किसी और के आँगन का सूर्योदय

हर सुबह,

लगभग एक ही समय पर,

दो शब्द आ जाया करते थे,
मानो कोई नन्ही चिड़िया

अपने घर लौट आई हो—

Good Morning

दुनिया के लिए
वे साधारण शब्द थे।

पर किसी प्रतीक्षारत दिल के लिए,
वे धूप भी थे
और छाँव भी।

चार वर्ष बीत गए थे—

जब स्पर्श ने वहाँ बातें की थीं,
जहाँ शब्द पहुँच न पाए थे।

चार वर्ष—

व्यस्तताओं के,
परिवार की ज़िम्मेदारियों के,
व्यापार की पुकारों के,
समारोहों के,
कर्तव्यों के,
और टलते चले गए वादों के।

 

फिर भी,

एक भी सुबह ऐसी नहीं आई
जिसमें वह अभिवादन अनुपस्थित रहा हो।

भेजने वाला प्रेम करता था।

पाने वाला यह जानता था।

प्रेम जीवित है —

उस नियमित आगमन में,
उन साधारण-सी प्रतीत होने वाली चिन्ताओं में,
भोर से पहले भेजे गए संदेशों में,
और आधी रात के बाद बाँटे गए विचारों में।

किन्तु एक हृदय
अनेक संसारों का था—

परिवार का,
दायित्वों का,
प्रतिष्ठा का,
कर्तव्य का—

और कहीं बहुत भीतर,
सावधानी से सँजोए हुए
एक गुप्त प्रेम का।

 

दूसरा हृदय

लगभग सम्पूर्ण रूप से
उसी प्रेम का था।

बस, यही अन्तर था।

 

जब भी मिलन निकट प्रतीत हुआ,

संसार बीच में आ खड़ा हुआ—

कभी कोई पारिवारिक आयोजन,
कभी कोई आकस्मिक दायित्व,
कभी कोई ऐसी ज़िम्मेदारी
जिसे टाला न जा सके।

क्षमायाचनाएँ आती।

और उनके पीछे
क्षमा भी।

प्रेम और कर भी क्या सकता था?

 

एक सुबह,

उस परिचित अभिवादन को पढ़कर
मन में एक उत्तर आकार लेने लगा—

"कितना सुन्दर है यह जानना
कि उस सूर्योदय में भी
मुझे स्मरण किया जाता है,
जो किसी और के आँगन का है।"

शब्द कुछ देर ठहरे।

फिर खो गए।

और उनकी जगह आया
एक सरल उत्तर—

"सुप्रभात।"

कुछ ही क्षणों बाद,

परदे पर एक छोटा-सा हृदय उभर आया।

और कुछ नहीं।

न आलिंगन।

न चुराई हुई कोई दोपहर या शाम।

न प्रतीक्षा की पूर्णता।

केवल एक छोटा-सा लाल प्रतिक,

जो दो अलग-अलग संसारों के बीच
मौन प्रकाश-सा
टिमटिमा रहा था।

और फिर भी—

उस एक क्षण के लिए,

वह पर्याप्त था।

क्योंकि कभी-कभी प्रेम

उससे जीवित नहीं रहता
जो उसे प्राप्त होता है,

बल्कि उस विश्वास से—

कि संसार के असंख्य कर्तव्यों के बीच भी,

कहीं कोई है,

जो हर सुबह

अब भी

उसे याद करता है।

~ डॉ. इंताज़ मलेक 

 

The Sunrise that belongs Elsewhere

The Sunrise that belongs Elsewhere

Each morning,

at nearly the same hour,

two words arrived

like a small bird returning home. 

"Good morning." 

To the world,

they were ordinary words. 

But,

To one waiting heart,

they were sunlight

and shadow together. 

Four years had passed

since touch had spoken

where words could not. 

Four years

of crowded calendars,

family duties,

business calls,

celebrations,

obligations,

and postponed promises. 

Yet not one morning

had missed its greeting.

The sender loved.

The receiver knew it. 

Love lives

in the faithful arrival,

in concern disguised as casual questions,

in messages sent before dawn,

and in thoughts shared after midnight. 

But one heart belonged

to many worlds:

To family.

To responsibility.

To reputation.

To duty. 

And somewhere,

carefully protected,

to a secret love. 

The other heart

belonged almost entirely

to that love alone. 

That was the difference. 

Whenever a meeting seemed near,

life stepped in between. 

A family gathering.

A business shopping.

An urgent commitment.

A responsibility impossible to refuse. 

Apologies followed.

Forgiveness followed too.

What else could love do? 

One morning,

after reading the familiar greeting,

a reply began to form:

"How beautiful to be remembered

in a sunrise

that belongs elsewhere."

The words lingered.

Then disappeared. 

Instead came the simpler answer:

"Good morning." 

Moments later,

a small heart appeared on the screen. 

Nothing more.

No embrace.

No stolen afternoon.

No fulfilled longing. 

Only a tiny red symbol,

glowing quietly

between two separate lives. 

And yet,

for a moment,

it was enough.

For sometimes love survives

not on what it receives,

but on the certainty

that somewhere,

amid all the duties of the world,

it is still remembered

every morning. 

~ Dr Intaj Malek

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Road Between

I walked among the quiet, measured breath

To mourn my friend’s mother, bowed by grace,

Where words fell short before the weight of death,

And silence stood to take their place.

 

Across the road, a truth too clear to hide,

Necropolis facing acropolis high,

The city of the dead, the living side,

Two worlds beneath a single sky.

 

Once, tombs lay far from daily human tread,

At edges where the ancient cities end,

But now cities build them within instead,

Where life and loss no longer bend.

 

Smoke rose slowly, prayers dissolved in air,

While horns and footsteps claimed the street,

Death waited in bier, calm, patient and fair,

As life flowed past on hurried, restless feet.

 

~ Dr Intaj Malek

(Written at Thaltej crematorium on the funeral of Hasumati Kamdar)

 

 

 

Funeral Road

 I walked behind quiet footsteps,
to the funeral of my friend’s mother,
where words grew thin
and silence knew no names.
 
Across the road, seen a chimney of
necropolis facing acropolis,
death and height staring at one another
like old philosophers
who already knew the answer.
 
Once, in ancient cities,
the necropolis slept at the edges,
a distant place for ashes and memory.
But here, in modern city of hassles,
it is vast, present, unavoidable
a city within the city.
 
Opposite it rises the acropolis of living days:
traffic, voices, unfinished plans,
people climbing toward tomorrow
without looking across the road.
 
Smoke lifts.
Prayers dissolve into air.
Life continues, stubborn and bright,
while death waits calmly,
never in a hurry.
 
What a coincidence, we say.
What a truth, life replies
those beginnings and endings
often live face to face,
and we are always
crossing the street between them.
 
~Dr Intaj Malek

(Written at Thaltej crematorium on the funeral of Hasumati Kamdar)

Musing on LOL

  
Lol, lol, lol — the laughter toll,
It echoes deep in every soul.
Wherever I wander, city or knoll,
In café or court, I find my lol.
 
He sits in GST, quite at ease,
Glides through tribunals like a breeze.
With Saxena, he winks and grins,
With Patel, he always wins.
 
But Thakker was, a sterner creed
Too slant to let lol intercede.
Lol, so frank, so straight and spry,
Finds no place where glances lie.
 
It’s holy still, and yet profane,
A joke in prayer, a dance in rain.
Lol rides a Vespa in Old Delhi,
Then sips chai in Notting Hill alley.
 
From Phuket sands to Canada's snow,
To Colombo's spice-sweet evening glow
Lol travels light, and travels far,
Tucked in a meme, or a seminar.
 
He trolls at times, in joke or jest,
Not always kind, not always best.
But mostly warm, with heart and soul,
A gentle giggle, a comic goal.
 
Not penned in some divine decree,
Yet holy in his levity.
In every scroll, in every role
Lives the eternal, laughing lol.
 
 
~ Dr Intaj Malek

Kishna whspers in Scarecrow's ears

 

 

Rocco's Quilt

I wish for the quilt I once proudly possessed,

A token of warmth in days I was blessed.

School turned to college, the seasons did flow,

Yet the quilt stayed constant through frost and snow.

At Rocco’s home, in him a brother I found,

Where love and laughter always abound.

Though dawn beckoned him to school’s embrace,

His quilt he’d drop on me with gentle grace.

The winter bit with a frosty foe-like bite,

Yet Rocco’s care made my mornings bright.

He wrapped me snug in his gentle embrace,

His quilt, a shield, my haven, my space.

I had a family, yet struggled to thrive,

Rocco’s kin kept my hope forever alive.

They shared their tea, their bread, their cheer,

A bond of love that kept me out of fear.

Moti Mahal, where delicious tea would steam,

The cup one day, the saucer next, a shared dream.

By the night’s glow, we studied with zeal,

In those simple joys, life’s riches I do feel.

Now life has matured, and paths diverge,

With children and duties, emotions surge.

Yet deep in my heart, a warmth I’ve kept,

For the quilt Rocco gave as I soundly slept.

No quilt today can match that care,

A gesture of love, beyond compare.

Though time may pass and seasons shift,

The quilt of Rocco remains my gift.

So, here’s to those days, that precious thread,

To a brother, a bond, the life we led.

Though quilts may fade, the warmth stays true,

Forever, Rocco, my dedication to you. 

~ By Dr. Intaj Malek

 

La Grace

In my château garden, I sit on a swing so high,

Listening to birds sing, beneath the clear sky.

After the rain's soft shower, the air feels so fresh,

My home, La Grace, brings peace like a gentle caress.

 

Nature's beauty mixes with God's loving grace,

In this small haven, both find a perfect space.

I write poems and think, surrounded by calm,

As birds and sparrows add their soothing psalm.

 

A crow flies by, while the birds make their nest,

In this tranquil place, I feel truly blessed.

With nature and God, a beautiful blend,

My soul finds its peace, on this swing I depend.

~Dr Intaj Malek