to an empty apartment (cleaner than it should be), takes out the last bit of that offbeat wine I had secured for a “special day.” Nothing stops me to dwell into solitude as I go out to my balcony, staring at the full moon, and play a song the language of which I don’t understand.

I am an Indian.

I could say I fit into any of the images: I could be opening doors for women and speaking with them respectfully whenever I am being spoken to. I could also be a loud snob who believes every “white girl” is willing to sleep with a stranger-me, specifically when I mistreat her in every possible way a woman must not want.

I attempt to understand the situation while sipping the last bit of that foreign wine, staring at a full moon, and crying dry tears off my widely opened eyes. I must have done something wrong – perhaps, by wearing an identity that matches depraved and civil all at the same time.

I am extremely controlled between my legs and ears. I’m often told by my friends and colleagues that I am well-behaved, and even the slight tan on my skin makes me look like the Lawrence of Arabia. I am polite under the right kind of situation, and my manners slip away slightly when I speak passionately about filmmaking, dinosaurs, and bitcoin. I live in a country in which a senior woman calls me her son, a younger male looks at me for mentorship, an adolescent girl who lets me near her without feeling threatened, and a friend – of the opposite sex, again – who gives me the best hugs of my life.

I am an Indian.

But I am trouble bomb, anyway – at least to the person who denies me the fundamental right to Heineken. I realize he is worried about what I might do rather than giving me a pass. Somebody tells me that the gatekeeper fears women will not enter the club upon noticing “people like me.” Those women must have a reason, I think. And despite the fact it doesn’t concern me, it certainly does.

I start believing that I live in a world of stereotypes: a system which remembers a person for the wrongs that have been done by his lookalikes. This world takes comfort in categorizing individuals like me into a phenomenon, without the slightest idea about my parameters as an individual. I have become a predictable threat because of these definitions of me.

I encounter these difficulties when I’m asked about the behavior of the people that incidentally holds the same identity as me. People wonder why they misbehave with the women of the country which invited them as guests. They question why they disturb a crowd of moviegoers by being loud during showtime. And why the heck they steal onions from pubs? I mean, seriously?

The difficulty does not end there. A caucasian sex worker approaches me as if I am standing in a dark room with a radium tattoo on my face saying ‘HIT ME.’ I tell her politely about my disinterest in such arrangements. She asks me not to feel shy and reminds me that people of my race and nationality do the same.

“But I don’t,” I respectfully respond to her.

“Why,” she asks.

“I just don’t,” I tell her, “I’m not that kind of a person.”

She gives me a strange look as if I just told her about her recently-developed hernia. Then, the next sex worker approaches me the other day. And it keeps going during those peaceful walks.

I imagine situations such as these would eventually drive me away from exploring a quiet life outside the home. It will also keep my intellectual levels undernourished, my motivations down, and my ability to assist my hosts in growing their economy flat.

I have friends and family to remember this new home by, these individuals who accept me for the civility I wear on my soul. But sometimes, even for a girl-friend who is taking a platonic walk with me, she is already a sex worker to her people. Why? Because she is walking with me.

To those who are my lookalikes in this new land, I am incredibly disappointed if you misrepresent your identity. It’s not about a man denying me entry into the club; the situation is far worse than you think. You have time to mend your behavior, and for a change, contribute socially and financially to grow the country that has been your host for years.

Otherwise, either we all are good Indians or we all are the worst. We could be innovators, social workers, businessmen, students, or just travelers aware of what we represent. We are a walking identity of at least 80% of those 1.25 billion people, who do not deserve shame and disrespect.

I am an Indian, and I want to be proud of it. If you think the same, join me. If you don’t, then may the law take care of you.

रफ़्तार

रुक जा हैं क्या हड़बड़ी,
जल्दी हैं क्या उमर हैं पड़ी,
आ बैठ ले घड़ी दो घड़ी,
तेज़ चलके क्या जीत लेंगे|

चुस्की सा ज़िन्दगी को पी,
यह चाय है गरम बड़ी,
आ बैठ ले घड़ी दो घड़ी,
तेज़ चलके क्या जीत लेंगे|

तेरी साँसे फ़ूल रही हैं,
फुर्सतों में हांफ भी ले,
कितना तूने पा के खोया,
फुर्सतों में नाप भी लें,
फुर्सते हसरतें,
हसरतें फुर्सते||

रुक जा हैं क्या हड़बड़ी,
जल्दी हैं क्या उमर हैं पड़ी,
आ बैठ ले घड़ी दो घड़ी,
तेज़ चलके क्या जीत लेंगे|

Cover Image via Tadst

गुरूर

सख्तियां बरत ज़रा सी,
इश्क़ बिगड़ने लगा हैं,
मखमली बातें ना कर जब,
इश्क़ लड़ने लगा हैं|

तेरे दर्द से जब बने,
किसी की मुस्कुराहटें,
किस हक़ से वो पाए भला,
तेरी रहमतें तेरी चाहतें,
ये जान ले वो दर्द हैं,
और तू खुद ही का मर्ज़ हैं,
ना बन किसी का इतना भी,
कि तू खुद का ना रहे|

सख्तियां बरत ज़रा सी,
इश्क़ बिगड़ने लगा हैं,
मखमली बातें ना कर जब,
इश्क़ लड़ने लगा हैं|

दूर का इश्क़

ये दूर का इश्क़,
मुझे घूरता इश्क़.
ये हैं चुड़ैल सा,
पर हूर का इश्क़|

रूहों की ठंडक हैं कभी,
कभी ये जलता जलजला,
धुआं धुआं ये दिल को करे,
फिर तूफ़ां से दे बुझा,
बिन छुए ये चीर दे,
बची कुची सांसे मेरी,
टुकड़े टुकड़े मैं जियू,
सांस लगे फांसे मरी,
किसी ज़हरीले गुच्छे से टूटा,
ये ज़हरीले अंगूर सा इश्क़,
ये दूर का इश्क़,
मुझे घूरता इश्क़|

Ae Dil Hai Mushkil is Emotionally Manipulative At Best

A heartbreak is worth a few films; and who better than Karan Johar understands it.

The director’s latest attempt to address the theme of uncompromising love is refreshing in terms of style, but lags hugely in terms of originality and substance. The initial acts always force us to revisit Imtiaz Ali’s exceptional works – Love Aaj Kal, Tamasha, and Rockstar – while the the post-intermission portions appear to be recycled from Johar’s very own blockbusters from the late 90s and early 2000s.

As a result, what we get in Ae Dil Hai Mushkil is a mix-bag of I-Have-Seen-It-Before-Tales. It is watchable but lacks originality.

An awkward hookup attempt between Ayan (Ranbir Kapoor) and Alizeh (Anushka Sharma) leads to a narrow-lined friendship. The former is depressed about a routine fight with his girlfriend; the latter, meanwhile, appears to be full-of-life on surface, but hides deep agonies from her recent breakup.

They speak, they talk, and then they converse; and the more they converse, the better understanding they develop about each other – a premise that reminds us of Before Sunrise’s Julie Delpy and Ethan Hawke, albeit being fragmental. Just in this case, it is only the man who falls in love, while his counterpart consider their relationship as platonic.

Over the next 2 hours and 35 minutes runtime, we see Ayan and Alizeh protecting and attacking each other in the name of friendship and love. And the beauty with which Ranbir and Anushka play them help us believe the torments each is going through. Their performances help you invest in the journey, however cliched it may look from the outset.

There are many instances in Ae Dil Hai Mushkil that simply tugs off your heart. My personal favourite is when Ayan begs Alizeh to stay away from him; that “he can’t take it anymore”. Another one is when he admits his love for her on her wedding night.

And then there is Aishwarya Rai Bachchan’s poetic Saba, who appears to be the distraction Ayan truly needs, but mostly ends up being a reminder of his true innermost desires for Alizeh. Aishwarya plays her part elegantly, especially during a confrontation scene with Ranbir – simply beautiful.

Johar interweaves the conflicts perfectly and is helped by music director Pritam to raise the bar. In fact, the music works almost in line with the storytelling; it is a beautiful soundtrack, something comparable to AR Rahman’s Rockstar, minus Sufi.

Despite the awkward emotional manipulation it tries to sell, Ae Dil Hai Mushkil comes out as a flossy amalgamation of Rockstar, Kal Ho Na Ho, and 500 Days of Summer. I’m going to give it three and a half for the performances and the music. Take your handkerchiefs with you!

To Find a Little Hope in Death

To endure something you didn’t wish for is, life. I never asked to be born, nor did I sign any deal with God for this life. To say the least, I am a product born out of lust, and greed of people who were too worried to let their financial legacy go away to somebody except their own blood.

But I was born anyways, and was brought up in a civil jungle with tender and care. Sometimes, I used to get some beatings as well, for not following laws, or rules. I learned my way as I grew up. I knew when to smile; I knew when not to smile; I restricted my laughs; and I cried alone.

I kept finding myself in the midst of darkness, and I couldn’t escape one bit of it. Until that very day I realised that the very light was inside me. And only I could unleash it from the dungeons people were too afraid to look into.

I unleashed it, and it transformed into, feelings.

The world was a little brighter than before. I started listening to these feelings; did what I actually felt like. But I realised that the more I tried to fulfil my satisfactions, the worse I turned for the environment around me. The environment, still had rules; and it wanted my feelings to return to the very darkness it came from.

I didn’t know who I belonged to exactly: the environment or this voice inside me? Did my feelings hold any value? Was I suppose to only pretend to smile my whole life? Why did the environment, that born and nurtured me, wanted to clip my wings and kept me in its cage?

How was I free, under an open sky? How could I endure something that I didn’t wish for – this life.

Could death be a solution? Or would it be equally daunting as life? Would I meet my feelings in person once I leave the grasp of this environment? Would these feelings embrace me – or my soul?

I now stand in the midst of a reverie. I am escaping the lust I had for darkness, to meet the unknown at the other end of this dimension.

Or would I be born again? Against my own wishes? And will ask the same thing, that I didn’t ask for it? What if I am in a vicious circle I cannot escape?

I need my void so I could slip inside and disappear into it with my light, my feelings, and my love. I need my own environment. That’s my little hope!

Or should I just wake up from this dream?

काश

थोड़ी बातें तेरी,

थोड़ी बातें मेरी,

काश यूँ होती ज़िन्दगी,

थोड़ी दिन तेरे,

थोड़ी राते मेरी,

काश यूँ होती ज़िन्दगी ।

तेरे मेरे रंगो को,

ऐसे हम मिलाते,

कितने रंग बनाते,

संग में,

पर अब अपने रंग ही,

इतने हैं गहरे,

कि अब कोई रंग ना बने,

तो हम बेरंग ही सही ।

थोड़ी बातें तेरी,

थोड़ी बातें मेरी,

काश यूँ होती ज़िन्दगी,

थोड़ी दिन तेरे,

थोड़ी राते मेरी,

काश यूँ होती ज़िन्दगी ।

बाँसी बाँसी यादें,

सपनो में ताज़ी,

राज़ी पर हक़ीक़त,

ही नहीं,

आँखों के पीछे,

दिखती है ख़ुशियाँ,

आँखों के आगे,

तो नहीं,

ये आँखें फिर बंद ही सही ।

थोड़ी बातें तेरी,

थोड़ी बातें मेरी,

काश यूँ होती ज़िन्दगी,

थोड़ी दिन तेरे,

थोड़ी राते मेरी,

काश यूँ होती ज़िन्दगी ।

Never Gonna See You Again

A scary gateway awaits me,

and I’m going to get through,

I never thought that this goodbye,

will be the hardest thing to do,

let me draw your pretty face,

before time drags me away,

let me make these memories,

coz I’m never gonna see you again….

Kitne kitne lamhe batore,

Gullak bhar ke lamhe ye jode,

Fir bhi hai lagte kyu thode thode,

Ik saans me dekhu sabhi,

Aur zindagi hai ye badi….

Let me make these memories,

coz I’m never gonna see you again…

Before I met her

---

“What’s the purpose of your visit,” asks an unsmiling Caucasian officer from behind the glass.

It has been a long flight, and most of the passengers around me look visibly tired. I, on the other hand, have birds in my stomach. Its a new country out there; its a long-awaited holiday for me; and most important of all, its the first time I am going to meet her. But I also have a liability to look calm, and non-stupid in this new place.

“Meeting my girlfriend,” I reply to the stern officer.

He was not expecting this answer, and I try to keep an innocent face to lower down my frankness. I think to myself if he can actually deport me back to New Delhi for proclaiming my romantic adventure. An Indian immigration officer would have taken offense. ‘Its still better than saying to meet the President of Armenia,’ I think to myself, ‘and I am not even a Khan.’

“Welcome to Hayastan,” the officer says to me, creating a rhyme with my inside-out-conversations – Khan-Hayastan. He ink-punch my passport with his best ability, confirming – that for the next 11 days – I am legally entitled to date her. I should really hug this officer for amplifying my excitement.

I manage to stick to a “Thank you” as I go past that metal door. ‘But what the hell Hayastan is? Have I boarded a wrong bus, airbus? Is this even a right country?’

There is a stream of thoughts that flows inside my mind. Starting from the day I got introduced to her, to the day we became friends, to the day we e-kissed, to the day we fell in love, to the day I decided to save money to visit her, to the day I did save enough, to the day I bought my airline tickets, to the day my Visa got approved, and to this very day when I am just minutes away from seeing her for the first time without needing a computer screen. This stream must freeze the moment I see her. I’m getting prepared.

The luggage finds me easily; arrows guide me like friends; people clear my ways; and all the borders break loose while I step into Armenia. My eyes search through walking silhouettes, looking for her. But they don’t find her. ‘She must be around’, I repeat in my head several times. But she is nowhere to be seen.

“Where are you M?”

And I get a lump in my throat.

To be continued…..