बच्चे का खून

बच्चे का खून
ज्यादा आंदोलित क्यूँ करता है
क्योंकि उसकी उम्र कम है ?
उसने अपने हिस्से की जिंदगी नहीं जी है ?
या कि वह निर्बल है ?
या इसलिए कि वह मासूम है ?
अभी उसकी बचपन के अलावा कोई पहचान नहीं है ?

खून

जब गला काटा जायेगा
तो खून तो टपकेगा ही
शायद दर्द भी होगा
आदमी हो या मेमना
चीख भी निकलेगी ही
सर्द हो या सन्नाटेदार

बात हो,न हो

ये जरुरी तो नहीं कुछ बात हो
कुछ बात न हो फिर भी कुछ बात न हो
कुछ बात हो फिर भी कुछ बात हो

कुछ बात हो फिर कुछ बात न हो
कुछ बात न हो तो फिर बात हो

कुछ बात हो तो कुछ बात हो जाये
फिर कोई बात न हो ,बात कि जरुरत न हो

जिंदगी: बीमारी

जिंदगी एक बीमारी है
जिसे बीमारी लगती है
उसे यह लगती नहीं
जिसे यह लग जाये
उसे बीमारी लगती नहीं

The Unberable lightness of Being

The Greatest Burden. What if a demon crept after thee into thy loneliest loneliness some day or night, and said to thee: "This life, as thou livest it at present, and hast lived it, thou must live it once more, and also innumerable times; and there will be nothing new in it, but every pain and every joy and every thought and every sigh, and all the unspeakably small and great in thy life must come to thee again, and all in the same series and sequence-and similarly this spider and this moonlight among the trees, and similarly this moment, and I myself. The eternal sand-glass of existence will ever be turned once more, and thou with it, thou speck of dust!"- Wouldst thou not throw thyself down and gnash thy teeth, and curse the demon that so spake? Or hast thou once experienced a tremendous moment in which thou wouldst answer him: "Thou art a God, and never did I hear anything so divine! "If that thought acquired power over thee as thou art, it would transform thee, and perhaps crush thee; the question with regard to all and everything: "Dost thou want this once more, and also for innumerable times?" would lie as the heaviest burden upon thy activity! Or, how wouldst thou have to become favorably inclined to thyself and to life, so as to long for nothing more ardently than for this last eternal sanctioning and sealing?
--an excerept from 'The Gay Science' by Nietzsche

Vedic Indian view on charity

The following bit of information is from the book Beyond Business.I found it interesting and thought I must share it here:
The Vedic view holds that Charity is of three types:

• Satvik:Giving without expectation.
• Rajsik:Giving with expectation.
  
• Tamsik:Giving with reluctance or with compulsion.

Charity is defined to be of three grades:

• Uttam:Gift of spiritual knowledge is the highest form of charity. It pleases the soul.This is why people eagerly donate for relegious places. By this, they indirectly gift spiritual knowledge. i believe that one who has the spiritual knowledge only can gift it. For this, one needs to have a spiritual quest. Hence, Buddhas and our seers are the best donors.

• Madhyam:Gift of secular knowledge.It is for mind.People who setup charitable educational institutions and give scholarships come under this category.i believe, one who is having the secular knowledge only can gift it.Therefore, our teachers and public intellectuals who transfer their knowledge without expecting any rewards are these kinds of donors.

• Nyuntam:Gift of physical needs.It is for body.Donation for needs of the body like food,clothes and housing etc form the third kind of charity.
  

Giving to a कुपात्र (one who is not suitable) is a sin and Taittiya upanishad says that its better not to give rather than help without showing due respect to the object of charity.

There are 3 types of debts on a person:
ऋषि ऋण ,देव ऋण , पित्र ऋण i.e. debt to the sages, debt to the Gods and debt to the parents and ancesstors. These debts can be discharged through पञ्च-महायग्न : Sacrifices to living beings, Man, Ancestors,Gods and Brahma(knowledge) and through दान (donation)

There are 5 motives for giving:
धर्मात :ethical obligation
अर्थात :for economic reasons
भयात :because of fear
कामात् :for motive of fulfillment of desires
करुण्यात :compassion

या हुसैन ! या हुसैन !

शहीद-ए-कर्बला की मोमिनों जब याद आती है
तड़प जाती है दुनिया खून के आंसू बहाती है
या हुसैन ! या हुसैन !

शाह अस्त हुसैन बादशाह हस्त हुसैन
दीने-अस्त हुसैन दीन -पना हस्त हुसैन
सर दद न दद दस्त दर दस्त -ऐ -याजीद
हक -ए के बिने ला इला हस्त हुसैन

सजदे में सर कटने को आखिर कटा दिया
लेकिन खुदा के नाम का डंका बजा दिया
या हुसैन ! या हुसैन !

दीद की गर तलाश है सर को झुका नमाज़ में
दिल से खुदी को दूर कर खुद को मिटा नमाज़ में
आये गा तुझ को तब नज़र रो -ऐ -खुदा नमाज़ में
पहले हुसैन की तरह सर को कटा नमाज़ में
और कह या हुसैन ! या हुसैन !

किस की मजाल ए हुसैन किस को हो तुझ से हम्सरी
बाप के घर इम्मयातें नाना के घर पायम्बरी
शक्ल -ऐ -हुसैन देख कर हक भी कहे गा हश्र में
ए मेरे मुस्तफा के लाल उम्मत -ऐ -मुस्तफा बर'ई
या हुसैन ! या हुसैन !

सलामी कर्बला में किया क़यामत की घरी होगी
छुरी शब्बीर की गर्दन पे जिस दम चल रही होगी
कलेजा थाम कर पीर -ऐ -फलक भी रे h गया होगा
कलेजे पैर अली अकबर के बरची ? जब लगी होगी

मुझे जाने दो पानी भर के ये अब्बास कहते थे
कई दिन की पियासी है सकीना रो रही होगी
लुटी है जैसे दुन्या कर्बला में इब्न -ऐ -हैदर की
किसी मजलूम की दुनिया न दुनिया में लुटी होगी

मोहम्मद के नवासी नै जो की तैघों ? के साए में
बशर तो क्या फरिश्तून से न ऐसी बंदगी होगी
नबी से पेश्तर मिश्र में उम्मत बख्स्वाने को
हुसैन इब्न -ऐ -अली आऐं गे दुन्या देखती होगी

हमारे खून के बदले में उम्मत बख्श दे या रुब
खुदा से हशर में ये इल्तिजा शब्बीर की होगी
बारे घम्खार हैं वो ग़म न कर ? बक्शीश का ए पुरनम
करम से पुंज -तुन के हशर में बख्सिश तेरी होगी
या हुसैन ! या हुसैन !

ye जब जान तन से निकले लैब पैर तेरे हो क्या
या हुसैन ! या हुसैन !
हुस्न की इब्तिदा हैं वो इश्क की इंतिहा हैं वो
या हुसैन ! या हुसैन !

Is that a poem or what?

If it can be envisioned, it can be created
If it exists, it can be reproduced.
If it can be reproduced,it can be fixed.
Quality never ceases to improve
and
Impossible is nothing.

Does not make sense?Try again keeping last line in mind. :)

If its not absurd It aint survive

If at first the idea is not absurd, there is no hope for it.
~Albert Einstein

Why would he have said this. This is such a profound statement.Everything around us must have been absurd at some point of time:


When the men living in the open or in caves started living in Houses, would it have been taboo for his fellow tribesmen?
when the first fire was lit, would people have been open to accept it?
The clothes that we wear must have been absurd too at some point of time when Men gave up hide and skins for fabric clothes. Indeed, fashion starts from bordering on absurdity till it becomes normative and widely accepted.
Peace, Equality and Piety might have been considered absurd in large parts of the world till one man appeared who was so absurd in that point of time that he had to be crucified.
For something as fundamental as Electricity Benjamin Franklin had to answer a curious Prime minister about the usefulness of his device thus: 'someday it might be taxed'.
When Graham Bell tried to sell patent to his invention of Telephone to Western Union, the President of Western Union said that Telephone was just a toy.
When Galileo invented the Telescope and put forward the theory of a Sun centered universe, his discovery was considered so absurd that he had to be put in jail.
Darwin's theory of evolution and his preposition that Humans have evolved from Monkeys was considered completely absurd at the beginning.
Railways and Cars were frightening boxes of steel at one point which could and indeed did any time devour the passers by.
The idea itself of aerial navigation was considered absurd till the Wright brothers invented aeroplane.
Computer was an enormous absurdity at the beginning and the CEO of IBM said that there maybe a market for 4 computers in the world.
Both Typewriters and Computers were opposed for many years for fears it might result in unemployment.For that matter, all machinery has been considered evil so much so that people like Gandhi denounced it lock stock and barrel.

Catch-22

A one off detour towards information pollution:

Yossarian walked out of the office and down the stairs into the dark, tomblike street, passing in the hall the stout woman with warts and two chins, who was already on her way back in. There was no sign of Milo outside. There were no lights in any of the windows. The deserted sidewalk rose steeply and continuously for several blocks. He could see the glare of a broad avenue at the top of the long cobblestone incline. The police station was almost at the bottom; the yellow bulbs at the entrance sizzled in the dampness like wet torches. A frigid, fine rain was falling. He began walking slowly, pushing uphill. Soon he came to a quiet, cozy, inviting restaurant with red velvet drapes in the windows and a blue neon sign near the door that said: TONY’S RESTAURANT FINE FOOD AND DRINK. KEEP OUT. The words on the blue neon sign surprised him mildly for only an instant. Nothing warped seemed bizarre any more in his strange, distorted surroundings. The tops of the sheer buildings slanted in weird, surrealistic perspective, and the street seemed tilted. He raised the collar of his warm woolen coat and hugged it around him. The night was raw. A boy in a thin shirt and thin tattered trousers walked out of the darkness on bare feet. The boy had black hair and needed a haircut and shoes and socks. His sickly face was pale and sad. His feet made grisly, soft, sucking sounds in the rain puddles on the wet pavement as he passed, and Yossarian was moved by such intense pity for his poverty that he wanted to smash his pale, sad, sickly face with his fist and knock him out of existence because he brought to mind all the pale, sad, sickly children in Italy that same night who needed haircuts and needed shoes and socks. He made Yossarian think of cripples and of cold and hungry men and women, and of all the dumb, passive, devout mothers with catatonic eyes nursing infants outdoors that same night with chilled animal udders bared insensibly to that same raw rain. Cows. Almost on cue, a nursing mother padded past holding an infant in black rags, and Yossarian wanted to smash her too, because she reminded him of the barefoot boy in the thin shirt and thin, tattered trousers and of all the shivering, stupefying misery in a world that never yet had provided enough heat and food and justice for all but an ingenious and unscrupulous handful. What a lousy earth! He wondered how many people were destitute that same night even in his own prosperous country, how many homes were shanties, how many husbands were drunk and wives socked, and how many children were bullied, abused or abandoned. How many families hungered for food they could not afford to buy? How many hearts were broken? How many suicides would take place that same night, how many people would go insane? How many cockroaches and landlords would triumph? How many winners were losers, successes failures, rich men poor men? How many wise guys were stupid? How many happy endings were unhappy endings? How many honest men were liars, brave men cowards, loyal men traitors, how many sainted men were corrupt, how many people in positions of trust had sold their souls to blackguards for petty cash, how many had never had souls? How many straight-and-narrow paths were crooked paths? How many best families were worst families and how many good people were bad people? When you added them all up and then subtracted, you might be left with only the children, and perhaps with Albert Einstein and an old violinist or sculptor somewhere. Yossarian walked in lonely torture, feeling estranged, and could not wipe from his mind the excruciating image of the barefoot boy with sickly cheeks until he turned the corner..............


At the very next corner, deep inside the dense, impenetrable shadows of a narrow, winding side street, he heard the mysterious, unmistakable sound of someone shoveling snow. The measured, labored, evocative scrape of iron shovel against concrete made his flesh crawl with terror as he stepped from the curb to cross the ominous alley and hurried onward until the haunting, incongruous noise had been left behind. Now he knew where he was: soon, if he continued without turning, he would come to the dry fountain in the middle of the boulevard, then to the officers’ apartment seven blocks beyond. He heard snarling, inhuman voices cutting through the ghostly blackness in front suddenly. The bulb on the corner lamp post had died, spilling gloom over half the street, throwing everything visible off balance. On the other side of the intersection, a man was beating a dog with a stick like the man who was beating the horse with a whip in Raskolnikov’s dream. Yossarian strained helplessly not to see or hear. The dog whimpered and squealed in brute, dumbfounded hysteria at the end of an old Manila rope and groveled and crawled on its belly without resisting, but the man beat it and beat it anyway with his heavy, flat stick. A small crowd watched. A squat woman stepped out and asked him please to stop. ‘Mind your own business,’ the man barked gruffly, lifting his stick as though he might beat her too, and the woman retreated sheepishly with an abject and humiliated air. Yossarian quickened his pace to get away, almost ran. The night was filled with horrors, and he thought he knew how Christ must have felt as he walked through the world, like a psychiatrist through a ward full of nuts, like a victim through a prison full of thieves. What a welcome sight a leper must have been! At the next corner a man was beating a small boy brutally in the midst of an immobile crowd of adult spectators who made no effort to intervene. Yossarian recoiled with sickening recognition. He was certain he had witnessed that same horrible scene sometime before. Déjà vu? The sinister coincidence shook him and filled him with doubt and dread. It was the same scene he had witnessed a block before, although everything in it seemed quite different. What in the world was happening? Would a squat woman step out and ask the man to please stop? Would he raise his hand to strike her and would she retreat? Nobody moved. The child cried steadily as though in drugged misery. The man kept knocking him down with hard, resounding open-palm blows to the head, then jerking him up to his feet in order to knock him down again. No one in the sullen, cowering crowd seemed to care enough about the stunned and beaten boy to interfere. The child was no more than nine. One drab woman was weeping silently into a dirty dish towel. The boy was emaciated and needed a haircut. Bright-red blood was streaming from both ears. Yossarian crossed quickly to the other side of the immense avenue to escape the nauseating sight and found himself walking on human teeth lying on the drenched, glistening pavement near splotches of blood kept sticky by the pelting raindrops poking each one like sharp fingernails. Molars and broken incisors lay scattered everywhere. He circled on tiptoe the grotesque debris and came near a doorway containing a crying soldier holding a saturated handkerchief to his mouth,........

Its Tough

Its tough being tough
to stand firm
on a slippery ground
with the commotion around

when you gotta travel
destination yet to unravel

Heart becomes heavy
Like a Stone
But Stones don't float
or, do they?