Skip to main content

आज़ादी

आज़ादी हम भी चाहते हैं
तुमसे आज़ादी।
तुम्हारे मांगों से आज़ादी
ये दंगों से आज़ादी
जिन शोलों में तुम हो लिपटते
मेरे आशाओं से भरे तिरंगे को
मेरी आन, मेरी शान,
मेरे ज़मीर के निशानी को
उन शोलों से आज़ादी।
जिस आक्रोश से मार गिराते हो
मेरे चमन के लाडलों को
मेरे वतन के सिपाहियों को
उस आक्रोश से आज़ादी।

आज़ादी हम भी चाहते हैं
तुमसे आज़ादी
जिस मिटटी कि खुश्बु है हिंदुस्तानी
जिस मिटटी में है सिमटी
यादें हमारी तुमसे कई पुरानि,
चाहते है हम भी आज़ादी
तुमसे
उस मिटटी की आज़ादी।

केहना तो बहुत कुछ है दोस्त
पर है हम पर भी कुछ पाबन्दी,
ये तुम्हे है अब सोचना
तुम्हारी मांग जो है आज़ादी
है किस्से ये आज़ादी
हमारे मिटटी से तुम्हारी
या तुम्हारी सोच से
है हमारी आज़ादी?
आज़ादी हम भी चाहते हैं,
तुमसे आज़ादी।

.... This is my attempt to voice the intense unhappiness that the state of affairs in our state of Kashmir is causing to every Indian. I wish our politicians and media would stand up for the country rather than help us burn down our own attic. The land from where flows down this ancient civilization, the land where our greatest sages once tread unhindered, and our oldest thoughts rest, cannot be lost.  Must not be lost, whatever the cost. Whatever the cost.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Long Winter Chill

If I could do a Neruda, You would have smelt of summer roses And Autumn pine. There would have been sheer love Of the kind that causes our hearts to ache And loneliness bordering the divine. You would have had so many secrets Welling up as in a girly giggle And so few friends who would hear them all. I am no Neruda I can't paint you a Summer breeze Amidst this long winter chill.

Hush

You don't have to tell me. I just know. Its that little sniffle that comes through The unexplained pauses The slow responses I know when you call Just because you needed to cry.

That Fluttering of Broken Wings

If you were to cross the road and hurt your toe, I know that I will never know. As we go on to take different roads and move on across different shores, there is something that happens to our relationships. Something that estranges, disconnects, disintegrates. I know that you still think of me. I know this because I find myself thinking about you. And thoughts rarely get seeded on their own. It comes from you to I and from I to you until one of us is alive. Old relationships rarely die. Like broken winged moths, they hang around dark alleys of forgotten memory lanes. Ever so often, I can hear one of them flutter its wings. Not too close but never too far.