ये किस्सा है एक दोपहर का
जब तपती हवा को तेह कर कर के
कड़वे नीम के पेड़ का
हर पत्ता पीला हो चुका था.
मिटटी के चूल्हे की आंच
से सिकी हुई उनकी लाल हथेली पे
जब मेरी नज़र गयी तो
मालूम हुआ के हिना के फूल
कभी न कभी
मुरझाते तो ज़रूर हैं.
बची रहती है तो वही
ख़ाली हथेली.
कई रोज़ों बाद
इफ्तार के वक़्त
जब खजूरी बेगम
तामचीनी की कटोरी में
दो मीठी बातें
जैसे दो सूखे खजूर
रख के लाईं
तो चूल्हा राख से ढका हुआ था.
नाखूनों पर अभी भी
हिना का वही सुर्ख़ रंग
पीले नीम की पत्तियों को तकता रहा.
खजूरी बेगम एक ही निवाले में
सारी मिठास निगल गईं.
बची रही तो वही
खाली कटोरी.
Birthed from the vagina,
Manhood maggots and crawls
Up and into the womb –
Excavating the spine
Webbing the heart
Paralyzing the brain
And infects another host
With the envy of a Freudian mind.
What a woman is never given,
She must learn to create
If she does, he lives
If she doesn’t, he leaves.
Love changes people
Makes them man or woman.
A man learns to gather from the wild
Tit-bits of love
Like fruit and meat
Mother, lovers and wives
Meals for the stomach.
A woman learns to create
Stories of love
Like shields and armour
Protect, secure and believe
Medicines for the mind.
Women birth love in their minds
Men first prey
And then domesticate
Like wheat and lamb.
Men.
They’re still hunter-gatherers
For love.
Two palms stand in the front lawn
The one,
Not mightier than the other
The other,
Never lesser than the one.
The One,
A Giant God Hydra -
He likes to rage in the night rain.
In the showers of sleet
He roars and pounds
The war drums.
Then the frozen gills of thunder
Start to breathe,
And pinch the clouds with needles
Of cold quenched steel.
The other,
An innocent Medusa twin -
She likes to bake in the moonlight
Spitting a fiery hiss
As she blows into the darkness
A sweltering hot kiss.
Then the mouth of the fire
Yawns and awakens
Spluttering the smoulders
Of malaise unspoken.
Two palms stand in my front lawn
The one,
Often facing towards the other
The other,
Sometimes facing away from the one.
A bunch of feeding ants
Start to scatter
As I gently twitch to
The piercing of my wound again.
Somewhere deep inside
A drying clot
Silently spurts
A thin warm stream
Into the night.
It’s time I bled out
A word or two
Again.
