Thomas Mann wrote a naively entrancing story about death: in that story death is beautiful, as it is beautiful to all those who dream about it when they are very young, when death is still unreal and enchanting, like the bluish voice of distances. And that’s how I lived, believed death will only be one of the many beautiful junctures that one has to pass through.
But there is something more enchanting that I witnessed. And may be C Fuentes has the answer when he says that, when we die, what we lose is not the future but the past.
This post is only a petty attempt to keep traces of the one we once knew so close. One of his true nature, as we were sharing on his first death anniversary, is the urge to be known, the urge to write his heart out; and voice it loud and clear, in his humming style.
These are some words written by Smriti, for the love that shall live through times, in the past and future. Being hopelessly positive of a union in the roots, when the shoot breaks from a tree and grows in a handsome tree beside.
Sketch by Smriti
तुम गए तो सारी शिकायते ही चली गयी
मानो सारे गमं और गिले फिसल गए
वोह मुस्कुरहाते , वोह चेहरे का नूर इन आँखों के आसुहों मैं बेह गए
फूलों से खुसबू और तितलियों के उड़ने का ढंग चला गया
आज फिर आयी बारिश लेकिन बारिश से मिट्टी की सुगंध चली गयी
वोह बच्चौं की खुशियां
वोह रातों की सारसरहात
वोह तुम्हारे आने का इंतेजार
वोह जाने का गमं
सभी किसी वक़्त में फिसल गया
जहां ना तुम ना हम
गुजरे हुए समय का इंताकाल हैं