The Sketch of A September Sunday

The Sunday isn't rushed. It calmly waits with the benign sun resting over its shoulders.

Voices are slowly breaking in.

The cycle shop opposite my place has opened up, with metallic sounds rising in rhythm as they take out their tool.

The plants on the terrace dance in the mild breeze.

Everything mild, nothing harsh, nothing hurried.

The morning milk market Is already gone, without trace

Except for blue crates.

Men on cycles ride by.

I think, men who ride cycles are the first to wake up on Sunday.

Autorikshaws are out. The man on the bike, looks bothways at the turn, confused, and then rides straight. The sun has laid its hammock over the trees and the morning languorous and glorious, lies in it. The newspaper lies neglected on the terrace.

A man with long tattoos on his arms walks in from the lane in the front. He is wearing a strange kind of pants. Sardarji follows him on a bike, his turban vibrant as his face his. Someone shouts in the cycle shop. Human voices still struggling against vehicular noise. The pigeons looks happy, purposeful, not having a Sunday? Winters aren't here yet, but days are calmer. The earlier sternly face isn't there, like that of a father who kid, just turned eighteen has already made up his mind. This is the time, before the chill of empty nest descends. Parents are in Kerala. I think of them, tried calling them yesterday. Their phone is switched off. Must call again. I am their guardian now. Even when the image of my mother holding me in her arms, a two month old, with father in uniform, sometime around 71 war in Pathankot is vivid and alive, I know, I am now the guardian to them, to watch over them. A little girl in saffron kurta runs in the street, purposeful, like the pigeons. As a child, we always have purpose. Too much of deliberations kills the direction, until the time when we no longer know where we were going. Th squirrel plays on the tree in the front. It sits silently, having noticed that it has been noticed. Watchers always kill the beauty of innocence. The riot of green dances before me, like an orchestra rising to the rhapsody. The day has begun. Three kids walk by, that reminds me, Nonu is still asleep. One fine Sunday, one benign, blissful sunday.

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पुस्तक समीक्षा - मैं मुन्ना हूँ - लेखक - मनीष श्रीवास्तव

जिस प्रकार वनस्पति घी डालडा होता है , जैसे प्रतिलिपि ज़ेरॉक्स होती है , मनीष श्रीवास्तव जी श्रीमान जी होते हैं। कम लोगों को पाठकों का इतना स्नेह प्राप्त होता है , जो उनके कृतित्व एवं लेखन से आगे निकल जाता है। इसका कारण उनके लेखन में सत्य का प्रतिबिम्ब परिलक्षित होना होता है जो पाठक ने उनके व्यक्तित्व में देखा सुना हो। लेखन मेरी दृष्टि में वह माध्यम होता है जिसके द्वारा अपने सत्य को वह कपोल कल्पना का आवरण पहना कर सार्वजनिक कर देता है और आत्मा को एक पिशाच के बोझ से मुक्त कर पाता है। कलम के माध्यम से लेखक वह कहने का साहस जुटा पाता है जिसे अन्यथा वह संभवतः न कह पाए।जब कोई कृति यह कर पाती है तो वह न केवल लेखक की आत्मा के पिशाच हटाती है वरन पाठक की आत्मा के धागों पर लगी गिरहें भी खोल देती है और उसके मानस को मुक्त कर देती है। इस दृष्टि से मनीष की यह पुस्तक " मैं मुन्ना हूँ " अपने दायित्व का पूर्णता से निर्वाह करती ...

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