Why does the sun go on shining-Carpenters

Why does the sun go on shining?

Why does the sea rush to shore?

Don't they know it's the end of the world

'Cause you don't love me anymore?



Why do the birds go on singing?

Why do the stars glow above?

Don't they know it's the end of the world

It ended when I lost your love



I wake up in the morning and I wonder

Why ev'rything is the same as it was

I can't understand, no, I can't understand

How life goes on the way it does!



Why does my heart go on beating?

Why do these eyes of mine cry?

Don't they know it's the end of the world?

It ended when you said goodbye



Don't they know It's the end of the world?

It ended when you said goodbye

Hazaaron Khwaahishen Aisee

hazaaron Khvaahishen aisii ki har Khvaaish pe dam nikale
bahut nikale mere armaaN lekin phir bhii kam nikale

nikalanaa Khuld se aadam kaa sunate aaye hain lekin
bahut beaabaruu hokar tere kuuche se ham nikale

muhabbat men nahiin hai farq jiine aur marane kaa
usii ko dekh kar jiite hain jis kaafir pe dam nikale

Khudaa ke vaaste pardaa na kaabe se uThaa zaalim
Kahiin aisaa na ho yaaN bhii vahii kaafir sanam nikale

KahaaN maiKhaane ka daravaazaa 'Ghalib' aur kahaaN vaaiz
par itanaa jaanate hain kal vo jaataa thaa ke ham nikale

Maaeri- Euphoria

Teriyaan, meriyaan pul gayaa
Pul gayaa haar te jeet
Hey maae ki karnaa main jeet nu
Howay na je meet, howay na je meet.
Bindiya lagaati to kaampti thhi palkein maaeri
Chunniyan sajaa ke woh deti waadein kal ke maaeri
Mere haathon mein thha uska haath
Thhi chaashni si har uski baat.
Maaeri aap hi hansdi, maaeri aap hi rondi
Maaeri yaad woh, yaad woh aaeri
Gallaan o kardi, maaeri ankhhaan naal larhdi
Maaeri yaad woh, yaad woh aaeri
He maaeri…

Baarishon mein lipatke maa aati thhi woh chalke maaeri
Deriyaan ho jaae to roti halke halke maaeri
Phir se main roun phir woh gaaye
Thandi hawaaen ban ke chhaae
Maaeri heera o gaandi maaeri gidde o paundi
Maaeri yaad woh, yaad woh aaeri
Jannataa o langdi maaeri mannataa o mangdi
Maaeri yaad woh, yaad woh aaeri

Ab kya karoon, kaa se kahoon e maaeri
Ab kya karoon, kaa se kahoon e maaeri…

Ooooo…
Duniya paraaee chhorh ke aajaa
Jhoothe saare naate torh ke aajaa
Sau rab di tujhe ik baari aajaa
Ab ke milein to honge na judaa
Na judaa… na judaa… ho…
Hoonte to aaye, koi te le aaye
Maaeri yaad woh, yaad woh aaeri
Gallaan o kardi, maaeri ankhhaan nal larhdi
Maaeri yaad woh, yaad woh aaeri
Pul gayee mera pyaar maae bas lage maheenein chaar
Maaeri yaad woh, yaad woh aaeri
Yaad woh aayee, maaeri yaad woh aayee
Maaeri yaad woh, yaad woh aaeri

Ab kya karoon, kaa se kahoon e maaeri
Ab kya karoon, kaa se kahoon e maaeri

So You Want To Be A Writer

So You Want To Be A Writer

if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.
if you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.
if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.
if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.
if you're trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.

don't be like so many writers,
don't be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don't be dull and boring and
pretentious, don't be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don't add to that.
don't do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don't do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don't do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

A Room With A View

Sunday mornings, so looked forward to after a long week full of tiresome days and unforgiving minutes. As the day stretched out in its finite span.. I realized the number of chores that I had been neglecting for the past many weeks. I began to think about planning the day. Didn’t have to look far though. One glance at my room ... and the course was set.

In thorough shambles, the room needed to be spruced up. And not just because I wanted to please ma. It was becoming difficult to find one’s way around. Though I don’t mind it. There is an order to the disorder.

Books and magazines strewn across, laptop resting on my bed, clothes lying off the hangers, pens and pencils scattered around, unread newspapers dating back to last week, a news clipping floating in the bedside shelf, mobile plugged in the charger, shopping bag and handbag all tangled up, headphones lolling around. The wardrobe with an internal mess of its own. Comb, kaajal and lip-gloss fighting for space on a table crowded with scribbled scraps of paper. And a fragment of myself. This is my room.

Anyways.. I began to go through the room systematically. I began with my favourite corner- my bookshelf. It’s always a real treat to look at it. Literally living out of a suitcase for the past two years, it was a visual delight to see them lined up in a shelf, rather two shelves. Needless to say more than four-fifths of them had not been read. They were picked up just for that reason. To be read at a later date... when I could wrap myself up in them and sit under a shade for long hours of solitude. While re-arranging them in a new way (genre-wise), I recalled the history of acquisition of each book. Each had a story to tell. I could recall my first training- in Salt Lake City, Kolkata, when I was dutifully carrying a copy of ‘ City of Joy’ in my bag. A book of all times and a must read for any genuine lover of non-fiction. Then came the various postings and the incessant travelling to and from home. Each such trip would bring in its wake a visit to the neighbouring book shop for a travelling companion. Book haunts being my favourite trips, I would set off without any company, although fervently wishing for one. If browsing alone is heaven, then browsing with someone means having fun in heaven. One such day out was with my close friend Aditi, to the Delhi book fair which came about by serendipity. Armed with a shopping bag, a thousand bucks each and a resolve to ‘just browse and buy only verrrrrry selectively’, we waltzed our way inside. Only to lose our step. Though not as big as the world book fair, it still boasted of a good collection. Buying paperbacks at throwaway prices, that too rarity likes Ibsen’s plays and Mark Twain. It was there that I shook hands with Hindi literature and bought a variety of authors, much to Aditi’s surprise. “ Are you sure you are going to read them? You don’t look that educated.” –she raised an eyebrow at me. “I can at least make a try.”- I smiled back lazily. After a trip to the nearest ATM, one cornetto each and four-five hours, we ended up with a full bag, tired feet and happy faces. ...... and they smile back too..

Having arranged them well, I turned to the various posters colouring the walls. Not actually very fond of spoiling the walls, I had developed this habit in Delhi, where I had covered the wall lining my bed with pics of frenz and family. The pics were off now, as I was at home now and ma certainly doesn’t appreciate this kind of wall papering. But the cheeky poster of Garfield saying ‘ I may not always be right but I am never wrong’ still adorns the almirah frame.

But somethings never change. The switchboard near my bed is a tangled web of wires- what with the laptop and charger and the modem and the speaker. And I still keep my head where the feet should be and the feet where the head should be. And I still sometimes sleep with my head on my laptop and the lights on. An old habit of mine, sleeping on my books, with ma or papa checking up on me and turning off the lights after taking off my specs.

There is a clock on the wall which faces me and a calendar on the one behind me. Both glaring reminders of the time which has never stood still, while the room has changed forms and addresses.

There is a cupboard full of clothes, both well-worn and new. The accumulation of the various shopping excursions.

My handbag lies in a corner, resting on its haunches after a week full of carrying my stuff. There lies a diary in a corner with lines scribbled in pencil in it. There hangs the echo of music last played.

But there is more to my room than just four walls. There are memories of lazy evenings spent with family, relaxing in that familiar warmth. That warmth still persists. There are voices from the conversations held with friends over the telephone- the tears shed over fights, the giggles and the wisdom shared. There is the feel of papa’s cuddles as I cried over my lost piece of jigsaw. There are sisterly confidences, shared over cups of coffee. There is the touch of ma’s care as I shivered in high fever. There are the shards of broken dreams. There are the missing vowels of unspelt ambitions. There is the tension of silent rebellion. There is the anguish of an uneasy mind. There are footprints of a journey. There also lies the cloak of acquired wisdom. There is the serenity of a mind at rest. There are blushes of the first crush . There are smiles and there are tears. There are injuries and there is healing. There is success and there is failing.

There are pieces of the old skin. There is the fragrance of the new one. There is the strength of determination, the dull ache of perseverance, the glimmer of resilience, the mirror of humility , the joy of hope. There are glimpses of achievement, depths of hollowness and the patience of a sphinx.

There are the smiles of first love and the resignation of solitude.

My room has a view of its own though. It carries the smell of wood. It’s welcoming to friendly eyes and smiles but wards off strangers and mockery. It argues and it debates. With the other rooms in my home for its independence but not isolation. It embraces and cuddles when I am lonely. It shares my secrets and keeps them safe. It pampers me and spoils me and handles my mood swings. It’s seen me laughing crazily, fuming angrily, weeping bitterly and giggling childishly. It’s heard me talking to my friends. Like Bridget Jones diary, it keeps a record of all that happens. Like its occupant, it changes moods and becomes naughty and sober by turn. . Like the unfinished lines in an article written randomly, it contains many unfinished sentences, words not fully formed and speech yet unarticulated.

It’s not just a room now. It’s an extension of me. And contains a portion of me. It moves around with me. Accompanying me to my work, my friends place, a party or a walk. And what it learns , it keeps adding to the murals of my four walls.

The perfect wallpaper.