“ Aadat ”
हर मोड़ पर यूँ छोड़ जाने की आदत लगी है तुम्हें
फिर शाम ढले लौट आने की आदत लगी है तुम्हें
तोड़ कर, चूर-चूर कर, बिखरा के चले जाने की
और फिर हँस के आ कर थाम लेने की आदत लगी है तुम्हें
एक पल में सारी गुफ़्तगू कर जाने की
फिर हर हसरत को बेनाम छोड़ जाने की आदत लगी है तुम्हें
रूठ जाने की बेवजह, फिर मान जाने की
अपना बना कर फिर बेगाना छोड़ जाने की आदत लगी है तुम्हें
इन रिश्तों को, इन लम्हों को, इस कहानी को
यूँ अनकहा, अधूरा, बेनाम छोड़ जाने की आदत लगी है तुम्हें
ये जो आदत लगी है तुम्हें,
ये ज़िंदा ही मार डालेगी मुझे, बिन कहे, चुप-चाप
क्योंकि तुम्हें तो आदत लगी है, पर हमें तो —
तुम्हें कभी छोड़ने की आदत ही नहीं लगी।
‘ Aadat ’
It's this habit of yours,
of leaving me midway every time,
and then returning one evening as if nothing happened.
A habit of breaking me, shattering me into pieces,
and then coming back one evening to make me smile,
to hold me again.
A habit of saying everything in a single moment,
and then leaving all these desires unnamed,
leaving this relationship, these moments, this story —
untold, unnamed.
A habit of getting upset for no reason,
and then forgiving for no reason,
of making me yours, and then leaving me as a stranger.
This habit of yours,
will kill me alive,
without a word, in silence.
Because you have this habit,
but I never learned the habit of leaving you.
‹ The Seasonal People ›
We all have those seasonal people in our lives. The ones who come like autumn, stay for a while, and leave. We hate them the most. But what we hate more is that we can't really hate them.
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The real pain is not that they leave or that they break us. The real pain is leaving without a name. Silently. Without a reason. That silence is heavier than any breakup.
If you are too deep in someone's life, don't be a season. I understand — you have your own story, your own obligations that we never see. But leave a reason. A small, honest reason. Reasonable enough so the other person can at least hear your footsteps fading, unlike Sisyphus who keeps pushing a stone that never ends.
You might think your season will one day become permanent. That it will finally become what you always wanted. But by then, you might have drained the other person so much that they can't tell joy from sadness anymore. Like Majnu, they lose the sense of everything.
We take these comings and goings lightly, as if they don't weigh much. But they do. They affect mental health, sleep, self-worth — adversely.
If you are a season like my fall, stop being a fall now — because it has already fallen me apart from myself. A lot. And I don't want to lose myself anymore.
But my fall too, this season story completes as the notes of fallen leaves have been inked on these pages. God might turn this into a whole, but mine is fall, so, my god, please change this aadat.
To every visitor in someone's life — the museum has drowned.
I know I’m still waiting. Maybe that makes me a fool. And maybe fools are the only ones who know how to love without a reason. But this time, I’m not waiting standing still — I’m learning to swim. The museum has drowned, yes, but the curator — me — is still in the water. I will swim. Slowly, badly, but I will swim. Whether your season returns and becomes my whole year, or whether this fall becomes my forever — only God knows. For now, my only prayer is, God, please change this aadat— or change me.
(Idon’tthinksoi’ll,fallwillu?)
