mahoba

सुबह के सात बजे हैं

इस छोटे से प्लेटफ़ॉर्म पर

ज़िन्दगी बह रही है

अपनी मद्धम रफ़्तार से

रंग-बिरंगी साड़ियाँ पहने

घूंघट डाले औरतें 

देख रही हैं

उस टी-शर्ट, पजामे वाली विदेशी बहन को

जो रेल में चढी है अभी-अभी

इन सबके बीच

इस जीवन-नदी की तट पर खड़ा मैं

सोच रहा हूँ

क्या महोबा की कोई बेटी भी

खजुराहो देखने जाएगी कभी?

it was around 7 in the morning. the train had stopped at the little railway station of Mahoba, an hour away from Khajuraho. my travel mates were asleep except Nur, with whom i descended to roam around a bit, to give the limbs a stretch and some fresh air to the lungs. the station was buzzing with a fair bit of activity. turbaned men in traditional gear, women with their heads covered in long ghoonghats, sitting, standing, whiling away time waiting for the next train or the next decision. i felt as if i have entered a village and Delhi seemed a distant memory.

while i was clicking some pics, of the train, the hilly surroundings and all, a tall, white woman, wearing a crumpled, sleeveless tee and cargo capris boarded the train. sitting in a huddle on the platform, a group of village women, covered from head to toe, turned to look at this foreigner sister in their midst.

this poem is about that moment.

when standing on the banks of this river of life, i wondered if a daughter of Mahoba will ever get to see the temples of Khajuraho. ancient monuments that have attracted a sister from the other part of the world. it is her own glorious past, but i don't think she'll be able to revisit it.

waada

वादा

रात के पौने दस बज रहे थे, जब

हजरत निजामुद्दीन स्टेशन

प्लेटफ़ॉर्म नंबर सात की छत से 

झांक कर उसने, वादा किया था मुझसे

चाहे कितनी ही दूरी हो

खजुराहो और दिल्ली में

साथ रहेगा वो मेरे

.

.

.

मैंने आगे बढ़कर

उस चाँद माथे को चूम लिया

रोशन रहा, मेरा सफ़र

sutradhar

हफ्ते भर की जोश भरी तय्यारी

अटकी थी उस एक फ़ोन कॉल पर 

एक ही ऑफिस में

अलग-अलग काम करने वाले

वो ६ लोग

चल तो दिए थे स्टेशन की तरफ

पर दिल रेलगाड़ी सा धड़क रहा था

खैर, कुछ देर बाद

६ में से ४ सीटें पक्की हुयी

चेहरों पर हंसी लौटी

और सफ़र शुरू हुआ

...

रिती, प्रीत, डिबिया

उमा, नूर और मैं

सूत्रधार इस कथा का

खजुराहो के सफ़र का

The Preparations begin. And almost end.

The first day of the week is a troublesome day in ad agencies. Apart from the usual Monday morning blues, when we are quite low after the high of the weekend, there is the weekly job meeting to attend, the grilling session by seniors and the whole week just yawns frightfully at you. And it doesn’t look good.

On Friday and over the weekend, I, your humble narrator had managed to convince four other team members - Riti, Preet, Dibiya and Amu for the journey. (And while arriving late in the office on Monday, I messaged over 20 people about my traveling intentions. It’s another thing that nobody from this sms group joined me :D) One more would be gang member, Nura, was later coaxed and bullied to join us.

So, that particular Monday was a bit different. Me and Amu, the two copywriters were talking to each other in hushed tones, Preet, the art director was helping us out with things not yet shared with the other gang members while the servicing team was calling on for the mandatory job meeting.

Shshshsh! The journey to Khajuraho was being planned. Work was being delegated, responsibilities taken and all these guys had to say was job meeting! Huh! Anyways, Amu took the responsibility of booking tickets online. By then Preet had informed us of the only direct route. Riti was handled the responsibility of securing accommodation. Nura being from another department, requested that his being a part of the group was not to be revealed till he gets a leave from his boss. Meanwhile he donned the role of official inquisitor keeping tab of our each and every step. Dibiya, being the kid of the group was handled no responsibility apart from pressuring us time and again. I, as mentioned earlier, took the task of gathering as much information as possible. Thanks to my online friends, it proved to be quite helpful later.

The job meeting threw a live bomb at us. There was just too much work to be done and in too little a time. It was a question of running a marathon in a 100 meter sprint time frame. Work kept pouring in, new jobs to be delivered, old jobs revisiting like sticky guests, still hopes kept flying. Apart from one minor glitch.
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Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday…the day when the group was supposed to leave…the train tickets were yet to be confirmed. The trouble is, there is only one direct train to Khajuraho from Delhi and we were just too down in the waiting list. Our travel agent had promised us a few berths out of the six but apparently that was not going to be of any help as we found later.

During the course of the week, we’d spread the word everywhere, family, friends, office, may be even clients…there was just no backing-out now. It would have resulted in the tag of chokers, something that looks good only on the cricket team of South Africa. Friday, we arrived at the office carrying our backpacks all geared up for the journey. It was decided, that we’ll go to the station to check any last minute cancellations. If it doesn’t materialize, we’ll go wherever the next available train takes us. We were blue at this thought, but then what could we’ve done.

They say, where there is a will, there is a way. In our case, it turned out more like, ‘where there is a jugaad, there is a railway berth’. Jugaad is a peculiarly Indian phenomenon for getting things done the not-so-normal way. If you are an Indian, you know it before you take birth, if you are not an Indian and are visiting the country, you come to know sooner or later.

As feared and expected, our travel agent was of no use. That dumb man kept us waiting till the train moved and then switched his phone off! But thanks to some higher powers in the rarefied atmosphere of the South Block, we had already managed to secure 4 out of 6 berths an hour before the train was to leave. Suddenly, out of nowhere, when we had lost all hopes, we were going to Khajuraho…

the first step

Advertising is a difficult profession. If, it can be called that.

Behind all its glitz and glamour, there lies a world of people running against time, pushing themselves and others (many times literally), slavishly working their butts off. Of all my friends from different walks of life, it is only me who can claim to have two homes, one called the ‘office’ and the other called ‘the inn’.

As expected, this apocalyptic, client-ruled world provides little or no opportunity to leave its domains. And that much cherished dream of cruising on the highway, leaving everything behind, remains a daydream for major part of life.

So, when a dear senior suggested that I make the most of my upcoming three-day weekend, the idea was put through the normal process of cynical subversion resulting in empty head-nodding. But she persisted. She told me about the wonderful time she had the previous weekend visiting the heart of India- Gwalior, Orcha and Khajuraho.  And the next day, she brought a little glossy pamphlet on whose cover a gorgeous, thousand year old temple was set against the clearest of blue sky.

It was love at first sight. And I promised myself, that “no matter what, I’m going to visit Khajuraho this weekend”.

It’s another thing that later the promise became quite difficult to be honored. Things went wrong or didn’t go as planned, some fellow dreamers joined the quest and some couldn’t and at one point of time, I almost gave up going to Khajuraho… but all that is for another part of the story...